When I’m not in the hospital or at the cancer center getting chemo, I like to live as though cancer does not exist.  During the past six months, in spite of losing my hair and my breasts and about 10 pounds, I interviewed for jobs, went on a few first dates, test drove cars, put an offer in on a house in Portland, took a cruise to Bermuda, and even went dancing with the captain of the cruise ship.

I don’t think I’m living in denial; I just prefer to live my life to the fullest and not let cancer call the shots.

I think that’s why it hit me so hard when I was diagnosed with pneumonia a month ago and ended up in the hospital for most of November and part of December.  To everyone there, I was nothing but a cancer patient with an infected lung. 

When I went to the ER in sepsis, the resident even asked if I wanted to be resuscitated if I coded, implying that because I had cancer, my life might not be worth saving.   He even randomly ordered a CAT scan of my brain, saying, “You might have brain mets we don’t know about.” 

When I had a chest x-ray a few days later, the tech said, “I’m so sorry to have to ask you this because the answer is obvious, but is there any chance you could be pregnant?”  I didn’t mind her asking if I could be pregnant — it’s a smart question to ask a 28 year old female before radiating her.  But I was offended by the preface to her question — “I’m sorry…the answer is obvious…”  It made me wonder what was so obvious.  Did she think I was automatically infertile because I’d been through chemo?  Or even worse, that no man in his right mind would sleep with me because of my disfigured chest and bald head?

Then when I was finally ready to be discharged, the intern brought in a stack of prescriptions for various antibiotics, an albuterol inhaler, …. and a boatload of percocets.  Eighty-four, to be exact.   I hadn’t asked for any pain medicine to take home with me, let alone Percocet, one of the strongest oral painkillers there is.  What did he think, that all cancer patients must be suffering an insurmountable amount of pain?  Or that I had nothing better to do with my life than spend my days in bed, looped up on hefty doses of narcotics?

I took the prescription home, and promptly tore it up.  Because I refuse to let cancer define me.  I refuse to let others’ perceptions determine how I feel about myself.  And I refuse to let others’ ignorance dictate my choices. 

Cancer will always be what I had, but it will never be who I am.  I will not use my past as an excuse to forfeit my future. 

I will continue to date. 

And dream. 

And dance.