I Am Not My Cancer

creative, goofy, accident-prone, artistic, musical, a bibliophile, a cynic, naive, optimistic, pessimistic, a humanitarian, a zoopile, ridiculous, melodramatic, romantic, an Austenite, a tree climber, late for something, attached to to-do lists, owned by two cats, a cyclist, sardonic, sarcastic, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend, a squidge champion, a chocolate addict, lost without my giant purse and half a dozen books, given to bad puns, shy around strangers, embarrassing around friends, the person next to you at the light singing as loudly as possible, a napper, happy most of the time, in the depths of despair on occasion, klutzy, type-A, overzealous, passionate, an over-thinker, a planner, a clarinetist, a designer, full of pancakes, reading Slaughterhouse Five (for the first time!), One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, A Clockwork Orange, Bird by Bird, Lark Rise to Candleford, and The Invisible Man simultaneously, a volunteer at the food pantry, children's church, and Agape meal, a surprisingly decent cook, a terrible dancer unless no one is looking and then I'm Ginger Rogers, in love, funny, brown-eyed, snub-nosed, long-haired, someone who is constantly told I look like someone else, Adrian Monk and Lucille Ball's biggest fan, not at all flexible except for my elbows which can turn inside out, able to curl my tongue, a nature-lover, afraid of heights, not afraid of snakes, afraid of sharks, smart, maybe not street smart, an expert on contemporary American literature, an off-duty teacher, a good listener, the first one to smell it unless I have a cold, always wanting more, indignant on social issues, a soap-box preacher, an activist against sexual violence, a scuba diver, a painter, a poet, a writer, a blogger, afraid to drive at night or in the rain, that crazy lady with five loafs of bread feeding the ducks and the seagulls, imaginative, afraid of being alone, not a big partier, a huge fan of cards and board games, a period movie fanatic, British in another life, excellent at making strawberry pie, likely to call you back because I couldn't find my phone in my gigantic purse, a hater of stereotypes, finally okay with not wearing makeup, impatient for things to happen, technologically proficient, a Luddite and yet hypocritically addicted to my laptop, "deeply intelligent" (thanks Dad), kind, familiar, strange, paradoxical, enigmatic, bombastic, a linguaphile, anxious to look up any word I do not know and then bug my husband with it by saying things like "wow, dear, I had no idea you had such a rococo cravat among your toggery", forgetful, polite, someone who knows what it is like to be on the other side of the counter, curious, forgiving (mostly due to the bad memory), flammable, hot-headed about politics, likely to correct your grammar, forever finding mistakes in books and magazines and menus and thinking I should write a letter but no one writes letters anymore, a bit old-fashioned sometimes, except when it comes to social issues, constantly thinking about death, a fan of the man in the moon, a believer because the alternative is just too horrifying to contemplate, wishful, hopeful, loyal to a fault, a great multi-tasker until I get distracted, likely to surprise you,

and being all these things, I am NOT my cancer.

Writing is great therapy for cancer.

My lab results are not in yet. So while anxiously awaiting the verdict, I made this list. And I feel better. This disease will not change who I am or how I am remembered. Nice to think about, isn't it?

No comments:

Post a Comment