Cancer and Coming Home

There are seven splotches of blood perched on the mint green chalk-paint walls surrounding us. My bed is a mat at the base of a large slat bed, falling apart, on which two girls slept under a blasting fan. I know, the fan keeps many of the mosquitoes away, but I can't sleep with air buffeting it's recycled-warm-but-slightly-cooler air on my face. And so here I am, down here, suffocating with the mozzies, their red, itchy dinner remains lining my arms.

I fall asleep each night here, earbuds stuffed in my ears, eye mask concealing tears. “Draw Your Swords” by Angus and Julia Stone. Every night. Loud. I should be sick of it, but it sets me free into my aching imaginings.

I see them snakes come through the ground

They choke me to the bone

They tie me to their wooden chair

Here are all my songs

'cause you are... the only one....

I miss him so much. I've been wrenched away from my life. My life that I've spent so long creating and destroying, and creating again. My heart is pitted against my head, constantly. I know I should just enjoy this experience, I'm learning a lot. I know it's only three months. I know not many people get the privilege of living and working in Togo, experiencing another culture so first hand. I know I should meet more villagers. I know I should be okay with the hissing and mocking, as they know no different. And it's a 'different culture' – tread gently, smile, it's all perfect in it's own way...

And yet the tears still dry under the salty eye mask each night, as my heart longs for home. My heart doesn't like the men's hissing, my heart doesn't like the kids running after me screaming “white person.” My heart doesn't like being stuck inside concrete walls with American students, and it's not comfortable with the snakes that slither in front of my bare feet in jandals. My heart aches for home. What is home? It asks me, over and over. It's with James. I know it. But where? My head tries to tell me anywhere we are, but it doesn't quite feel right. The girls up on the creaky bed, they get to go home. Everyone else gets to. We fly back to Idaho. Yes, I miss that place more than anything, but I haven't been home in years. More tears.

***

Chills ran up my spine when I was talking to mum the other day. On Saturday night, while James and I were at a 'Castaway' party at our friend Joe's house, she had dinner with a couple she described as 'wonderful' and intelligent'. The man, she told me, was rather an expert in mind-body connection with disease. They talked cancer. (Should cancer have a capital C?) Mum told him about how my tumor started growing in Togo; “she had a different/reduced diet, a completely different climate, was on her cellphone internationally often...”

“But how did she feel?” he asks.

***

Aden was down this weekend, he was talking to my cousin Steffi, also visiting, about cancer/Cancer. “Everyone has cancerous cells growing all of the time,” he said. “It's just that sometimes our bodies, for whatever reason, suddenly aren't able to fight their growth.”

***

“Well, she missed James a lot,” my mum told the man. “And she missed me, and New Zealand...”

“And now she's back, isn't she?” he smiled. “She's home.”

Brain cancer is one of the cancers with the least known causes. I've been repeatedly told that there is no reason, that it just spontaneously occurred, that it's not genetic, not environmental, not cellphones, not dietary, not this, not that.... now I don't know anything either. I have no idea. But what I do know is that when the cancer was multiplying its little cells, my heart was conflicted. Deeply. There was a crevice between my heart and my head. I felt lost. I was pursuing success, was going to head straight into getting a PhD, was going to be a published author within the year....etc. I had no plans to ever come back to New Zealand to live. I wanted to fix the world, and its pain weighed heavily upon me. And I also know that now, my heart and my head are at peace. I feel joy emanating from my inner being. James and I have a sense of constant growth together, he is happy in a wonderful job, I have reconnected with my family and homeland. I have kept in contact with my loved ones back in Moscow, and my love for them has not faded but grown. Even the most menial tasks are beautiful. I no longer need success, but am happy if it comes along from doing what I truly want to do.

No matter if this is related to cancer or not, this is something that I wish for all people. To give up the conflict, to reconnect our heads and our hearts, to go home. There will always be things that we feel society wants us to do to be successful, but we will never taste happiness unless we are at home in ourselves. After I've treated the remaining cells, I'll begin delving deeper into the reasons for it's existence, but for now, while we 'have no idea,' I want to share this story with you in the hopes that you don't have to get cancer to feel the peace that it has brought me.

Triptych

We are lined up in a classroom. The teacher has given us an assignment; everyone is nervous. I peek over at my neighbor – she is concentrating, determined. The assignment is given. We are to design a poster for people with cancer, in an effort to ‘communicate’ with them. No one acts surprised, as if this assignment is completely ordinary. I am filled with nervous, excited responsibility. “I’ve got this,” I think to myself. “Cancer is my thing. I understand it more than anyone in this room.” The students get to work – oddly, it is a competitive assignment and each person is pitted against each other in order to create the best poster.

I get to work. Cutting, coloring, drawing (no computers here), I can’t seem to get it to look good. Stress builds. I have to do this. The clock ticks rapidly - students glance over at each other’s work. Time is almost up…

Now it’s time for presentations. We have to stand up and explain why we made our posters the way we did. I feel distraught – mine isn’t nearly as good as many of the others. Students take turns to stand, presenting posters that say things like “get well soon” with pictures of flowers, and various other slogans and smiley-faces you might see in a hospital children’s ward. They talk about people with cancer like they are sad, dying, lonely, in need of comfort.

As my turn creeps closer, my confidence and frustration build. I know I have to say something. The final polite applause ends and I apprehensively stand. I hold my poster low, and begin a speech, addressing the students directly. Heads turn, eyes are pulled to my confident, impassioned voice. “We’re not victims, please don’t treat us like we are,” I say. “Each one of you has created something that calls for pity; pity for patients that are hopeless and hanging on to each commiserative word they can get hold of.” I look around apprehensively – they are still intently listening. “I have created something that, although it may not look perfect, encourages people – yes, I say people, not patients – to band together in camaraderie with everyone around them. It’s not an uncommon thing you know, cancer, no matter how dark or tragic it may seem to you. Hopefully you’ll never see it but our hospitals are full of people lining out the door for treatment. You always hear about people who die from cancer, but how often do you hear from the people who are confidently living with it? Please, don’t make us victims.”

By this point tears have formed in the corners of my eyes, and my heart is pounding. For a moment there is silence. Suddenly, the room erupts in cheers and enthused clapping. I’m shocked. But my poster is awful and ugly! I don’t deserve this! I look guiltily down at my poster, and notice with shock that it is completely filled with color.  

This was when I woke yesterday morning. I hadn’t yet had dreams about having cancer, but I suppose my psyche has finally caught onto it.

***

Insecurities

I am going to try and express my insecurities that should not exist.

They should not exist yet they make my jaw ache for no reason, and my eyes unnecessarily wet.

My life now is hanging out with my mum in a beautiful house in a beautiful country. Each day I educate myself, do homework, housework, errands, and stay strong to take the pills that are poisoning my body.

They have not weakened my body too much, but perhaps they have weakened my spirit.

I am bald. The pills I am taking make my scars show up. My body is no longer able to fight off a simple scratch before it protrudes like an ugly Rudolf-scab. In the daytime it’s okay – I can put on a wig, makeup, clothes…but at night it comes off and I am once again a “patient”. I put on a little hat but it doesn’t hide the baldness.

Sometimes the girl in the mirror at night whispers to me doubts. I’m trying to work out if that’s okay. I think it is…although I’m told it’s not. I suppose it’s felt more pronounced now that James is off at work and has what they call "a life."

It’s a tough thing in relationships, when the balance is off. What do I want, reassurance?

Well, I’ve given that question some thought, that question that was posed to me with cynicism and irritation… I guess I do. There are situations when I need reassurance, more than I did before anyway. I’m no longer that powerful, world-conquering, always-successful traveler. Now, I do laundry and dishes and cleaning, interspersed with homework and my own quiet learning pursuits. I’m not out in town, all dressed up and at my best. I’m not a ‘professional,’ not even a student. I’m not a lot of things.

[written about six days ago]

***

On Friday night we went out dancing. James and a few of his workmates, my gorgeous friend Anneke and I danced ridiculously and for hours to eighties music at the Bangalore Polo Club in downtown Wellington. When I told my dad this he laughed, sounding slightly concerned but slightly relieved; “Oh! That’s strange to hear, while I’m here thinking that you are in misery, you’re out partying!”

It’s a funny feeling being out, dressed nicely, dancing well with a gorgeous wig on, knowing that cancer is my own little secret and that hardly anyone else in a room knows.

The clock strikes midnight.

In the middle of the dance floor to a particularly victorious Queen song, I whip off my long, brunette wig. A bouncer gave me a strange, disappointed look. I can feel people’s eyes on my bare head. The long, fake strands wave above me, triumphant.

When it is safely back on, James’s boss's boss comes over to me and whispers, “You look beautiful with and without the wig.” I smile at him. “Thanks!” I say, beaming. “Not many people have the skill of being able to take their hair off!” I later declare to James - I'm not sure how he feels about my newfound skill in public, but he rolls with it.

***

Is being on chemo great? No. Well, yes, sometimes. Is it miserable? No. Well, yes, sometimes.