treatments we are taking that interest me as much as what we do with
our lives after the big cancer bomb is dropped in our laps.
By age twenty-nine, I had spent two years in the confines of the
cancer world; graying AARP patients to my left, pitying nurses to my
right. I attended young adult support groups, where 20 and 30-
somethings stuttered hesitant feelings. (The brain cancer patient
researching her own hospice care didn't want to scare the crap out of
the dude recently diagnosed with lymphoma. The stage I cervical
cancer patient didn't want to sound like a whiner next to the guy
with lung metastases.) We all meant well but politeness prevailed.
Sex, death, parenting, pain management, and career goals were a
parade of elephants in the room.
Cancer did not make me brave, outspoken, or grateful. I've always
known you only have one shot at life, and you have to work hard and
take chances to try to get what you want. What I wanted was real
conversation. And, to live out my dreams of playing Terry Gross, the
host on NPR's show Fresh Air.
I wanted to know if other young adult cancer patients cried
themselves to sleep at night, wrote their wills on scrap paper while
riding the train, or lied to dates about their scars. I wanted to
know if other cancer patients still ate greasy hamburgers, stayed out
way too late, and put their dream jobs on hold. I wanted to get
inside the heads of these patients and to not feel so alone.
Five years ago I emailed friends and family, asking them to
contribute cash towards a professional grade voice recorder. I
received a travel grant from The City of Chicago Department of
Cultural Affairs. I posted ads on Craigslist, networked with social
workers, and sent out fliers that hung in laundromats and churches
across the country. The calls started pouring in. From the Bible Belt
to the Big Apple, young adult cancer patients across the country
invited me into their homes.
Digging up the cancer dirt was easy, all I had to do was listen.
Patients confessed to me what they had never told their doctors,
therapists, friends, parents, partners, or other survivors. Greg
taught me a magic word to help get what I want in hospitals. Amilca
admitted to crying like a two year old because she couldn't eat
Krispy Kremes. Mary Ann said she'd go against the Catholic church and
ask to be removed from life support. Geoff, a drug addict, told me
how he charmed his nurses into giving him stellar narcotics.
I had spent my twenties and early thirties working as a modern dance
choreographer. Now I'm a healthcare blogger, reporter, and writer
living in Chicago. I didn't even have to go to grad school for this
second career. All I had to do was get cancer and listen.
