There are moments when I have some regrets about having gone public with my diagnosis. Because I have become in many ways the de facto spokesperson for pancreatic cancer, there are a lot of expectations, a lot of people looking to me for reassurance. I feel a lot of pressure to always be tough—to be stoic and show a stiff upper lip. But I’m a goddamn wuss. I start to cry for no reason at all. I have no idea what sets it off, and it embarrasses me.
The thought that I don’t measure up compared to people’s expectations is difficult. You can go back to the notion of courage and bearing the burden of the situation. The burden of the cancer. The burden of the treatment. Am I bearing it well or am I a coward? It doesn’t make me feel good to think that way. I’d like to be a noble leader. I’d like to be El Cid. I know that’s how others see me: as this compelling, brave leader. Not long ago, when I was going through a significant bout of depression, I called my doctor and expressed my concern about not being strong enough.
“No, no, no,” he said, trying to reassure me. “You’re a great survivor. You’ve helped a lot of people. You don’t know how many people whose lives you have saved just by being out there, speaking out about the disease, what it does to you, and how to maintain a more positive attitude.”
That helped pick my spirits up somewhat, but that’s not the way I see myself. Because I think a lot of people are going through stuff that’s worse than mine.
I remember in the early 1990s I was in Washington, D.C., doing some work for World Vision. The subject of AIDS came up. Now, in those days we didn’t know much about AIDS. We didn’t know much about how it was transmitted. Magic Johnson had just been diagnosed with HIV, and Karl Malone and several other NBA players expressed concern about playing against him for fear of contracting the virus. It was a scary time. That day in Washington, I was told about a house where they were sheltering a number of AIDS patients. Somebody asked me if I was interested in going to the house.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”
There were about a dozen men in different conditions. Some of them had lots of sores on their bodies. All of them were thin. I went in and started exchanging conversations with them. I shook hands with them. I hugged them. I spent the better part of an hour with them. They seemed grateful for my visit, and I left hoping that I had done some good.
There are a lot of people out there who have cancer and other illnesses who continue to live their lives and go about their business, and they do it without recognition. I’m in the public eye, so I get a lot of recognition because of that. But it does place some responsibility on me that I feel I’m not deserving of.
Interestingly, the longer I’ve lived with the cancer, the more my definition of toughness has changed. I used to think not crying meant you were tough. Now I think crying means you’re tough. It means you’re strong enough to be honest and vulnerable. It means you’re not pretending. And not pretending, being willing to let your guard down and show people how you truly feel and admit that you’re a wuss, is one of the toughest things a person can do.
It’s also one of the most helpful things a person can do. Because sharing your feelings with others brings people closer together. It demonstrates an interest in developing an understanding. It demonstrates a caring. Because you have to figure there are some people out there who are going through the same stuff. A friend’s wife was recently diagnosed with cancer and is experiencing a lot of the same things that I’ve been going through. She’s experiencing pain. She’s experiencing fatigue. She’s experiencing depression. And I say, “Oh, thank God I’m not the only one!” If you’re able to, you should share your experiences so that people out there can say, “I’m not alone. There’s somebody else going through the same thing, and they’re bearing up well. Maybe I can also.” If that’s a way for you to inspire people, then there is a lot of merit in that.
There is nothing worse than deluding yourself and trying to make yourself out to be somebody you’re not—somebody you’re not comfortable being. There’s nothing wrong with having foibles. There’s nothing wrong with saying, “I’m really depressed today, and I have no idea why. Why am I crying?” There’s nothing wrong with a man shedding a tear.