It's a Juggling Act
A couple of weeks ago, Kevin and I attended a retreat for metastatic breast cancer patients and their spouses. I will probably write more about that time in a later post, but today I was thinking back to a specific event that happened there. As part of our introductions to the group, which consisted of seven couples total and some medical personnel from Johns Hopkins, we were asked to describe our spouse in one word.
I was flattered when Kevin shared that his word for me was "real" or "transparent." I consider my life an open book if people want to get to know me (although I try to let them come to me rather than forcing my business on them), so I felt a little victory when he shared this. But I also chuckled to myself.
As the others had been sharing their stories, I had been thinking how nice it was that I could just rest easy among this group. I could truly let my guard down and just be me. I find that most of my interactions now require a balancing act on my part. If the person is a new acquaintance, I'm always afraid they're going to ask me the two questions everyone asks when they meet someone: "Where do you work?" and "Do you have kids?" If you say you don't work and yet you don't have kids, they usually respond, "Oh, that must be nice!" At this point, I have to decide if I think they are going to be a longer-term acquaintance to whom I should open up about my illness or if they are just a handshake and a smile to whom I should give some bland response that borders on untruth.
If I decide I should be honest about how "nice" it really is to stay at home all day with terminal cancer while others get to live their normal lives (and I try to say it as nicely and gently as possible), I then brace myself for their reaction. "Hi, I'm Katherine, and I have cancer" is kind of a conversation killer.
If it doesn't kill the conversation, it usually turns it into them giving suggestions as to how I can "beat it" or anecdotes about every person they've ever known who had cancer - who invariably died quick and painful deaths or were miraculously healed by drinking purple carrot juice. I know people mean well and that they share these things from a heart that wants to help, but it's still a draining exercise for me.
If, however, the person I'm interacting with is someone who knows me and my diagnosis, it can still be awkward. When they greet me with a "How are you?," I always wonder, do they mean really? Do they want to know about my side effects or my most recent scans or blood counts or the pain I've been having in my back? Or are they just saying the kind of "How are you?" that expects a "Fine" in return?
If I determine that I should go for the honest answer, I still have to judge the amount of time I potentially have with that person to determine whether or not can I go into it or if I should just say something along the lines of "I've been better." At times, I may temper my honest response because I don't want the person I'm engaging with to feel like they can't share their difficulties with me - because they're afraid their issue is small compared to the Big C. Just because I have cancer doesn't mean I can't understand and sympathize with the everyday things my friends are going through. I want them to feel free to share their lives with me.
And even when the truth is that I have been better, it's hard to share that. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer or a buzz-kill or appear to be attempting to garner sympathy. I also fully recognize that there are a lot of suffering people in the world, people who have it way worse than I do. I definitely have a lot of blessings to count. And yet, sometimes it's just hard to be me.
I was flattered when Kevin shared that his word for me was "real" or "transparent." I consider my life an open book if people want to get to know me (although I try to let them come to me rather than forcing my business on them), so I felt a little victory when he shared this. But I also chuckled to myself.
As the others had been sharing their stories, I had been thinking how nice it was that I could just rest easy among this group. I could truly let my guard down and just be me. I find that most of my interactions now require a balancing act on my part. If the person is a new acquaintance, I'm always afraid they're going to ask me the two questions everyone asks when they meet someone: "Where do you work?" and "Do you have kids?" If you say you don't work and yet you don't have kids, they usually respond, "Oh, that must be nice!" At this point, I have to decide if I think they are going to be a longer-term acquaintance to whom I should open up about my illness or if they are just a handshake and a smile to whom I should give some bland response that borders on untruth.
If I decide I should be honest about how "nice" it really is to stay at home all day with terminal cancer while others get to live their normal lives (and I try to say it as nicely and gently as possible), I then brace myself for their reaction. "Hi, I'm Katherine, and I have cancer" is kind of a conversation killer.
If it doesn't kill the conversation, it usually turns it into them giving suggestions as to how I can "beat it" or anecdotes about every person they've ever known who had cancer - who invariably died quick and painful deaths or were miraculously healed by drinking purple carrot juice. I know people mean well and that they share these things from a heart that wants to help, but it's still a draining exercise for me.
If, however, the person I'm interacting with is someone who knows me and my diagnosis, it can still be awkward. When they greet me with a "How are you?," I always wonder, do they mean really? Do they want to know about my side effects or my most recent scans or blood counts or the pain I've been having in my back? Or are they just saying the kind of "How are you?" that expects a "Fine" in return?
If I determine that I should go for the honest answer, I still have to judge the amount of time I potentially have with that person to determine whether or not can I go into it or if I should just say something along the lines of "I've been better." At times, I may temper my honest response because I don't want the person I'm engaging with to feel like they can't share their difficulties with me - because they're afraid their issue is small compared to the Big C. Just because I have cancer doesn't mean I can't understand and sympathize with the everyday things my friends are going through. I want them to feel free to share their lives with me.
And even when the truth is that I have been better, it's hard to share that. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer or a buzz-kill or appear to be attempting to garner sympathy. I also fully recognize that there are a lot of suffering people in the world, people who have it way worse than I do. I definitely have a lot of blessings to count. And yet, sometimes it's just hard to be me.
So you see, it's a juggling act. How do I keep honesty, concern for others, and my own feelings all in play? I strive for "real," like Kevin said. And it is a striving.
This retreat was a gift; to spend the weekend with people I didn't need to strive with. People who already knew my diagnosis, because it was the whole reason we were there. Who know what "metastatic" means and that I can't "Fight like a girl" and "beat it." Who know the prognosis and the reality of an early death. Who feel robbed of things they really wanted in life. Who also fear what the end will be like. We are comrades in arms. I am thankful for the chance to be a whole other kind of "real" with them.
Comments
Post a Comment