When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I made the only rational decision anyone with this diagnosis could make. I inundated myself with more information than the average human brain could possibly absorb. Knowledge is power, right? Right?
My bookshelves bow under the weight of books covering an impossible breadth of cancer-related minutiae, both scientific and “whoo”: how to block the various “pathways” cancer travels, how to create a terrain in the body that is inhospitable to the beast, how to eat, how to sleep, how to rid one’s home of hormonally-disruptive chemicals, which crystals to place where on the body, how to unblock chakras. If you can imagine it, I guarantee you, I have a book about it.
The first book to arrive, whose title remains purposefully lost to my post-treatment amnesia, is fairly categorized under “whoo.” (Traditional oncologists refer to it as b.s.) That was fine with me. I was willing to utilize every weapon in any arsenal to protect my life.
Reading along, I came across the sentence, “Quite often, one has unaddressed trauma that must be dealt with in order to defeat cancer.”
Rapid-fire, innumerable expletives burst forth from my mouth. My husband entered the room the moment the book I’d just thrown hit the wall.
“Not a good book, huh?”
I hadn’t felt such fury since discovering how much money that hack E.L. James made from her “Fifty Shades” series.
“No. Apparently, I have cancer because I haven’t exorcised trauma,” I roared. “What’s that supposed to mean? The trauma I’ve had in my life gets to traumatize me twice? Is she kidding? It’s horse. . .” You can imagine the rest of the 20-minute rant.
Three years, two cancers and traditional, standard-of-care oncology treatments later, I have resigned myself to the understanding that cancer treatment is like any other avenue that has “experts.” Everyone is right. Everyone is wrong.
Since that first book-hurling moment, I have learned a lot about cancer. I’ve learned that my humor about the topic makes some people uncomfortable, some people feel better, some people laugh.
Like “experts,” patients have their own way of handling things. I’ve gone from walking around with 12 separate Monday – Sunday pill boxes crammed with every supplement under the sun, stressing over studies and pathways, looking like Charlie’s Pepe Silva chart from “It’s Always Sunny,” to discovering how important it is to let go.
It turns out that “unaddressed trauma” previously mentioned, while not necessarily curative or even causative, well, really did need addressing. I won’t bore you with the details of the process; however, I discovered that being in a constant state of “fight or flight” definitely has adverse effects on the body, the adrenal system and hormone production. I meditate a lot now. It helps. So do the anti-anxiety drugs.
I’ve changed throughout my attempts to become an oncologist online and in the library. Mostly, I’ve let go of many things that may or may not have contributed to my condition. One thing that hasn’t changed? My complete inability to handle terrifying experiences without humor. If I were a character in a horror movie, I’d literally die laughing. “Stop, Mrs. Vorhees! That chainsaw tickles!”
I know this isn’t everyone’s way, but when I say things like “Oh! Yes. That was my Gollum phase, my precious,” when I see photos of myself bald and thin or “Look! My otter pelt phase,” when I see photos as my hair was growing in, it’s not a comedy routine for you. It’s for me. It’s all for me. Laughter makes me feel better. In this game of life, I will never give up my belief that gallows humor trumps dour sourpuss every time. I might be afraid, but you’ll never know. I’ll be laughing.
By Amy Gesell
