Do I Have Cancer?

This question has been so hard to answer, even if I'm only talking to myself.  From a purely technical standpoint, the answer is yes.  Cancer is "the disease caused by an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells in a part of the body."  That was me.  I had that.  And the Director of the USC Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center told me if I wanted to I could rightfully call my situation cancer.  And certainly without surgery my tumor was on its way to becoming far worse--first a grade III anaplastic tumor, and after that a grade IV glioblastoma.  No one has a surer claim to saying they have cancer than a glioblastoma patient.  It kills you.  Period.  But that's the problem for me--I've always thought of cancer being something that kills you or comes darn near close to killing you, and so many surgeons that I talked to in this process made my tumor sound so optimistic.  Can a tumor really be optimistic?  How can you say you have cancer if you have an optimistic form of cancer? 

Then there is the issue of chemotherapy and radiation.  Aren't those treatments required to say you have cancer?  Not necessarily.  My father-in-law had prostate cancer (which no one doubts or wonders about before declaring him a cancer survivor) and he did not have radiation or chemotherapy for his treatment.  He didn't even have surgery.  My grandfather had FOUR types of cancer and never had radiation or chemo.  And then I also have to wonder about my situation because I did have four rounds of chemotherapy, and they were awful.  But the oncologist kept swearing up and down how damn mild those treatments were.  Mild?  Why downplay it?  I was dysfunctional for months because of those treatments.  I know people who were treated for colon cancer and could still go to work while on chemo.  I could barely get out of bed some days.  But if you bring that up the doctor just calls you weak and makes you feel like you better hope and pray you never get another form of cancer (which I do, but I don't think that makes me weak, everyone should hope and pray they never get cancer). 

There's the question of present versus past tense.  Even if I did have cancer while my tumor was in my head, do I still have it?  Am I a brain cancer patient or a brain cancer survivor?  How long do you have to be "free of brain cancer" before you can call yourself a survivor?  The doctors say I still have some tumor cells in me though we can't see them.  How much tumor needs to be in your head for you to say that you still have the tumor?  Are you still a survivor if your tumor grows back?  Can your tumor really beat you, and is that an effective way of thinking about your tumor?

Part of the problem is also that I'm saying "brain cancer" or "brain tumor" when I talk about what I've been through.  The brain is a huge deal.  I am not at all downplaying cancer in any other part of the body.  We've already established that I struggle with considering myself a cancer patient or victim or anything like that.  But, if I hear someone say they had breast cancer or that they had a melanoma, I don't think twice about calling them a cancer survivor or a cancer patient.  At Thanksgiving dinner a couple years ago my husband's cousins (all in their 30s-young 40s) talked about their health experiences of the past year.  One was grateful to have caught and been treated for testicular cancer.  Another had experienced thyroid cancer treatment.  I didn't doubt their stories or experiences at all.  In fact I was thinking something along the lines of, "I don't know what I'd do if that happened to me.  Does this really happen to people who are so young?"  But I feel like if you are in a room and you say that you had brain cancer people think you are just trying to play a trump card.  That, or you should be in the morgue. 

And then I feel guilty.  For being alive.  For not being in the hospital.  For going back to work.  For rocking my toddler to sleep.  For walking six miles.  That's not cancer.  But also, to a certain extent, I'm in denial that I spent five to six months of my life (plus some months pre-surgery) just recovering.  Sleeping.  Resting.  Closing my eyes.  Staring at the wall while my brain healed.  I did all those things, but it is such a far cry from where I am today.  Last month's sorrows and frustrations and fatigue even seem so far away.  How did life change so quickly?  How did I get better? 

So, here I am, a cancer survivor (for now, right?) and still a cancer patient under strict monitoring every two months.  At the same time, I'm realizing how far we've come with medicine.  Cancer does not mean imminent death or even future death from cancer.  It's a chronic disease and millions of people live with it.  In some cases, there are certainly worse outcomes, and as horrible as brain cancer has been, there are certainly other diseases that I feel would be more difficult to live with.