Brave

I went to high school with a woman, J., who was diagnosed with brain cancer 12 years ago. Though she and I weren't close friends, we have stayed in touch over the years. She still writes on Facebook occasionally about her experience with cancer, although having passed the 10 year milestone, she is now considered to be cured. Recently she wrote this:

Getting chemo on Christmas Eve 2004: 74 lbs. no hair of any kind, eyelashes, brows gone, finger nails going black and lifting so badly I thought they would fall off and bone pain so intense I was sleeping 23 hours a day. And turning slightly yellow because I have a pissed ass hell liver. Don't call me brave. Make me laugh. Be real that without a wig and facial hair, yes I look like Gollum. PRECIOUS. Say it to me in that voice, and give me your best come hither look. And let us both laugh because, good lord that is what is needed.

J. is not alone in this feeling; most of the women I have talked to have chafed against the cancer cliches, with intensity ranging from mild annoyance to pure rage. And Breast Cancer Awareness Month, in which these cliches run rampant, seems to be universally despised by breast cancer patients and survivors. A graphic designer/cancer survivor named Emily McDowell even created a brilliant series of "empathy cards" that address this notion.

"Brave" seems to be a particularly troublesome word. An oncology nurse turned cancer patient wrote this in a piece titled "Dear Every Cancer Patient I Ever Took Care Of, I’m Sorry. I Didn’t Get It."

I didn’t get how weird it felt to be called “brave”. It’s a word that gets thrown around a lot, yeah it kind of made you feel good - but you still didn’t really understand why people would call you this. Sure you were getting through it fine (most days), but it’s not like you had a choice. I’m getting treatment because I have to - doesn’t really make me feel like much of a hero. I’m sorry. I didn’t get it.

And a writer/cancer patient named Emily Alford wrote this: 

What exactly am I brave for? Not dropping dead? Showing my face outside my house while bald and thin with breasts two surgeries away from reconstructed? I’m not brave to live in my body. I’m stuck in it. To be honest, I’ve been a breast cancer coward. I opted for the mastectomy because it seemed like the choice that would mean the least number of lifetime doctor visits, the fewest number of biopsies, less radiation, less chemotherapy. I spent the summer hiding in my Brooklyn apartment because I was ashamed of my hunched, post-surgery shuffle, chemotherapy hairlessness, and steroid acne. Instead of confronting my new reality, I watched Bed-Stuy pass beneath my window and wept into my dog like a Kleenex. Now that I am leaving the house, I’m insecure, but I’m also lonely, desperate to get back around people and play-act my old life. Maybe it does take courage to walk outside looking like a cancer patient, but that’s the last thing I want to be reminded of while I’m trying to act like I’m not a cancer patient.

I never minded the platitudes as much as others seemed to. My greatest objection to the breast cancer awareness movement is aesthetic; it has generated a huge amount of truly heinous graphic design, and a travesty of dyed-pink flowers. The words themselves don't bother me as much - though they may be banal or trite, it doesn't mean that they aren't true. I think what doesn't kill you does in fact make you stronger. I think that you do have to seize the day, every day. And I think that when life gives you lemons - well, you know.

Now that I have more perspective on what I went through, I have come to believe that in this situation, the intent is more important than the words or even the actions. Taking this approach is a form of generosity that a patient can extend to those around her, but by doing so it will in turn improve her own experience. There were a number of people who hurt me by not showing up during my time of need - but in many cases, when I have seen and spoken with them since, I learned that they had been following my blog, thinking of me, praying for me, sharing their concerns about me with others - I just didn't know it. They didn't know what to say or do, but it wasn't that they didn't care. Instead of feeling abandoned, I should have had more faith in them.  

And being called brave? I don't mind it. Bravery isn't about choice. Bravery is about facing your reality and putting one foot in front of the other. This is what every cancer patient does during her treatment; it is what every cancer survivor does when she plans for her future. There's no glory in it; it doesn't feel triumphant or victorious or even impressive. But it is brave. And when people call me brave, I try to listen now to what they're really saying - which is simply that they care.