Acknowledging the near misses
Cancer has usually meant death. Thankfully these days, there are more people that survive a diagnosis than don't, but it still feels like a limp handshake ... it just lingers until you feel like you've finally washed it off.
For people who hear you've got cancer, the inevitable silent thought arises: "Thank God it's not me". Like a near miss in the car. It is only natural to be confronted with your own mortality. The what ifs. But then the moment passes. Rarely do we think about the need to change our entire perspective on life - no, because that's happening to someone else.
I've always been curious about how people respond to traffic jams caused by a fatal accident. How many of us really do pause to think about the person whose life has been lost instead of just the inconvenience of running late for something apparently far more important.
Being on the receiving end of a cancer diagnosis can be the same - thank God it was caught early. What if it comes back. And there it is - the face of mortality looking at you wanting to have a chat. (If only they could look like Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black).
It's confronting. It's frightening. But if we allow it, it can also feel exhilarating. What would it mean to start again? I've done it before from the point of view of moving states, changing jobs, kicking off a new life full of possibilities. But ultimately the view changes but the vessel (me) hasn't. And without a cancer diagnosis or some other near-miss, why would I? Why would anyone? I'm not suggesting that everyone shaves their hair off, stands naked in the mirror, assumes their superwoman pose, and questions "who could this be?" rather than the usual "who am I?" But this experience for me has absolutely demanded it because I don't want a repeat. Another brick wall. My view and my vessel are both changing and yet I'm standing in the same spot.
It's a choice how we care for our bodies to help recovery (although I'm sure my impulse buy cold press juicer could have been a little smarter!).
It's a choice how we cobble together supports that may come from so many surprisingly wonderful people if all you do is ask and be open.
It's a choice about whether we view chemo drugs as lifesaving medicine or demonic poison.
It's a choice whether we walk towards accepting that yes, our hair will likely fall out rather than painfully waiting for handfuls of devastation to wash down into the shower drain.
It's a choice whether to take a chat with Joe Black (mortality) as a reason to pause, question and potentially change our view. Or whether we're just thankful that the near miss passed us by and keep driving.
I came across the concept of 'mortality motivation' recently. It now causes me to have a set of questions ready next time I meet Joe Black:
Did I live? Did I love? Did I matter?
Until that time comes, my goal is to make choices as though I already know his answer: Yes, he will say. Yes, you did.
