The Cancer Monster.

As a breast cancer – patient? victim? survivor? – I am drawn to the philosophy of absurdism.

Why?

I am afraid. In the same way that I don’t know what to call myself (patient, victim, survivor), I don’t know how long I have to live. The sudden, cruel, cold reality of mortality is an abrupt door closed and open in front of me and I’m not sure what to do, what to think, what to feel.

So in that vein, let’s pretend this philosophy called Absurdism can speak. He says:

“Life is mysterious and unknown.”

He’d lean back in his chair at the café, take a drag off his cigarette. Blow out smoke.

He’d continue: “There may or may not be meaning to life.”

He’d look out the window, tap ash. 

“Therefore don’t take it too seriously.”

I turn to the dishes, the pile of disability paperwork and tasks to manage. I look at my daughter’s pile of laundry, see the overripe fruit in the bowl. Traffic rushes by outside our front door, birds continue their spring singing. Old glue bottles, broken pencils -- the wilting Mother’s Day bouquet is still in its plastic. It’s a film panning to set a scene called The Ordinary, and I’m looking at the screen.

Don’t take it too seriously. I’ll soon be off work, most likely long-term. That’s one huge change. My body’s been razed, carved of parts. Another. My husband and daughter worry quietly, prop up our house with resolve, swallowing their own needs in the process. Friends and neighbors check in. More change. And my fear, my despair – it is laughable and a monster, it is north and south, it is surrounded by an orbit of maybe.

“Is there meaning in the universe?” 

Maybe.

“Is the pursuit of meaning worthwhile?”

Maybe.

“Should we fix the fridge, save for Paris?”

Maybe.

“Will I live to see my daughter graduate?”

And here the monster laughs, pats my knee. Rares back in the rocking chair. Turns to me and with razor teeth, smiles.

“Maybe.”




How do you cope? How do you reply to the ongoing"maybe?"