Not long ago, I was with a bunch of people I love. We were celebrating a birthday and it was smiles all-round.
One of the guests, who has been struggling with serious and rather frightening health issues, had just arrived, and mentioned the eternity it seemed to be taking to get the proper medical tests and procedures done here, in Quebec. I couldn’t help but say: “Well I’ve been so lucky at the CHUM and received such good care.”
And my interlocutor answered right back: “Yes, but you’re terminal.”
* * * *
I feel like I should leave a space on the page. It represents a pause. How time seemed to freeze just long enough for me to gasp silently.
Right up until that moment, I was feeling confident and upbeat. In social situations, it isn’t ever possible to make my cancer disappear. Time is required. People have to get used to me and my short white hair (but with blue eyes!), and ask their questions about how things are going in chemo (which I appreciate), and then, the cancer thing is allowed to go sit in a corner and take a break so conversation can move on—until someone calls it out again (sometimes that person is me).
TERMINAL. It was the first time that word has been used around me. And though it was spoken with not a micron of malice, still, it made me wobble, to have it thrown at me like that. It was like being splashed unexpectedly with black paint at super speed. I felt tainted. It reduced me to one of the doomed soldiers of the gaunt chemo army.
This all happened in a split second. I remember thinking, in a shaky inner voice: “But we’re ALL terminal.” (that’s the deal in this one life we have).
I haven’t heard the adjective used at the CHUM, or on my blog page where so many cancer sufferers and sympathizers come to leave comments.
* * * *
I’m a word person. I think it’s the second time in my life that I’ve actually said this in a formal way. The first time was in a yoga weekend workshop, years ago, when we were asked to repeat a mantra over and over and I said to our instructor: “I’m a person of words, and I’d like to know what it is that I’m saying.”; and he answered with a “Pfff! A person of words” and a backhanded swipe at the air, meaning the sounds, the vibrations of Sanskrit are what matters, and understanding wasn’t necessary. That may be the day he lost me. Right at the beginning.
Language is my passion, my fascination, my friend. So, it isn’t a surprise that writing this blog has been such a hopeful, buoyant experience.
Language has its own alchemy. It transforms words into love, understanding, fear, wisdom, confusion, suffering, compassion, anger, motivation…and hope. During my journey with cancer, it has been a universal elixir, allowing me to connect with people all over the world.
The oncologists and other members of the medical team (radiologists, chemo nurses, pivot nurses, pharmacists, psychologists…) with whom I’ve established such crucial relationships since last summer, have perfected the language of their trade, and the very best never falter.
Even the staging of my cancer was done with care and circumspection. Once “Stage 4” was determined, it was almost never used again in my presence. When I sit in front of one of the research team’s oncologists, every second Monday morning, the calendar is discussed—my chemo dates and upcoming blood tests and scans—but I don’t know that we’ve ever talked about finalities.
There’s a softness with language there. Those who work in oncology have learned to speak that way. They don’t say exactly when my chemo will end (there’s a certain, immutable number of cycles I must go through in this clinical trial, but some have been interrupted because of side effects and so I’ve lost track), but they carefully walk me through each one. They won’t say what treatment(s) will follow chemotherapy because they know to wait and see what will be required then…
When you focus on NOW, you don’t need words like terminal and stage 4…but you do find yourself using the word chronic.
My hope is that when my chemo is done (which I think will bring me to next fall), I will have reached a terminal of a different kind, where I will hop the next treatment train that will, I hope, allow me to travel a good distance more. I don’t know how long my trip will be, and don’t expect my medical team to even attempt a guess.
This is, in fact, how most of us live every single day, travelling as best we can, though cancer patients may be the most grateful of all the passengers.