The other day I was in my favorite bead store with my bald head uncovered, and another customer walked over to me and asked me what kind of cancer I have.
I replied, "Metastatic breast cancer," to which she said:
"Oh, good thing it hasn't spread."
Hoo boy.
Now, being the person I am, I didn't just smile and walk away. I grabbed that "teaching moment" with both hands and said, "That's what metastatic cancer is--cancer that has spread."
I won't try to describe her face.
This isn't a post about the number of people who don't understand the word "metastatic," although I seem to have encountered quite a few of them recently, this is a post about a related topic:
People who can't deal with the fact that my story, in their eyes, has no happy ending.
Because, after all, my cancer cannot be cured. It is going to kill me, unless I get hit by a bus or have a massive heart attack first.
So many people, both friends and casual acquaintances, have trouble dealing with that. In the early days of my life with cancer I spent an incredible amount of time and energy dealing with friends/etc. who were all freaked out because my story doesn't have a happy ending ... cancer is going to kill me.
I remember a very intense conversation on the phone with a friend during which I was being all reassuring, saying, "I'm not dying ..." and in my head silently adding: "this week."
Then, after more years than I care to remember of supporting other people when I was the person with the life-threatening illness, I stopped doing this.
I no longer provide emotional support to people (except for my sons) who are having trouble coping with my situation.
But I've done something else: I've rewritten the definition of a happy ending. To me, a happy ending is NOT being cured of cancer, because that ain't gonna happen. It's living well for as long as I have left.
Pretty simple, huh? If you're living with cancer, please write and let me know what your happy ending is: jeanne.sather@gmail.com
@ Jeanne Sather 2009.
I realize now how silly it is for strangers to ask "What kind of cancer is it?" because it's a bridge to nowhere.
Living well is a happy ending for all of us, with or without cancer.
Posted by: Susan C | October 29, 2009 at 04:30 PM
After 11 years living with a brain tumour, I've lost count of the number of times I've had to counsel other people to help them cope with their feelings about my illness. As you know, this is tremendously wearing, and like you, I've now stopped (unless it's my own family.) I am not responsible for making other people feel better about my illness. It took me many years to realise that.
As for my happy ending: I find joy in "living in the now." Nothing exists beyond what I achieve today - it's as simple as that.
Posted by: Lindsay | October 30, 2009 at 02:36 AM
My happy ending would be living until my son is 18. He just turned 10.
Posted by: Lolita | October 30, 2009 at 04:30 AM
Lolita--when I was first diagnosed, my sons were 8 and 13. So at that time, my happy ending was to live long enough for them to grow up. They are now 19 and 25, so I've achieved that happy ending.
I'm pulling for you to do the same.
Posted by: jeanne Sather | October 30, 2009 at 07:44 AM
I wanted my husband to live long enough so my daughter, who was barely four when he was first sick, could have a memory of him other than as a very sick man. She's 7 and he's OK, so I feel I'm living the happy ending. But this includes the knowledge that it could change, any time.
Posted by: amy | October 30, 2009 at 02:29 PM
I think people are misled by the "static" part of the word "metastatic" and they think of "static" as meaning "something that is staying in one place" or "something that has stabilized." So they hear someone say "I have metastatic cancer" of any kind and they think that means the cancer is "static" or "stayed in one place" or "was caught before it spread." Unfortunate, but I think that may be your explanation right there.
Posted by: Karla | November 01, 2009 at 09:56 AM
My mum is 53yrs old,a beautiful loving woman ,NEVR SMOKED and was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer this year. at the same time she seperated from her alcoholic husband and has been living with me and my husband ever since. my mum recently has seem to of given up, she keeps talking about killing herself and her anxiety is just terrible. she is on a pump for pain but we think its to strong, causing these horrible side effects of drowsiness and anxiety. my mother and i are kindled spirits, i am her only child and all she has longed for for so long is a grandchild. this adds to the torment, i have lost 2 pregnancys in the last year. sometimes it just feels as though the whole world is against you, the pain is so bad its worse than hell. i don't know where the strength to go on is coming from and more than that i don't know where the strengh to bare the future will come from. every day is the saddest day of my life.
claire xxx
Posted by: claire | November 02, 2009 at 05:17 AM
Jeanne - what a hard question, makes me think. I guess that my happy ending is keeping the essential qualities of "what makes me myself" intact as long as possible. I'm drawing strength from the gifts of extra time - halloween, a 65th b'day, baking cookies with the little girls, etc - to endure the bad times.
Posted by: Julie Mason | November 03, 2009 at 05:55 PM
my happy ending is best described by quoting t.s. eliot:
'the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time'.
Posted by: Kate | November 04, 2009 at 03:57 PM
Happy ending? None of us gets out of here alive - so death can't be what we're talking about here. Is it longevity? Some people take their own lives, and for them, living longer seems worse than death. Talking about happy endings seems to perpetuate the collective illusion of our lives as fairy tales.
Posted by: Megan Jones | November 05, 2009 at 09:57 AM