Writing with Cancer

Last week I rang the bell...

Some days, all I can do is sit at my computer and write.

Last week, I rang the bell at the infusion center. Final chemo treatment after being diagnosed—how I hate that word!

My body crumpled when the doctor said, “Let’s rule out cancer.” With my mouth agape, I agreed to the scrape of my uterus right then. Didn’t know to ask for lidocaine. “Wiggle your toes if it hurts,” the nurse said as the doctor inserted a mini-scythe through my cervix.

“I know you’re trying to distract me, and it’s not working.” I gritted my teeth as the doctor swiped, collecting cells from my uterus as if collecting butterflies. My uterus, which nurtured my two sons. “That wasn’t so bad.” Then another swipe. Then a third. I screamed.

Cancer? I had it ten years ago—thyroid cancer that was instantly cured with a thyroidectomy, followed by daily Synthroid/levothyroxine for the rest of my life. No big deal. Worked through all my Why Me? I eat healthy; I exercise. Shit happens. Maybe it was from years of dental X-rays since I was a child—before they shielded our necks.

But this one! Caught me by surprise. Again. Gut punch. My body doesn’t know how to fight off cancer cells.

I am lucky. The cancer was removed with a total hysterectomy—a hysterectomy I used to beg for after I had children and my periods remained excruciating. If I’d had the surgery back then, maybe cancer would’ve found a worse place to appear.

I elected chemotherapy to kill off any aggressive sarcoma cells that made up part of my tumor. Four months of aching bones, low energy, anxiety. Yet somehow liberating. A feeling of taking charge of my health. Of believing in science. Of giving myself the gift of ten more years to watch my grandson grow into a man.

I snuggle myself in scarves and caps from friends. “The rainbow cap was for my good days,” one friend said. “I bought this scarf for my aunt when she went through chemo,” says another. I am wrapped in love. Wigs from friends that I wear on Zoom, renaming myself Gigi or Maude or Dolly. I am included at dinner parties though I’ve nothing to offer in return… yet. Sometimes I sit and smile, barely able to move. Sometimes I bring dessert.

All the while I have been writing. It seems to be all the energy I have, because I can sit and move my fingers. My fingers, which flew over keyboards throughout my legal career, now fly over keyboards with stories. Moving my body often brings bouts of sudden fatigue where I feel like an old man with a heart condition, barely sucking in enough air. I can garden for 20 minutes. Hired someone to help me pull weeds. Decided I could live with weeds.

But I can write!

I postponed publishing Tender Loving Care: Escaping One of the Most Violent Cults in the World until completion of chemo.

Meanwhile, I’m almost finished with my follow-up book, Clueless White Mother, where I confronted racism and sexism while raising my biracial son born in Synanon.

And I have started a series of romance books.

I am the lucky one, looking forward to getting my eyebrows and eyelashes back, running my fingers through my hair. Hugging my grandson. Soon.

Take that, cancer!