Cancer Pacifist

art from Yakuto.com

I am a cancer pacifist.

No, this does not mean that I eschewed (or will eschew) all treatment or that I intend to throw up my hands and crawl into a corner to die if it should come my way again.  Death by cancer suicide is not my preferred way to go.

 

But, still, I have always been extremely uncomfortable with the “cancer warrior” label.  I am SOOOO not a warrior.  I did not *choose* to fight.  I *would not* choose to fight.  I did not nobly take up shield and sword and mount my cancer-fighting steed. 

At best, I would be considered a cancer draftee, not a warrior.

Still, even being a draftee is not “me”.  I am not a natural fighter.  I am a born and bred preacemaker.  I value kindness above most things, I strive to NOT fight, to NOT struggle, to find peace.  Truly, I had already had enough struggle to last a lifetime, even before cancer came along.  Over my struggle quota here, God, can we just move along?

Maybe my lack of warrior spirit is why I really never went deeply into the “why me” pit and all of the darkness that I think could have come to me with that.  I am more of a “why not me” kind of gal.  I would not wish my cancer on anyone else, therefore I could not really rail at God and say “why me,” because there is no one else I would rather give it to.  So, if there is no one else I would give it to, then I guess it is mine to have and deal with.  Weirdly logical, eh?

During all of my treatment, I always thought I would get better, because my life has taught me that I can do hard things and come out (reasonably whole) on the other side of them.  Not that there were not a few curveballs in there, or that I did not have moments that shook my faith a bit.  Still, cancer for me has been less of a fight and much more of a meditation.  I had to be STILL to fight my cancer, not struggle against it.  I had to stop and do what I needed to do for my body.  I had to let the medical world help me, and I had to ALLOW them to help me.  I had to stop and pray for my spirit.  I had to stop and make time for music and poetry and art for my soul.  I had to do things that comforted me on every level I could be comforted.  I had to focus INWARD, not outward.

So, I do not want a ribbon – no matter the color.  No badge, no medal, no warrior recognition or symbol.  I do not need those things to know that I have won and cancer has lost.  Even if cancer takes my life some day (and I sincerely hope and pray that it does not), it will never win.  Cancer did not change me for the worst, it focused me for the better.  Cancer did not kill me, it made me more alive.

Dancing

I was so excited to take dance classes when I was a little kid. 



Photo Credit:  lakidstuff

I loved the polished look of the studio’s expansive wooden floor, the sparkling mirrors bisected by the well-worn barres, the dust motes twirling and hanging in the air, the snug hugged feeling of my new leotard and tights, my stick-straight hair Dippity-Doo’d into a minuscule bun, the little bows on my wee dance shoes. I loved the scratchy music from the LPs on the record player [I am older than dirt] and moving my round little body to it. I just wanted to close my eyes, lift my arms, point my toes, and dance and spin and never stop, ever.

I did not love the looks and giggles from the other girls, the harried impatience of my dance teacher when I got the steps wrong (again!), me trying SO HARD to learn a new routine as the steps flew past (never sticking in my head even for a minute), the tension at home to make it to class on time (and me feeling like the added stress was entirely my fault), and my mother’s dumbfounded exasperation at the end of the session when I said I would not dance in the upcoming year-end recital. "Why are we paying for dance class, if you won’t dance?" she yelled at me, followed by "You will not take class if you don’t dance [at the recital]".

I did not understand her point of view. I *was* dancing – at every class, daily in my room practicing the steps, on the playground, around the neighborhood, and in my bed at night (I would raise my arms, point my toes, and dance myself to sleep almost nightly laying in bed ). I thought dance class was beautifully and delightfully about DANCING, until the sad day that I learned dance class was  horribly and unavoidably about PERFORMING.

I have never been a performer.

I have always been round, and shy. I have always hated to draw attention to myself, either good or bad. The few times I simply HAD to perform (church children's choir, school program, Blue Bird meetings), I got an ill, hot, squidgy swirling in my stomach that then flew up to my throat – an awful feeling that that I would throw up or faint or die, right on the spot. I would do ANYTHING to keep from feeling like that.

I just did not know that the ANYTHING would include giving up dancing.

I tried to go along with the whole idea of the recital, I got fitted for the costume, I learned the routine, I practiced and, on the big night, I just could not do it. This was not dancing. Dancing gave me joy, made me feel beautiful, made me feel alive. This recital thing did none of that. I felt hot and sick and ashamed. I did not dance and, true to her word, my mother abruptly ended my dance class career.

I wish there was a do-over. I wish I had been braver or less caring or whatever would have made me perform.  I wish I had been in a dance class for dancers who did not want to be performers. I wish that I had continued to find joy in my body’s movement, that I had stayed with classes and trained my body to move and stretch and dance. I still wish, even more fervently now, that I could close my eyes, lift my arms, point my toes, and dance and spin and never stop.

If only there was a dance class for old, fat chicks with life-long esteem issues who secretly long to dance but never, ever want to perform. I would find some shoes, extra-extra large leotards, and never, ever be late.