Co-survivors, Unite!
I've recently been reading "Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips" by Kris Carr. It's a delightful self-help book on dealing with cancer as a 30-something warrior (check out www.crazysexycancer.com if you want to get a glimpse of what it's all about). Kris and Traci have a lot in common. Most importantly, they're both in the process of kicking some major cancer butt. Another important similarity? Neither are fighting this battle alone. Along for the ride, they have family and friends. An incredible network of fans that are all considered "co-survivors."
Sure, we don't *technically* have cancer ourselves. When there's a scan, *we're* not techincally getting scanned. The phlebotomist isn't taking *our* blood for tests. But that won't stop us from refering to these things using the "we" pronoun. And I'll be darned if WE don't have cancer. WE'RE fighting this battle and WE are survivors.
Traci and I have had many talks about what it means to be a co-survivor (although we probably didn't call it that at the time). We both agree that in many ways, it's much easier to be the person with the disease. Traci knows what she's going through. She can feel the pain (or lack thereof, in her case). I, on the other hand, have to trust her to tell me the truth about what is going on:
Me: "Traci, are you in pain?"
Traci: "Of course not. I am like the queeen of pain-free cancer. And even if I did hurt, nothing hurts worse than childbirth or breastfeeding--both things I've done multiple times. I'm kind of a badass."
What I hear: "Yes, I'm in pain, but it could be worse. I'm going to say no because I don't want you to worry." (This sends me into fits of panic where I then take 30 minute showers, which is coiencidently exactly how long I can cry before the tears run out.)
The reality is that Traci probably isn't lying to me or anyone else. I know she worries about us, the same as we worry about her. Also, she knows that if I ever catch her lying to me, she won't have to worry about having some stupid disease because I will use my years of Army training to hurt her. (That may not be true, but I'd probably raise my voice in her general direction.)
Kris mentions that being a co-survivor can be stressful. My family is full of superheros and all of us like to think we can carry the weight of the world on our shoulders. We definitely don't excel in asking for help. In fact, we usually only accept help if it's thrust upon us and even then we tend to do so kicking and screaming.
Take me for example:
Accepting that Traci has to go through this battle with me as her side-kick is difficult. Not many people want to be Robin. Batman is sooo much sexier. But, alas, I try to be the best side-kick I can possibly be.
While I was home, it was pretty easy to be the semi-superhero I wanted to be. I could attend all of her doctor's appointments, take pages of notes during said appointments, research treatments, help make informed decisions and of course, play super-auntie all the while. Yes, being on unpaid leave from my job and having a full time side-kick gig was awesome-sauce. Life was good. I always knew what was happening at any given moment. I could feed the baby with one hand and tickle the older two with the other all while talking to my dad about Yervoy (an immunotherpay used to treat metistatic melanoma). I became a master landscaper (Mom, Dad and I are considering starting our own business), and au au-pair extrodinaire.
Now, I'm back in California and suddenly I can no longer be the super-sister I like to think I was. Being a long-distance co-survior is much tougher than I anticipated. Yet, I still hold the title. I'm still part of the "Traci Rocks" fan club. I'm still certain that she's going to stomp every single one of the mutated cells in her body into oblivion. But now, I'm helpless to provide PHYSICAL support. I can't take the kids to swimming lessons, change a dirty diaper or sit in a sterile hospital room and make jokes about the size of the chairs (seriously--they're huge. Traci and I shared a chair that was probably designed for one!). I can't get up with the baby when he cries in the middle of the night and I can't hug my mom while we hide in the bathroom declaring how sad we are that this is all happening.
Instead, I sit in a coffee shop on Union Street and create webpages and blog entries to ease my mind. I read books on cancer and take notes. I research treatments for melanoma and post on forums. It's not quite the same. I can't even share the information with the ease of a casual conversation with my mom at 2am while she rocks baby Finn back to sleep. Suddently, I'm at the will of her cell phone reception.
I know I need a support structure to get through this. While my co-workers have all offered to provide a shoulder to lean on, I know that the likelyhood of me actually calling my co-workers and say, "Man, I have had a tough day. I didn't do anything work-wise, but I'll be darned if I didn't cry my eyes out in the shower this morning." is slim to none. I am, after all, supposed to be a professional. My solution is to continue to call my parents at every available opportunity. To facebook chat with my sister. To hang on to the glorious memories of being at home and longing for the invention of a teleportation machine. (Gosh, wouldn't that be fabulous?!) And for now, it's working.
And I'm not the worst in the family. For every offer of help that I shrug off, my mother has fifteen more that she's shunned. Thank goodness my grandmother had the sense to talk some sense into her and now she's allowing some of her sisters to help lighten the load.
Accepting help is one of the top tips Kris has for surivors and co-survivors alike. We're not in this fight alone. None of us are. Whether we carry the burden of having the radiation beams aimed at our head or the burden of watching someone we love having them aimed at her head--we are all surivors and we all deserve a break.
If you're reading this, chances are you know me or one of my family members. Chances are also good that you are a co-surivor either for Traci or someone else you know that has cancer. If this is the case, first, give yourself a pat on the back, then look around and see who around you needs a hug. Remind yourself that if you know my family, you know we're stubborn and you might have to demand to help, not ask. If you want to help and you're not sure how you can, please let me know. I'm full of ideas. (And none of them involve making pasta for Traci or anyone else.)
On a only-somewhat-related note, one of my favorite quotes from the book is something Kris saw on a billboard in NYC:
Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given, than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is an opinion, not a fact. Impossible isn't a declaration, it's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.
Kris replaced the word "impossible" with "incurable," which was the word used to describe her rare lung and liver cancer. I love it. I hope we can live it as well.
Sure, we don't *technically* have cancer ourselves. When there's a scan, *we're* not techincally getting scanned. The phlebotomist isn't taking *our* blood for tests. But that won't stop us from refering to these things using the "we" pronoun. And I'll be darned if WE don't have cancer. WE'RE fighting this battle and WE are survivors.
Traci and I have had many talks about what it means to be a co-survivor (although we probably didn't call it that at the time). We both agree that in many ways, it's much easier to be the person with the disease. Traci knows what she's going through. She can feel the pain (or lack thereof, in her case). I, on the other hand, have to trust her to tell me the truth about what is going on:
Me: "Traci, are you in pain?"
Traci: "Of course not. I am like the queeen of pain-free cancer. And even if I did hurt, nothing hurts worse than childbirth or breastfeeding--both things I've done multiple times. I'm kind of a badass."
What I hear: "Yes, I'm in pain, but it could be worse. I'm going to say no because I don't want you to worry." (This sends me into fits of panic where I then take 30 minute showers, which is coiencidently exactly how long I can cry before the tears run out.)
The reality is that Traci probably isn't lying to me or anyone else. I know she worries about us, the same as we worry about her. Also, she knows that if I ever catch her lying to me, she won't have to worry about having some stupid disease because I will use my years of Army training to hurt her. (That may not be true, but I'd probably raise my voice in her general direction.)
Kris mentions that being a co-survivor can be stressful. My family is full of superheros and all of us like to think we can carry the weight of the world on our shoulders. We definitely don't excel in asking for help. In fact, we usually only accept help if it's thrust upon us and even then we tend to do so kicking and screaming.
Take me for example:
Accepting that Traci has to go through this battle with me as her side-kick is difficult. Not many people want to be Robin. Batman is sooo much sexier. But, alas, I try to be the best side-kick I can possibly be.
While I was home, it was pretty easy to be the semi-superhero I wanted to be. I could attend all of her doctor's appointments, take pages of notes during said appointments, research treatments, help make informed decisions and of course, play super-auntie all the while. Yes, being on unpaid leave from my job and having a full time side-kick gig was awesome-sauce. Life was good. I always knew what was happening at any given moment. I could feed the baby with one hand and tickle the older two with the other all while talking to my dad about Yervoy (an immunotherpay used to treat metistatic melanoma). I became a master landscaper (Mom, Dad and I are considering starting our own business), and au au-pair extrodinaire.
Now, I'm back in California and suddenly I can no longer be the super-sister I like to think I was. Being a long-distance co-survior is much tougher than I anticipated. Yet, I still hold the title. I'm still part of the "Traci Rocks" fan club. I'm still certain that she's going to stomp every single one of the mutated cells in her body into oblivion. But now, I'm helpless to provide PHYSICAL support. I can't take the kids to swimming lessons, change a dirty diaper or sit in a sterile hospital room and make jokes about the size of the chairs (seriously--they're huge. Traci and I shared a chair that was probably designed for one!). I can't get up with the baby when he cries in the middle of the night and I can't hug my mom while we hide in the bathroom declaring how sad we are that this is all happening.
Instead, I sit in a coffee shop on Union Street and create webpages and blog entries to ease my mind. I read books on cancer and take notes. I research treatments for melanoma and post on forums. It's not quite the same. I can't even share the information with the ease of a casual conversation with my mom at 2am while she rocks baby Finn back to sleep. Suddently, I'm at the will of her cell phone reception.
I know I need a support structure to get through this. While my co-workers have all offered to provide a shoulder to lean on, I know that the likelyhood of me actually calling my co-workers and say, "Man, I have had a tough day. I didn't do anything work-wise, but I'll be darned if I didn't cry my eyes out in the shower this morning." is slim to none. I am, after all, supposed to be a professional. My solution is to continue to call my parents at every available opportunity. To facebook chat with my sister. To hang on to the glorious memories of being at home and longing for the invention of a teleportation machine. (Gosh, wouldn't that be fabulous?!) And for now, it's working.
And I'm not the worst in the family. For every offer of help that I shrug off, my mother has fifteen more that she's shunned. Thank goodness my grandmother had the sense to talk some sense into her and now she's allowing some of her sisters to help lighten the load.
Accepting help is one of the top tips Kris has for surivors and co-survivors alike. We're not in this fight alone. None of us are. Whether we carry the burden of having the radiation beams aimed at our head or the burden of watching someone we love having them aimed at her head--we are all surivors and we all deserve a break.
If you're reading this, chances are you know me or one of my family members. Chances are also good that you are a co-surivor either for Traci or someone else you know that has cancer. If this is the case, first, give yourself a pat on the back, then look around and see who around you needs a hug. Remind yourself that if you know my family, you know we're stubborn and you might have to demand to help, not ask. If you want to help and you're not sure how you can, please let me know. I'm full of ideas. (And none of them involve making pasta for Traci or anyone else.)
On a only-somewhat-related note, one of my favorite quotes from the book is something Kris saw on a billboard in NYC:
Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given, than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is an opinion, not a fact. Impossible isn't a declaration, it's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.
Kris replaced the word "impossible" with "incurable," which was the word used to describe her rare lung and liver cancer. I love it. I hope we can live it as well.