Somedays I resent being a #cancersurvivor, a #cancerthriver, and #cancerwarrior.
The suggestion that I did something extraordinary rubs me the wrong way. Despite what the media, Instagram and the American Cancer Society want you to believe I am no different than anyone else trying to get by in this world.
I did not draw my trusty sword or put on combat gear to fight cancer. I did nothing more than what anyone of you would do when sick. I listened to my doctors, took my medicine and got plenty of rest. Cancer is like having the flu but instead of chicken noodle soup, it’s lots of radiation and the hope you can actually keep the soup down.
I got lucky.
I got lucky that my cancer was discovered early in Stage II. I got lucky that the treatment methods for head and neck cancer has advanced by leaps in bounds over the last ten years.
I was fortunate that I had a job that afford me health insurance and the time off to seek treatment and concentrate on my health and recovery.
Why resent such a noble titles as survivor, thriver and warrior?
Because when you attach cancer to the front of each it evokes pity and sadness from your audience.
I don’t need your pity. I need you to get angry, scared and ask what can I do so I and my loved ones don’t get cancer.
I need you to be the warrior.
I need you to stand up and say this is enough.
I need you to make sure your loved ones get their HPV vaccines.
I need you to stop smoking.
I need you to exercise more and eat more fresh fruits and vegetables and cut down on that crap that is passed to you through your car window that you’ve been led to believe constitutes a meal.
I need you to wake the fuck up.
I need you to turn out the lights as you leave the pity part and make sure the door doesn’t hit you in the ass on the way out.
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