We become cancer patients and are told that it is now all about us. I suspect that all chronic disease patients are told the same thing. It is a way to make us feel less guilty about our condition. We are an instant burden to those around us. And Lord knows there is a lot of guilt.

Some of us go from being full fledged contributing members of society to depending on everyone else for our daily needs. Suddenly rendered useless by the sudden waves of exhaustion that overwhelms our minds and bodies. Spending too much time in bed, with way too much time to think of our plight, which is supposed to make things easier, and often times does. Until you hear the vacuum going, that was my job. The cleaning. The cooking. All the mundane activities that you used to rue, you now want to take part of, oh so desperately.

It is all about you. Take advantage. Lie around and get better. Let others pitch in and do the work. It is probably good for them to see how much work it takes to run a house. How much work you did. Janet and I have reversed positions. She was in the main role, and I in the supporting one, making sure the laundry was done, so we never run out of underwear, and so on.

It is all about me.

I was given a present recently by a friend. Janet was not sure how I would react to it. It was a graphic novel published in 1994 called Our Cancer Year. The authors, Harvey Pekar, and Joyce Brabner, are a husband and wife team. She wrote, he was the victim, the afflicted one. He comes across as a real jerk. Why anyone would want themselves portrayed that way is beyond me. It is a bit like those shows, you know the ones, Canada’s Worst Drivers. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be on those. Hey look everyone, I am a bad driver, cheer for me.

I almost did not finish the book. The guy delayed his visit to the doctor until the tumour was very large. And he works in a hospital in the U.S., and is covered by insurance. He delays until the operation becomes more major that it should have been. A bit like not going for a regular colonoscopy when you turn 50. Not that we know ANYONE who has done that, now do we? He is then subjected to chemo treatments and all the usual stuff. He is a real jerk. At one point in the book, his wife mentions that she became an expert at crying in bed without shaking so as to wake him up.

We are so self absorbed in our own plight that we forget that others are suffering too. I remember when my mother was going through her cancer. It took her life within a year. She was always smiling making slight of her issues. We were all crying, losing sleep, wondering what the future held for her, for us. She was the matriarch. Nothing happened in the house without her say-so. She was the ruler. What would we do without her. She spent her last three weeks in the hospital. My Dad, brother and I made funeral arrangements. No sense in leaving things to the last minute. It was a bizarre experience to say the least. Baha’i rules and regulations require that the body be washed and wrapped in a certain amount of silk material in preparation for burial. Prayers are read during the process. My sisters had to do the honours. It was quite a to-do making those arrangements with the funeral parlour. We are talking about 30 years ago.

Here I am, 30 years later, going through some very similar issues as she did. Operation, a major one, followed by recuperation, then chemo. Oh that chemo. I am having a better time of it than she did. Still self-absorbed, effectively ignoring the feelings of those around me, or at the very least, paying scant attention. Asking the same questions over and over again, never remembering the answer. It is all about me after all. I am entitled to be self absorbed and forgetful.

The conversations in the Art Therapy sessions have reinforced these notions. Why do people not understand what we are going through? Why do we keep having to explain ourselves? Defend our plight? You have read about this in previous postings. Yet here we are totally oblivious to others. This appears perfectly normal and consistent with many dealing with chronic conditions. Does not make it right, just the way it is. The incessant questions for which we do not have answers, the constant struggles with our own emotions, the ups and downs that plague us daily.

People around us are suffering as well. In some ways more than us. We have a bit more control over what we are going through, believe it or not. I think it is always easier for the person with the chronic condition that for those around you. Hence the constant looks and questions from Janet whenever I make a move. The concerned look in my sister’s eyes when she is here and I make a move. The constant monitoring of my barometer like voice fluctuations. The phone calls and emails that come before and after chemo days, or oncologist visits. All are part of the new normal, the equation that will eventually pay dividends.

I have caught myself bringing the conversation back to my cancer when people dare talk about anything else while I am in the room. How could they be so insensitive? I did this several times, before noticing the trend. It disturbed me. The graphic novel added one more element to consider.

I asked Janet one night at 11PM whether she had cried a lot. She smiled and said of course. I could not talk about it any more. Just had to know before falling asleep. We talked about it the next day. She was home without me for 10 days. Lots and lots of time for crying. She cried with me in bed. She cried. I know how much my condition has affected those around me. Devin is always hanging around the house. As it turns out careful to say things that would not offend me or result in a heavy discussion. This has to end.

Judy dropped by for a visit. We talked about me for a while. I asked her what she was up to. To my great relief, she talked about herself, and her plans for the next while. It was wonderful to listen to her, to contribute in some minor ways to the conversation. The Art Therapy sessions always start with a taking of the pulse. Asking each of us how our week was. We started our assignment. I realised that through all these sessions, none of us had ever asked the moderator how his week had been. I asked him. We found out a lot about him. It helped that there were fewer people in the session. But still. No one had asked him. It is an exercise I have promised to follow through with.

Turn the conversation to others. Ask questions. Talk less about myself. There is something to be said about It is All About Me. But surely there also has to be a limit to it. It might be an evolutionary thing. You are dealing with your own issues, and at some point are more prepared to let the outside world intrude. Expand your field of vision. Take the blinders off. Bring a bit more noise in your life.

Cannot be anything but good for the soul.