Monday, June 17, 2013

A Sad, Sad Case

 
I have a confession to make.  I don’t understand how an atom works.  It’s true!  I mean, I understand the definitions of all the words involved in an explanation of this basic unit of a chemical element. Even so, it doesn’t make sense in my head.  I, therefore, also blame my lack of skill in calculus, physics, or any kind of chemistry…on the fact that I can’t wrap my head around the atom.
 
Do you know what I do understand?  Words.  That’s what I’m good at.  I like to think that if I can claim any kind of natural skills in this world, those skills can be found in the language arts. But since my diagnosis, I feel as if my innate comprehension of the English language has somehow escaped me.  I feel like I’m back in 7th grade trying to wrap my head around the atom.
 
You see, I keep finding myself in these situations where I am at an utter loss for words.  And, in spite of my better efforts, I’m repeatedly and utterly shocked by the ways in which people respond to the revelation that I do indeed…have cancer. 
 
Let’s start with doctors.  Let’s face it, they’re an odd breed.  They see in black and white.  They have to keep a certain professional distance to maintain their own mental health.  And in the end, they’re just looking at numbers and odds.  That’s something I understand intellectually, but to hear my surgeon say the following is something altogether different: “So, I presented your case to the tumor board this past week, and they agree…you’re a sad, sad case.”
 
Ummm, thanks?  I mean, how does one respond to such a statement?  I daresay that even Miss Manners would have been hard pressed.  
 
Or there was the time when my oncologist asked my mother (while standing in front of me, mind you), “You have other children, right? Yes….good, that is good.”  I have to say that at no other time have I been more tempted to simply let my inner monologue run free. “Hi, remember me? You do realize that I’m still currently alive, and at the moment I’m standing in front of you…right?”
 
Or how about just the average Joes— when people learn about my cancer and look at me inelegantly, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry.”  I’ve found that this is the toughest one yet.  Maybe because I hear it a lot, or maybe because I do believe that there is sincerity behind this statement.  After all, I do think people are sorry.  Which is difficult enough to deal with.  But more often I think they just don’t know what else to say.  They’re uncomfortable.  And they immediately start wondering if perhaps they’re unknowingly riddled with cancer…and all of this translates into some kind of half apology/half onslaught of additional awkward-yet-cheerily-posed questions:
 
“Hope they caught it early!”  (Well, they didn’t, sooo….)
 
“But you’re gonna be fine, right?”  (Well it’s Stage IV, incurable cancer. It’s not cancer, it’s CANCER….sooo…)
 
“Then you’re like, what, in remission?”  (Um no, I’m in a full-on battle….soooo…)
 
“This is awful, what am I gonna do?!?”  (Um, I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I guess I’m gonna go fill my body with toxic chemicals that I hope will kill the cancer before it kills me…sooo…)
 
Then again, perhaps I do still have some kind of control over my inner monologue.  Because in the end when people tell me they’re sorry, I usually respond by saying “there’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s just the way life is.  It’s sucky…but true.”
 
Yep, I have a list of ridiculous things that people have said to me…and they weigh on my heart.  It’s sucky…but true.   It’s hard to hear the pessimism of doctors over and over again.  It’s hard to hear the statistics.  It’s hard to keep my life in focus.
 
But, then again, I have also had friends and family, parishioners and strangers, loved ones and co-workers who have eased this weight with other words…and sometimes it’s even the words that aren’t spoken that ease the weight the most. 
 
I have a mother who comes and sits with me through every single round of chemo.  We sit there playing cards, hour after hour…Gin Rummy is our game.  She also beats me at every single game! She has no pity.  (And I have cancer, for heaven’s sake; you’d think she could throw a game here or there!)  I have a mother who doesn’t feel bad when I lose at cards, because I also have a mother who tells me that cancer is a win-win situation.
 
I have two amazing sisters.  One who calls me from Texas every single day…no matter.  Just to see how I am, just to show her support, just to make me feel like she doesn’t live quite so far away.
 
And a sister who randomly cooks me soups she makes up the recipes for…and then freezes them in little individual containers before delivering them to me.  One who listens to me wallow, but who also doesn’t let me wallow too long.
 
I have a dad who tells me how proud he is of me.
 
I have a friend who tells me “who is man to call something incurable?”  I like that.
 
I have parishioners who tell me that I am a wonderful witness.  I don’t really know how to take that, but nonetheless.
 
I have a best friend who refuses to let cancer become the center of our relationship.  It’s not. We are.
 
I have a spiritual director who tells me that our time together is sacred to her.
 
I have a hetero-life partner (unless we find men soon…but my stock isn’t exactly going up these days) who lets me share my neurotic thought processes with her.  I try not to spend every second of the day thinking about how I feel, but once your diagnosis of “stomach flu” turns out to be not so much the stomach flu….it’s hard to move past that kind of thing.  Once I told her about my concerns regarding new pains that could be cancer.  (After all, every pain in my body could be suspicious metastatic activity!)  She offered to come over and punch me: “At least then, you’ll know that that pain…is definitely not from cancer.”
 
I have a Quadrilateral of Awesomeness.  Three friends from seminary who, along with me, make up a kind of Justice League-like team of pastoral care.
 
I have a Great Cloud of Witnesses…my Triumvirate, if you will, to whom I look for words of advice and solidarity along this path: Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Oscar Romero, and…well…Freddie Mercury.
 
I’ve had random people I’ve never met before walk up to me on the streets of Massillon, ask if I’m the pastor at Faith…and when I respond that I am, they tell me that they’ve been praying for me.
 
I have a friend with whom I once shared my concerns regarding the centeredness of my belly button. Since my abdominal surgery, I feel like it’s…just a bit off to the side now.  Odd.  My friend responded by asking, “Is your belly button still in the front? Well then…” 
 
Well then indeed.  Just a few of the folks who have chosen to bear some of this weight with me. To walk with me…
 
And yet there is another whose words not only help to bear the weight of the words in this world, but who actually takes on the entirety of the weight.  Sometimes I forget in the massive onslaught of words I hear from the doctors—and in the statistics—that God is speaking too.  Then again, sometimes, maybe I just forget to listen.
 
For I have a God who is telling me profound things.  I have a God who tells me that I am not alone. And I have a God who promises to suffer with me in this world.
 
God has called me to service in this world and shown me again and again that it is not the cure for cancer that I am called to seek.
 
I seek God.
 
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it wouldn’t be nice to stumble over the cure for cancer along the way…but more important, I pray for the strength and the courage to make the journey.
 
Strength and courage.
 
It’s a different way to view life.  But it’s the life I’m living.  And while most days of my life now do bring with them a certain number of unknowns…I am sure of a few things.
 
My belly button is indeed still in the front.  And I’m not going to die from cancer today.
 
 

3 comments:

  1. You are one of the strongest and smartest peole I know... thanks for the awesome blog. And letting me see o spec of your life. I think if you often and pray for you daily. Dawn

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  2. Hi Elaina. This is Christopher DiBattista. I don't know if you remember me from Nordonia, but I was intrigued by Bob Brandt's sharing of this blog. It is powerful to hear you say some of the things about your battle. My stepson's best friend just died of cancer at 25. So the idea is close to home right now. But I just want you to think about something: God created everything (according to your worldview) This means he created cancer. There is a great amount of suffering in this world. Upon the worldview of Christianity, there must be some reconciliation of these ideas. I have been in that position - and it led me to atheism. I now have a renewed vision of my place in this world - love everyone, as much as possible, and as often as possible. I do not want to make your situation any harder than it might be for you right now. But I cannot not share this with you. I send my love.

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  3. I am 29 years old and have been diagnosed with breast cancer, ease of treatment and a similar story, except for my first acceptance as a rejection of herbal medicine. I was not part of the Perseid movement and did not really build relationships with any of them, I just believed in their operation. I say this because it was during the use of Dr. Itua herbal medicine that I now attest that herbal medicine is real, the phytotherapy Dr. Itua heal my breast cancer which I suffered for 2 years. Dr. Itua herbal medicine is made of natural herbs, with no side effects, and easy to drink. If you have the same breast cancer or any type of human illness, including HIV / AIDS, herpes cancer, bladder cancer, bladder cancer, prostate cancer, kidney cancer, lung cancer, skin cancer, skin cancer and skin cancer.testicular Cancer, , LEUKEMIA, VIRUSES, HEPATITIS, INFERTILITY WOMEN / MAN, LOVE SPELL, LOTTERY SPELL. ITS CONTACT EMAIL / WHATSAPP: info@drituaherbalcenter.com Or drituaherbalcenter@gmail.com/ +2348149277967

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