Elephants and Tea - September 2022 - 9

it-the pain. Pain was something I did
have in common with these people. I did
not need more.
I did not even want to think about the
existence of other cancer people. Forced
proximity with fellow patients was hard
enough. I learned to put in earplugs every
second of the eight-hour treatment
sessions, popping them in before I even
entered the lobby. Any stray comment had
an absurdly cranked-up chance of being
the most personal, difficult, high-stakes
thing you could imagine. I would hear and
register them as pieces of my altered reality,
like the voices were painting high-def
twisted trees or cliffs or whirlpools onto the
dark, blurry landscape of my new world.
" I would rather be six feet under than
have a drain like this, do you understand? "
" It's my daughter, she's six. She's projectile
vomiting. I have been here all night. "
" It's my sixth cancer, you know, and . . . "
" That option would be like winning the
battle but losing the war. " " Yes. "
The idea of a " support group " where you
talk to " other survivors " sounded to me just
like what you would picture in your head:
the scariest kind of depressing-a bunch
of bald dying people in hospital gowns on
zoom talking about how horrible it is to
be bald and dying. Or (maybe more grotesque),
pasting smiles on their faces and
high fiving each other, all pumped up about
finding what really matters in life and being
strong and brave and inspirational.
I didn't think I could take it. But it wasn't
just denial and triggers and caricatures that
got in the way of me connecting.
It was the idea of being friends with people
who were much more likely, statistically,
to die earlier than normal, and to have
very difficult things happen. It was the risk
that everyone I knew was weighing with
me. How closely do I want to be entwined
with that kind of hard?
It was seven months into the diagnosis,
past chemo and surgery and just before
radiation, when my dad took me to the
treatment center for my second COVID
vaccine dose. We came out to the curb and
stepped toward a car we thought was our
Uber. " Trying to steal our ride? " A guy on
crutches grinned at me. His brother rolled
open the door while we craned our necks
for the next car. I smiled to myself out the
window on the way back. He was cute. He
was recovering from surgery just like me.
I liked his style, his skinnies. I wanted to
know him, to be friends. To talk about
crutches and crushes, about movies and
food, how his brother talks to him about
it, what he says to friends.
This is the part where the movie would
have the two of us fall in love and be adorable,
and also vaguely tragic.
But my life isn't a movie (and I never saw
that guy again). So what happened was I
made cancer friends. Because they know
the risk and chose me anyway, but mostly
because I like them and we have fun. We
do talk about dying and what matters in
life. We talk about toxic positivity and
triggers, scanxiety and grief, memes and
insurance, and jobs and dating. We talk
about the patterns and points of tension
under all the sticky mess of a cancer culture
that's shaped by everything from
movie plot lines to Facebook tributes to
fundraising strategies. We talk about how
to talk about cancer. We talk about us, and
we talk about you.
I needed denial at the beginning. I needed
distance. Sometimes I still do. But what
changed when I saw that guy by the Uber
was that I saw him, not a cancer patient.
It meant I could see me too. l
This article was written through
Cactus Cancer Society's online
Unspoken Ink: Creative Writing
Workshop. This workshop is designed
to take young adults facing cancer
on a journey through their cancer
diagnosis and into their survivorship
with a small group of their young adult
cancer patient/survivor peers. Each
8-week Writing Workshop consists
of a weekly writing night attended
via online video chat. To learn more
about this program and others offered
by Cactus Cancer Society, visit
https://cactuscancer.org/programs/.
In partnership with Cactus Cancer
Society, this column highlights pieces
created by young adults facing cancer
in their various programs that focus on
creative coping and expression.
Cactus Cancer Society is an innovative
501(c)(3) nonprofit serving young
adult cancer patients, survivors, and
caregivers, ages 18-45. We encourage,
empower, and connect a diverse
and growing community of YAs
around the world, 24/7.
MELANIE KENT IS KIND OF NOT FROM HERE-SHE GREW UP IN ETHIOPIA,
TANZANIA, KENYA, LAOS, AND LOTS OF MAGICAL BOOKS BEFORE LANDING
IN NEW YORK CITY. SHE IS THE PROUD OWNER OF A STAGHORN FERN AND
A STANFORD UNIVERSITY DIPLOMA, AND HAS ALWAYS LOVED LOOKING
AT THE SKY, EATING AVOCADOS, AND BEING UNDERSTOOD. THIS SUMMER
MARKED A YEAR OUT OF TREATMENT FOR METASTATIC SYNOVIAL
SARCOMA. MELANIE IS ON INSTAGRAM @YOURCHAMELEON AND WRITES
AT LEMONY. SUBSTACK.COM.
ELEPHANTSANDTEA.COM
SEPTEMBER 2022
9
https://cactuscancer.org/programs/ http://lemony.substack.com/ http://www.ELEPHANTSANDTEA.COM
Elephants and Tea - September 2022

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