The first time the word "cancer" is mentioned about one's own health, it immediately becomes the most terrifying sound in the English language. When the doctor told me I had breast cancer, my world flipped like a pancake on a Sunday morning. My first thought was, "I have so much to do while I can." I had a will to write, plans for a final service, and a plethora of details to prepare for the grand finale.
But just because I thought my days were numbered, didn’t mean I could ignore the mundane chores. Bills still needed to be paid, laundry still needed to be done; apparently, cancer isn’t a valid excuse to escape adult responsibilities. So, I decided to give myself five minutes to cry and the rest of my life to laugh. As the old publication Reader’s Digest wisely said, “Laughter is the best medicine.” And boy, was it ever.
Once I accepted my condition, I started having these whimsical visions of rejoining my family on the other side. I danced to the music in my head and took time to sing in the rain as well as the shower . I imagined myself free as a bird, liberated from all those tedious activities like paying bills, dealing with racism, hate, and gender bias. Oh, what an enchanting place I was about to enter! Then came the next visit to the doctor, where I learned that my cancer was in the early stages and not terminal. Most patients would have been overjoyed, but not me. I had such a beautiful exit plan, and here I was still with my feet on the ground.
In the beginning, I had allowed myself the luxury to cry for a few minutes and then decided to spend the rest of my life laughing and learning to live better among my fellow humans. My physicians handed me a medical plan for a cure, but true to the standard practice of the day, they didn’t mention the consequences of the treatment or the long-lasting effects. I eagerly dove into the realm of “let’s kill this growth and get on with living.” Now that I was here for the long haul, I resolved not to waste another day. I still listened to the music in my head and yearned to dance in the rain.
One year later, after being subjected to needles, pinched, poked, prodded, diced with surgery, poisoned with chemo, and burned with radiation, I asked my caretakers, “Is there anything else you haven’t tried to abuse me with?” No Olympic runner could have beaten me out of my medical appointment.
After all these past tribulations, I was finally able to live my life with a peace and joy toward death that I had never known before—or so I thought. Fast forward twenty-seven years later, and I heard the word “cancer” again. This time, it was on the opposite side. My response? “Oh well, at least I’ll be balanced on both sides now.” Hearing those dreaded words again was akin to telling a mother she was pregnant with her fifth child. All the treatment protocols were so familiar, it felt like I was getting back on a well-known rodeo horse. The bucking shoot opened, and the ride was on.
But here's the thing about life and its unexpected twists—sometimes you just have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Like when your hair grows back post-chemo and decides to channel its inner porcupine, or when you realize that hospital gowns are designed by someone who has clearly never worn one on a windy day. And let's not forget the joy of explaining to curious children why your wig looks better than their grandma's.
So, as I sit here, balanced on both sides and reflecting on my "two rides," I can't help but chuckle. Life, in all its unpredictable glory, has a way of keeping us on our toes. And if I’ve learned anything from my adventures, it’s that a good laugh can turn even the darkest moments into bearable ones.
