Cancer Looks Like You, Cancer Looks Like Me

Love every morsel of the people in your life.

"You don't look like you have cancer."

But, I do.

I was so tempted to end my post there because sometimes, it's that simple. Cancer doesn't always look like someone in a head scarf. Cancer often looks like someone just like you. Cancer looks like me.

I didn't really realize this before I got sick. I had the ignorant luxury of presuming that just because someone looked normal on the outside, that they were feeling normal on the inside. I mean, regular ups and downs, yes. I appreciated that. But, I never guessed that the person in line in front of me at the store might have built their whole day around that one single errand, and absolutely dragged their sick ass there by force of sheer will. Now, I don't go anywhere without wondering who in the crowd might be like me, masquerading as a normal person and feeling anything but. It makes me a much kinder and more compassionate person.

The only thing that gives my cancer away is this damn oxygen tank that is tethered to my face 24/7. Now I pretty much look like myself, albeit it with crappier hair. I FEEL more like a cancer patient. I knew I had cancer, but somehow it felt like a role, a play act. I was waiting for this curtain to lift. 

But this damn show, it keeps going on. Who wrote this shit? Terrible.

I'm learning every day. I'm learning how to pull myself out of the muck and move on. I'm learning how to minimize self-pity and maximize empathy for others. I'm learning I have the strength to travel this road, even though I didn't choose it, and that doesn't make me special. We are all capable of rising when we must, even if we don't want to contemplate that. Strength is all around us. Just take a moment to look a little closer at the person in line behind you. They might not look like they have cancer. But then again, they might.


Having advanced cancer feels a lot like walking a tightrope. Creeping so carefully, trying to balance on the slimmest of margins, never any real chance to let down your guard. Every so often a gust blows, but there’s no predicting when. You feel stable, eyes on the horizon, and then out of nowhere the wind comes and you flail and try to regain footing, to reclaim the stability and fortitude necessary to continue.

The worst part about a gust is that it’s impossible not to glimpse into the abyss below as you flail. Just a peek at the long way down can be so much harder to recover from than simply regaining physical balance. A friend of mine said to me, “Shanna: Don’t. Look. Down.” And, she’s right. It’s almost always a mistake. But, how can you not?

Cancer, it seems, lends itself to awkward conversations. People don’t know what to say to me. Rest assured that I assume we all mean well, even when we say something stupid. If you worry that you might have uttered something that offended me, relax. I bear no grudges. In fact, the more awkward transgressions make me chuckle to myself for weeks afterward, so I net out positive. Save your inhibited conversations for church or a really stifled parent-teacher conference or something. I’d much rather you be real with me. That said, I thought I’d share here a few things I’d be okay not hearing again.

1. “God only gives you what you can handle” – Really? First of all, is your God claiming responsibility for giving me this lovely disease? Because if so, your sales pitch sucks. Second, this is not a reasonable thing to ask someone to handle. I’m doing my best, and I’m optimistic. But, the reality is that many more people than not with my type of diagnosis perish rapidly. So, apparently your deity is in the business of doling out more than people can handle. Try again.

2. “Embrace Joy” – This makes me want to embrace … your neck. I am trying to find joy on a daily basis. I think it is incredibly important. But, this journey is no cake-walk, and it’s offensive when someone minimizes that. Unless a statement like this is timed very well, it can come off incredibly patronizing.

3.“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” – You are about to get very strong … because I am about to try to kill you. I am facing diagnosis of a terminal disease, not a set of push-ups in boot camp class. The 5 year survival rate for Stage IV NSCLC is <5%, so not many patients are going to enjoy the promised strengthening benefits. Take your Eye of the Tiger somewhere else, Rocky. I don’t want or need cancer to make me any stronger, thanks.

I’m not looking for more ostracization. So, here’s the deal. If you don’t know what to say, just stick to basics. A heart felt “I’m sorry,” “I’ve been thinking of you,” or even an honest “I have no idea what to say,” goes a really long way. We’re all just muddling through this the best we can. I get it. And, if you happen to say something stupid, I promise I’ll respond politely in the moment. Especially if you pet my new doggy; she seems to really like you.

Like all of us, I live with many uncertainties. Before my cancer diagnosis, most of the uncertainties I thought about were not of the "life and death" magnitude that I think about now. Back then I could sort out the level of uncertainties I had to deal with into two basic categories, "big" deals and "small" deals.

Patricia Briggs wrote, "The only certainty life contains is death," which is impossible to argue. But since life can last a long time, there are a bazillion uncertainties to navigate and when life is going well, who thinks about the certainty of death.

These 'general' certainties in my life have made it a little easier to manage the uncertainties. They also help me know what to expect:

1) I love my husband, children, family and friends
2) I am loved and supported by my family and friends, and
3) Kevin will be late.

Kevin continues to be a constant in my life, (before and), since my diagnosis. As my overall ability to re-engage in life has improved, he encourages me to do as much as I can. When I'm tired, and cranky, it sometimes feels like he's pushing me, but I realize that he just wants me to be well. My love for him is unbending.   

Early on in my cancer journey was a very scary and confusing time for me. I was being forced to learn information I didn’t want to know. I had many questions and was so fearful of the answers. Some questions I asked or looked up right away, while others I decided not to search because I knew I was unprepared for the answers. A close relative and an old family friend talked or asked about ‘when (I) die’ and ‘how long’ I had, which was extremely difficult and painful to deal with within the first few weeks. It has now been about 8 months since I was found to have cancer. I still sometimes feel like I’m in the middle of a nightmare and will soon wake up.

Eight months from diagnosis is a poignant time marker for me. One of the questions I searched, with great trepidation several weeks after my diagnosis was established, was “How long do people with stage 4 adenocarcinoma of the lung live?” I found two answers online. One online source said, “Six to 12-months” and another said, “The median life expectancy is eight months,” meaning that at eight months after diagnosis half the patients are alive, the other half are dead. Being at eight months feels like I am blessed to be alive.

No doubt, these past eight months have been, physically and emotionally, the most difficult months of my life. Not only have I been through the wringer, but my illness and my pain have put everyone close to me through the wringer, too. It continues to be so painful to watch my husband, children, mother, extended family and friends walk this journey along side of me.

These past four months have also demonstrated to me the power and strength of the mind, body and spirit triad. I’ve always felt the need to nurture each component, equally, because I feel they are all equally important to being a healthy, well-balanced woman. What I have learned during the first four months of my journey is that having nurtured all parts of the triad and working to try to make each part as strong as possible, when one component was letting me down…my body… the other two parts were able to step in to assist. At a time when I was so worried that my body was going to fail me all together, my mind and spirit told me that I needed to face my cancer challenge, head on. My mind and spirit reminded me that my fight wasn’t just for me, but also for Kevin, Damion, Kaitlyn and Tristan. My mind and spirit reminded me that I still have unmet dreams.

Love you all and truly mean it and God loves you too,

Shanna xoxo

Official prayer warrior page for my fight against lung cancer: facebook.com/hope4shanna

Official blog Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/shannabananahealthandfitness