Note: I was diagnosed with cancer in 2008. As I approach my 'cancerveresary', I decided to bring this piece back from the dead, with some slight adjustments. Also, go see 50/50.
My
cancer was so easy that
I got embarrassed telling people
I had
cancer; depending on their sensitivity and sobriety levels, they
immediately said something along the lines of OMG ARE YOU OKAY/ARE YOU
GONNA DIE? The easiest way
to deal with this was
to say: Calm it, bitch,
I ain't even gon' lose my hair. Now that
I think about it though, it
may have been an upside
to lose my hair because a.
I could wear a sweet blond wig and b.
I could find out what my true hair color is! (Never dye your hair, kids, don't do it.)
The upsides of cancer aren't spoken about often, but they definitely exist.
I was lucky
to have
cancer during my
birthday season. (My birthday deserved a season.
I had cancer.) And boy, did the extra gifts pour in. I received no empty Happy Birthday cards that year; even distant relatives stashed a $5 bill in there! And we all know that opening a card without cash in it is is one of the worst feelings in world. (Besides after actually finding out you have cancer and, like, death or something.)
And best of all, my parents sent me
to St.
Maarten for my birthday! With my boyfriend!
I can imagine how that
conversation would have went PC (pre-
cancer).
Me: Can you pay for
my ticket
to St. Maarten so
I can frolic
in the surf and sand, miss four days of classes, and share a hotel room with my
boyfriend?
Mom: Drops dead or slaps me
in the face and screams HELL NO, STUPID ASS!
But
during
cancer season, it was determined
I deserved a vacation.
To
relax. Rewind. Share a hotel room with a
boy.
After St. Maarten and surgery,
I had
to undergo a treatment called radioactive iodine
to rid my body of the
cancer cells.
I was sent to nuclear medicine to learn more about the treatment. The Russian doctor/nuclear bomber
went on for over an hour and half (during
which I really had
to pee and
could not focus) telling me how the radioactive iodine works, the side effects, the possible infertility and more depressing things that I quickly tuned out due to the fact that I could not understand much of what he was saying. His monologue was probably the worst part of the whole
cancer
experience. Dude had a thicker accent than Putin for Chrissake! How the
hell am
I supposed
to focus on my defective reproductive organs if
I'm picturing the guy
in a Russian trappers' hat, staring longingly into Sarah Palin's window?
Because of the iodine dose
I was given,
I had
to be
in isolation and couldn't eat off of paper plates (
I also
had
to flush the toilet six times when
I peed). If
I used plastic or
paper utensils, Homeland security would detect radioactivity off of my
plates
in the garbage dump and arrest me for terrorism. And while that would bring me the fame and notoriety
I've always dreamed of,
I decided
to play it safe and listen
to Dr. Radioactive Russian's
instructions.
After his spiel,
I entered an iron-clad room
to take
the pill. Dr. RR was there, along with a radiation safety officer, who had a gun. (He should have shot me then.) The
pill came out of a large silver box that was padlocked because of the drug's insane toxicity. Dr. Radioactive Russian handed me the pillow and a tape
measure and then ran exactly fifteen feet away. The officer, Dr. RR, and another random guy
in a
lab coat all stared at me, creating a moment of intense suspense, as
I
swallowed down the horse pill. Then they all scattered like
I had let one loose
or something! (Come
to think of it, if
I had farted, it probably would
have formed into a toxic cloud over Manhattan.)
After standing the necessary amount of feet from me, my mother
proceeded
to attempt
to give me pneumonia by driving with all of the
windows down from NY to central NJ.
I don't know if it was the radioactive medicine coursing
through my body or the NJ Turnpike, but
I was convinced
I smelled of
toxic chemicals.
When
I got home,
I was ushered up
to my
isolation chamber, where my father had installed a flat screen TV and cable (love you,
cancer).
I had plenty of visitors, who had
to sit far away
from me or talk to me from the hallway. Everyone felt horrible that
I was
in isolation but secretly,
I
cherished the quiet. And since
I couldn't get out of bed, my mom became
my personal bitch. (I'm sorry---butler!)
I was gifted with
DVD sets, books, and Wii games.
I watched hours of mindless
television without anyone bothering me
to exercise or go outside or feel the disgusting chill of fresh air. It was almost as good as St. Maarten.
Three years post-diagnosis, I've faced serious medical issues and depression. And, worst of all, treatment-induced adult acne. Seriously, it's like ZITTY CITY
on my face.
I look like a prepubescent teenager who eats a pound of
chocolate a day and plays Dungeons and Dragons.
I've been
to ten
doctors, kept Clean and Clear
in business during a recession, and
switched my makeup, but it won't go away. Good thing
I'm not that vain,
or else this might really bother me.
Having
cancer taught me a lot of things such as:
1. Be nicer, or people won't even care if you die.
2.Telling ugly men that you're radioactive is a good way
to get them NOT
to hit on you at a bar.
3. Prepare an awesome musical playlist for your funeral just in case you die and they play some gospel shit instead.
4. Be grateful for the disease, for it not only gets you an obscene amount of attention, but allows you
to
stop and realize the very fleeting nature of this life. For a minute.
And then three years pass and you kind of forget. Ah, life.
