SGA members share cancer experiences

By Christina Lumbis
Collegian Staff
February 21, 2007

I do not remember how my parents told me my godmother had cancer. I simply remember her being fine, and then, suddenly, our worlds were turned upside down.

Until this point, I equated cancer with death. It was that simple. They were one and the same in my black and white world. Yet, somehow, I convinced myself that my godmother would be different. I grew up believing she was my fairy godmother, like in Cinderella. Surely a woman of that significance could beat the odds and conquer this grim reaper called cancer. God would give me her for a few more years, wouldn’t he? I have never had as much faith as I did then.

The main impact cancer had on my life was forcing me to grow up. This woman was not from a fairy tale. She was human and her body could only handle so much. I did not realize this until after her death and after my hopes and prayers were ignored.

After she died, I acquired a “talent”—the fake smile and the reassuring, “I’m OK,” even though on the inside I felt like I, too, was dying. I learned the quickest and easiest way to avoid revealing too much was to tell people what they wanted to hear. “Yes, I am OK. Although I am sad, I know she is in a better place and it was her time to move on. I am OK.”

I never had to show my family tears, the bitterness or how bad I was feeling. By these means I never had to discuss my emotions with anyone, and that is the way I liked it most of the time. It did get frustrating though—faking happiness while my heart was breaking.

A woman who expressed love for me had just died. I was smart enough to understand her loving me did not cause her to die but naïve enough to believe if she had not loved me, if she had not told me that so many times, then maybe her living and her dying would have been easier. I told myself I caused her unnecessary pain, and it would have been avoided if she had not loved me. I convinced myself if I did not love another person, it would save both that person and myself pain in the end.

“Tina, I’m going to miss you the most,” she said, laying there on her hospital bed, tears rolling down her face. I selfishly wondered if she regretted saying that. I never responded. Never said “I love you.” Because it hurt too badly. My saying that meant I believed she was dying. I was only nine.

This was my first battle with cancer, and it won. It ate away at part of my heart, leaving permanent damage. It created a place in my mind I vowed never to revisit. But cancer doesn’t give up that easily.

During my first year at college, my parents unexpectedly came to visit. I sat as they told me about my aunt. Something about a mammogram. I’m not listening. “Tina, it’s good,” they reasoned. “What? They found gold?” Ten years of using the fake smile taught me to add the bad joke—anything to not show pain. “She has breast cancer but she’s going to be OK, they caught it in time.” The only part I heard was cancer.

As they left, my parents suggested calling my aunt. I didn’t. I told my questioning friends she was doing well. I had no clue. A month later she called me. I asked how she was. I thought, allude to it but don’t face it. Eventually, she mentioned it.

“They caught it in time. With your godmother it was a lot further along. She never went for mammograms.” Of course, my aunt, the psychologist, was going to make me face it. Deal with it. Some love freer and stronger when faced with possible loss. Others act as cowards. Later, as I hung up, I asked myself how long it would have been before I called.

My aunt has been in remission for two years. Cancer didn’t claim her life. But there’s still pain in my soul and a place in my mind I avoid. I’ve loved and I’ve lost, but I’ve lived. My life won’t be in vain and, although my body has never fought cancer, my mind, soul and heart always will until no more lives are stolen, no more fairy godmothers die while others watch helplessly. My godmother’s life will forever be a part of me, and as much as it hurts to keep it, the memory of her death also remains with me. Even though I still hurt, I know she is with me, and has never stopped loving me. I love you, too, Joanne.

lumbisc1@lasalle.edu