FIRST PERSON

Friedman and feeling similarly.

During the past several months, I’ve had many friends and relatives tell me how brave and strong I am and how well I’m taking the illness. My standard reaction is to smile and thank them. Inside, though, I don’t feel strong and brave. Sometimes, I feel like a fraud.

These same people didn’t see me, after learning of the diagnosis, sobbing into my husband’s shoulder. They didn’t see me crying in the shower when my hair started to fall out or staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. wondering about my future.

I know how lucky I am that my cancer was discovered early and that the prognosis is promising. I know how lucky I am to be in generally good health and have good insurance, so I don’t have to worry about how to pay for this.

I’ve seen many other people at the infusion and radiation centers who are facing much worse — people whose cancer is more advanced, whose treatments are harder and who might not have as successful an outcome as I’m anticipating.

Such observations make me feel guilty. They are a reminder that cancer doesn’t discriminate. The disease, in its myriad forms, strikes the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick.

As Friedman notes in his essay, cancer survivors know the dirty secret about the disease: “You don’t battle cancer. You don’t fight it. If cancer wants you, it walks into your room at night and just takes you. It doesn’t give a damn how tough you are.”

Don’t get me wrong. I greatly appreciate the support I’ve received during the past several months; it means so much to know that I have caring family members and friends. And the support really does help. I certainly don’t want people not to reach out to those of us who are experiencing a tough time.

But I do want other cancer patients to know that sometimes it’s OK to not feel so strong, to not feel so brave, and that, sometimes, it’s OK to be scared, feel a little sorry for yourself and even shed a few tears.

We’re only human, after all.

As I face the future now, I know that I need to summon more optimism than I have in the past. I know I need to learn to live for the here and now.

The sign at the radiation center sums it up well: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”