Diagnosed Again

My doctor just came out and said it: "I'm sorry to hear you got cancer again."

The past few months, my doctor keeps saying he wants to talk about my prognosis. It's the same thing he's said every time I see him for the past few months. My oncologist even said it, and I know he's looking for an apology. I don't want to talk about it. I want to write about it.

I've been writing about it in my journal for months now. In my writing, the fear of death and cancer seems ridiculous because I still have such joyous topics to write about. Sometimes, I wonder if I can use the cancer to create my novels. The fear and vulnerability of my feelings and the anger have all influenced my writing. I know I'm not the first person to have cancer. I know there are many, many others who don't write about it.

But I feel compelled to. It doesn't stop the pain of dying or make it more bearable, but I can use it to write my novels. That's the only reason I can write about cancer. I guess it's better than writing about a dead person.

So, I write about my illness, and I can feel it consuming me.

I want to write about my illness, to create something beautiful and intense. But I'm afraid of the reality. I think I've already made my mind up about my condition, but I don't want to do it before I revisit my doctor. I don't want to tell him to say, "I'm sorry you got cancer again. You should be in bed. I'll talk to you again when you're at death's door."

It's at these points I don't feel like writing.

The first time I wrote a novel was when I had cancer, the very first words I wrote were: "I don't know how much fight I have left in me." The book was about a woman in the 1930s, but it was also my story. My greatest fear was that I would die, and my mother would tell my father about what I was writing. I imagined his embarrassment. I know he hates my writing. I feel so much pressure from him to be respectable. I know he thinks I shouldn't be writing about taboo, sex and politics. He's already let it be known that he's ashamed of me, and if I write about it, then it'll be his embarrassment that will hurt me most. He knows I wrote the novel. He didn't speak to me for months after it was published.

Maybe I'll go and talk to him about my illness, and I'll show him the writing I've done about it. He'll say, "This is terrible. I'm afraid you're dying." Or maybe he won't. Perhaps he'll say, "You're amazing. Your cancer isn't the only terrible thing in your life." Or he'll just say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, you got cancer again and I love you for who you are."

All of my life, my father has made my life difficult. I don't want to make his life more difficult. I've got plenty of other things I want to write about. But I think about it all the time.

I know it won't hurt me to talk to the doctor. I want to talk to him, but I'm afraid of it. Maybe I'm trying to find ways to run away from my fears. Maybe I'm so scared I'm going to go to a new hospital where my doctor is nicer and kinder.

He’ll say, "I'm sorry you're in such pain. I know you're scared. I'm going to put you on some new medication to take with you on your trip. I'll be in touch."

Or he'll say, "I know this is hard. Let's talk about your story again."

Or maybe he won't say anything, and he won't talk to me. Instead, he’ll tell me to do whatever I feel like doing, and he won't make me feel safe, and I won't like that.

There are so many things I don't know about my health. There are things I don't want to know about my health, but I know there's hope when I see the rainbows and my hospital is filled with them.

I will continue walking to the end of those rainbows for as long as I can.