Anti-social Media

We “communicate” all day and all night. Texting, emailing, tweeting, facebooking away, hungry for the little red notification numbers or blue messages, yearning for that tiny hit of acknowledgement or validation. 

We announce births, marriages, and deaths. We parade photos of our darling children because we think they are cuter than everyone else’s. 

(Just so happens that mine ARE the best-looking children in the whole world. But I don’t like to boast about it).

And yet, I don’t want to go public with my “current predicament”, as I have taken to calling it. 

I don’t want to post a new status - “Sarah Chambers is feeling sad ;-( at Mercy University Hospital because she has metastatic bowel cancer. #lifesucks”

I don’t want the influx of pity and sympathy. I don’t want the stigma. I don’t want the mumbling and shuffling (see previous post).

And yet...that need to reach out is there. That need to shout from the rooftops that “I’m not well you know!”. Be nice to me!! I have a heart condition! 

(I don’t have a heart condition. Withnail reference. Don’t worry Mum.)

A Word About Names

The drugs:

Vectibix -  Weetabix with extra invective. Bowel cancer has no chance.

Folfox - a stealthy 1970s secret agent with big hair and crafty superpowers.

5-FU - FU Cancer. FU FU FU FU FU.

KleanPrep - Nothing gets you Kleaner.

The nurses:

They really are all called Mary or Maria or Michelle or Maura or Maire. Except for Amanda.

The patients:

Valerie. Brian. Teresa. Ken. 
Middle-aged names.

The terminology:

Survivor
Journey
Battle
Peacefully at home

The word:

Cancer. CANCER. 
It kills people.
I don't mean the cheeky, rapidly-multiplying, organ-munching little Pacman cells doing their evil deeds.
I mean just the word itself kills people, or certainly renders them incapable of rational thought and normal speech.
It drains the colour from people's faces. 
It makes them mumble things like "god, sorry to hear about your wife", and then wish they could be anywhere else.
It turns them around in the street or supermarket, ducking down the aisle with their eyes fixed on the trolley handle.

Is it as bad with other things that might/will kill you? 
A fella could have had a triple bypass, two strokes and rampant diabetes, and therefore be about 100 times more likely to die in the next fortnight than I am, but yet he won't be greeted with the same hushed tones and shuffling feet. 

It's a funny one. 
I almost feel like a minority now, getting discriminated against.  
I almost feel like getting uppity about it. 
I almost feel like getting the high horse out. 
Couldn't really be arsed though.