Okay, it’s truth time (again).
Here’s a natural fact: I’m quite adept at pissing people off. Yeah, like everyone else on Earth I’m totally guilty of flipping switches once in a while. But then there are those times when I’m not trying, and my words get twisted into something not intended. Through texts, blogs, and conversations, I’m totally guilty of raising pulses with a single bound. I have the gift of offending. Then again, maybe some folks are just always looking for something wrong? (Always the best way to find it.) Well, I’m about to piss off a whole legion of humanity with the following discussion. So if you’re easily piqued, come back when I’m talking about road trips, or something else less controversial.
Here goes…
Do you know what R-E-A-L-L-Y irks me? When someone with cancer is referred to as a “warrior.” Wait, it’s just women, isn’t it? Men are “fighting it with everything they’ve got,” and we women, well, we’re your warrior. Over and over and over again I see women with cancer being called warriors. “My best friend succumbed to cancer yesterday. She was such a warrior.” Or, “Be a warrior! Kick cancer’s ass!” I can’t tell you how many times this has been said or implied to me in the past nearly three years since my diagnosis. Here’s the kicker, folks. Hold your breath!!
I DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR WARRIOR!!!
Who started this shit anyway???
A tough question to answer, because when I put the term into a search engine I keep coming up with a PBS documentary by that name about a doctor named Judah Folkman who was a cancer researcher in Boston. Just reading a little about Dr. Folkman makes it obvious that it was not he who coined this overused moniker to label any and all women who are unfortunate enough to get the disease. Susan G. Komen seems like a much likelier source. Bless her heart, may she rest in eternal peace, and I hope she was and always will be a shining example of a cancer warrior, if that is what she wanted, if that was her intended legacy.
BUT I STILL DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR WARRIOR.
Back in September of 2019, when I had a weird bump growing out of my sternum and I knew a cancer diagnosis was coming, as unlikely and unfathomable as that seemed, I tried to head off the outpouring of emotions of others by requesting that I receive no sympathy, no questions, no assumptions, no sad faced emojis. I got all that anyway, and more: for some, I’ve become a figurehead of bravery and heroism. For others, a figurehead of pity, puppy dog eyes, and head shakes. I’m so sorry. Aww, you poor thing. But wait, you’re my hero. When all along, the only person I want to be is me. I’ve said this time and again: the struggle to be normal is real, and that struggle is exacerbated by the labels that have been hefted on me. Most are well-meaning. But for heaven’s sake, don’t label me to make yourself feel better about my “condition.” (Heard that before, too.) And don’t label me because you think that I somehow want to be a warrior. I accepted cancer as part of my life a long time ago, because I don’t have a choice. But I don’t accept the need for others to make me feel like an outcast, for better or for worse, because of an illness you wouldn’t even know I have if I didn’t tell you.
Herein lies the catch: even if the label is meant to be somehow complimentary, it still places me in a different sphere than you. Do me a favor, and let me still breathe that rarefied air of those without cancer. And please, for others walking this Earth with this shitty disease, (and have you noticed that there are more of us than ever?) be damn sure they want to be warriors before you adhere the label to them. Here’s a novel idea: ask how someone feels before you assume that they want to be warriors or heroes. Perhaps they just want to be who they used to be before cancer. Or as close to that as they can get.
Meanwhile, I will continue to wield a hiking pole in place of a sword.
I Am Barb Lee 