By Maria Behan

The pieces I’ve written for The Wild Word, beginning with its very first issue, have focused on U.S. politics. I’ve never felt inclined to share a personal essay, and certainly never thought about including excerpts from my journal. Until now.

I’ve always found the belief that “everything happens for a reason” and “there are no coincidences” implausible and frankly, smug. But it seemed like uncanny symmetry when the one-year anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer coincided with the date the hospital assigned for the removal of the chemo port a surgeon had implanted in my chest so that nurses could pump me full of poisons that may have saved my life. Then I noticed that the deadline for submitting a piece to this final issue of The Wild Word fell on that same date—and most uncanny of all, that this issue’s theme is “Live.” All that made me think, “Hmm, maybe it’s time to write about this cancer lark.” (I use “lark” the sarcastic way the Irish do; preferring it to the American earnestness of “journey.”)

I have struggled with a lot of things since my cancer diagnosis in May 2023. Including whom I shared my news with. And how. So this feels weird.

People I admire who’ve been diagnosed with cancer seem to have easily “gone public” in their communities and on social media, sharing their health status, in part, as a way of warning and educating others. But something in me—likely something bratty—rebels against being the poster child for a disease. Especially cancer, a disease that doesn’t play fair. One that cheats, seems to retreat, then too often returns to finish what it started.

I confess that before I was involuntarily packed off to cancer camp, I tended to regard people with the disease the way I did when I lived in Manhattan and a ruckus broke out on the subway or street. I’d try not to see, to detach, because it might be disturbing or dangerous to register and react to what was happening. Callow, callous, and cowardly, I know. So maybe it’s karmic revenge that I, who’d always identified with hale and feisty Jo in Little Women, had suddenly morphed into wan and mortality-stalked Beth.

Now that I’m “out,” I’ll say to anyone reading this the same things I’ve said to friends and family: Get all your screenings as early as possible. The good news is that cancer is more treatable than it has ever been; the very bad news is that it’s far more prevalent. So get your colonoscopy, your mammogram, your PSA test, your pap smear. And listen to your body. If anything seems off, heed your Spidey sense. Be pushy with your doctor if you have to; exaggerate symptoms if that’s what it’ll take to get checked out. Healthcare institutions want to save money. You want to save your life.

Staring Down a Monster

I didn’t tell anyone about my cancer diagnosis for the first few days; after that, I only shared with close friends and family. I dreaded telling people, afraid their reactions would crack my carapace of stunned numbness. The thing I dreaded most was seeing tears spring up in someone’s eyes. That would’ve made me feel like a goner. So I only shared my news via phone calls or email.

For me, and I think many who’ve been blindsided by cancer, the period right after diagnosis was the worst. Doctors offer advice, but leave decisions about treatment to the patient. Suddenly, I felt like I needed to learn everything possible about a disease I’d always pretended wasn’t there.

The very first article I came across during my initial internet search, a piece in The New York Times, used the adjectives “brutal” and “horrific” to sum up the two primary treatment approaches (and their possible downsides) for people in my boat. Not exactly enticing options. I opted for “brutal,” which was also the approach my doctors advised, which included radiation; chemotherapy; and most likely, surgery.

After five tough months of treatment, last December I learned that radiation and chemo had worked their dark magic, and my doctors could no longer find any sign of cancer. So I’m able to skip surgery—for now and possibly forever. I feel relieved, but not as “yippee” as I’d expected. Part of it is that I’d tamped down so much emotion since my diagnosis, I seem to be stuck in that mode. I’m also cognizant that cancer could reappear at any time, particularly during the next two years, which is when recurrence is most likely. So my current status is that I’m back among the living and hoping to stay here. But even if I do, I’ll never be the same again.

Part of the change came right away, and it’s a good one: I’ve mellowed, and as a neurotic New Yorker, mellow is a novelty for me. I have a broader perspective, so annoyances that used to bedevil me are now dismissed pretty quickly. And it’s easier for me to see and feel the humanity and connection I share with others, including the cancer patients I used to try not to see.

I’d like to say I’ve acquired the knack for relishing every moment, but no dice. First of all, it’s hard to savor life’s juiciness when you’re so wiped out from chemo that it’s hard to summon the strength to reach for the TV remote control. And I felt bitter (and a little tragic) when neighbors, seeing me heading to my car with an ice cooler, would kid me about the life of leisure that afforded me time for mid-week picnics—when, in fact, my cooler was filled with the ice packs I’d strap to my feet and hands during chemo infusions in an attempt to hold off cold sensitivity (it worked) and nerve damage in my feet and hands (it didn’t).

But even during my worst days of feeling shitty and doomed, there were glimmers of joy. A few times, it was the sight of a slightly faded but still beautiful moon hanging around on a sunny morning. I’d think, “I’m glad I’m here to see that.” Another surge of joie de vivre came just last week, whizzing through the California countryside while dancing in the driver’s seat to Toots and the Maytals’ “Funky Kingston.” I hadn’t heard that song in years, and I thought, “Damn, it’s good to be around to hear that song.” I’d get a kick out of the daytime moon and the propulsive beats of Toots and the gang under just about any circumstances, but cancer has deepened my appreciation of those moments, because I now know how close I am—we all are—to maybe missing them.

Having a possibly terminal disease makes you feel your mortality, viscerally and vividly. Not only can see yourself in your deathbed, others can envision you there, too. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but that’s how it goes. And when you’re dealing with cancer—or at least when I’m dealing with cancer—“that’s how it goes” feels like the only truth you can count on. Getting cancer is random. Getting over cancer is random. Yes, you may be able to do things to improve your chances of avoiding or defeating it…but in a lot of cases, it’s all comes down to your mutating cells.

I identified with the main character in the movie Anatomy of a Fall when she bemoaned the fact that she didn’t feel a sense of deliverance after being acquitted of murder: “If you lose, you lose; it’s the worst thing that can happen. But if you win, you expect some reward. But there isn’t any. It’s just over.”

That observation struck me as equally applicable to cancer. But with cancer it’s not over. Or maybe it is over, but even so, the shadow is still with you. Always.

I hope that I’m nowhere near the end; indeed I aspire to embark on what journalist and cancer patient Rod Nordland has dubbed a “second life.”

But just in case, I’ve been considering the music I’d like played at my memorial service. I’m pretty sure I want to end with David Bowie’s “Life on Mars?” segueing into a soprano belting out Schubert’s “Ave Maria.” Don’t worry, I know I’m not the intended honoree of the hymn. It’s just that I’ve always loved its soaring, almost literally heavenly sound. And ever since I was a (morbid) kid, I’ve imagined “Ave Maria” as my memorial’s big closer. One that would make people—maybe even some who didn’t know me—weep, or at least mist up. I may have trouble crying myself, but that doesn’t mean I want dry eyes at my funeral.