Kill The “Cancer Survivor”

This is not one of those essays about how empowering it is to deal with cancer. You’ve read all of those. Those stories are laid out like this: Mother of three diagnosed with breast cancer. She undergoes surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. She loses her hair, forgets her kids’ names, and misplaces her mind. With just enough healthy cells remaining in her body to drag herself out of bed each morning, her doctor sprinkles the fairy dust of remission over her medical file, and she is entrusted with the title “cancer survivor.”

She has just defeated the enemy for women everywhere. She lifted her sword. She fought bravely. She believes she has won the battle, although she knows deep inside: There is no definite cure for breast cancer.

Guess what? That’s not me. So as you read these words, don’t assume that I’m striking a blow for my girlfriends (and guyfriends) across the globe, don’t think that I’m courageous or gallant, and, above all, do not presume I’ve survived the battle with cancer.

However, you can feel free to stop reading and go find cancer survivors. There are plenty of men and women who balance on that pedestal and, if that’s your thing, I’m happy to wipe the dust off your plinth, honestly. But that’s not me, I am not your poster girl, let alone an example of an exemplary soldier.