Reading: Trying to Get Comfortable With Being a Breast Cancer “Survivor”

Over my lifetime, I’ve learned that most people react to anxiety in one of two ways. 

Some power down or run and hide, hoping that the storm will blow over so they can resurface in the beautiful weather that follows. My husband and son are like this. AVOIDANCE IS US! would be their label. The problem is, of course, that sometimes the storm hangs around and avoiders are out of commission for weeks or months. Or maybe forever. Sometimes I feel sorry for avoiders because I know that they’re going to eat all that Häagen-Dazs or donuts and still be required to confront the cause of their anxiety. So why not now rather than later? 

Others of us — such as me and my sister — react to that very same type of anxiety by doing…something. Well, really, anything! For whatever reason, we’ve learned (or we imagine) that immediate action calms (at least) the (inner) storm because, hey, activity makes us feel powerful, potent, tough against all the elements. And the truth is, most times you can fix or neutralize the thing that is causing you anxiety. Worried about a big bill? Just effing pay it! Rip it off like a Band-Aid attached to multiple strands of arm hair — and get the pain over with. Now…there, see??! It wasn’t that bad. You’re done, you can just move on. But if you avoid paying that bill for a month or two, the anxiety only ratchets up (and you might even incur interest). 

In fact, for us doers, the quicker you can nuke, blast, obliterate the issue, the faster you find relief.

Of course, there are those anxious times when we can’t control or fix the source of anxiety. Then it’s best to just get out an old toothbrush and start scrubbing the dirty grout in the bathroom that you noticed a year ago but haven’t had the time or energy to attack. The sense of accomplishment when you’re done will give you the illusion of impact and control. Phew! Back in (imaginary) control!

So, here’s the problem: When I went through breast cancer treatment last November, I did indeed take control of the situation and get myself to the right surgeon and have my stage 1 lumpectomy. Before I found my team, however, I was awash in uncontrolled anxiety and having horrific nightmares about goblins and dark nights with rain. On the way into the operating room the beautiful PA leaned into my ear and whispered, “We’re going to make you cancer free!” and I felt like Glinda, the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz, had just told me that my way to get back home was always inside of me. All I had to do was click my heels and say, “There’s no place like home.”

After the surgery, however, you enter a new phase of recovery which the world calls cancer “survivor.” This, of course, is a beautiful label to have because not receiving the label means, well, your life has been cut short. And no one wants that. 

So being a survivor is technically a glorious thing. It’s like joining a secret society that has a special handshake and wink that only those who have had the ultimate brush with mortality understand. In fact, when I find myself in a room with those who talk about their experience with cancer, I feel a sudden bond, an internal knowing, and a profound obligation to mention that I too am a survivor. It’s a club I never asked to join, of course. But I’m honored to be a member and to learn how many of you out there are survivors as well.

My quibble is with the word “survivor.” It seems so passive. It suggests something happened to us and not that we had anything to do with acting upon the cancer. As I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m an attacker, a puncher, a fighter. There’s nothing passive about how I live my life.

I understand that some of my actions are just illusions I create to make myself feel like I’m in control of a world that is, truth-be-told, often out of my control. And I’m really trying to get comfortable with that survivor word — which, after all, means I won, just like the guy on the Survivor TV show, right?

But the truth, is I’d much prefer to be called a Cancer Crusher. Or a Cancer Killer. Or oh, yes, what’s another word that begins with a “C”? Ah, Cancer Controller. Funny how that feels just as improbable but just right.