Cancer Update/ I'm Still Here

   I thought  I was going to wait until next week, after I see my doctor, to give you an update on my cancer, but there's something I want to say today. I'm still here.
   
   If you have read my post Cancer I Know, then you know that I was diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer in November of 2013, and then moved onto stage 4 ovarian cancer in 2014, when the sneaky cells metastasized to my liver.

    My initial prognosis in 2013 was that I would live for 1 to 5 years. Even after all the surgery and chemotherapy that I endured, that was all I could expect - 1 to 5 years. After it metastasized to my liver, my life expectancy was reduced to 1 year or less. That was just about a year ago today. When I found out this past November, just 5 months after completing chemotherapy for a second time, that the cancer was back again, my doctor took my hands in hers, and with a grave look on her face, said- this is going to shorten your life. Now I really like my doctor, so I held my sarcastic tongue, and just said - I know. But what I was thinking was -  what do you mean by that....don't you think that's a funny thing to say to someone who should be dead by now? 

   When I see my doctor next week, if the lab results show that the cancer is still growing, I will again be told I am dying. Frankly, I'm getting pretty tired of people telling me I'm dying. 
I have cancer. The cancer may kill me. But I am not dying! I am living!    I'm still here.

   Considering 1 in 3 Americans will at some point in their life (those are the current statistics) have some form of cancer, isn't it time we started talking about living with cancer? Isn't it time we erased the assumption that cancer = death, so that we can talk about it like any other life struggle? 

   Cancer sucks, but I'm not sure it's the worst thing that can ever happen to a person. The fact that we have made it so, has not only scared a lot of people with cancer into living like they are dying, but it has also isolated a lot of people. 
   
   The fear surrounding cancer has made it difficult to talk about.  When I was first diagnosed, I told very few people. I didn't want to make them uncomfortable. I knew my cancer diagnosis would change the way they looked at me. I was now someone who might die soon. I was now someone who made them think about scary things - like dying.  That's changed. I no longer feel I need to take responsibility for how others may react to hearing that I have cancer. I now tell anyone and everyone. 

   I don't mean that I run around telling people I have cancer for no reason, but I don't hide it either.  And when I do tell people, I find because so many of us have cancer, or know someone who has cancer, that it gives us both the opportunity to show compassion, and to share our story, or the story of a loved one. It creates a connection. It takes away a little bit of the fear. It let's us be human. Not a statistic. Not a media headline. Just human.  

   So, I just want to say. 

I'm still here.

So is my cancer.

I am alive.

I am not afraid.

I am living!

   




   

Artwork/Fear

When Diane and I envisioned this blog months ago, it was as a way to communicate what we are experiencing as we move through the world as creative people, as cancer survivors, as friends. There was the intention that it would be a joint effort, but up until now the extent of my effort was simply to support Diane as she got the blog up and running—which she has done beautifully and courageously. I couldn’t seem to get myself to contribute. I suppose there were a number of logistical reasons--my own recurrence of colon cancer, caring for my family and myself--but there was also a way that I was simply holding back.

Diane and I have had many conversations about fear—not the kind of fear one might think two people with Stage 4 cancer would talk about, not the fear of death, per se, but of not living fully. Starting a blog was a dream of Diane’s, and while I love to write and have often turned to that as a form of creativity and expression, it is painting that has been gnawing away at my heart for years. I have had periods in my life where I have successfully made art, showed the work, and had some small measure of “success” in terms of how it’s been received, but then it always goes underground. Work and family take over, and it is simply so much easier for me to care for others than nourish myself--physically, emotionally, and creatively. Cancer has changed that.

Over six months ago, after I was recovering from my second cancer surgery, it became clear that I would need to take a leave of absence from work. My hope then was that I would not only devote more time to making art, but that it would become an essential part of my healing process. And yet it still took six months before I was able to get up to my little third floor studio and start. That is okay—I don’t judge myself anymore. But now that I’ve been up in the studio working and bringing a few pieces close to completion, it seemed that the next step was to share it, on the blog. This of course meant pushing through more fear. “Is the work too emotional?” “How will people respond to the text/prayers?” “Is this other, newer style really mine, or did I borrow it?” Telling Diane that I was ready and having her come take pictures was a little uncomfortable, but do-able. Then there was the actual writing of this piece and publishing it. More resistance and fear. It’s not even so much a fear of “not being good enough” anymore (as that was the fear for years), as it is a fear of simply being seen, of taking up space. It’s what the blog is about too--and I think Diane would agree—being willing to say, THIS is who I am, in all my imperfection and vulnerability. In the past, keeping myself small made me feel safe, but that doesn’t translate into fulfillment and joy. So, voila. Artwork, unfinished, untitled, but out there.

An older piece (1997)