“Is she only going to write about cancer now?”
It’s possible. If I was in Italy, I’d write constantly about the light in the sky and the cheese on my plate. I’d write about the ancient towns and the beautiful beaches and the friendly people. If I was in Maine, I’d write about the stunning sunsets and the quiet and the loons calling out to each other across the lake. You’d all be so jealous. Nobody is jealous of me now, though. It feels like since Annie got a diagnosis of cancer, we all moved to a new place—still in the US, but separate and distinct. We live in Cancertown now. We get the same access to Starbucks and traffic and public education. We definitely still have to pay taxes, but it feels like everything is just a little bit different in Cancertown. A little off. Like we’re in a Christopher Nolan movie or something. So I guess yeah…I’m going to write about Cancertown.
Cancertown is very similar to the town I used to live in. My house is still there and I still drive the same car. I still have to work and so does Annie and everyone else. Luca goes to school and none of us have won the lottery—but we can still play it. And it still costs a dollar. Everything is largely the same except for the collective future that we all used to look forward to. I gained citizenship in Cancertown through Annie, who gained it for all of us when she was diagnosed with Stage 2 Triple Negative breast cancer, which quickly escalated into Stage 4 Metastasized Breast Cancer before the year was out.
The whole family now lives in Cancertown, even if they are in another state, because of chain migration and because citizenship isn’t visible, and we can blend in pretty well with the rest of the country.
We can still have the kids over for dinner and Luca could spend the night or we can all meet for a hike or for dinner at the 1754 House, because that’s still there. We plan vacations to Maine together or separately, check in on the dog, welcome friends and family who visit. We can chat with other people as we move about our daily lives; going to work, stopping for coffee, picking up take-out pizza, cheering at the soccer game. Before we moved to Cancertown, our conversations sounded just like everyone else’s:
“Oh, you’re going to France? We’re hoping to get back to Italy this summer!”
“I can’t believe you had to have Jeff’s parents stay with you while they had their kitchen remodeled! What a pain!”
“My friend is going to send her son to private school next year, can you believe it?”
“I applied for a position, but it’s in Hartford…long commute, but such better money!”
But now, with this new citizenship, these conversations are tempered by limits, which I, for one, don’t really know. It’s weird, because I didn’t have to learn a new language—I can still communicate with my friends and colleagues--but there’s an invisible line of demarcation. It can sometimes feel like a language barrier, though, because of the way I respond to some pretty mundane questions. For example, when someone says, “Oh, hi! How are you?” with an accompanying smile and the expectation of a “Great! You?” I am often momentarily incapacitated. I’ll either stammer out some hesitant “Uhs—ums—well . . .” or blurt out a response like, “Oh, you know…the chemo caused a reaction and now Annie can’t take it.” This tends to hamper lots of conversations, so I often just say, “fine” which isn’t true—they know it and I know it--but it beats having to follow up the chemo thing with an update how their dog made out at the vet with the new cone it has to wear.
It makes me feel selfish and judgmental when I don’t want to know about what life was like in the town I used to live in. Where we all lived. It’s nobody’s fault that we got evicted and sent to Cancertown; nobody chooses to live there. But it’s where we all live now, so if I am going to be supportive and helpful and present, I’m going to have to figure out the learning curve and adapt to this new residency. Writing about it is one of the only ways I know to work through most of the things my family and I go through. So, I guess you’ll be hearing more about it. Even when it’s the hardest thing in the world to have to do.
Good thing we still have a Starbucks.
Isn’t it an odd truth that some things are so difficult to say when we are face to face? But you, Cindy, have your expressive voice and can share your deepest thoughts and feelings through your writing. And we are all the better for your gifts.
Cindy, I hear you. I was briefly holed up in Cancer Town. Keep sending postcards, when you can, if it helps. I don’t understand why, but your words are strangely comforting. Maybe it’s because a little bit of solace is gained when writing about traumatic times. Warmest wishes to you and yours.