the bellicose language of cancer

The New York Times ran a really great column recently written by a prostate cancer survivor. I probably shouldn’t call him that, because his entire piece is about how words are irrelevant when it comes to cancer, including how cancer patients identify themselves.

Fighter, warrior, survivor ― all inadequate, says author Dana Jennings. Cancer just is, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.

Point taken.

Actually, the piece makes a lot of sense. Some people just end up with life-threatening illnesses, serious ailments, bunions, etc., and others don’t. According to Jennings, life happens, you roll with the punches, and you don’t get to bestow special titles on yourself just because you’re diagnosed with cancer.

It’s a fresh perspective, I’ll say that much. After a lifetime of thinking of cancer patients as the ultimate troupers, Jennings’ take is a bit disarming. And although his column is definitely worth reading, I found myself disagreeing almost from the start.

Jennings isn't really feeling any of the above

Words, while often unable to completely define who we are, are indeed powerful, especially when it comes to self-identity. Referring to yourself as black, a woman, an American not only affects how you see the world but also how you see yourself.

And as a journalist, words are doubly important to me. When strung together, they can become a best seller, spark a protest, or make someone laugh. Even on their own, they can command attention. Consider, for example, the always offensive nigger, fag, or bitch. Or on the other end of the spectrum, the beauty of words like luscious, passionate, or luxurious.

Even the most banal words can become something more when we assign new or expanded meaning to them, and this is what happens with cancer. For many of us with the disease, the term survivor is more than just a catchphrase; it’s a call to action, a way to establish some sense of power in a situation where losing control mentally can happen very quickly.  For Jennings, however, it’s simply another one of cancer’s clichés:

“I sometimes think of cancer as a long and difficult journey, a quest out of Tolkien, or a dark waltz — but never a battle,” he writes. “How can it be a battle when we patients are the actual battleground?”

Maybe I’m missing the point here, but I would absolutely describe my experience with cancer as a battle. And, yes, my body is the front line, ground zero if you will, but my brain is constantly churning out orders for it to follow. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t warn myself not to get pulled in too deeply by cancer’s undertow. I remind myself pretty regularly that I can triumph over this disease, that I can fight the beast and live to tell about it.

What Jennings fails to acknowledge is that there is a reason why talking about life-altering illnesses evokes images of confrontation and struggle. Cancer strips us bare, and always the main goal, the only goal really, is to fight to stay alive. There aren’t many other analogies that can suffice.

The bottom line is that chronic diseases of all kinds breed toughness, and, as a result, a language has developed around them that is in no way trite or threadbare.

I call myself a survivor, a warrior, or better yet a slayer because when I do, those words make me feel strong — never inadequate.