Brunhilde, Where Are You When I Need You!

The problem with cancer is that the only time the Fat Lady ever sings is when your battle with it is over.  Over, as in you're dead.

Millions of cancer survivors walk the planet feeling great, living healthy, enjoying their lives -- most of the time.

Obviously, I can't speak for everyone, but there are enough "members of the club" in my own life that I think it's safe to say, it's mighty hard for those of us who have fought the good fight against the Big C not to live the rest of our lives without that niggling, nagging, nasty little thought that it someday it just might rear its ugly head once again.

Example:  Right now, the right side of my neck is bothering me.  It's probably just a strained trapezius muscle.  But it's the same side as the site of my melanoma, and my doctors are always asking if I have any unusual aches or pains, so naturally that horrible little thought occurs - even though it's for the briefest of moments - that maybe it's something I should worry about.

I'm pretty good at not dwelling on such things for more than a minute, but during a recent visit with my new medical oncologist (not to be confused with my surgical oncologist),  I was informed I should keep going with tests, etc. until I hit the five year mark (as opposed to being done at 3 years, as I expected and hoped).  As he put it, melanoma, along with lung cancer, are the two most insidious forms of the disease.  Melanoma, especially, is known for its "heartbreaking surprises."  I'm not sure it was a good idea for the doctor to say this to me, and I chalk it up to his youthful intensity.  Of course, I responded with a smile that I had absolutely no intention of being one of his "heartbreaking surprises."

Still, it gives one pause ...

All of this has led me to an epiphany about why I've been so reluctant to start a book about my experience.  I want to, I really do.  But I also want to be completely and utterly done with cancer. And somewhere in my psyche, I know that if I start to write about it, I will be reliving the whole horrible mess until the book is done.  It's a daunting thought, to say the least.

Still, I've been encouraged by so many people to tell my story.  And I do think it might help others going through a similar experience to hear how it's gone for someone who has also walked the path.

And then there is thing about me that can't be denied.  I write.  I have always written. I probably always will write.  Journals, poems, short stories, essays, articles, novels.  It's a complete love/hate relationship because it's so bloody hard to do, and often I don't even do it all that well - yet I can't seem to not do it!   I've tried to stop, but even when I think I've given it up, it comes out in odd little ways, like long Facebook entries.  There's no denying it. To anyone who knows me well, it's my identity.  I'm a writer.

I apologize, Readers, for once again displaying my angst about starting this book.  Wanting badly to do something, and hating the idea of doing it are two tough emotions to reconcile.

But there's one final truth that cannot be denied.  My life as a cancer survivor, my life without a nose - it will never be over - not until the day I die.  Every morning, every night, every time I time I look in the mirror, I am the woman without a nose.  It has become my other identity - my bigger identity even that that as a writer.  I never wanted to be Cancer Girl.  I said when this whole thing began that I was not going to let it change who I am at heart.

So maybe, just maybe - I have to write this book just to rebalance the scales.


(Postscript:  Yes, I cheated and checked Wikipedia for the name of Wagner's original Fat Lady mentioned in my title.  No, I'm not that smart and erudite - just resourceful.)