This is the twelfth and last of Penny’s Cancerland essays. It doesn’t appear to have been completely finished, and I’m not sure exactly when it was written. I’m guessing it was in the early summer of 2017, 16 months after the initial diagnosis, 7 months after the Big Surgery, and 3 months after a planned weekend procedure to remove her ileostomy turned into a 17-day ordeal.
It’s less clear whether this was written before or after her mother’s death in July. That may well be the reason it isn’t finished. In early July, Penny’s mother transitioned to hospice in our home. In mid-July, as Penny’s mother was failing, Penny ended up in the hospital for about 10 days. Her mother died before Penny was able to return home.
Despite its brevity, it gives a good sense for how Penny chose to live in Cancerland for the next seven years. It explains how there could be people that probably only knew her as that person with cancer on the prayer list, while others never knew she had cancer. It’s the reason that eight and a half years in Cancerland were highlighted with so many good memories, and so much creativity.
I know folks who have had cancer and been for all intents and purposes cured. Their stay in Cancerland ended and they now live back on the outside. When I was first diagnosed with stage III colon cancer, more than one person told me of friends and family who had received the same diagnosis and treatment and who had been given a clean bill of health – an exit visa. Even after the second more dire stage IV diagnosis, one well-meaning person told me of all her friends and relatives who had survived and been cured of colon cancers. She meant well, and I tried to take it for what it was: an attempt at encouragement. I guess there is a small chance that my cancer will never return, but that is unlikely. I might hope for the unlikely, but I live with the reality that I reside now and for the rest of my life in Cancerland.
I live in Cancerland with those closest to me. They are not exiled or imprisoned in this place, but they choose to sojourn here with me. Their experiences and perspectives are part of the air I breathe. Their voices echo in the woods.
Once you are a permanent resident of Cancerland, the only way out is death. What’s more sobering, in Cancerland I can count on the fact that in the time between now and death, I’ll face again some serious pain and suffering. I don’t know exactly what that will look like: surgeries, chemo, radiation, all of the above.
If those are the big events and focus of my life in Cancerland, if those are the only trees that populate my horizon, that makes for a pretty gnarly, ugly forest. So, for as long as I can, I want to plant and cultivate beautiful, good things so that as I live with cancer and when I look back at my time in Cancerland the forest has a character and appearance shaped by much more than the sorrows of disease. I shall rest in the shade of strong trees, watered by hope and encouragement. If you visit where I live, you shall find small patches of flowers and groves filled with sunshine and sweet music. And there shall be dancing too, dancing for joy.
