Entitlement

State troopers have the right to tell you to pull over and get out of your car without question. They have the badge.

A military veteran who has been decorated with a medal of honor has the right to express his or her service experience without political correctness.

And in a somewhat parallel way, I have entitlement to my disease, cancer. I wear no medal, have no badge; but there are some markings—a port scar and lymph nodes that will never appear normal size again on a CAT scan.

I have declared the right to discuss cancer in any way that I want to. I’m permitted to joke about it, scorn it, cry over it, commiserated with fellow cancer survivors.

During the hair-losing stage of chemotherapy, I was allowed to run my fingers through my hair and pull wads of loose curls out, and later reveal my bald head in public if I wanted to, even if I didn’t want to when a gust of wind caught my scarf once.

I wrote about my cancer, blogged about it, sent updates to friends and family regarding my experience with the disease, wrote a poem a day about it . . . because it had me at the throat, (well, not throat cancer, but check your metaphors) . . . it was life-threatening and I coped with the physical distresses by claiming my right to whine if I wanted to, and ask my family to do the household chores I wasn’t up to doing. I was able to take time off from work without question (only a doctor’s note), and take drugs. I was even offered a prescription to the marijuana pill form to fight nausea (I didn’t, but I thought that would have been pretty cool to say I get my pot legally).

Common sense tells us that life isn’t always fair, but I never said “why me.” I just dealt and preferred having an innocent DNA mutation than playing the blame game. No one, including myself, was at fault for giving me this disease. If it was something in the water, then my neighborhood would prove an epidemic. But that wasn’t the case. I was actually glad that if cancer were to strike anyone in my family, I was the best candidate, the one best able to cope with the life disruption.

I couldn’t wish it away, I just did what my doctors told me to do. “Another PET Scan? Sure, I’d love to.” “Blood test? Pick a vein.”

Not everyone will take my jokes well. For instance, my daughter misunderstood a casual remark I made, and haven’t I put her through enough with a sick mother?

To explain, my daughter was graduating college and at the same time having an art exhibit of her works at the local library. I offered my home for a combo graduation party and after the art show reception. I left it to her to invite her friends and teachers. And then on Face Book I saw her invitation was sent to 99 people. My home would be stretched to accommodate that many people not to mention feeding them all.

And I wrote on her Face Book wall: “You've invited nearly 100 people!...I think I shall go insane, and one cancer atom is gaining strength.” Sarcasm was the aim.

She responded: “What does that mean Mom?” She was serious.

I didn’t mean to freak her out. I had to explain just that, and learned I had to watch my morbid sense of humor, even with those who know me, particularly in print medium where expressions and voice tone are not evident. As a writer, I know how the written word can be misread, misinterrpreted, and misguided. I was misguided here. Think before you speak or hit the send key, before you take something dreadful and play with it.

There is a saying that the difference between tragedy and comedy is time. So far, the treatment prevented tragedy or my demise. But my hair is just growing back, a reminder to others of my ordeal. More time is needed to heal, not only for me, but for those subject to my off color comments.

I’ve learned that even with the right to make cancer jokes if I wish, I also have a responsibility with my entitlement.

I am a symbol of survival, showing my friends and family that a diagnosis of cancer isn’t necessarily a death sentence; and our charitable donations to the cause may be worth the scientific research.

My sister said to me the other day, seeing what I went through and the outcome, has taken her fears of cancer away. It’s beatable in many instances. Now she just dreads the debilitation of old age, noting that by undergoing treatment, I gave away my chance to avoid that situation. Now who’s joking?