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.