Cancer is not a Battle and I am not a Warrior
Seven pm. Thursday evening. I was in the gym shower when I felt a lump in my right breast. I stepped out of the shower and sat on the bench in the locker room. I gazed at the familiar sights around me. Some ladies were getting ready for the Zumba class. Others were blow-drying and moisturizing. I looked into the mirror. I knew, intuitively, that I have breast cancer. I had just turned 31.
Two weeks later, after a mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy, I was diagnosed with stage two Breast Cancer.
I was not shaken. I did not cry, not even in my bed later that evening. I walked out of the doctor’s clinic and sat on a chair in the reception room. My crammed life, for once, paused and rested. Nothing could stroke those 10 minutes of utter stillness — not a single feeling or thought, not even a confrontation for the possibility of death. I had not told anyone yet. There was nothing I could do on that day other than carrying this news home. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
Six months later, after successfully completing my chemotherapy treatment and undergoing surgery and radiation, I am completely free of cancer. Only now, I realised that what got me through my cancer journey was that very first stoic reaction. Silence. There needed to be a fresh silent space cleared for new understandings, new gratitude and a whole new concept about life itself.
This new concept started to nourish when I realised that I can learn from this new experience and that, as a young patient, I now have a duty to prove that cancer does not only happen to older women. For all the good things that cancer taught me, I’d like to share, through text and pictures, my experience, my vulnerability, my smiles and my weakness in the hope of making this cancer experience a little more familiar and a little more livable.
The first good thing about cancer is that it makes us see the world from a totally different perspective, and re-emerge accordingly. I re-emerged out of silence.
My treatment took away many beautiful things, which I previously took for granted: My energy, immunity, the taste of my favourite food, my hair, my eyebrows, and even my eyelashes. Yet it made me, for the first time ever, become very aware of those things.
When my oncologist told me that I would lose my hair 3 weeks into treatment, he looked at my despairing face and pleaded gently: ‘‘you are a beautiful woman, you don’t need hair.’’ His words made me smile and, later that day, made me wonder: do we need hair?
When I lost my hair, more complex questions and feelings arose. Do we ever mindfully observe our hair? Do we feel it? Do we ever watch in joy the natural process of hair growth? Do we notice its feel in the shower or when we wrap it all in a towel? Most of us don’t. We can only start to appreciate these things when we lose our hair to treatment, when we start rinsing a shaved head.
As I counted every growing inch of my hair in between treatments, I started to observe other people. There was just too many “hairy heads” everywhere. I looked at people’s hair on the streets, in coffee shops, pubs and conference rooms. Everyone had hair — curly, straight, long, short, blond, blue, wavy, tied up and tied down. I wished I could tell them how present their hair was. But they were too busy walking, running, working and ignoring their hair.
One day, while I was counting the last remaining strands of my eyelashes in the mirror, I thought that maybe, just maybe, the treatment took away my hair because it was unnoticed. It was unloved. I started longing for my new hair, which I know will be cherished, just like anything that is born with us, just like anything that grows with us. We always do to our hair demeaning things– cut, iron, dye, cover and wash… We do what we do to it and all it does is that it grows back. Now, all I want is for it to grow back.
Another good thing about cancer is that it taught me how to construct original reactions to things. One of the most difficult things about my experience was people’s reaction when I told them I had cancer. Not all of us are able to bring out an appropriate reaction when dealing with such devastating news, and many have adopted mechanical reactions such as: ‘’I am so sorry to hear this’’, “you don’t deserve it’’, “you are too young’’, “you are strong and you will get through this’’, “my thoughts are with you’’, etc. Despite coming out of good intentions, I found such statements uncomfortable, because they did not offer me much to say in response.
Instead, I wished to be asked things like: “what stage is the cancer?”, “what is the prognosis?”, “what treatment?’’, “why this treatment?”, ‘’how do you feel about it?’’ etc.
Of course, some did ask such questions. And I owe so much gratitude to those wonderfully candid people who did ask me these questions, because they gave me a space to breathe, speak and explain. They gave me a chance to be a speaker, an informer, rather than a passive victim.
My experience with cancer has also opened my eyes to the terminology associated with it. Words like battle, fight, survivor, wining, losing, warrior, and so on. While these terms are meant to help patients, I felt that they actually catalyse feelings of guilt and failure for cases that go beyond the patient’s control. Those who died of cancer were strong, too. They had defied the prognosis of their illness and probably did everything they can to save their lives. Saying that they lost the battle somehow implies that they have not fought hard enough for an illness that could not be treated by medicine or by luck.
I personally felt that the warrior metaphor superimposes a feeling of forced strength, even at times when I was tired, needed to complain, nag or cry. I didn’t want to be a pedestal for being courageous or heroic. Sometimes we can just be who we are in the present moment. We can be weak, and re-emerge again.
Cancer is not a battle. Cancer is a journey, for journeys can have good and unfortunate endings too. Having said that, I completely understand that one’s experience with cancer is always a personal one and that people should be free to describe their idiosyncratic experience the way they like, with terminology and language they can relate to. For all the good things it brought, I’d also like to also think of cancer as a messenger. It tells us that we are more than our hair and breasts. And, to be fair, my oncologist was right. We don’t need hair to be beautiful; we need awareness of the immeasurable things that actually make us so, which have nothing to do with the physical bodies we find ourselves in.
I have lived through cancer and I have not lost my joy, my peace, or my laughter. Sometimes, I feel like it was all a dream or an imagined experience. Other times, I embrace it with its imposed reality, because surviving this ordeal was not about getting through cancer without dying. It was about living through this journey to find a way to reflect its lessons back onto my life. Cancer taught me to embrace my fears about chronic illness, weakness and even death. I hope my experience can encourage others to re-evaluate all what they take for granted in their own lives. List some, if not all. Try to be more aware, love and embrace the simplest things. Look around you with depth, and with joy. Life is more, and wider.
Finally, I’d like to thank many people for being truly present for me on my journey. Above all, my sister Rayan Cherri for her incredible care and patience and for not missing one single chemo session or follow-up appointment.
Khalto Maha, the lady of spirited will.
My mum, the whole, the one-heart that offers life and the one who kept me going even though I kept my cancer a secret from her.
My dad, who isn’t good with words, but whose love and support always showed in the things, which he did and didn’t do.
My sister Rola Cherri, the angel who is miles apart but closest to heart.
My friend and my boss Edith Champaign for her remarkable moral support.
My oncologist Dr. Adel Tabchy for treating me, and for his elegant sense of humour.
All my gorgeous colleagues at UNHCR and the resilient refugees I met during my journey who taught me the true meaning of life and persistence.
Ibrahim Halawi for being there for me every step of the way physically and virtually.
My dearest friend Mohammad Al Jabban for asking me endless questions and finding me the best online products to use during chemotherapy
Raghida, the friend in sunshine and shades.
Soraya Dali-Balta for being a true friend and for our great warm nights at Ferdinand’s.
Houssam Hariri for the amazing organic honey and warm support.
Khodor Salameh for his wise support.
My optimum friends Ann Soohie Jahn, Gurpreet Somal, Samar, Mohammad Alayan, Kassem, Bachir, Elie, Farah, Reem, Ryan, Abdulla and Rami for their enduring care and love.
Dr. Cherine Bazzane for the very special energy transmissions.
Melissa Fleming for being a true inspiration.
My siblings and in-laws, the most precious gift I have, for just being who they are.
And finally, the greatest thanks for a second chance at life itself.
