Cancer presented me with a series of contradictions, a reevaluation of words and their meanings. Although I had previously thought of myself as rather private and unemotional, I was forced to reassess my feelings and gain more sensitivity when my brother was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma early last year. As much as my experience felt so raw and real, so, too, did it feel impossible and surreal. And, as much as I watched my brother mature, so, too, did I painfully see him rewind the clock back to his days of youthful vulnerability. These contradictions have led me to realize that my experience with cancer was a confusing one; it cannot be defined by a single word or event. And, to this day, it is something that I am still struggling to fully comprehend.
I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a sensitive person, harsh as that may sound. Yet, when my brother was diagnosed with cancer the summer before my sophomore year in high school, I felt a need to challenge this facet of my identity. Why was I unable to cry when my mother told me that my brother had a malignant tumor on his pelvis? Why did I never show my feelings about it around my friends and family? Why was it that whenever my guidance counselor called me in to discuss it, I always dodged his questions and ended up talking about school instead? And why was I so desperate to pretend that nothing was wrong and that everything had remained the same?
I’ve concluded that this emotional confusion was caused by the surrealism of the whole situation, as overly joyous as that word may sound. And here is one of the ways that the idea of contradiction and reevaluation comes into play: cancer has made me question what reality and surrealism really entail. Usually used to describe magical fantasies or dreams, the word “surreal” also seemed to fit my life at the time. Yet, it took on new meaning. I remember when my mother told me about my brother’s tumor, it seemed impossible. I remember telling my friends that my brother had cancer, and I remember them periodically asking me how he was doing. I remember replying vaguely, quickly, nervously—as if I could not find the words to express myself, or at least they clung onto my tongue, unwilling to dive into the vacant, daunting air. I remember visiting him in the hospital, having to quickly give up my fear of needles as I watched him get more shots in one day than I had endured in my lifetime.
In a way, this experience was as close to reality as I had ever come in my life. This was raw, unadulterated pain, fear, and suffering. Yet, it was also the most surreal, illusory experience I had ever had. When I would sleep at the hospital with my brother, as much as it was a rude awakening to see small children in the pediatric wing of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center – walking around looking sickly, emaciated, tired, with IVs in their arms, bandanas on the heads, and dark black circles drooping beneath their eyes—it was also surreal. Not in the good sense, of course, but in the bizarre one. My life took on new meaning; it assumed a new identity. I felt as though I were living in two disparate worlds. Spending the night in my brother’s hospital room on weekends, although almost unbearable at times, also sort of seemed like a fun activity; it was a sleepover with my brother whom I had missed while he was away at college. We’d order in Chinese food, watch movies, and play board games. This was the surrealism of childhood; it was the imaginative, juvenile side of things.
This surreal youthfulness constantly presented itself, yet it was not always so jubilant. My brother, who was twenty and the oldest kid in the family, had so quickly and shockingly become the youngest. He was on a floor with more babies than adults, sharing a room with a boy five years younger than I was. My mother was forced to wipe him when he defecated, as if he were a baby. And, when he came home after chemotherapy, he often lay on the couch whining like a young child. We helped him when he puked, we nurtured him when he had a headache, and we fed him when he needed to eat. And, after his grueling, 10-hour surgery, we watched him take his first steps for the second time in his life.
Yet, despite this childlike defenselessness, I have never seen someone quite as mature as my brother. As cliché or even as senseless as it may sound, it takes a lot of maturity to return to a state of immaturity. My brother was forced to accept being rapidly pushed into this position of helplessness. It was not his choice to be wheelchair prone or neutropenic. Yet, for me, this caused a role reversal.
This is where yet another reevaluation comes into play: what is the significance of older and younger? Suddenly, after years of being the baby of the family, I was home alone and left to fend for myself. Day after day I returned from school, arriving to no one, or to a single parent who was exhausted from a night at the hospital followed by a full shift at work. I remember when I had mononucleosis and was home sick for three weeks, practically alone. This proved the helplessness that cancer forced not only on my brother, but on my family as a whole. I lay in bed, helpless, as I could not gain the energy to move or work. My brother also lay in bed, helpless because of what cancer had done to his body. And my parents felt helpless, too, unable to provide each of their children with the necessary attention and care that they so desperately desired.
And so, cancer caused confusion and reevaluation in my life. I thought about the meaning and presence of sensitivity and feeling, of reality and pain, and of age and growth. I watched as these things so quickly transformed, spinning my whole world along with them. Yet, realizing that these definitions are so easily challenged by cancer has made me comprehend the true magnitude of my experience and the importance of life and perseverance above all else. While attending a stressful school and dealing with the college process, it is often difficult to remember the lessons that cancer has taught me. It is all too easy to get caught up in the pressure of school, worrying about a test score without realizing that there are far graver issues facing our world. Yet, it is because of these reevaluations and contradictions that I have been able to gain perspective. Although I am still working tirelessly to piece together my experience, I have realized that, as much as cancer has made me focus more specifically on my brother’s health, it has also allowed me to consider my decisions and actions more generally, and in a much larger context. It is hard to find justification, reason, or explanation for something so seemingly unfair and incontrollable. I do not know if I will ever be able to fully make sense of cancer; yet, I do not know if anyone is truly able to do so.