Prisoners

Cancer patients talk about the darnedst things. Today's discussion was about feeling like a prisoner of cancer. I had never thought of it that way, but as soon as my fellow metastatic breast cancer compadre said it, I thought, that's so true. We are prisoners of cancer.  And not the nice kind of prisoners.  We're not in a pleasant sitcom, residing in Stalag 13, goodies hidden in a tunnel, fun jokes among friends, a clueless Colonel Klink wandering in here and there for the punch line.  Metastatic cancer patients are prisoners in a more orange jump suit kind of way. We are told when and where to show up, poked and prodded, given little to no choice on treatments and options. The doctors are our wardens, the nurses the guards.  And because talented oncologists can be hard to find, we pray that the warden and the guards are kind. Because in the end, we all want to live, and it is surprising what people will put up with in the hopes of commuting that life sentence.

I don't mean to be depressing, I'm just telling it like it is.  For the most part, myself and my fellow metastatic cancer friends try to ignore prison walls, do what we can to run freely in the fields, and try our best to deal with those moments where the cell doors come slamming down.  On those bad days, when one of us is lying yet again on an exam table, a tube being snaked into places tubes should never be snaked, we do our best to see the humor, the patience, the good side of the situation.  "These people are here to help me," I tell myself.  "Find the joke, and try to laugh about this," I murmur inside my head.  But secretly, I am resentful. I do not want to be here. If I never saw my oncologist or a bone scan technician again, that would be my happiest day.  I'd even bring flowers to my last visit to thank them.  And then I'd never speak to them again.

I want a life where I can maybe see a doctor about that pesky twinge, it doesn't hurt that bad, really.  I want to drift off to sleep at night, knowing that I'll wake up a little old-age achy, but happy knowing I'll just be going about a regular day. I want to sock money away for retirement thinking I might actually use it, rather than planning on how best to hand it down to my loved ones. I want to be able to imagine going on a date again without having to fathom how I should explain the cancer in my life.  I want to live a life in ignorance of my own death.

When I was receiving my first treatment of Kadcyla when the cancer recently came back, I told the nurses that if I die of cancer, my final words will be, "I am so fucking pissed."   I then turned to my lovely friend Lisa, who had accompanied me, and asked her to record those very words as they came out of my dying mouth. Her reply was to reassure me she would not only record them, but would embroider them on a shirt for me to wear in my coffin. I love friends like Lisa.  Since then, I've instructed my nephew that if I do die of cancer, I want a placard saying "I am so fucking pissed" to be placed next to my urn, and that funeral attendees should be given name tags saying, "We're so fucking pissed too."  I went on to tell him that if I die of anything else besides cancer, anything, the placard should say, "I am so relieved."  And that is my goal, to die of anything besides cancer.

As my oncologist remarked, when I told her this, "You should aim for more positive goals."  But frankly, when you're a prisoner of cancer, life's goals become far simpler yet harder to attain. Live long enough to see my nephew get married. Go on that trip to Iceland.  Any goal, while living with metastatic cancer, can be instantly wiped away by an unannounced flare of the disease or a side effect.

So all I gotta say, if I'm going to live in prison, I get to choose the goals I hope to attain.  I don't give a damn what my oncologist, or anyone else thinks of those goals.  When you're living in prison, sometimes it's best to dig a tunnel and store the goodies down below. And make sure you pull a good one over Colonel Klink as often as you can.  Because, as I told my nephew, when he asked why I had purchased the latest version of the Barnes & Noble Nook, "I have cancer, damnit, and I can do anything I fucking well please."  Now hand me my orange jump suit. I've got a tunnel to dig.