Cancer Didn't Make Me a Hero: It Made Me Tired

I am done with chemo. That's right, I finished my 16th and final infusion yesterday.

On hearing about my completion, I was given major props by everyone. As if I had just graduated with honors from Princeton. There was a lot of congratulating going on and thumbs up and even a pair of fresh-cut roses gifted to commemorate such a victorious feat. 

It felt good. People are so kind.

But it also felt strange because, c'mon, it's not like I contributed anything worthwhile to the human race by surviving weekly doses of poison being pumped through my veins. Mostly, I sat in a Lazy Boy for 2-3 hours every Wednesday trying my darndest to complete just one Sodoku puzzle. These were one-star level puzzles, and they were IMPOSSIBLE.


Some people spend their Wednesdays discovering new gene-altering drugs to eradicate disease. Others devote their mornings to composing euphoric sing-along musicals with transformative dance numbers. And I can't even complete a level one-star Soduko. I do not deserve so much as a high five, let alone two white roses.

I just get though things, really. I'm no pioneer here.

People, though, are so kind that they bestow, with alarming regularity, magnanimous epithets on me and Paul that I'm not certain we've quite earned.

They say things like "you're the strongest person I know" or  "you're such a fighter" or "damn girl, you are such a ninja warrior princess!" No one has ever said that last one, but I would be so beyond flattered that my head would probably burst into into a thousand pink butterflies and I would legally change my name to: "Liz Warrior Princess". (Hey - morning after chemo here. Anything goes.)

The truth, if you care to know, is that I don't feel particularly brave or strong or brilliant (again, level 1-star puzzle people). I am just doing what I have to do to survive and carry on. Sometimes, I'm good at it (i.e. I don't cry in the shower, and I go for a walk after treatment). Sometimes I'm appalling at it (I'm driven home in self-imposed silence and then devour potato chips while binge-watching Sherlock. Later, I may or may not launch into an irrational fit of rage over a bowl of cereal milk left out in the TV room.)

I understand why people say such undeserving things on my behalf. I really do. Some of them may even genuinely believe chemotherapy has morphed my husband and me into a pair of benevolent crime-fighting superheros.

Or, more likely, they are just being nice. One thing they do have right, to an extent, is that having cancer has changed both of us. In some ways, yes, for the better. We're more empathetic, we've been forced to practice selflessness with each other, we've had to learn to surrender to God's will (always an on-going lesson).

On the other hand, having cancer has also brought out some ugly parts of ourselves, mostly when we are at home together. The gracious people calling us Warrior Ninjas do not see that, of course. The truth is there are looming moments (days, weeks, months) of despair and hopelessness. Times of doubt, lack of Faith, crankiness over blanket-hogging.

We fight. We grumble. We worry. We are just humans being humans. Weak. Tired. But doing our best. Usually.

Thank you for choosing to see our better side, though. Or for pretending to, if that's what you're doing. Just thank you for the kind words. They are good to hear. And it is good to have chemo behind me.