Shoo Cancer, Don’t Bother Me
Death tally: one mother, one father, one marriage, one brother, another brother—nearly. For 45 years I thought of myself as a survivor, but when you don’t have any visible scars to show for it, nobody really acknowledges your wounds. Today I have multiple scars, the one on my chest the most telling, and funny enough, I now get a pat on the back and a Congratulations, you are now a survivor, like I won my final battle. The truth is, I’m not a survivor, I am a doer who does what must be done. When there is death, you push through; when there is economic hardship or emotional turmoil you push through; when there is cancer (as psychoanalyst Maria Michelena puts it) you let your body be the battleground, and medicine and the disease be the only players.
Cancer is the title of a horror movie nobody wants to watch and nobody wants to be in. But when you have the misfortune of being its main character, the last thing you want to hear is how great your performance is going. If you nail it, you may even be Oscar (Overcoming with Success your Cancer-afflicted Road)-worthy. That’s when you cringe, breathe, and let that “brave warrior” tell your spectators to fuck off. I never really said the words out loud, even though there were so many times I wanted to, real bad, and I tried to remind myself that people mean well; it’s not their fault that they are not emotionally equipped to deal with scary situations—none of us are until we have to. The patient is freaked out, and the people around them either stick, run, or freeze. Those who stick are your ride or die and don’t pretend to know what’s it’s like to be in your shoes; those who run live in denial, fake dementia, and go on with their lives; and those who freeze tread lightly, walk on eggshells, try to be nice, and never know the right thing to say. I’m not judging the stickers, the fleers, or the freezers, I’m merely categorizing my support system—you know who you are—and don’t worry, there’s no shame in being one or the other, as I myself was a fleer during my dad’s terminal cancer journey.
After getting a mammogram and an ultrasound for a small lump on my chest, in which a very empathetic radiologist said, Oh no worries, seven out of 10 times it’s cancer, I was officially diagnosed on February 11, 2022, at age 43—an early Valentine’s day gift, the optimists would say, because there are indeed those who see cancer as that. I say Cupid did a real number on me and to see it as a gift is a load of feel-better-bullshit. I can understand, only in hindsight, that it is a period of awakenings, lessons, aha moments, and an opportunity to improve or change things about yourself, but I am still reluctant to call it anything else than what it is. When have you heard an oncologist say: Sit down, so-and-so. I have some fortunate news. You have cancer! Maybe I haven’t processed it enough, maybe I never will, because I still hear a murmur in the back of my thoughts: You have grade 3 invasive ductal carcinoma. I remember “grade 3” echoed in my brain, and I was sure I was now in the waiting room to heaven—or maybe hell—and my number was about to be called. My consciousness took a quick exit as if shielding me from the bad, and I experienced the out-of-body cliché everyone talks about when they are the target of bad news. On my first visit with the oncologist my gynecologist recommended, I did not know what to expect, but it actually went better than the scene I had played out in my head. She was kind, understanding, empathetic, all qualities that we assume a cancer doctor should have—and yet many still don’t. She explained “grade” was not “stage” and my cortisol levels went down a notch as she told me it was Stage 1. I could have a double mastectomy or a lumpectomy, and if by any chance my DNA tests came back positive for the BRCA gene, I could also start planning to get rid of my ovaries. OMG, it was like a Black Friday bundle; a cheap price to pay if it meant prolonging your health, but I was not looking for bargains just yet. I was relieved when the tests came back negative, and I decided to go for the removal of both breasts—full price. The bad news was, because my tumor was triple negative, a more aggressive kind, I would have to undergo sixteen rounds of chemotherapy, and that’s when the fun started. Even though I kept my situation quite secret, I was unable to avoid the messages from pouring in. Suddenly, I had a meteor shower of friends and family who were giving me “their light,” and I had others who were grateful it wasn’t them who had cancer because I was a much stronger person and could endure it better than they could . Wow. For the next few days, weeks, months, I was someone else, someone brave, disciplined, focused, but nevertheless cached in the fear of uncertainty, and at times—many times—a true people hater.
On March 10, 2022, my 1.6 cm triple negative tumor was excised in a double mastectomy by the most amazing doctors I could have hoped for. I had the good fortune of keeping my nipples, and I came out of my eight-hour surgery with my implants and a brand new rack of beautiful lolas. The recovery went so well, I did without the painkillers, and was almost excited. But the calm before the storm ended on April 11 when I had my first chemo. Port in place and feeling like a not-well-assembled robot, I was going to use a cold cap to keep my hair, which for those who don’t know is a technique that freezes your hair follicles so the chemo drugs don’t get to them. The promise is you get to save more than 40% of your locks. I saved it all—or so I thought. The first 12 rounds of Taxol I kept the cap on for five hours, my head frozen and numb, but they were a breeze compared to what came later. I kept up with hair care routines, tried to maintain a diet, although chemo cravings are worse than pregnancy ones, did magnets sessions, acupuncture, lymphatic massages, meditated at the beach, tried to convince my dead not to take me yet, and after speaking with many “of my kind” who were going through similar events, I came up with a supplements routine that I believe is what helped keep my white blood cells and all other counts in check.
Wheatgrass juice (one shot in the morning)
Liver shark oil
Crucera (broccoli extract)
Lentils, lentils, lentils (morning and night)
By the time I got to the AC chemo, I was an expert at making myself feel not so shitty. However, it kicked my ass anyway, because how do you fight a fighter? The nausea was bad, the eight hours connected to the cold cap were getting rougher, and doing school rounds for my three and five-year-old was taking a toll. I was tired, my eyebrows had fallen out (I had microbladed them, so they looked OK), my bottom eyelashes were gone and the top were breaking in half, and even though I looked normal to everyone on the street, I felt like a monster a lot of the time—with a few exceptions. I knew I was lucky in many ways: I had all my hair, for one; I had a husband who had the ability to be a rock and a punching bag at once, which is not an easy feat, but what can I say, he’s magic; I had a badass sister in charge of being my soul-sitter and making sure I didn’t rot on the inside; I had amazing friends who came from far away just to sit with me for long hours at the hospital, making me laugh, sometimes at myself; I had many family members helping me out with the children; and I even had strength to go to the gym for short periods. Again, I knew I was lucky, but I still felt like the unluckiest person alive.
Why me? That is what everyone, everywhere, who has ever been diagnosed with any disease asks themselves at some point. For me the answer was easy: I was bad in the past, drank too much, smoked too much, was a bad friend, a bad daughter, a liar, and God, or whoever the all mighty power is, punished me. He had been punishing me from the beginning of days, so why would he stop now? It’s almost like I expected it. For years, even before my father’s death, I had been looking for this tumor through endless MRIs and tests each time I had a headache, or my chest felt tight, or I had stomach pains. And voila, it finally appeared. My therapist says it’s a little narcissistic to think that I’m one of the Almighty’s favorite when it comes to unleashing his wrath, and I agree. I am well aware that there are stories far worse than mine, people who have endured illnesses, deaths, aggravating circumstances, but when you’re singled out, you can’t help but feel like you are “His” special girl.
I ended my chemo on August 29, 2022, and three weeks later strands of hair began to fall out when I brushed it. I cried every time, confused as to what I had done wrong, because nobody reads the fine print where it says you can lose your hair POST chemo. I shed for four months and then one day it stopped. Due to the fact that I have wonderful, thick, hair, even after losing about 30% you could still not tell I was going through anything. It was kind of a Shallow-Hal superpower reversed, where I could make others see what I wanted them to see, and it was a blessing. Not having to deal with more light-and-energy senders, or the pity looks on the street made it easier for me to be a shell. I just wanted to exist without existing, to be emotionless, to not feel pain. To be as numb as my new breasts, to wake up five years later, fearless, and a little less misunderstood. Because when you are done with all your “process” people have little room in their mind to listen to you. They have the necessity for your illness to be over so they can calm their nerves, and for them, it’s a switch. No chemo, all good, the end. What they fail to see is the stagnant darkness behind your fake smile. You feel relieved, but also vulnerable, and that is one of the most difficult things I have had to explain: how the medicine was my shield, and now that I am back in the wild, I have been left to fend for myself. Whether it’s all in my head is a discussion for another time.
My life has not been dull, for better or worse, and I could understand how those who have led disaster-free lives might find it unappealing. But when someone close to me once told me that their biggest fear was becoming like me, I was stunned and quite disappointed. However, when I got sick I thought they were right. It really sucked to be me. Too much drama, too much baggage, too many broken pieces and not many conventional achievements (I’m not a lawyer or an engineer I suppose), but these two years since my surgery have taught me a few things about who I am. Yes, I am scared every day, but the scaries have died down a little with the help of my antidepressant, loads of exercise, and much self-help. I do things that I never did, I live in new ways, as if wanting to obliterate my past life, and sometimes I still grieve the person I was. She was fun after all. Today I am healthy and wiser, and I try to love every part of myself, sickly or not, because I have learned that I am perfect just the way I am, and I wouldn’t want anyone to be like me—that would just put too much pressure on my ego.
In short, I am a survivor, just like everyone else. All of our clocks are ticking at the same pace. The difference is I have been acquiring tools at the best shops, and I just might have an advantage. And even though I still can’t say the words: I beat_____, because “he who must not be named” might hear me and come back with a vengeance, I can definitely tell it to shoo and not bother me again.
Lucero Uribe
@LulitaUribe CO-Founder Nos3 Magazine