For My 30th Birthday, I Got Cancer
If you don't have a sense of humor, it's just not funny...
A prayer I have spoken many times: “God, do whatever you need with me so I can best serve you and the beings of Creation.” Then, after a brief pause, I look up, wink, and say, “But if possible, be gentle.”
It’s a good prayer, one of love and surrender; after all, the only element of life we can control is whether or not we’re consenting to it. And wow, did I agree to some shit.
For the past two years, I’ve had a growth in my shoulder. I took it to doctors, who all told me it was a sebaceous cyst (non-cancerous) and nothing to be afraid of—simply a deeply internal pimple that got very big. Though I wasn’t worried, it was rather uncomfortable, and at the end of January I finally had it removed.
The surgery was done in-office, with local anaesthetic. It physically hurt, but I was in the best of moods. Finally, I thought, I'm done with this damned thing. Booyah, amen. They had some issues with stopping the bleeding, but they got the thing out and I was free to go.
February 2nd came and I turned 30.
It was a strange feeling, but kind of nice. I'm someone who’s felt younger and happier as I've progressed in age, and my 20s were a beautiful, exhausting chapter I was happy to close surrounded by loved ones. It was time to move past the “youth” portion of life and learn to embrace a slower, steadier pace.
Surprise!
The day after my birthday, I was contacted by the doctor who removed the cyst. He reached out to let me know it wasn’t a cyst.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said. “You have a rare cancer called dermatofibrosarcoma protuberans. As far as cancers go, this is a good one to have, but we need to move quickly on this.” Quickly; it had already been two years.
This was a lot to take in. First off: I had cancer. Secondly, there are apparently good cancers to have.
“You mean to tell me I quit smoking for nothing?” I groaned.
“No, smoking is still bad for you and this isn’t related to that. In fact, the pulmonary blah blah blah…” Shame he missed the joke. The timing was perfect.
I told him to lighten up. I laughed. He didn’t. So it goes.
And so on.
I told the necessary people, prefacing it with the fact that my chances were allegedly pretty good. The initial shock for all of us made it hard to internalize the “good chances” because we were still sifting through the “shit luck.” That being said, I didn’t enjoy the constant seriousness surrounding the situation, so I solemnly vowed to joke about it until I survived or died laughing.
At least I’m not a fraud, so there’s that…
In this early stage, I was shocked but moving towards acceptance. Honestly, having cancer wasn’t as painful as being treated as “someone with cancer”. People looked at me differently, were nicer than usual, and said plenty of useless things to make themselves feel better.
For example, my mom frantically promised me I was gonna survive. I told her that I had cancer and had a chance of dying. I emphasized that I didn’t need to anesthetize reality with bullshit, I needed to come to terms with whatever was and be prepared for whatever may be. I told her not to impose her feelings onto how I was to handle my cancer. Much to her credit, she learned instantly. Others didn’t.
Liav (of Dark Semantic Thrills) called and said, ironically, “How’s my fighter doing?” I told him being called that hurt more than being diagnosed. We laughed. I then told him about the quitting smoking joke, and he gave it the appreciation it deserved.
The best conversation came when I called my wonderful friend and client from the Living/Dying Project. The story of us coming into each other’s lives began with her getting cancer, so I knew she would be chill about it. When I let her know that her death doula had cancer, she asked me what I was doing. I told her that it miraculously turned out that I do in fact believe all of the spiritual philosophies I espouse, and that I had resolved to use this as a powerful tool in my spiritual growth. I then said, “Could you believe what an asshole I’d be if I told you all those things and then realized I didn’t believe them the minute I got cancer?”
“The biggest asshole,” she answered. We shared the best laugh I’d had in days.
Offbeat humor, like cancer, grows on you!
I got an appointment with a surgeon nearby who specialized in the surgery necessary for this specific cancer. In solidarity, my sisters came to the appointment with me. We went in, I sat in the examination chair, and we waited for the doctor.
“He’s gonna answer all of our questions, and you’ll feel much better,” my eldest sister assured me.
The truth was, I wasn’t feeling too bad at that point. I had decided to utilize the teachings of the Living/Dying Project, and it was already showing positive growth. You can learn a lot when you touch where it psychologically hurts—and when you have cancer, the pain is hard to miss.
The doctor came in and shook my hand. He was a serious man who was there to talk about a serious subject matter. I am an unserious man who was there to cope through humor. The scene was set. The more I joked, the more serious his language became. The more serious he became, the more I freaked out and the more jokes I cracked. It was a horrendous cycle. I’ll probably do a stand-up routine on it at some point.
I even made the joke about quitting smoking. Didn’t land. Tragedy—the delivery was phenomenal.
The conversation got to the point where he emphasized all the wrong things and used terms like “game over” to describe metastasis. He winked at a random point, but it was so disconnected from what he was saying that I think it must have been an eye spasm. I told him that he and his wink were menacing; he said he didn't know me and I confused him (which was fair). My big sisters were pinching themselves and biting the inside of their cheeks to avoid laughing at the trainwreck of a conversation.
He ordered me a CT scan and surgery dates. If the CT scan was clear and there was no “game over,” we could move into the surgery that would make the previous surgery look like, and I quote, “child’s play.”
I had nightmares for the next four nights.
The upsides are the downsides
Waiting for the CT scan was the worst.
It was Schrödinger’s death sentence: I had to live, simultaneously, like I was about to die and had plenty of time left. In truth, it was a blessing of sorts. This very real interaction with my mortality helped me figure out which parts of me were afraid of dying—and which parts were afraid of living. I became much more aware of my insecurities and attachments, and the context helped me let go or mend my relationship with those internal qualities.
Along with the insight work, I made plans for my death and my survival. It was a weird time.
My father is a pulmonologist—every time I had a question, I called him. Fortunately, the man hasn’t had a normal sleep schedule since he entered medical school, so he was usually there to either put my mind at ease or let me down gently with statistics that I didn’t like. He didn’t get the smoking joke either. Sad, because he’s a pretty funny guy. Maybe if he were funnier he would’ve gotten it. Maybe he just had something on his mind.
Lighten up, am I right?
My bro is a total bro.
Fortunately, my little brother flew in from UMD to live with me and take care of me. My shoulder was completely useless from the surgery, so he took care of the cooking and cleaning. More importantly, he kept me laughing and having fun. Though being asleep was a terrible experience, being awake was a mix of self-work and acceptance through laughter, and light conversation on heavy topics.
If the CT results told me I needed chemo, the treatment would age my cells ten years through increased senescence. Waiting for the CT scan would have aged me another five if my brother and I didn’t honor life with the humor it deserves.
Jesus wept. I winked. Nobody peed.
The CT scan took place at a very Christian hospital; multiple family members weren’t so into the Catholic iconography, given our Ashkenazi Jewish heritage. I, on the other hand, rather liked seeing Jesus in every room. Watching him hanging on his cross felt like him winking and saying, “It could always be worse.” I winked back and braced myself for embracing whatever came next.
The scan itself was fine. The technician was very grandmotherly. She kindly informed me that the injected dye would make me feel like I was peeing my pants; it did, but that wasn't the strange part. The strange part was recognizing the moment I was in—right then, they were checking to see if I was about to die. Crazier, albeit less socially catastrophic, than pissing myself in public.
The first inhale of February…
The CT came back clear.
I don’t know who you are, dear reader. You may have an incredible sex life, a fantastic collection of drugs, or regular appointments at the spa, but all of that pales in comparison to being told you’re not about to die from cancer. The euphoria is so great that you pass out. Everyone who was holding their breath let out a collective exhale, and then we all needed a nap. Imagine holding onto a cliff’s edge for a week with every fiber of your being and then letting go and landing on something soft.
I’d never slept so well.
At the news, my brother booked his ticket back to school; shortly thereafter, Liav moved in to be my live-in assistant.
More than he assisted with things like driving to appointments and being another pair of hands, Liav was instrumental in maintaining my sanity (or healthy lack thereof). He understood—and always has—that what I needed more than anything was a perfectly placed joke between moments of tension.
I now knew I was gonna live, but I still refused to stop joking until the cancer was gone.
Five stars. Would never recommend…
By this point, I was grateful. Not everyone gets to have such a safe, extended interaction with their mortality. I knew the cancer wouldn't kill me, but it was still painful and scary enough that I could now face my mortal nature head-on. I’m not saying I enjoyed having cancer, but God hands out some strange, personalized birthday gifts, and I certainly understood the value of this one. I’d prefer next year’s gift be a scratch-off.
In conclusion…
Finally: the surgery. Serious Doctor applied local anesthesia, with the assistance of nurses who thankfully appreciate my sense of humor. I went into cancer laughing by myself; I left with an audience cackling alongside me. They sewed me up so masterfully, I think they oughta take up embroidery. A classic “Live, Laugh, Love” stitching would scar-up nicely.
So, long story short: I turned 30, and I quit smoking for nothing.
wow, thank you for sharing that experience and best wishes!
Your positivity is inspiring; you put the Can in Cancer.