Pack Your Parachute

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.
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Let's start with the fact that I've had cancer for all of about five minutes (well, technically, I've had awareness of it for all of about five minutes, but it's actually been hanging around in my brain for a sneaky long time), relatively speaking, which makes me a total rookie when it comes to navigating the awkward social moments of breaking the news to people, some of whom I haven't seen in years and would consider mere acquaintances. But these are also people I know would genuinely care to know about all that has unfolded in my life as of late, so it becomes the $64,000 question: 

To disclose or not to disclose? 

I've discovered there's just no good way to take off from the conversational runway in such moments and there's just no good way to put the landing gear down either. 

Crash landings are the inevitable result. 

And apparently one does not get handed a parachute when leaving the hospital after a brain biopsy and a cancer diagnosis.  

I was out to dinner this past week with a friend, and as we were leaving the restaurant, I bumped into a woman I knew through Bible Study Fellowship. We'll call her JoJo for the sake of this conversation and to protect the unsuspecting innocent. I haven't been involved with BSF for several years, but when I was, I was on the leadership team, which was how I first met JoJo. She was also my mom's BSF small group leader at one point and I knew the two still kept in touch on occasion. She's a lovely woman and it felt important in the moment to let her know what all had transpired. JoJo was with a group of friends who went on ahead to their table, while my own friend waited patiently off to the side. 

We get to chatting, and I'm mentally trying to figure out how to basically give the I-have-cancer version of an elevator speech. 

It appears that task is far harder than one would imagine because it turns out my brain can't move that fast (when all else fails, I've decided to adopt a "Blame it on the brain mass!" strategy). I start fumbling through, talking somewhat rapidly, like I've just become incapable of forming coherent sentences or acting like a normal human being. 

"Well, so, this is going to be really heavy, but don't feel like you need to say anything, I know it gets weird and people don't know what to say, so it's totally fine..."

I'm gesturing with my hands and rambling. I'm cringing on the inside. 

At this point, her eyes are widening slightly, and I'm thinking to myself, "Just.get.to.the.freaking.point already. You're not a lawyer needing to offer up the fine print of disclaimers and caveats." 

A close equivalent to my own
facial expression post-crash landing

I could feel the tears coming and I finally say, "I have cancer."

And God bless the woman, she was so gracious and kind in the moment. She really was. She gives me a hug and offers some words of encouragement. We finish chatting and she rejoins her group.

Meanwhile.

I walk away, silently mouthing the words What the hell? and exercising enough self-control to not smack my palm to my forehead.

A few days later, I had a shot of redemption. 

This time around, I'm at the polling station to vote early, and a sweet teacher of mine from middle school is one of the poll workers. We offer each other the obligatory greetings and then she asks, "Well, how is everyone in your corner of the world?"

I pull the string on my metaphorical parachute before we barely get started and don't even make an attempt to deliver the I-have-cancer elevator speech.

I just smile and lie through my teeth, wanting to avoid a repeat of my first crash landing, "Oh, we're hanging in there, ya know." 

I take my ballot and head off to vote.

I mean, what am I going to say? 

"Welp, turns out I have a rare form of brain cancer. I'm literally one in a million. Can you even believe it?! But looks like this county coroner isn't going to elect himself, so I best be moving on down to the voting booth. You take care! Make good choices out there!"

I probably could have yelled over my shoulder for my good measure as I walked away, "And don't forget to pack your parachute!"

For the love of Pete.

It's not that I mind telling people or that people are aware of what's going on in my life. This whole thing is not some deep, dark secret. I mean, hello, I have this blog I'm using to broadcast the assorted unstable wanderings of my brain and body. I want to be sincere and authentic in my interactions with people, but sometimes it really is just not a good idea to unload on innocent, unsuspecting people in the moment, as these interactions are certainly no fault of theirs. 

If you have been one of those unsuspecting people here lately, my sincere apologies. 

Blame it on the brain mass. 

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Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

Yep, still over here contemplating next steps regarding surgery and all that. Much like my brain mass, I take my sweet time.

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PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous," would you mind including your name directly in the body of your comment? That way I know who you are!