When I was young I always thought that cancer was something I didn’t have to worry about. I mean, sure, I heard about it on the news and read about it in magazine articles, but I never gave it a second thought because I didn’t think it would affect me or the people I cared about. The reason why I thought this way was because I had an image of what cancer patients looked like: elderly people closing in on their deaths, pale anorexics with conspicuous veins, or hairless patients confined to hospital beds. Neither my loved ones nor I fit those profiles, so I continued to live blissfully unaware that cancer could strike my life at any surprising moment.
But as I grew older and my knowledge of the world expanded, I found out that the stereotypes I had in my head were only a small fraction of what the actual thing looked like. I soon realized that cancer could affect anybody, not just elderly people or patients in hospital beds. And I learned this not from a teacher or from a television special, but from watching the people around me get diagnosed with the illness one by one.
The first cancer patient I had the pleasure of meeting was a young boy named Ethan who I attended middle school with. He was a year younger than me, but had wisdom and experience vaster than my own.
He was a history geek who constantly preached about the virtues of communism, conducted geography competitions, discussed philosophy and politics, and engaged in intellectual debates. His appearance did not strike me as sickly at all, because although pale, his complexion was perfectly wholesome. Freckles dotted his face and red hair grew on his head and besides being relatively small statured, he was a normal, jubilant human being.
I always admired Ethan because he was incredibly bright and mature for his age, though sometimes I wondered if he had a dark side that he didn’t want anybody to know about. The reason why I wondered this was because I would occasionally catch him whimpering in his bus seat or staring solemnly out the window rather than explaining the intricacies of Marxism or listing the capitals of every European country.
It wasn’t until a few months before my graduation that I discovered that he was actually a Leukemia patient who had the disease since he was an infant.
“I’m very lucky I was one of the few people who survived,” he said to me once with a smile, “because if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t be blessed with the life I have right now.”
To me, Ethan is a symbol of hope and triumph over the most uncertain of circumstances. Every time I think of it, his story conjures up images in my mind — images of a frail child struggling relentlessly against an enemy that threatened to kill him from the inside; of a child who fought, and won, and lives to inspire others, including me.
Right now, I need this inspiration. I need encouragement and hope because at this moment I feel lost and confused in a world that’s constantly changing and spiraling out of control. At this moment, I’m a teenager who’s trying to become independent, trying to overcome obstacles and trying to mature into an adult. At this moment, I need a guide — someone to kick me to my senses if I go crazy and try to do anything stupid. After all, how could I remain sane when cancer continues to strike people closer and closer to me?
My struggle with cancer began when I found out that a family friend named Linda was diagnosed with bone cancer. She was the frail wife of a millionaire who constantly whined and complained about everything that crossed her path. Though she was hard to bear on occasion, I always seemed to feel sorry for her.
I remember a time when I was at a neighborhood block party. I went to Linda’s house to clean my hands in her washroom, and after I finished my duty, she guided me over to her fish tank and talked about the “little fishies” that swam carelessly around in their artificial habitat.
“Your father told me that you would always get upset when a fish died,” she said to me in her usual droning voice. “I get upset too.”
Her mention of my father and my pet fishes returned old memories to my mind — memories that I was always afraid to let go.
I suppose that is why I always felt upset whenever I thought about Linda’s condition. She was one of the few remembrances I had of my childhood and of a long gone relationship I had with my father.
Fast-forward two years later. I am in a van, returning home from a therapy session I had in Chinatown. My father is driving. It is one of those rare moments where I spend time with him alone.
“Linda died a few days ago,” he said to me.
“I know,” I replied.
After an awkward silence, I ask him a question that’s been nagging at my mind. “Did Linda say anything before she died?”
“Well, you know Linda. She’s always pessimistic and complaining. Before she went into the surgery room all she did was whine. She just knew that she was gonna die and that was it.”
She knew she was going to die. That seemed very typical of Linda— a cancer patient in the throes of her waking doom. Maybe her lack of perseverance was what led to her downfall, and maybe the exact opposite — the ambition to prosper —will save the lives of my two other friends who are struggling with cancer.
Just weeks after news of Linda’s death had reached my ears, news of another cancer attack had reached my front door, and it was news that I found hard to swallow.
Another family friend named Annie was diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer on Christmas day, 2010. I always thought of her as the happy-go-lucky type — the kind of person that never loses hope and brightens the atmosphere when everything seems dour.
But that image I had of her tarnished when I saw her weeping about her condition in her bedroom. I listened to her stories about abuse and neglect and felt her many years of pain compiled into one narration. How could such a joyous woman break down in such a way? How could she break down knowing that there was so much hope in the world that could stave off her rapidly descending demise?
But Annie never capitulated. To this day, she undergoes treatment and receives the help of her family and friends. She continues to live with a smile on her face and an eagerness to survive another day. Because of that, I admire her.
A few months after Annie was diagnosed with cancer, my mother confronted me about a lump in her breast. At first, I was in denial. I considered her discovery trivial and blocked out all of the negative thoughts I had in my head. There was no way it could be cancer.
But God smacked me in the face when my mom revealed her results to me. She really did have cancer.
From then on, I became withdrawn. I only told two of my closest friends about my worries because I was afraid that telling any more would make me an attention seeker. I tried to get the heavy feeling off my chest by talking to my social worker about it, but the appointment did little to relieve my pain. With nothing else to turn to, I resorted to doing what never failed to help me: write. Thus, I began this essay.
There is a part of me that says I must not cry, that I must keep my cool and prove to my mom that I can survive without her being there for me. But another part of me says that it’s ok to let out my emotions and show my mom that I care about her and that I’m afraid to see her go. But I’m afraid that crying means that I’m giving in to the bad thoughts that invade my psyche. Crying means that I’m being pessimistic and expressing a lack of faith. Crying means that my mom will not continue to live long enough to see me graduate from high school, graduate college, find a job at Pixar, read my published books in the bookstore, to witness my wedding and embrace her grandchildren.
But no matter how diligently I try to fight back tears, I’m afraid. When my mom told me that she had breast cancer, I didn’t know how to react. I gave her the impression that I didn’t care, when in reality I was trying to not show weakness. Right now, I just want to compensate for the years I’ve spent taking her for granted.
With the help of Annie, my family, our friends and me, I know that my mom will persevere. I have to remain vigilant. I have to work hard. I have to be positive. And, in the words of Ethan, I have to be happy that I’m “blessed with the life I have right now” because life — whether or not it is affected by cancer — is a blessing.