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.