You need a lot of luck, not just positivity, when cancer strikes
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Version 0 of 1. If courage cured cancer, then the disease would claim far fewer victims. The late Lisa Lynch, diagnosed with breast cancer in 2008 at the age of 28, was fantastically courageous, writing a blog about her illness that roared with vitality, wit and optimism. The blog led to Lynch writing a much-admired book, The C-Word. I read it when I had breast cancer, and it was hugely helpful. Because it does actually help, hearing positive, admirable memoirs from people who have been through what you’re going through. Related: Victoria Derbyshire thanks NHS after mastectomy procedure But Lynch’s cancer was too aggressive to be halted by the intelligence, chutzpah and fine character of its host. As all cancers are, despite the endless references to deaths occurring “despite a brave fight”. In 2011, Lynch was diagnosed with incurable secondary cancer. By the time The C-Word had been made into a film, Lynch had died, aged 33, in 2013. Lynch’s story was tragic. But she was a hero. There’s no doubt about that. Yet all the warmth, bravery and passion for life in the world couldn’t change one thing. There are many breast cancers and Lynch’s was not one of those that is eminently curable. Fewer than a quarter of the 50,000 women diagnosed with breast cancer each year die with it. Being one of the unlucky ones depends on many factors – the type of cancer, its grade, its stage, its position within the breast, the treatment choices the sufferer has or makes or can bear. If your doctor tells you that you have a low-grade cancer at an early stage, then optimism isn’t brave. It’s simply sensible. Of all the things the broadcaster Victoria Derbyshire says in the video diary she made to document her own experience, one thing stands out for me. “I know everyone is different and has different experiences. This is mine.” I’m glad, of course, that Derbyshire has found her experience of breast cancer to be positive. I found mine quite positive too. I’m glad, as well, that she has been treated by the NHS, like most of her viewers would be, and has taken the opportunity to praise and thank the beleaguered and precious service. I wouldn’t want women to start getting the idea that surgery alone is a reliable way to remove cancer from a body But I have some problems. Derbyshire aims to “demystify” breast cancer treatment. But “demystifying” is often merely simplifying, and breast cancer is a subject that’s easy to over-simplify. Derbyshire held up a sign before undergoing a partial mastectomy, declaring: “This morning I had breast cancer.” After it, she held up one saying, “This evening, I don’t.” I wouldn’t want women to start getting the idea that surgery alone is a reliable way to remove cancer from a body. It’s not in many cases, probably in most. It was made clear to me that I, like many other breast cancer patients, would need a number of surgical interventions, plus chemotherapy, radiotherapy and drug treatment for years to come, and that, even so, I could still be unlucky, because there was no way of being absolutely sure that a tiny cancer cell hadn’t escaped from my lymph nodes, survived all of those blasts designed to annihilate it, and found a nook to grow in. Watch this space. I’ll let you know. For sure. For a certain type of journalist, who doesn’t mind using their personal life as material, illness can be an interesting opportunity. That’s not a bad thing in itself. But sometimes, I think there’s a kind of tyranny to it, the tyranny of positivity, under which it’s mainly people who have inspiring or hopeful things to say about being ill who get to say things at all. It nags at me, the idea that people who feel crushed or overwhelmed by a serious diagnosis also perhaps feel that these feelings are a failure, something a shinier, happier, more positive, braver person wouldn’t succumb to. I was able to be reasonably positive, not only because I knew I had a pretty good chance of survival, but also because my life was pretty stable anyway. I didn’t have to worry about who would look after my children while I was ill, or who would care for me after my surgery, how I would manage on statutory sick pay if I took time off from insecure work for an unsympathetic employer, or whether I had friends I could rely on to see me through. I had all of those things and they made it much,much easier for me to be ill. Related: Breast cancer mammograms: overrated, overhyped and over-diagnosing women | Karuna Jaggar Just as a host of medical factors made my experience of cancer comparatively trivial, a host of socio-economic factors afforded me the luxury of making light of it. In fact, my profession added the bonus that I could exploit my experience in my work, which I did. I had opportunities at my disposal to gain positive advantages from an unfortunate situation. In general, I think, how upbeat one feels about a debilitating bout of curable illness relies a lot on the advantage or disadvantage of the state of your life before diagnosis. This doesn’t mean that people in the public eye shouldn’t tell others about how well they’ve coped, just that it’s wise for all concerned to bear in mind that these are narratives, not examples, and that others may not have the wherewithal to follow them. |