The Christmas Gifts of Cancer

by Imani L. Brown
(San Francisco, CA, USA)

There's one thing cancer survivors like least of all, and it's different for each of us.

For some, it's going in for doctor's visits. Confronting dreaded waiting rooms, chemo, and CAT scans. For others, it's the embarrassment of being so sick that we need help even taking a bath. We bargain with nurses: "I'll let you help me, but I will wash my own rear end and between my legs." trying to keep some part of our bodies private, when we're not even sure they're our bodies at all anymore. Then there are those who simply can't stand to see the look in a loved one's eyes as you lay there in a hospital bed. Like they're staring down a well that you've fallen into. Like you've gone somewhere that they can't follow.

For me, it's the way people talk about you: as if you're no longer yourself. You stop being a person, and become a tragedy or an inspiring story. I am a fighter, and at age seventeen, after having been diagnosed with a brain tumor and told I had six months to live, I woke up one day and was a miracle.

But the doctor's got it wrong and seven years later—I'm still here. I've found that the talk of miracles and inspiration fade. The majority of the cards and phone calls stop. The fame of "only the good die young" trickles away, and you are left sitting at the table on Christmas morning as a distant relative stares at you while asking his wife, "That's the sick one eh?"

Once your tumor is gone and all you've got is brain damage from too much radiation, you are simply "the sick one." Now I can be bitter and I certainly know how to do angry, but the holiday season reminds me more than anything of my blessings. I like to call them "the gifts of cancer." Because, although my father can't even talk about the fact that I'm sick without crying, he also shared my intense joy when the Make-A-Wish Foundation flew me all expenses paid to Canada to go snowboarding with my favorite rock star. I have idolized Sarah McLachlan since I was fifteen years old, and was overjoyed when she sent an email wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving last year.

Young people with cancer, apparently, get all kinds of gifts.

Jacob's Heart is a children's cancer association that provides resources and support to kids with cancer and their families in the Monterey Bay Area of California, where I used to live with my mother. Various people call Jacob's Heart, from time to time, wanting to do nice things for the sick kids who are a part of that organization.

One holiday season they called my mom and asked what I would like for Christmas. She told them that I like to go camping, and I now own a couple of tents, a Coleman stove, a lantern, and just about anything else you might need for a successful camping trip. The first time I went into the hospital, people at my father's work started a collection and gave me $500 to spend however I wanted. Another year, a film company bought me a plane ticket to go visit friends on the east coast.


Some gifts, I found, were even a little undesirable.

When Make-A-Wish sent a stuffed toy polar bear in the mail, I took one look at the bear's sad eyes and named him "Cancer Bear." I quickly re-gifted Cancer Bear to my mom. Another Christmas, Jacob's Heart invited my sisters and me to go whale watching. We drove down to the dock and saw Santa on a small boat with several bald children and their parents. After dubbing this the "Cancer Boat Trip," we turned around and spent the rest of the day shopping.

Although I can recall the many gifts and opportunities that my brain tumor brought into my life, far more significant than the material things I have received are the intangible gifts of cancer.

When I was first diagnosed, I felt that many friends had started to say their goodbyes too soon. As if they were putting me in the ground before I was gone. But one friend invited me over and simply asked what it was like. I told her, "Food tastes so much better," and she said I was wise like an old woman now. I have never known such peace as I felt in the days just after my diagnosis. There was no time for worry or stress. No space for anger or petty disputes. I forgave and was forgiven. I said what was in my heart without hesitation. I thanked those I could for loving me and was the recipient of such love that I was certain I was going to die. So certain because life was now achieving such an unprecedented level of beauty that it could only have been a sign of the end.

One last gift from God, I thought. And although the clarity that I had those first few days has now faded away with the years, I'd like to believe that I have some perspective that I didn't have before, that I've gained some wisdom beyond the average woman of twenty-five years. I'd like to think one of my gifts is the ability to stop and remember to see the splendor of the world, to remember to really live and not just let the time pass.

I know that I am not a miracle. I never was. Miracles and inspirations are instead in the way that we choose to live our lives and interact with the world around us. So I may be "the sick one" again this Christmas, just like last year, but that won't stop me from wishing for the greatest of gifts I once felt in my heart.

Peace on earth.

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