SURVIVOR GUILT | Shannon Bueker
Some years ago, I was walking into our little local co-op grocery store on a bright spring morning. Coming out of the market was Luke, someone I know from the art community. He stopped in his tracks at seeing me. His face looked surprised, his eyes not believing what they saw: me.
He said, “I thought you had lung cancer?”
I said, “I did have cancer, but I had surgery. It got removed and I did chemo.”
He said, “You're alive.” It felt like an accusation.
I nodded, knowing that his sister had died a few months earlier from lung cancer. We both had been diagnosed about the same time in 2008. But the cancer in my body was found early, and hers was found way too late. She died within months of her diagnosis.
Luke said, “How are you alive?”
I offered "It was found early. I have another lung disease. I get scanned a lot, and they found the tumor very early.”
We stood there, facing each other. I looked down at the sidewalk, waited for him to absorb this news. I knew he was raw. I knew he was grieving.
Then we walked on. I went into the store, and he went to his car. That confrontation was so unexpected and uncomfortable. I realized I was a little embarrassed to be alive, still here.
When I told my husband Rick about this memory, he said he had a similar experience years ago. We had been back at his mom’s house, probably for a holiday visit. Rick went to say hello to a neighbor, who told him about his wife’s recent passing. She died from lung cancer that had spread to her brain. Rick offered his condolences.
Then he told him about my recent recurrence, lung cancer spread to my brain, and the neighbor responded, “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Rick said, “It’s okay; she’s alive. There’s this new chemo!” I’m sure Rick couldn’t hide his relief.
The neighbor looked stricken and angry, demanding,
“Your wife is alive? Why is your wife alive and mine is dead?”
Survivor guilt is part of the landscape of cancer world. Some of us live and some of us don’t. There are many variables that are factors in who lives long and who dies suddenly.
Instagram offers me a connection to lots of cancer patients. I follow several individual cancer patient’s accounts and a couple of cancer communities. I’m especially interested in people who have the same diagnosis as me. We talk about our lives, our medical experiences, exchange dark humor memes, compare coping strategies and share some of the heartaches of going through cancer.
Getting news that someone has died in the community is a regular thing. The family or friends of the deceased will send in a request and ask for the acknowledgement. The trend is to put up a black screen for a few moments in a series of slides after the person’s picture and name. Often the account organizer will first post a slide that says, “Trigger warning for the next couple of slides: We need to acknowledge that someone in our community has passed. If you don't want to see the next two slides, please skip ahead.”
I never skip ahead. I want to see who died and say their name and sit with the black screen for a moment of silence. Often the black screen is followed by “a little serotonin,” a picture of a puppy or something beautiful. I love this ritual. Some of us are still here and some of us are not. It is a ruthless reality in cancer world.
There's no rule, no rhyme or reason why some survive and others don’t. Oncologists can’t make promises. Sometimes the treatment works; sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the treatment stops working after years. Sometimes there is no treatment option.
A few years ago, a friend was diagnosed with lung cancer and would call me when she needed to talk it all out, her questions and her disbelief. Those were such hard, sad phone calls. Our conversations turned to grief and dying. I felt so hollowed out after each call. I shared my despair with Rick. This cold shadow of what could have been passed over us. We got quiet. We have been so lucky.
I have had all of the medical variables work out for me. The good insurance, the spouse with a good job who stays by my side, the treatment that works whose side effects my body tolerates. Three years ago, I was able to step down on the amount of chemo I take so that my body is more comfortable, and I feel more like me again. It is an embarrassment of riches.
In a cancer writing class I took, we were given a writing prompt, inspired by the poem "The Nutritionist” by Andrea Gibson, a spoken word poet and cancer patient, beloved by many of us. She passed away last year.
The prompt was “What does your grief window show you?”
My grief window shows me people who have died from cancer but I have not.
I go outside and feel the fall temperature change and see the light is not as bright as it was in the summer. I feel less bright, right now, too. My mood is somber; I am abiding.
I do the laundry. I make cautious plans, looking at my calendar in the six-month spans between oncology check-up’s. I think often of my good luck to still be here, sitting outside on the screen porch. I watch for warblers to come to the birdbaths. I am witnessing another season change. I have a birthday approaching; it’s an exclamation mark on my calendar. I don’t count on birthdays or lots of years. I don’t clutch too tightly to plans.
I watch the fall leaves blow through. I keep my schedule light, so I can pause and see what I have.
Shannon Bueker is a long-time cancer patient and artist. She is living well with the help of Alectinib and writing about her life in sick times and well. Bueker lives in the woods of North Carolina with her husband, Rick.