cancer

Did you know that belief in magical bunnies is mandatory if one wishes to receive baskets of treats? True fact. This is especially crucial in countries where baskets of treats do not routinely materialize during spring feasts.

In other spring festival news, my very own magical mama is visiting to celebrate her 60th birthday. I thank her, with fervent sincerity, for raising me with a wild and fierce love. Then letting me go.

On the subject of growing up, this week Salon is featuring a story I wrote about being a teenager, having cancer, and Madonna.

When I described the surgery to my daughter she said "So they're going to slice you up like prosciutto?"

Yes, exactly.

Except I was awake throughout and ham is normally, you know, dead.

Have you ever had surgery served up in courses, with intermissions in which you sit around with an open wound, waiting for the lab to say if the entire tumour has been removed? And if it hasn't, you get to go back under the knife, again, then wait for the lab results, again, repeat? For hours, and hours, and hours?

No?

Observation: wandering around with a bandaged face is akin to having superhero skills. I'm invisible! People look at me, and their eyes slide away. . .

Except, of course, the people who stare, point, and whisper.

I thought I was used to this sort of thing but I forgot, or refused to believe, what it always feels like. My default setting is to ignore whatever I cannot change and this would fall under that heading, but honestly, the whole thing is tedious.

I've been thinking I should write CANCER across the bandages. Just to, you know, clarify.

March 1 was the big day, the culmination of years of dithering and debate. I woke up early, grabbed a cup of coffee, muttered the standard protests, and proceeded to a prestigious and historic hospital widely perceived to be one of the best in the world.

The doctor performed a perfunctory examination, looking at my palms and knuckles, measuring my head, scribbling notes on paper. Then she folded her hands together, looked mournful, and intoned the results of a DNA test performed to confirm the genetic disorder I was diagnosed with in 1983:

Negative.

The surgeon wanted to make a standing date for more super annoying cancer treatments every Friday for the rest of the month.

I went "Uh. . . no."

He was surprised - who turns down such exciting offers?

I shrugged. "I'll be out of the country."

The plan was even (to my not so secret delight) a direct challenge to the whole notion of cancer, because I jetted away toward that dazzling forbidden treat: sunlight.