New York Times Article

I found this great New York Times article about the redundant phrases and words that our very real cancer experiences are buried under.

I have warned my friends on many occasions that they are forbidden to write "lost her courageous battle with cancer" if I die. Not that will ever happen! I just can't bear the thought of my life being boiled down to a thoughtless cliche in the end. I plan to live beyond 80 just to make sure that very thing never happens.

There is so much more to us all than those worn over words like 'battle' and if someone ever called me a 'victim' I'm afraid I'd have to tear out their throat with my bare hands.

I felt so passionate about the same subject that I wrote my cancer rant about it. Read the NY Times article here.

A Wee Bit O' Late Night Rant

Burning the midnight oil, as usual. One, twenty, am. No biggy really. Not sleeping just means that I have pain, can't cope, remember, read or be employable. Who needs all that crap anyway? It's just glitter gravy on top of this uber fantasmic thing we call life.

Can you detect my late night sarcasm? It's all true to a point but, damned, if only I could get BACK TO WORK. I am FREAK'N FED UP! If the doctors put the kind of effort into helping me sleep as they did keeping me alive then I'D HAVE A FUCKING JOB. Why do they take my symptoms so lightly? I feel like when I explain it to them, they do a mental check and think, "Hmmm. She had AML. She's shit, damned fucking lucky to be alive."

If someone who didn't have cancer had severe insomnia to the point they couldn't work, they would figure out what's up, ASAP. But I guess since I had cancer then I should just be skipping along with a stupid grin on my face and chant how lucky I am to be alive.

"I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky..." Lucky, my ass! Cancer don't equal lucky.

Cancer never equals lucky.

I may just have a regressive toddler-esque fit and throw things... or maybe tomorrow will be better?

Stupid Cancer Show -the text version

I had a request for my Stupid Cancer Rant to be typed out and readable, so here it is. And if you come see this, Cancersux, please reveal thy self. Anyone that goes by the name Cancersux must be a fellow cancer ninja.



Matthew Zachary:
Our survivor spotlight tonight features the likes of someone known as Baldylocks, the cancer blogger extraordinaire. Her website is Baldylocks dot com. She is an artist, writer, amateur video maker, saucy minx and general mucker arounder with an officious title of Cancer Fighting Ninja since March 30th 2006. Pre cancer she was a computer illiterate, hyper achieving, workaholic student with a background in set painting for theatre. She had one foot in the door to starting her MBA when the big C struck. Despite great plans and good life choices she is currently out of commission with no employable vocation. And also the proud owner of the domain FuckCancer.ca with serious intentions of using it, live from Canada, it’s my pleasure to introduce the Stupid Cancer Survivor Spotlight…..

Me:
My name is Baldylocks and I'm a 35 year old woman, but I'm still 6 years old in spirit and I'd guesstimate by my rate of going up stairs, at about 80 years old in body. I am an artist, a writer, an ideas person and an advocate. I am a woman who is hoping to find her soul mate or a reasonable facsimile. I am obsessively passionate about many things. I am a parent, unrelentingly creative, a dreamer/realist and someone who pushes boundaries to effect change.

I recently graduated from university at 33 with honours and with distinction, not a stitch of hair on my nether regions, a blue wig and a bit of attitude. I kicked some serious leukemic and academic ass. I dubbed myself chemo girl and rocked the bald head while living at the cancer lodge with the elderly. As it turns out, I'm too young for acute mylogeneous leukemia. I must have missed the memo.

Along with my malformed, mutant white cell invasion came many new and unexpected labels and talents. Unfortunately, I wasn't very good at fitting under labels before and post cancer diagnosis I seem to be...wait for it...still me.

I am a cancer patient and I am alive but I don't consider myself a survivor. I do not identify myself as a warrior. I am not fighting any battle. If I was, you can bet I would be wearing some sort of sexy Xena warrior princess outfit rather than 20 pounds from my prednisone and my flannel pyjamas. Oh and my sexy Scottish oncologist would have seen me naked in the throws of my fierce battle cry rather than in my hospital bed during a rectal exam.

I am NOT a martyr, an athlete, a cheerleader or a sugar coated Pollyanna, nor do I have the answers to the universe because of my cancer diagnosis. My attitude isn't open for public assessment. I don't have pink runners and if I ever say my cancer was a gift, you'll know to lower my medications.

I am me. Simply complicated, jaded and typically, non-typical, just like everyone else who is young with cancer.

Since my diagnosis with leukemia, my life is in a constant state of flux. Currently I am a shape shifter, morphing daily in body and spirit. It sounds cool but translated; it means that I haven't been able to recognize my self in the mirror for the last 2 years.

I've lost a few things in the last 2 years like my friends, my memory, my dignity, my ability to work, and my DNA. Stairs are my nemesis.

I have gained a few super powers from my chemotherapy, like being invisible. I could walk down any street and not one person would step out of my way to keep from knocking me over, open doors or even glance in my direction. Shhhh....I'm invisible.

I gained a talisman of closer and more accessible parking for my chemo vehicle called, a handicapped sign. Unfortunately my invisibility tends to wear off at the moments I use it and I seem to attract the self appointed parking police who say, "You can't park there, you look fine to me". Oh, indeed I can park there.

After my bone marrow transplant I have the ability to go on a bloody murder spree worthy of a CSI episode and the DNA evidence will be traced back to my donor. Thanks Dave! How cool is that?

I have become a magnet for layman medical advice, assessors of attitude and all knower's of Gods intentions. If I just switch to this diet, or take that supplement, if I just smile and have a great attitude or if I believe in God enough, I will be healed. I shouldn't complain, because I'm lucky to be alive. Heck, anyone could be hit by a bus tomorrow.

Everyone is a cancer critic.

Since my diagnosis I reserve the right to say, "fuck" whenever it is relevant or useful. Or whenever I fucking feel like it. I reserve the right to be pissed. I reserve the right to be angry because I am in fact still a real, multifaceted person with a range of complicated emotions despite what the newspapers and pink campaigns tell you.

So, here I am, still here, minding my own business, quietly disappointing the medias depiction of who I should be. Pink Poster child, I am not.

I guess you could just call me the cancer angster. It's cheaper than therapy, so I'm blogging until it hurts at Baldylocks.com

Make'n you think, but leaving out the pink.

Let's Play Kick the Cancer Girl

I don't like this game too much, it's becoming a little old.

For starters I don't much like being Cancer Girl. It is too reductive a role to encompass all that is me. Unfortunately that's all some people see when you say cancer. You stop being you and become someone else. Generally that someone else is a preconceived idea built by the TV and print media. The narrow potrayal of "miracle" stories and running fundraising campaigns have something to gain by their portrayal of the martyr cancer patient. It's called money, and people eat it up.

The occasional person I know has rebuffed my, "things are tough", with ,"you should be glad to be alive!" They wonder where my pink runners and permagrin are. Stairs are my nemesis. And isn't, "glad to be alive", a bit redundant unless you are suicidal? Of course I'm glad to be alive, DUH. I rarely see people who have survived a horrific car accident jump around glowing at the gift of continued life? They are too busy healing from the damage. So am I.

These miracle martyr stories are feel good fodder. They seem to only damage the perception towards the average person who is dealing with the day to day of living with/through cancer.

Don't get me wrong. I love feel good stories too. They can be uplifting and inspirational, but also at times they can set the bar too high. Is there something wrong with me if I couldn't continue working through chemotherapy? Should I try to stuff down my emotions and become a Stepford cancer patient? I'm me no matter what, so bite me.

I also talk about it. I consider true strength, being able to cope, deal with and accept your circumstances. There's no other way to move forward, except through and beyond. It's hard but the only way to let people know the real deal with cancer is to talk about it. I'm not being real if I have to hide what's going on in my life. Yes, there is cancer stuff, but there is other stuff too. I can't ignore what I'm going through to sooth other peoples anxieties. There's not enough makeup or Spanx in the world to make me look like what they want to see.

Maybe I'm too nonchalant about death and the like. Dark humour can be a brilliant thing when you have to stare death down.

So, let's give up this pathetic new sport. I think my "friends" anger towards me is actually their heightened sense of mortality. I make them realize that this may happen to them too.

Whatever.