Shattered Illusions
“When you realize that the pity, the sorrow, is directed at you, it hurts. It's just another sign that you've crossed the line into another world. I was always used to feeling the pity, not receiving it.”
We're not victims. I might have used that word before, but reading all of your e-mails, it's clear that we — and by "we," I mean people with cancer and our loved ones — we are much more than that. I've talked before about how strange it is to have cancer, but not show it. One woman wrote in with something that stuck with me. She, too, said she doesn't look like a cancer patient. She wrote, "In this world, I can pretend to be normal and healthy. In the world of hospitals, those illusions are shattered."
I know exactly what she means. When I sit in the chemo waiting area, I wonder what people think when they pass by. "Is he a patient? Family member? He doesn't look sick." But then I realize that there are subtle clues, or not so subtle ones, that I now recognize in an instant in other patients. If you've had blood taken, somewhere — an arm, a hand — you'll have a little bit of cotton covered by tape. If you're having scans or some sort of procedure, you'll have a wristband with a bar code on it. Makes you feel a little like an item in a grocery store checkout. Those are all reminders to us, and to others, of just why we're there. I can spot a cancer patient across a room now. I wonder if they see the same thing when they look at me.
There's a very subtle contest that goes on in hospitals. I'm not sure that "contest" is the right word, but I don't know how else to describe it. Who's worse off? Or, if you're a cup half-full kind of person, who's better off? You can see it in the eyes of other patients and their families. They size up other patients pretty quickly, and then look away just as quickly. Is that person better, or worse off, than my patient?
Now, if you're a visitor to the hospital, you've probably done the same thing. Maybe you feel pity, maybe relief, maybe sorrow. But until you've been a contestant, it doesn't really mean much. When you see that pity, that relief, that sorrow, in the eyes of people looking at you, then it becomes painful.
You want to scream, "I'm OK!" "I'm not that sick!" "I'll get better!" I got pretty good at the game myself. As you are wheeled around the corridors of the hospital, on your way to this test or that one, you pass a lot of people. There's a lot of waiting in hospitals — it's called "hospital time." That MRI scheduled for noon? You'll be lucky to be in there by 4:00. And a lot of the time, you're just parked in the hallways to wait.
Shortly after my brain surgery, I was on a gurney on my way to some sort of test. My bandage was off, and the scar and the line of staples were there in plain sight. As I was wheeled down a corridor, I passed two women sitting together, clearly waiting for a patient.
As I rolled past these two women, I saw their eyes. They saw my head, reacted, their eyes wider for an instant, and then they looked away. I could almost feel their relief. "Thank God he's not ours" is what I saw in their faces. And I probably do the same thing, too, although with a little more understanding of what I'm seeing. But almost everyone looks away quickly, like they have been caught looking at a dirty magazine. You don't want to stare.
But when you realize that the pity, the sorrow, is directed at you, it hurts. It's just another sign that you've crossed the line into another world.
I was always used to feeling the pity, not receiving it.
6:47 AM ET | 07- 7-2006 | permalink
