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1)
I have something I need to get off my chest, and I’m going to rant for a bit. Sorry about that, but it needs to be said, and I need to say it. You know what the worst thing about having cancer was? ...
2)
It wasn’t chemo. Chemo was easy. Boring, but easy. You sit down, they hook you up, you watch Netflix on your cell phone for three hours, they unhook you, you go home. Easy.

...
3)
It wasn’t losing my hair. Now, losing my hair wasn’t fun, but I’m not all that vain, and I really didn’t care.
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Losing my eyelashes kinda sucked, b/c I lost control of my tear ducts at the same time, so I looked like I was walking around crying my eyes out for no apparent reason - to the point where random strangers would come up and ask me if I needed a hug. But even that was fine.
...
5)
It wasn’t the nausea; that was well-controlled with medication. They’ve done a lot to improve the way cancer treatments’ side effects impact the patients, and it really wasn’t bad at all.

...
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No, it was the way that everyone acted toward me. Everyone just assumed that either I was or would be fine - “you’ve got this!” - & didn’t need anything, or stayed away (or fired me) because my having cancer made them uncomfortable. ...
7)
Too freaking bad. You think you’re uncomfortable? Pfft.

...
8)
Even seasoned medical professionals who work with cancer patients all the time did the “you’ve got this” thing, and it made me crazy, though I didn’t even really realize it until much later. I get that it’s meant to be encouraging. It’s meant to be supportive.

...
9)
But what it actually did was make it impossible for me to vocalize my absolute terror of what I was going through. When everyone around you is cheerful and telling you how great you’re managing and that you’ve got it knocked, it makes it really hard to speak up and say, ...
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“Um, no. I really am not managing this well, and I don’t have anything knocked, and I absolutely do not ‘have this’, and I am scared out of my ever-loving mind, thank you very little.

...
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I didn’t realize it through the first two months between diagnosis and the start of #chemotherapy, or during the initial seven months of chemo, or the six weeks between chemo and surgery, ...
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or the six weeks between surgery and the final round of chemo, or the seven weeks of final chemo, or even during the two months between the end of chemo and being told that I was cancer-free.

...
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No, I didn’t realize it until nearly a year after the last chemo treatment, when I suddenly felt symptoms I hadn’t felt since the surgery over a year before. Symptoms I’d only ever had in relation to a tumor. My first thought was “it’ll go away.” ...
14)
When it didn’t go away, my second thought was “Oh, God, I can’t do this again. If I don’t tell anyone, if I just ignore it, I won’t have to deal with it again.”

...
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But I sent an online message to my oncologist anyway, on a Sunday afternoon, and she called me back, herself, on Monday morning, as soon as she’d gotten into the office and seen the message, and the next day I was in her office, ...
16)
and the next day I was getting lab work done, and the next day I was getting my port checked, and the next day I was getting an MRI, and the results, and scheduling surgery, and… and… and…
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and for about two weeks, everything was moving so fast, I didn’t have time to think about how freaking terrified I was.

But then I did. And I realized that not only was I horribly frightened, I was angry. I was mad. ...
18)
I was flat out furious at everyone who’d been so freaking nonchalant, who’d ever blown off my feelings, who’d acted as if there was nothing to be afraid of, because, after all, “you’ve got this.”
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I know that’s not what they meant to do, I know it’s not how they meant to come across. That doesn’t matter.
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Because, intentional or not, it limited me and my reactions, it took away my agency, my decision-making power, and my right to feel upset with and afraid of and angry at my cancer. How dare they?
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I’ve had people ask me how they can best support people they know who have cancer. “Should I make them some food? Should I take over a game to play?”
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Well, yes, those things can help, but the best way you can support a cancer patient, in my experience, is to ask them what they need and want you to do. Every cancer patient is different.
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I cannot possibly tell you, even as a cancer survivor, what your dear Aunt Viv, who has cancer and is going through chemo, wants and needs. Ask her. Let her decide. Be there for her, encourage her, but if she wants to talk about the fact that she’s terrified, ...
24)
don’t scoff and tell her “you’ve got this!” It’s a lie, and it’s vicious, and it’s mean.

Please, don’t anyone ever again tell me that I’ve “got this.” About anything.
25)
Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but that’s for me to decide. You don’t get to pass off how uncomfortable you are with my situation by telling me that I can handle it, whatever it is.

Okay, that’s my rant, over. Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.
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