When first approached about the idea of going to a cancer group, I didn't know what to think. I mentioned it to one of my virtual buddies, who will remain nameless for the purposes of this blog just in case she doesn't want to admit to this next comment, and she said that they can really help, with one caveat. She told me a lot of times in the group, there is one person who is the downer of the group. The one that couldn't be cheered up by a clown, riding a unicorn, passing out balloon animals, candy, and money. She said, don't let that person get to me. There is always one in every group. There always will be. If I just focus on the positivity in the rest of the group I will get by fine and enjoy it.
When we finally went to our meeting about the group, I mentioned this to the therapist that doesn't therapize because groups aren't about therapying from a therapist, he did exactly what would expect a therapist to do, even though he wasn't there to therapize. He looked at me very serious and started to say that is not necessarily true. He started to say that. About halfway, through saying that, I start to see him crack a grin. Then a chuckle towards the end of the sentence. He tells me that yes, those people are out there, but she is right, you can just ignore them and focus on the positive people.
I show up at group not really knowing what to expect. In my mind, someone will be wheeled in on a hospital bed, and people will be in very stages of decomposition, because I will admit it, I have been influenced by the media's portrayal of cancer patients as well. The anti-therapist walks in and directs me back to the room. Sure I am going to see a room full of sick people I instead see, well, two people that don't look like anything is wrong with them. They look "normal". And the doorway to the room doesn't even look big enough for a bed to wheel through. More and more people filter in, and every single one looks just like someone I would see on the street. I am a little more at ease. Maybe this won't be so bad. Since I am the new guy, we go around the room and tell our stories.
Cancer can bring out the optimist and the pessimist inside of you. In many ways, I am very optimistic about my treatment and recovery. I KNOW I will beat this. I KNOW I will feel good again. I KNOW this won't affect my life in the long run. But the pessimist side comes in when the doctor says that there is an 80% chance this will never come back. You automatically start thinking about the 20% that says it may come back. Beating cancer is a necessary journey that I am ready to take on, once. I don't particularly want to take it on several times. So although your attitude can be positive, your mind seems to pick up quicker on the negative things.
I look around the room at all of the healthy people. Ready to hear how they all beat cancer and won! Now I don't know exactly what was said, because your mind starts playing tricks on you, but it seemed everyone in there had multiple cancer stories. That's the pessimist part. Every time you hear the words "and then it came back" you immediately start paying even more attention. No! That's not how it's supposed to work. You get cancer. You beat cancer. You move on. Isn't cancer like the chicken pox? You get it once in your life and you never get it again? And I got lucky, it happened to me early, I still have a nut to spare, now I can go on without having to worry about every getting cancer again. At least, that's the way I want it to work. And all of these cancers seem much more serious than mine, and these people seem to have so much more at stake. After all, the doc did say I have the "best kind of cancer". Everyone of these people are probably looking at me jealous of my cancer. Heck, the doctor almost made it sound like people on the street without cancer would be envious of me strutting around with my "best kind of cancer".
Around the room, one by one, they all tell stories of the people that depend on them, especially children. These people all had such harder journeys than mine and so much more riding on them surviving. All I have is a mean wife and two basenjis. And let's face it, the abused rescue basenji will be too busy hiding to realize I'm gone, and the other one won't notice as long as my mean wife's new husband let's him lay on the deck and feeds him scraps.
At this point let me just say, I don't really think my wife is mean. OK, she is mean in the fact that she won't let me spend money I don't have on things I don't need but really want like an American made PRS guitar with double cutaway and 24 frets. But, she is so afraid that people will really think that she is mean. Now that assumption depends on several factors. The first being that someone actually reads my blog. The second that someone that reads my blog actually believes that I really think she is mean. The third that someone reads my blog and actually believes that I think she is mean AND agrees with me that not bringing me Pepsi with seven ice cubes in the glass, buying me a Paul Reed Smith guitar, and taking me to Walt Disney World constitutes abuse. Now if there is anyone that believes me, please help me to convince her that I do need that guitar to help me recover at Walt Disney World with an ice cold Pepsi. The main reason I put in here that she is mean, is simply so I can tell if she read my blog or not. If I walk up from downstairs (where she forces me to stay in the basement with warm Pepsi and no American made PRS guitar) and she is giving me the skunk eye, I know she read my daily installment.
After we go around the room with our introductions, the depression of how I may have to face this battle again someday, just as many of the people in this room have, slowly changes to hope. Just about everyone in this room has had more than one battle with cancer. They still look normal. They still have families. They still live their lives. Even the ones currently in battles look normal, heck they look great! They don't look like "cancer patients" at all. And they are all older than me! That means I can live at least as long as these people! I think the negative guy must have missed this group meeting, because I can't readily identify him. But I will still be on the lookout for him! Oh crap, does that mean it's me? The rest of the meeting is just a conversation. The anti-therapist doesn't say much, just listens. Wow, he wasn't lying. He really isn't doing much therapying. What surprises me most is how many questions these people are asking me. I hear these stories of all of their long and emotional battles, many fought multiple times, and they want to hear my story? One round of chemo, that's all I'm facing, one round! Who cares? They are the ones with the stories. And what's more surprising is that they all seem sincere in their interest in my story. I do feel better.
I am actually looking a little forward to the next meeting. Who knows, maybe the negative person will show up this time. But now that I am no longer the new kid, we will see if it was all just an act. They may turn on the Stage-I-Best-Kind-of-Cancer boy and make me do some weird initiation ritual. Maybe they are like a frat and have a goat tied out back that I have to do a prostate cancer check on. All I know is I will go as long as I need to. Before the first meeting, I thought that would just be until I am done with chemo. Now, I don't know how long I will go. The group made me think that the hard part of the journey may be the treatment, but it doesn't mean the journey is over. I may go as long as I am on this trip, however long that is.
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