Get On Board

You don’t pick on a cancer patient. It falls under general cultural taboos, like bad-mouthing a homeless person or wearing turtlenecks in the summer. There are things that are not done. I realized this as I started venturing into public places again several months ago. The normal awkwardness that often times keeps us close to the punch bowl dissolved when I realized nobody would judge me for taking care of my needs right now. People have a considerable amount of compassion for someone enduring chemotherapy. So it came as a shock to me the day I discovered that the only person in my life to have the gall to pick on a cancer patient was me.

I think I always considered a certain amount of self-criticism to be healthy; it keeps the ego bubble from getting too inflated, right? It kept me humble, or so I thought. Cancer is a beautiful metaphor for life in the way it forces issues to the surface. My first day out of the hospital, I was staying at Tom and Laurie’s. My room had a large wardrobe with three mirrors on the front. It was my first morning in ‘normal’ clothes (I’d donned the hospital scrubs for almost a month). There was something about being back in pajamas that made me feel comfortable. But nothing about my body was comfortable. My body had changed significantly in a single month as it worked to clear the cancer. The resulting change had left me with (for a small-framed 24 year old gay boy) a bit of a gut, more than I was accustomed to. As I stared at myself in the mirror, the old self-judgments started flooding back. I began scrutinizing--as I’ve often been known to do--intricate details all over my body, assessing ‘what was wrong’ and poking at my flab. And then the significance of my actions began to sink in. I had just come from a month in the hospital, clearing cancer from my system. My body had done something miraculous, almost unheard of. It had expelled the cancerous cells in a matter of days, not months or years. The cruelty of my scrutiny and judgment sank in and I realized that really, the criticism was a deeper hatred surfacing. And I understood, though unable to fully grasp how to change the situation, that the self-criticism and hatred I had always lugged around simply would not do any more.

I think I can finally say with confidence that I know exactly what I would say to somebody who is diagnosed with cancer. Erin reminded me yesterday though, that this is probably a little more widely applicable. Imagine two people. The first is your lover, your constant: sexy, smart, funny. You are hands down their biggest fan. In fact, you just can’t seem to get enough of them. They bring you nothing but constant joy and inspiration. After you get a clear picture in your head of this person, imagine a second. Imagine your child, tiny, maybe six or seven. Beautiful! They’re the most brilliant person you’ve ever encountered. The way they interact with the world amazes you constantly, and their capacity to love at such a young age shows wisdom beyond their years. Get a clear picture of this rugrat. Now imagine both of these people are diagnosed with cancer and consider the way in which you would care for either (or both) of these people—immaculate, I would venture to guess. That is how you must treat yourself.

I’m catching on slowly. The turning point came when I heard from my doctors that my body had done the job of protecting my Central Nervous System perfectly. It had done this in spite of my criticism and hatred. This amazes me. My body’s been doing exactly what it does brilliantly, regardless of my cooperation. I was humbled. And bitch slapped. The choice was clear, painfully so actually. The miracle is there. It’s always been there. I could continue to ignore it, or I could choose differently. I’m not a dunce. I know how to get my act together. So I did. Takes a while, but eventually I catch on. We always do.

Trouble in Tehran

Last night, as I was embracing a wave of nausea and pain—the remnants of a ‘chemo day’—I turned on the news. The top story centered around North Korea’s agreement to ‘pause’ part of its nuclear program in exchange for some quite needed aid from America and several other neighboring countries. The question was posed to Condie Rice, “do you think this will send a clear message to Iran about its uranium enrichment?” Condie felt optimistic that Iran would get the message loud and clear. A few leading scholars seemed to disagree, arguing that Iran doesn’t really seem to be in a place where it’s interested in ‘getting any sort of a message loud and clear.” I’ve been alarmed reading reports over the last week that the Bush Administration may have preparations underway for an air strike on Tehran sometime this spring. The thought takes me back to the morning I was in Takaungu and Mzee Rashid Abdallah, a Muslim, took my hand and showed me on television the razing of Baghdad. There’s a distinct possibility that we could once again be facing a similar collision.

The Bush administration has a tendency to back up most of its policy with the argument that what is happening is ‘necessary.’ If we weren’t playing referee in the Middle East right now, however aggressively, it would open up our country to the threat of attacks from people that, according to the stories, have it in for us come hell or high water. It is a fight, a war that has seemed to leap over the last several years to epic proportions.

I’ve always been dissatisfied with cancer terminology. It’s never settled right. It’s a ‘fight’ against cancer, a ‘struggle.’ Cancer ‘invades’ your body. It’s a ‘disease.’ I wasn’t sure why this rubbed me the wrong way, and being the new man on the cancer band wagon, I didn’t want to upset the tried and true method of dealing with cancer. So it became my ‘fight.’ Yet surprisingly I’m not, in any way shape or form, angry at cancer for entering my life. Granted, I was told early on that this would be a ‘curable’ cancer, if treated aggressively. I’ve never had to accept the fact that the experience would end with death, although I have had to consider the possibility. Still, at this moment I have nothing but gratitude for this experience. It has provided me with the gift of resistance, some serious resistance, but not a battle. My lesson has been learning to look this resistance in the face and smile at it, to realize that rather than trying to ‘destroy me,’ it could actually possibly be giving me something. And it has. So I decided to do something new this round. I’m kind of trying to fall in love with cancer. It was recently Valentine’s Day and I have been given some heavy steroids, but right now cancer feels like that date that went really bad, even though you keep thinking about the guy for weeks after. It feels like the appropriate time to acknowledge, “okay so I got to know you in an awkward situation where I couldn’t appreciate your coolness. So could we just have dinner or coffee or something non-stressful and get to know each other as friends?”

Texan diplomacy never made much sense to me. It’s the aggression behind the actions, it belies a deep suspicion. Backed with a smile, the big guns are pulled out, ‘just to establish whose boss.’ As Americans, spawn of wild westerners, we have a tendency to get riled in the face of resistance. We confront it by girding up our loins and gettin’ ready to rumble. I’m learning that the rumble is self-induced. When you stop looking at the resistance as an enemy, you can actually sit with it as a friendly presence. My strength doesn’t come from a blue painted stripe on the side of my face or bloody arteries popping out of my mouth. My strength comes from my willingness to surrender, to accept and embrace something that is interacting with me, and ultimately to acknowledge that while it will pass through me and interact with me, it doesn’t have to push me off my center. My center will still be there afterwards. And in fact, I may have learned something by getting to know the resistance—as friends first, of course.

Care Bear Stare

People are always asking me what they can do to help right now. It seems to be on people’s minds. Occasionally, I’ll get a casserole or some cookies. Well, people are starting to catch on to my aversion to sweets, so I’m not getting as many cookies these days. One of the most beautiful gifts I’ve been given since the new year has been getting to see new people, some from a long time ago in my life and some from very recently, rise to the challenge of helping me step back slowly into the world while continuing to take on my healing. I’ve eaten out, I’ve traveled on buses, looked at fine art, gone dancing. It’s been a while since I’ve partied this much. It feels good. I’m getting better at asking for help, much better. And maintaining my pace and center. In fact, there’s a part of me that’s really secretly enjoying it. Loving it. People’s kindness amazes me, their generosity and support and willingness to walk at my pace with me, without judgment. So in the spirit of this transformation, I wanted to ask something of you.

Yesterday, I started my fourth round of chemo. There was a certain routine-ness about it all: the same visit to the same clinic I’ve been going to every week for six months. The same routine checks of my vital stats and weight. I waited in the same room to talk to my doctor. But Birgitta had some news for me. “We can’t promise you anything 100% just yet,” she smiled, “but we’re fairly certain we want to shift you from six rounds to four rounds.” My heart leapt. I know it’s not that long, and I know it’s chemo I’m familiar with, but goddamn it, it would be nice not to have to do it for six more months. What’s funny is that there was this recognition that took place when she told me the good news. It was as if I wanted to say to her “I know! I’m making it happen.” I’ve started relating to myself in a way I haven’t for the majority of my treatment, as though I am fundamentally in the driver’s seat. I have learned how to sit with this foreign vessel in my body, I have negotiated with it and submitted to it, but I am starting to realize more and more that my mind and body and spirit have a strength and resiliency that is close to unstoppable. It’s pretty sweet.

So here’s the request, as heart-felt as I can make it. I’d like to ask you, sometime during the next month, to set aside ten minutes, find someplace peaceful, and focus all your energy into believing that I am healed. I understand you each have different ways of focusing your energy. Call it a prayer, meditation, perfect powder, perfect wave. I don’t need to know. In fact, I’d rather not know. Those moments are pretty personal, I understand. Ten minutes, I am healed. Here’s one for you overachievers. We are healed.

On March 6th I meet with my doctors again. If we’re going to change protocol, that will be the time to discuss it. Believe, interact with it like it’s already true. (Because it is.) Here’s the catch. No fear, please. I kind of just sort of need your full belief. I don’t need to know about it. But you have my gratitude, deepest and most sincere.