I think back to the start of my breast cancer experience five years ago. The struggle to just survive the toxic treatments, multiple surgeries, blood transfusions, and complications post-treatment makes me wonder why am I still here? I was initially filled with such hope once I was officially declared as no evidence of disease – I refuse to say cancer free.
I am now infertile and in medically induced menopause well before my time.
I have fibromyalgia.
I have neuropathy in my hands and feet.
I have a bulging disc and slight tear near the nerve in my back.
And I discovered in January I have two benign lesions on my spine that need to be monitored.
I get so angry when I hear the following comments:
“Just be grateful you’re alive.”
“Cancer doesn’t define you.”
“Be happy you’re single.”
As I listened to various cancer conferences this month, the bulk of the female presenters often begin their talks with how they fought cancer to be there for their kids. Do they ever think about how crushing that is to hear as a single cancer survivor? I don’t mean anyone who divorced during or after treatment. I’m talking about the survivors like me who were single at the start of diagnosis and still single post-cancer.
When I think about it, I honestly didn’t have much motivation to “fight” to survive my cancer treatments. The main reason I did was for my beloved mother and cat Nathan (Natey) Edgar. That’s it.
I am single.
I often feel very alone.
I’m an only child.
My life post-cancer still feels quite isolating.
I don’t have many local friends. I know a lot of people locally, and have many acquaintances, but there is only one who I talk to weekly and would hang out with once a month before the pandemic. The bulk of my friends are out of state and in other counties. Many of them are married with children, or they have a significant other. I don’t really know many single and childless people – male or female.
I always hear that I should just get out there and date. Any guy would be lucky to have me. Well, I would say that would be a true statement, but my color makes dating tough. That’s a whole other story for another day. Now that I am in menopause and in chronic pain 24/7 makes dating feel impossible. The only time my dating life was pretty active, and fun was when I lived in LA in my early to mid-20’s.
I’ve tried so many different medications, surgeries, and supplements to help ease the pain, but nothing has fully worked effectively. What people don’t understand about fibromyalgia is being touched can cause horrific pain. It makes sleep difficult. It makes exercising difficult. It makes simply existing difficult. Then add permanent neuropathy in my feet makes walking difficult.
When I did try dating a little a year post-cancer, I remember one guy asked why I was walking so stiffly. I thought I could hide how painful it can be to even step onto a sidewalk or go up steps. I didn’t bother saying it’s due to cancer. Instead, I said I was sore from working out earlier that day.
How can I even think of dating when I literally cannot hide the physical pain?
Are there any single and childless cancer survivors who are also only children? It’s like lonely, on top lonely, on top of lonely. This is the one time being the only one isn’t an advantage.
My right hand is currently inflamed and burning, so typing is hard at the moment. I decided to take this opportunity to record a message for you instead. So, here is a short message from me on what I’m thinking about right at this moment.
I feel like I’ve been hit on the head, but instead of being knocked out, it has woken me up. I’ve been uncomfortable being vocal about the racism I see and have experienced. Yet, I must push through it and not remain silent. You might be wondering why I feel uncomfortable. Well, I’ve finally been able to put it into words for you.
According to Dictionary.com, white fragilitymeans the tendency among members of the dominant white cultural group to have a defensive, wounded, angry, or dismissive response to evidence of racism. This term is still new to me, but it is dead on.The more vocal I become about racism, the more I see this white fragility in some of the people I know in real life and those online who I only know on the surface.
Yet, I am struggling with what I call my own mixed fragility. I made up this term because it seems to fit my situation. This mixed fragility is my own tendency to be defensive, wounded, angry, or dismissive of the black community due to my own self-hate of not wanting to be associated with all that it means to be black in this country because it would cut me off from being accepted in the white community.
Whew. It was extremely difficult to not only acknowledge this but put it into words.
I’m sure a number of white friends who actually KNOW me are wondering why I have all this anger lately, and being so vocal about being black when I’ve never uttered a word of authentic support about the black community in the past. And you know what? I feel sick about it.
Let me share MY history of growing up in Macon, GA. I come from an educated family on my mother’s side where both grandparents were college graduates. My parents were married for 9 1/2 years before they divorced. Both are college graduates with master’s degrees and my mother has two Ph.D.’s. I was raised Catholic. I was often the only black person in my classes at St. Joseph’s Catholic School until I got older, then I was one of three. My mother and I were often the only black people to attend St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. I took ballet. I was heavily involved in community theatre where again I was often the only black person in the cast.
I did not have a lot of black influence growing up outside of my family. When the black kids I would meet while at summer camps would tease me for acting “too white” and for being a “sellout,” you can bet I felt anger and resentment. I wasn’t trying to be anything other than myself during those supremely awkward years. My mixed fragility would think why are these black people making fun of me for doing what I enjoy doing, and reading Anne of Green Gables, and for being naturally dramatic? The constant “you talk white” comments that plague me to this day hurt. I was immediately judged, so I judged back. Both parties were wrong.
I would feel such hostility by certain black kids (not all) in high school and the few I encountered in college in upstate NY. Those who went to Mount de Sales Academy should know of the people I’m referencing. Back then I would often think, “aren’t we at the same private Catholic high school?”
I was the only black cheerleader at The College of Saint Rose in my sophomore year. I would hear some of the black kids jeering at me from the benches saying, “quit acting white” and “cheerleading is for white girls.” I heard those comments at every blasted basketball game for that season and refused to be on the team the next year because it was so hurtful. I can only paste a smile on my face for so long.
The constant feeling of ‘you’re not one of us’ has followed me like a dark shadow. How can I love myself when those who look like me reject me? What’s wrong with being different, quirky, and extra? Why should I have to talk and dress a certain way to be accepted when that’s not how I grew up?
So, I naturally gravitated to the white community. I’ve always heard from a lot of white friends and acquaintances over the years that they don’t see my color. I honestly thought that was a good thing because in my warped mind I thought “good, they see me as white like them.” I would often feel so accepted until I wasn’t invited to some birthday parties or sleepovers because their parents didn’t allow blacks in their homes. A guy who had been my dance partner in multiple musicals at Macon Little Theatre wasn’t allowed to go to prom with me because his parents said, “it’s one thing to be on stage with a n***er, but quite another to be seen out in public with one.” I’ve been followed in stores like Old Navy and Pier One because I must appear threatening with a damn fascinator in my hair or a purse that matches my shoes.
As an adult, I still do not have a lot of black friends. I have met a lot of black people over the years and within the cancer community, but I only have two who I consider real friends. One is male and one is female. Why? I’m still made fun of for not knowing about certain things that are staples within the black community like trap music for instance. I had to look it up and still don’t quite get it. I didn’t grow up with it.
Once tRump conned his way into the White House, I really started to feel the effects of his bigotry instantly. He and his cronies have given a green light to come out from the shadows and be open with their hate for blacks, POC and LGBTQ. I started to feel more hostility from whites than from blacks now. You can read my original post from last summer It’s a Troubling World about the white woman with her son who was misbehaving pointing at me saying, “See this black woman? If you don’t be quiet, she will ram her cart into you.” I remember when I posted this on my social media, I had so many white friends saying I should’ve said this and that to her. They just couldn’t understand why I remained quiet. Well, let me cue in that unhinged racist Amy Cooper and how she falsely escalated and accused the black bird watcher Christian Cooper of attacking her. I hope now my white friends will understand that’s why I kept quiet last year. I knew if I had said anything, that white woman could’ve called the police and falsely say I was threatening her and her kid. Only one person would’ve ended up in handcuffs or dead…me. The other white woman behind me in line witnessed the entire thing and said nothing. Nothing.
Again, some of my white friends told me they would’ve said something, or they couldn’t understand why I was so upset. I wonder…would they really have said something? Would they really have stood up for me or even a black stranger? Would they have gotten out of their comfort zone for another? Also, how did they not see by that white woman telling her son I would cause him harm, that little boy will start to associate any black or brown person as someone who could hurt him. That’s how one becomes a racist. The seeds are planted early when you’re young and impressionable.
Though I’m still working through my mixed fragility, I am keenly aware of how I’m not protected due to the color of my skin. I’ve been reading and researching to better understand my own black ancestry. I’m raising my voice not to be misconstrued as an “angry black woman,” but to speak out against what’s right and wrong. Racism is wrong. Period.
We need white voices to speak up when these situations occur. You can’t change a racist, but you can hopefully change an outcome with action. Here are two articles for my white friends to see how they can help fight racial injustice.
It never fails to amaze but also anger me when women question my infertility. On Mother’s Day, I posted below.
I would think no explanation would be needed with this post. I’m not questioning if I am infertile or not. I’m not asking about IVF. I’m clearly stating I AM infertile thanks to cancer. Period. Yet, I inevitably get responses of “miracles happen every day” or “I was infertile once and then gave birth” or “Just believe, and it will happen.”
The insensitivity in those comments make me burn. No one has a right to question without knowing the particulars of the situation. Then when I comment on it, I get the common response of “I was just trying to give you hope.”
The world of infertility is a delicate, sensitive, and emotional topic for men and women. I wish people would stop trying to “fix” the situation, especially when they don’t personally know the person.
I shouldn’t have to post that I had to be medically induced into menopause at 40 because I was intolerant of all post-treatment medications for pre-menopausal women.
I shouldn’t have to post that I had a septate uterus which is a deformity of the uterus, that happens during fetal development before birth. A membrane called the septum divides the inner portion of uterus, at its middle. It has been associated with an increase in the risk of miscarriage, premature delivery, and malpresentation. It’s associated with poorest reproductive outcomes.
I shouldn’t have to post that that aside from discovering I had a septate uterus, my surgical report from the hysterectomy and salpingo oophorectomy also stated I had endometriosis.
Though I know the comments weren’t intentionally made to be hurtful, they were still super insensitive and felt like a kick in the gut. I simply wanted to post for those women who truly are infertile that I know how difficult Mother’s Day can be. If you ever see a woman or a man post about infertility, please do not make those kinds of comments because you do not know the backstory.
Unless the Lord thinks I should have an Immaculate Conception, there is no hoping for a miracle. If someone is asking a question about infertility in their post, that’s the only time it’s appropriate to make those comments. When someone is like me is being vulnerable and stating their truth, don’t kick them below the belt like that. Ever.