Two Lives

      “Yes,” I said between mouthfuls of a chicken and avocado panini. I didn’t feel bad. I hadn’t lied, I just hadn’t told the whole truth. Alex disagreed with my stance.

      “Mrs Selitzky was probably just worried about you.”

Yeah, right. Women can decipher other women’s body language and hers said “I don’t believe you”. Alex and I were on opposite sides again. If he were going through this he would tell everyone. But I would rather endure anger than pity.

      I had to quit my daycare job. The infection risk was too high. I wrote a letter to the boss explaining that I wouldn’t be returning to work for medical reasons. The teachers organised a farewell dinner for me. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be quizzed on why I had to leave. What should I tell them? There’s something about the word cancer that strikes a profound fear into everyone and I didn’t want to say it. I shut my eyes and saw a pity party again so I started researching what could make me leave my job but not be quite as serious as cancer. I came up with chronic anaemia. It was treatable and brought on by infection. I articulated the definition by rote like reciting the answer to a biology pop quiz. I offered the analysis over dinner. They appeared satisfied until one teacher said:

      “You don’t look anaemic.”

My face flushed red. Did she think I was sicker than I let on, or not as sick?

      “I’m on medication, so I’m not very anaemic right now.”

I said my farewells, got my gift voucher and ran out of there. In my car I hit my head against the steering wheel. That poem came back to me: Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. That night I had a dream about the two lives I was leading. I dreamt that I was working at a new daycare when the staff from my previous daycare saw me through the window. They were shocked to see me working somewhere else.

      “What are you doing here?” They asked in unison.

      Oh shit.

In my dream I was unable to explain it to them and they walked away in disgust. They didn’t believe I was sick at all. They thought it was all just a scam to leave my job and go work somewhere else. I couldn’t tell them the truth. But the fact that it had crept into my dreams was a sign that I was agitated about the deception. Was I being ridiculous to cover up what I was really going through? Should I shout it out to the world?

      In spite of my apprehension about making social dates I had a strong desire to see everyone one last time. My best friend was Sarah. She called about two weeks after my diagnosis. I loved Sarah and I actually wanted to share this awful thing with her. But I didn’t want her to worry. I was thinking of her life, her young children, all the things she had to deal with already. I went to her house for coffee and I told her the half-truth I concocted for the teachers.

      “It’s chronic anemia. My immune system is compromised so I can’t be near sick people or children who have just been vaccinated.”

      “I was anemic when I was pregnant with my youngest. Are they giving you iron?”

      “Ye-es.”

      My heart sank. I didn’t want to lie and I was beginning to doubt that I could keep it up. But it was so wonderful being with her, talking about our kids, laughing and chatting and having a cup of coffee that in the end I did not regret my decision to “lighten” my disease. I would have hated to sit there in her kitchen and have the whole conversation be about my devastating illness.           So I relaxed and it was like old times as we sat catching up on gossip. But for some reason she decided to tell me a story about the child of a relative who recently died of cancer at age four. He was diagnosed at age two, and went into remission for two years before the cancer came back with a vengeance. I was thinking that in my research two years seemed to be the average. I told her how sorry I was, which I was, but I was also thinking: I’ve probably got two years too. I didn’t want to talk about cancer, not today. It was a fantastic morning and the only thing that spoiled it, besides the shadow of death hanging over my shoulder was that I had to finish the day by getting my blood taken.

      I went to see my American friend, Lily. Not knowing about my disease, Lily gave me a cup of coffee and immediately started telling me about a young actor named Andrew Whitfield from the series Spartacus who died of leukaemia in 2011. I was beginning to think cancer was all anyone ever talked about. Was I giving off some sort of cancer vibe that made everyone tell tragic stories? Obviously I was a little sensitive. But I was glad she could speak freely. If she knew I had leukaemia we wouldn’t have had the same conversation because she wouldn’t want to talk about it in front of me. When I got home I looked up Andrew Whitfield. He died eighteen months after being diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It had my heart thumping. He was only 40.

      There were other good friends who I considered telling, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. These were the Hills. We agreed to go out to dinner with them in early February and I was seriously considering telling Mrs Hill before we went. They were such good friends and trustworthy like the Smiths and I felt disloyal not telling them. I even imagined the scenario of me sitting at dinner and going through the whole story in detail. But as the time got closer I chickened out. I wanted to enjoy my evening, not make it depressing. So we sat and talked and laughed and had a “normal” night. The funny thing was that the Hills were always completely candid about their medical issues. But nothing was as big as the bombshell I was sitting on. Months later, after I lost my hair, they invited us out to dinner again. I decided if they guessed I was wearing a wig I would come clean and tell them the whole truth. If they didn’t, I would continue to keep my illness a secret. Whether they suspected or not they never said anything. It was stressful sitting in the restaurant in that wig. To me it was so obviously false it was as if I had a Halloween mask on my face. But I was determined to be strong. If I told them about my disease it would be like whining about something I had no control over. They would have to feel sorry for me and it would change our relationship forever. I couldn’t do it. I was in a fight for my dignity.

      The friends I saw on very rare occasions were easier to fool. Many times it was a phone call and an invitation I could make an excuse to get out of. A friend who visited from England said she wouldn’t be back for a few years. I ticked her off my list of people I wouldn’t have to explain anything to.  We had friends for dinner who asked if I had lost weight. That was the only thing they noticed. Another night I had dinner with a couple of old work friends. I forgot about my disease until they talked about future plans. It was crushing because that’s what ultimately separated me from them. I probably didn’t have a future. I decided not to go out to dinner again. I didn’t want to lie anymore and I didn’t want to hear about plans I could not be a part of.

      Every few days I thought about just coming clean and telling everyone. But then how exactly was I supposed to burden others with what I was going through? When was I supposed to introduce it into the conversation?

      “How are you? Your children are great and your life is full? That’s amazing. Me? Not much. Oh well yes, there is this one new thing. I’m dying of leukemia.”

      Alex and I watched a new season of the TV show The Big C. The main actor, Laura Linney, who played Cathy was exceptional. In the show she was a teacher who got cancer. Her students found out and had a cupcake fundraiser for her. The cupcakes had a letter “C” on them which was for Cathy but looked like they were for Cancer. The look of pity on their faces said it all. It’s why she didn’t want them to know. It was exactly what I was going through.

      Of course the medical profession I had been dealing with on a weekly basis all knew. It was printed as plain as day on every piece of paper they produced. “Plasma Cell Leukaemia” was everywhere you looked. But there was another professional I had to tell. Before my stem cell transplant I had to get an okay from the dentist. I was supposed to ask him if there was anything in my mouth that could increase my chances of developing an infection. One day in April I rehearsed these lines at home, in the car and on the walk to the dentist. I wanted to get it right and I wanted to get used to hearing the words so I wouldn’t get emotional. When I sat in the dentist’s chair I said the lines perfectly. I didn’t know what sort of reaction I’d get but it was purely clinical.

      “Why are you having a stem cell transplant?”

      “I have leukaemia.”  I was proud of my even tone of voice.

       “I have a friend with stomach cancer. They might do a stem cell transplant on him as well. How does it work?” 

He showed no pity. He just wanted the practicalities of how it was done. I went through it with him. It was actually more conversation than I wanted to have, especially with his hand in my mouth. 

      “You look after your teeth well. They shouldn’t cause you a problem.”

      “Thank you.”

When I left I was glad he was so indifferent to my condition. It made me feel like it wasn’t worth worrying about.

         Although it could be awkward for me to keep my friends in the dark, I didn’t regret the decision which allowed my relationships to continue on their accustomed path. I had a work colleague more than twenty years ago named Paula, who got sick. We had only just moved to our neighborhood and didn’t know anyone. Alex brought home two spare tickets to a sporting event so I called Paula to invite her and her partner. She told me over the phone that she couldn’t go because she just found out she had cancer. I can’t remember what type of cancer now. She wasn’t a close friend or confidante. In fact I didn’t really like her all that much. For the next few weeks I debated about what to do. I didn’t know if I should call or visit, or what I should do or say. Was it expected that I would change my relationship with her from casual acquaintance to attentive nursemaid because by chance I found out she was dying? The truth was I was afraid to see her. So I avoided it. I had a brand new baby so I used that as an excuse. I didn’t go to her house and I didn’t call. A few months later she was dead. Then of course I regretted not going to see her. I beat myself up about it. Couldn’t I have spared just one evening? On the way to her funeral I wrote her widowed partner a letter explaining why I hadn’t had the time to visit. I cried not because I’d miss her, but because I felt so damn guilty. I didn’t want to put anyone in my life through that. My casual acquaintances would be able to come to my funeral (or not) and honestly say:

      “I never went to see her because I didn’t know.”