Since the day of my diagnosis, I find myself frequently lying
about my cancer. I wish I could stop, I
wish I could share with those closest to me what I am feeling and thinking, but
I cannot. Cancer has made me a serial liar.
In the beginning, when all I knew was that the biopsy had
come back malignant and that further tests were necessary, I thought that a
little lie about how I felt would buy me some time and space to think clearly
about what I was facing. Telling family
and friends that I had cancer was difficult.
Hearing the shock, fear and near instantaneous grief in their response
was harder still. I wanted to comfort
them, to ease their stress and to help them move forward peacefully and with
some grace. I found that if I said I was
unafraid and had every confidence that this would be but a temporary issue in
my otherwise long life it helped the people I love deal with the diagnosis and
alleviated some of the stress that comes with learning that a loved one has
cancer.
Lying worked. When
they believed I had this under control, they were able to relax and gave me the
space I needed to deal with my diagnosis.
As time passed and more information became available
(additional tests showed that my cancer was in later stages, my oncologic
consults indicated a long-term treatment protocol was necessary and included
surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, my chance of survival was narrowed to only
30%, etc.) I found that the lies became
more frequent and more personal. The
more emotional the reactions among my support group, the deeper the lies I told
about how I was coping. I would boldly
lie about my experience to make them more comfortable, lie about my faith in
the treatment protocols and the possibility that they would result in a “cure”
to ensure they did not lose hope, and lie about my plans for the future so that
they could comfortably assume we would have one. I believed these were things they wanted to
hear, things they needed to hear to be able to go about their daily lives
without feeling depressed or helpless or constantly worried.
After a while I grew tired of lying and had little energy
for charades. I thought perhaps that I
could share my true feelings with a few people closest to me. I tried on several occasions to be totally
honest about the pain, the uncertainty, the fear and my lack of confidence/hope
that I could one day say I beat cancer. My honest feelings were met with fierce
resistance. “Don’t feel that way.” “Of course you’re going to be fine.” “You’re just tired/hungry/in need of a pill.”
“You need to remain optimistic if you are going to beat this.”… and so on.
The truth is, no one wants to deal with the very real likelihood that I
may not survive cancer or that if I do, the treatment process is long and hard
and often debilitating.
Were they lying to me as well – just to keep from having the
tough conversations? Probably. Do they really believe that it will all be
fine and that faith and optimism are enough to heal me? Probably not. Will we continue to lie to one another until
such a time where I either get the “all clear” or the news that there is little
more that can be done? I’m guessing
“Yes.”
I can’t fault anyone
for not wanting to hear what it is really like or what I honestly feel and nor
can I fault them for lying about how they are dealing with it. None of us wants to be in this position and
we all seek balance and comfort. It’s
easier to have hope than to face reality.
It’s easier to feign confidence in a cure than it is to share your
emotions about the possibility of your death.
So we lie, to each other and to ourselves.
Lying has now become part of my everyday life. I lie about almost everything cancer related. I lie about how much energy I have. I lie about how much pain I have. I lie about how I feel about losing my hair or how sick I feel after chemo. I lie about what it is like to
be poked with needles on a daily basis, to find little or no pleasure in things
I once enjoyed, to be unable to concentrate on much of anything and to sleep through
the night. I lie to acquaintances, to friends, to family and to my husband. I
even lie to myself on more occasions than I care to admit. (I do not however lie to the doctors or
others on the medical treatment team with regards to physical symptoms or
status. Admittedly, I do lie to them as
to how I am coping, primarily because there are often others – husband, sister,
friend, etc. in the room with me when those questions are being asked and I
must keep up the pretense.)
Cancer has already taken much from me and now, it has made a
liar out of me.
I need a place where I can tell the truth about what having
cancer feels like and what it is doing to my life. I need a place to “be” with my fear, my pain
and my doubts about the future. I need a
place to deposit my more unpopular thoughts so that I can be more positive and
hopeful in my every day interactions.
This is that place. It will be my therapy and if ever I decide to post,
perhaps it will be yours, too.
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