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The Club That No One Wants to Join

by Sally ShermanSurvivor, Breast CancerOctober 24, 2024View more posts from Sally Sherman

“Remember when it was impossible to get toilet paper?” 

I was sitting around the lunch table with my coworkers, and the conversation had turned to the early days of the COVID pandemic. As teachers, everyone had a unique story about how they were all of a sudden working remotely, managing their own families behind the scenes, while trying to teach a class of elementary students online. Babies crying, dogs barking, toddlers running around—they all had a funny story to share about how difficult it was to teach from home. I could feel my face falling. The muscles in my cheeks were working overtime trying to keep a smile on my face, but it was too hard.

How was I supposed to participate in that conversation?

I wasn’t teaching in 2020. I was going through chemo for breast cancer that March when schools shut down. While my coworkers were worried their cat would jump in front of the computer screen when they were trying to teach, I was home on the couch, nauseous and miserable from treatment. I only left the house to go to chemo, hoping my immunocompromised body wouldn’t get COVID. Otherwise, all my days were spent resting and attempting to keep my active four-year-old and one-year-old entertained.

I saw two choices for that conversation—I could sit there and say nothing, or I could try to make a sarcastic joke about going through chemo during COVID. I’m all for dark humor, but it really wasn’t funny, and I knew it would ruin the whole vibe of the conversation. They were all reminiscing over a shared experience, and I wasn’t part of the club.

I opted for silence and got up to take a walk before they could see the tears forming in my eyes.

Those are the moments that still haunt me, usually when I least expect it. Most of the time, I’m able to go about my day without thinking too much about cancer now that I’m lucky to be four years out from diagnosis. But it doesn’t take much to bring me right back to those chemo days.

Anytime I walk into a doctor’s office, or see a can of ginger ale, or think about the pandemic, I am transported right back. The jealousy is there, and it doesn’t take much for a conversation to uncover it. Every time I encounter a mom who seems to have given her children more experiences, or a coworker my age who is further in her career. Anytime I see someone open a jar easily, because they don’t have chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy in their hands like I do. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy working on processing those feelings, but the waves of jealousy, depression, and anger really sting sometimes.

This year I turned 40. It’s a milestone birthday for anyone—especially a cancer survivor. I tried to lean in to the celebration of making it to 40, considering four years earlier I really wasn’t sure I’d see 36. In fact, I spent my 36th birthday getting chemotherapy referred to as the “Red Devil,” which absolutely lived up to its reputation. My chemo nurse was so sweet and ordered a piece of cake from the cafeteria for me while I was hooked up for my infusion (Of course I was too nauseous to eat the cake, but it’s the thought that counts, right?). That’s a birthday I’ll never forget. Any birthday now that doesn’t involve chemo or hospital cafeteria cake feels like a huge win.

As I walked down the hall at school this year on my birthday, a couple well-intentioned coworkers jokingly said, “Happy Birthday! Welcome to your 40s, when your body starts falling apart!”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Ha! Mine already started falling apart in my 30s! When you get cancer at 35, your 40s don’t seem so bad!” My coworkers glanced at each other, but recovered quickly, to their credit.

“True! I forgot about that,” one of them said, “Well, then, it can only get better from here!!”

We all laughed and went our separate ways. I couldn’t get away fast enough. Once I was alone, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head quickly, like a dog shaking water off its fur. I needed to shake off that conversation.

Laugh or cry? I had to let it out somehow. I didn’t want to cry at work, so I tried to laugh it off as best I could.

It’s not that I regretted what I said. I said how I was feeling at the moment. It just always feels like a risk to bring up my true feelings like that—mostly because it catches people off-guard and they could end up feeling uncomfortable.

Right after treatment ended, I could barely make it through a conversation without crying or shutting down. It was too hard. I needed to talk about my treatment and recovery, but I hated talking about it, because it felt like no one really wanted to hear about it. And I didn’t blame them. I left most social interactions feeling like I brought down the mood if I overshared, or wasn’t true to myself if I stayed quiet, or was just plain exhausted from trying to fake small talk.

It’s gotten better over time, as I’ve been healing and grieving the life I thought I’d live. Small talk, though still not my favorite, has gotten a bit easier. I pick and choose more carefully when I want to bring up cancer. But that’s why it can be even more painful when a conversation makes me think about cancer when I’m least expecting it. It’s just another reminder that I’m not part of the same club as most people my age. I’m in a different club—one that nobody wants to join.

I know that grieving and healing aren’t linear progressions. Logically I know there are always going to be emotional ups and downs as I navigate life after cancer treatment. I just wish the setbacks didn’t hurt so much. I have to keep reminding myself that they are temporary. Things are slowly improving, even though it may not always feel like it.

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