Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
“Your pathology report came back, by the way. You have cancer.”
No one is ever prepared to hear those words, but I felt less prepared than normal. It had been a simple surgery. One that I bounced back from quickly and with no issue. It was supposed to be routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I had developed some nerve damage in my rib cage after years of twisting through my golf swing. During an MRI to assess the injury, they noticed it. Passingly, they told me they had found a node on my thyroid. I had known the node was there for about six months and it had grown only slightly in that amount of time. It was starting to be uncomfortable so we elected for surgery. Simple. Routine. Nothing that screamed cancer to any of us. Being sick wasn’t even mentioned to me as a possibility before the surgery.
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
“You have cancer.”
I was a 21-year-old college athlete. Overall healthy and in the prime of my career. I was getting ready to start my spring semester of my senior year at Milligan College. I had just begun dating a man I was convinced I would marry. I was on the Dean’s List at school and working hard through my work-study job. I had no reason to believe I was sick. I had no inkling that something was wrong. My rib injury was finally clearing up so that I could swing a golf club again. Things were looking up. I had no idea what was coming, though. I had just gone to my ENT post-surgery to get my stitches out. It was supposed to be simple. Routine. I went alone.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
“You have cancer.”
The words reverberated in the room, bouncing off the walls and hitting my ears like a barrage of noise I couldn’t make sense of. No. No, no, no. I hadn’t heard that right. There’s no way. It was a simple surgery. Routine. I was alone in the doctor’s office with no forewarning that this was coming. The room seemed to shrink around me. The air became thick, like I was trying to breathe under water. I bore a hole through the doctor with my gaze. I tried to focus on him, on his words, as if by sheer willpower I could make it all make sense. But despite the intensity of my gaze, despite my efforts at focus, I had no words for him. What do you say to facts so bluntly stated? What do you say when you’re alone with this news? He sensed my struggle.
And soonest our best men with thee dost go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
“Oh don’t worry. If you have to have cancer, this is the kind to have.”
Oh. Sure. That makes it better.
I didn’t know the path that was ahead of me as I sat alone in that doctor’s office. Just as shocking as that initial pathology report, was the rest of the journey for me as I navigated life as a cancer patient.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
I sat silently in front of my doctor that day, and nodded – agreeing to whatever course of action he suggested. Often in silence there is still internal dialogue. This was not the case for me then. I felt empty of thought and word. All that was in me was a swirling storm of emotion that I couldn’t name. The words that didn’t come in that doctor’s office would be the same words that didn’t come when I was told I would undergo a second surgery, and then a third, and then a round of radiation. The words never came. Not until I saw the film Wit.
And poppie, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better then thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
I encountered Wit in a class that I wasn’t even really supposed to be taking. I was in my third year of seminary, midway through the semester. Just a few months prior I had finally been deemed cancer-free. It had been a three year struggle with cancer in which my words about my illness had continued time and again to fail. My Velcro Grandfather was teaching a course on Theology in Cinema. I hadn’t signed up for the course. I didn’t have room for it in my schedule or money to pay for an additional course. So I laid on the best puppy-dog eyes I could and asked him if I could merely “sit in” on the class without registering. I don’t know if it was the puppy-dog eyes that worked or not, but thankfully he agreed.
I knew going into watching the film that it was going to be difficult. I had been told that it was about a cancer patient, so I expected to identify with some of the issues presented in the film. What I didn’t expect was to finally be given words to describe my experience.
In the opening of Wit, we are introduced to Vivian, a bright, bitingly witty professor of metaphysical poetry specializing in the Holy Sonnets of John Donne, who was diagnosed with cancer. As the film progresses, we are introduced to her inmost thoughts as a patient with a chronic illness. She narrates her time in the hospital dealing with doctors, nurses, and medical residents. She tells the audience of how her world shrinks until finally it is no larger than her hospital bed. And she recounts her thoughts as she realizes she has become a set of numbers. A clipboard full of medical charts. A diagnosis rather than an actual human being.
I realized suddenly in the midst of watching this film, that this had been my experience. I finally put a word to how I felt: dehumanized. I wept.
There had never been a question that I would live through my cancer diagnosis. I stayed as a full-time student for most of my time and even worked a part-time job through part of the journey. I didn’t realize how much of an emotional toll being a patient took on me, however, until watching Wit. Suddenly all the tears I hadn’t cried before sprung to my eyes in the darkened classroom. My best friend held me as I wept after the film was over, and she told me how sorry she was. Without me having to explain, she knew that I had finally found the language for talking about my illness.
What am I worth? For the duration of my time as a patient, I felt like I was worth nothing. I was merely a chart. Merely facts and figures on a page. I was my last name and my date of birth. Nothing more. No complexity of emotion and thought. In watching Wit, I reclaimed my humanity. Death and life and sickness and health all converged to bring a fuller picture of who I was and what I was about. I am worth more than what could be quantified on a medical chart.
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
Italicized sections are excerpts from John Donne's Holy Sonnet: Death, be not proud.