The Book of Etiquette and Morality for the Dying (Santa Barbara, February 7, 2016)

It is often said, among the dying “You find out who your real friends are.”

I disagree.

I think the unfortunate truth is you find out who can handle it and who can’t.

I know this first hand, from the other side.

My first cancer buddy was a woman, my age, in other words strikingly young for this affliction, similar educational background, who went through treatment and was well into remission when I met her. She shaved my head when the shedding got to be too much.

When suddenly she had a recurrence and went into fast decline, I could not handle it. I distanced myself from her as if her remission was wildly contagious. It was an awful thing to do. When I finally saw her, I cried. I can tell you today, crying was perhaps the worst thing I could have done. She passed away a month later, nearly five years ago. Mananya Tantiwiwat, to this day, I am sorry, but unfortunately, crying again at the thought. Sorry again and some more. (Was it wrong to distance myself from her?)

And yet, I continue to make the same error. I again know another woman, Megan, similar age, similar diagnosis, similar point in life. She would be great support, but I can’t do it. I push her away fearing, terrified, that she will get worse before me, die before me, that I will have to watch her suffer, the prophetor of my ill-fated destiny. (Is it wrong that I can’t do it? Am I wrong to fear this?)

I don’t blame those who distance themselves from me today, now.  (Is it wrong for me to accept this? Is it wrong to absolve the distant?)

After all, have I not, just two paragraphs ago, admitted to the exact same moral weakness?  (Is this a moral weakness?)

But I miss them, the distant, the disappeared. I really miss them, profoundly. (Is it wrong for me to morn my loss of the distant, for the loss of their presence?)

But I also get it and I will take it over crying and sad-eyes.  Don’t get me started on sad-eyes. I hate sad-eyes. How I loathe those wide, teary sad eyes to the depths of my being. (Is it wrong for me to hate the sad-eyes people? Is it wrong for me to run the other direction from them?)

I am also grateful, in a way I can feel resonate in the depth of my body, my soul, for the people who are exactly opposite. Those distant acquaintances who step up to the plate and become real support and giving friends. Joy Ronstadt, time and time and time, and hopefully time and more time, again. (Is it wrong that I could never be this person, but I so easily take from them when I need it?)

I am also in this awkward position, currently, of being cheerleader. People who know I have had cancer, think I am a success story, and need to hear that success as they or their loved ones face similar battles. I have not told Tricia yet that I have a recurrence and I cannot be the success story she wants when thinking of her mom, recently diagnosed. I don’t know if I will tell her. (We travel in different networks, and perhaps more hopefully, more hopefully than perhaps reasonable, I might be able to pull it off this deception for a long time. But is it lying? Is it wrong to appear to be the victory I am so clearly not?)

I have not told my mother that my cancer is progressing. I honestly do not plan to. She will get upset and she will become smothering. I need normalcy. I have every intention of lying to her for as long as I can and as long as it keeps our relationship what I want it to be. (And I hate that maintaining this lie is at odds with the catharsis publishing this post.)  (Is it wrong to lie to those you love to keep your interactions the tone you find comfortable?)

In the end, I am comfortable in the decisions I make. (Originally the prior sentence was "I am exceptionally comfortable with the decisions I make." But this was clearly a lie. If I was truly comfortable, there would be no post.) 

But I can rationalize it all. (Is it wrong for me to rationalize these "transgressions?")

There is no Book of Etiquette and Morality for the Dying.

And quite frankly, if there was, it should only be one sentence: “Do what you need to do and fuck anything/everything else. #FuckCancer.”

Stupid: Everything that led to this post. Just, all of it.
Cool: The heroes who support me and hopefully, oh so hopefully, the medicine that makes this post seem wildly premature.