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I was on assignment recently and mentioned in conversation that I have cancer. I don’t regret telling the interviewee as he seemed genuinely concerned. He stopped what he was doing and said, “But you look healthy.” I smiled and we went on with the interview.
Not looking frail or sick has been both a gift and a curse for me. I want people to know my struggle, but I keep smiling, no matter what happens. I’ve been told by several people, attitude is half the battle. I cry at night because I’m in pain. I nap off the non-narcotic pain pills during my lunch periods.
I don’t want people to look at me as if I have a disability.
I know I’m not alone.
According to PBS’s Who Cares, more than 125 million Americans have at least one chronic condition. The Center for Disease Control defines chronic illness as a condition that lasts a year or longer, limits activity and may require ongoing care. Such illnesses share one characteristic: they are not visible to an onlooker, thus the term “invisible illness.” It’s not just cancer that’s invisible; I have friends with chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia or multiple sclerosis.
I’ve been having back and side pain, so I knew before my last CT scan, the Plan A chemo pills were not working (we’re now working on a new plan with new IV chemo). The pain has progressively gotten worse. It used to be intermittent; now it’s constant.
Side note: Before my dad was diagnosed with his life-ending pancreatic cancer, he was always in pain. He worked at a retail store throwing boxes around daily. We assumed it was the heavy lifting that got to him, never thinking about cancer.
I sit at my computer, either at home or work, and try not to wince in pain. At night, a heating pad is my best friend. The thought of walking anywhere makes me shiver. Even taking a deep breath is hard and I clench my fists to release pain. I don’t want to take narcotic painkillers because I don’t want to give addiction a thought, but the non-narcotic pain killers no longer touch the pain.
Yet, I persevere. Not because I want to be labeled a superhero or Wonder Woman. My job is to tell stories; I never anticipated being the story. I persevere because if one person is touched, gets tested earlier and their life is less of a hassle than mine, I will know I did my job.
We’re real and we’re out there. People often judge others by what they see, concluding that people are either capable or incapable based on the way they look.
Our plight is real. I do everything I can to be “normal.” As one wise editor posed to me, though, “What is normal?” Normal is just a state a mind.
If no one is aware of the struggles faced by those of us with chronic illnesses, we will never find a cure for them — a cure for all of them, not just mine.