Elephants and Tea - June 2022 - 30

Dear Cancer...
DEAR JACK FOUNDATION
DEAR CANCER, WE ACKNOWLEDGE YOU
BETHANY BUCHANAN AND NICHOLAS BIEDAS
You have stripped me down to my
core, Cancer. That 34-year-old girl with
long blond hair and blue eyes that could
see nothing but blue skies and possibilities
is gone. I hardly recognize that
person anymore. There she is, holding
a brand-new baby girl, thinking about
losing baby weight and wondering how
to get rid of that c-section skin pouch,
and then there she is again-no hair,
no eyelashes, no eyebrows-but determined
to " beat cancer. " Determined to
beat you, Cancer. That girl with the long
blond hair had to disappear, so this new
one could exist. This girl with the scars
across her chest, with the port along
her collarbone. This new girl must care
less about what people think about her
appearance, and more about how she's
going to come up with enough energy
to give her kids a bath at the end of the
day. This new girl cares about whether
the drugs are working. Whether she will
see her five-year-old go to kindergarten.
She doesn't care about the way she looks
in form-fitting dresses (well, maybe she
does a tiny bit).
You have taught me a few things,
Dear Cancer,
I wish I could paint you as a villain, as
so many others have. I wish I could wear
the F*$& CANCER shirts and personify
myself as a WARRIOR and pretend
that cancer is an adversary that can be
conquered if you just try hard enough,
truly believe, and stay positive. But
Cancer, you are not that villain. You are,
after all, composed of my very own cells.
Cells that can't seem to calm down or
stop making copies upon copies of them30
ELEPHANTSANDTEA.COM
JUNE
2022
selves. You are smart, Cancer. You have
outsmarted Adriamycin and Cytoxan,
Abraxane and atezolizumab, Lynparza,
sacituzimab govitecan, Fruquintinib,
Xeloda, radiation, and even surgery. We
have thrown our smartest cancer research
at you, and still, you come back. Just when
we think we may have seen the last of you,
there you are-a lung opacity or a liver
lesion or an enlarged lymph node. You
manage to get around the roadblocks.
Tenacious, you are, cancer. Maybe even
a bit like me.
Cancer. Certainly, I have learned on
an int imate level that " everyone has
their own cross to bear " but you have
also taught me compassion for myself.
When I am in bed shivering with a fever
and liver pain, finally-perhaps for the
first time in a lifetime of working hard
and being ambitious and always having
something to do-you have taught me
to be still, Cancer. You have taught me
that somet imes what the body real ly
needs is rest. Rest is not weakness. Rest
is not sloth. Rest is survival. Maybe the
zen thing would be to say I am grateful
for my cancer. I am grateful for my
suffering and grateful for who I have
become. And don't get me wrong, I do
like who I am today. I feel strong and
grounded and have priorities and a perspective
I would never have otherwise.
Sure, I acknowledge that. But grateful?
Hell no. Cancer, I am not grateful for
your presence in my life. I resent you. I
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Elephants and Tea - June 2022

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