The Scene: A simplistic rugged town is being controlled by a god who convinces them that life is ruled by partying and promiscuity. The townspeople have seen their beloved god and follow this horned phenomena into a whirlpool of drinking, sex and destruction. In hopes to save this town and convince the people to follow a different way of living, an unaffected man tries to present himself as the town’s god. With just one look, a man in the crowd says, “Bullshit. God’s got horns.”
This is by far my favorite quote from True Blood. The beauty of the statement lies in the simplicity of reason. The man has seen his horned god, and feels that this is standard criteria for anyone who would like to claim god stature. I find myself quoting this man often when something in life presents itself as another thing it very clearly is not.
Most recently I’ve noticed myself using the quote every time I see cancer portrayed on television. Cancer in Hollywood is a lot more graceful and dignified than it is in real life. It tends to be a common theme, but strangely it’s a cancer only unicorns and rainbows would seem to get, and I’m calling bullshit.
I’m not naïve enough to suggest the True Blood town saw a horned god and that must mean all gods have horns. Likewise, I’m not about to suggest all cancers present themselves with the same characteristics mine has. But I have in fact seen cancer, and I have in fact talked to others who have had different cancers, and cancers of all varieties seem to have a much harsher experience than what I see on TV…
The Scene: A loveable quirky man has just been diagnosed with leukemia. The prognosis suggests maybe a twenty percent chance of recovering, but the man and his small group of friends are determined to fight and overcome. After the diagnosis the patient is seen lying in a hospital bed in the middle of his treatments. He is hooked up to IV and looking sleepy. He gives a heartfelt speech about friendships, cracks a joke or two, and then in the next scene his hospital bed is empty. He’s fully recovered.
“Bullshit. Cancer’s got haze.”
I can guarantee there are no profound or life altering speeches about friendships in the middle of chemo haze. Don’t get me wrong. Cancer has made me evaluate the relationships in my life, and I’m often pressed with the need to express my gratitude for those I love, but these are moments best saved for days and days after treatment. Until then I have the brain capacity of a zombie and I’m lucky to manage to moan simple requests such as “water” or “medicine.” I imagine if I tried to give a heartfelt speech to a friend anywhere close to within five days of chemotherapy it would more likely come out like, “Friend. Watermelon. Who are you?” Then I’d smile at them with watery eyes, feeling a real sense of accomplishment before I fell back over into a drug induced hibernation. As beautiful and sentimental as that sounds, I’m just not sure it’s up to par with the man who had leukemia in a television episode.
“Bullshit. Cancer’s got time.”
I know cancer is too complex of a disease to fully capture in a thirty minute episode, but when you are dealing with a recurring character I don’t understand the rush to have the illness resolved after one little episode. Cancer takes up a lot of time. Personally, the amount of time dedicated to getting better is the most daunting aspect in my world, and I’m looking only at a five to six month run. By all accounts I’m fairly lucky, because a lot of people have it worse than I do. Showing one sleepy scene and then a full recovery suggests that cancer is about as easy to fix as a headache, and this simply is not true.
The Scene: A sassy, beautiful, privileged woman is diagnosed with breast cancer. It takes almost the full season for her to recover, but in the mean time she is seen going about life and running around town with different wigs on because she has lost her hair. Her hair falls out over night, but she is left looking just as beautiful, vibrant and healthy otherwise. She gains even more sass and learns to find some internal beauty that would match the outer beauty she’s always had.
“Bullshit. Cancer’s got patches.”
I have heard one person say that their hair fell out over night, but for the most part this is not a beautiful transformation process. My hair started to get a little thin. Then one morning I took a shower and suddenly I had hair in my eyes and throat and sticking to my body. It was absolutely everywhere, and my ten minute shower got turned into a thirty minute hair battle I wasn’t sure I would win. Finally the hair stopped falling and I sighed in relief that at least it was over. I stepped out of the shower and looked in the mirror. My heart sank. The battle was nowhere near over. It had only just begun. My hair had only fallen out in patches. I still had whole clumps of normal looking hair, and then complete spots of white shiny skin. Each day after, when I took a shower more hair would fall out, and I called it “the mangy squirrel look.” I was pretty sure all I needed was for only one of my eyebrows to fall out and I could have pulled the whole image together, but that didn’t happen. Even now, nine days after my second chemo, I still have about 200 hairs that are determined to stay around. I can tell if they fell out I would look pretty good bald, and I’m hoping chemo number three will help me out with that situation, but for now I’m sporting a head that reminds me of a opossum’s butt.
Everyone asks the same question, “Why don’t you shave it?” The answer is that chemotherapy has the side effect of making your skin very sensitive. Combining sensitive, tender skin with the fact I need to avoid getting any cuts that might get infected because my immune system is weak takes shaving my head off my table of options. Some venture, “Why don’t you use a number one blade and just trim it even shorter.” The answer to that one is not medical. I am just willing to admit that while I am confident I can pull off bald, I’m not sure having stubble is any better than having half an inch of hair. Seems like a lot of careful work to look equally as awkward.
“Bullshit. Cancer’s got debilitation.”
Even if I forgive this woman’s graceful transformation in to baldness, I cannot forgive the fact that this is the only transformation she needs to take. Cancer is a lot more complex than just losing your hair, and I think it’s a lame cop-out to simply give someone a bald head and call it cancer. This is more symptomatic of confusing a bottle of hair remover for shampoo in the morning. An unfortunate mistake, I’m sure, but overall not so bad. There is such a wide range of physical side effects of cancer, and yet this woman looked healthy and strong and energetic and beautiful. Yes, there are many days where I feel healthy, strong, energetic and beautiful, but let’s call chemotherapy what it is and acknowledge I also have a lot of days where I look exhausted, sweaty and have as much energy as a hamster left too close to the air conditioning vent. There’s just no shame in that. It’s called cancer. It doesn’t get cured with a red bull and a trip to the day spa.
The Scene: A lonely man is diagnosed with cancer, and he acknowledges that the battle before him is one he cannot face alone. He hires a beautiful nurse to help take care of him, and he quickly starts treatment. He loses his hair. He becomes exhausted. His physical appearance diminishes with each passing scene as his body reacts to chemotherapy with extreme nausea and vomiting. Despite it all, the lonely man and the beautiful nurse connect and fall deeply in love.
“Bullshit. Cancer’s got more…”
This was a movie that seemed determined to show a dirtier side of cancer, and at first I thought it was on the right track. There wasn’t a miracle over night cure. The man genuinely looked exhausted and lost not only hair, but lunch as well. Then I became disappointed when I realized the battle was going to stop there. They ventured to show more than most people are willing to, but why not go all the way? Some people would argue time constraint, but you’re wrong. Instead of four scenes where you watch the man throw up, you could have four scenes that depict different aspects of chemotherapy, because nausea is just the icing.
I’ve already discussed briefly some of my experiences from the first chemo, but the second chemo was harder in my opinion. I have experienced a lot of common side effects that just are not being depicted in even the bravest of films.
What about the mental side effects? I have so much confusion associated with chemo brain. Sometimes I literally just sit and stare at space, because I’m honestly not sure where I am. I become so forgetful that walking out the door without my pants on is suddenly a realistic fear.
What about the physical side effects? For two days it felt like my skin was covered in shingles. I couldn’t move or shift without searing pain. On those same two days it felt like every bone in my body had been shattered and then glued back together unevenly. I’ve had mouth sores that make even watermelon feel as rough as a brick. About seven days after both treatments my legs ached from my hips to my knees and I felt unstable when I stood and walked. My eyes get so dried out and irritated, that it starts to appear like I’ve been crying, which makes people treat you nicer, but it’s just not a great look.
What about the emotional side effects? Cancer is a tough thing to handle. I am one happy person and it has always taken a lot to shake me down. I spend most my time feeling positive and even my low moments are more sarcastic humor than they are full on negativity. However sometimes I’m absolutely fine one moment and the next it feels like some rhino just walked in the room and decided to take a sit down on my chest. The pressure is just too much and I explode in to a squealing, crying mess of a person who’s furious at the world. It can take up to an hour before I calm down again. Then I laugh at myself and get on with life.
It’s great that the man and the nurse fell in love, but can love blossom only in the face of vomit? Of course not. That’s silly and a little gross. Love can just as easily grow in the face of confusion, pain or crying as it can in throwing up and losing your hair. Nothing could be lost by showing a more rotten side of cancer. Could it?
I think I know why people are afraid to show a more realistic portrayal of cancer and it’s fear. Fear that their dramatic and inspirational show or movie will somehow be transformed into a horror story. But I ask, “Can it not be both?” In real life it is both. I may have done a better job thus far in this blog of describing the more negative aspects of cancer, but not a day goes by where I don’t also feel hope, happiness, love and depth in my life. I just don’t feel the need to diminish the bad in order to shed a light on the good. If anything the positive only shines brighter against the shadows of the negative.
You are AMAZING!
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