Monday, March 17, 2014

Cancer Has Made Me Socially Awkward

It has been six years since I moved to Arizona, after spending most of my twenties in Washington, DC. DC is a vibrant, transient city, full of young people eager to make a difference, people who care about current events and issues affecting our country; it's a city full of history, culture, and possibilities. (So...the opposite of Phoenix--I joke! Sort of!) I met my husband in DC, so I'm a little partial to that city.

And the thing about a city so densely populated, so full of youth and energy and drive, is that it was easy to meet people. Chris jokes that my job as a lobbyist was primarily about happy hours, and he's not totally wrong. Everyone wanted to network, so one new acquaintance led to ten others. And then some of those acquaintances became some of my best friends. Or maybe it was just about being in my twenties? 
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Our life is decidedly different now, and it would be easy to blame our relative lack of social interactions on becoming parents or getting diagnosed with breast cancer. In fact, having Quinn has probably improved our social life, as we meet parents from Quinn's preschool and get invited to toddler birthday parties (hey, it's an invitation and it usually involves cake). 

I am not the first person to lament the culture shock that comes with a move to Arizona from just about anywhere else. It quickly becomes a topic of conversation at most events we do attend. The question boils down to: why is it so hard to make connections here? 

Part of it is the sprawl, as Phoenix stretches for seemingly hundreds of miles in every direction. I met a couple of women at Quinn's swim school who seemed really cool, then found out they lived in "the Avenues," meaning west Phoenix, meaning a good forty-five minutes from our house just east of central Phoenix, so we didn't even bother to exchange numbers. Friendships here are often geographically unrealistic, and so they don't get off the ground. 

Part of it is the heat, as everyone goes into hibernation (or leaves town) during the unbearable summers here. We hardly even saw our next-door neighbors last summer because we all move from air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car (parked in a garage, if you're lucky) to air-conditioned store/movie theater/office. 115 degrees is too hot for small talk. 

Part of it is the culture (or lack thereof). It exists here, but you have to seek it out and even then the results can be disappointing (see: food and wine festival we went to a few years ago that was essentially an excuse to wear minimal clothing (or show off surgically-enhanced assets) and drink at a park during the day. Five weeks post-partum, this was not the culture I'd been looking for). 

But mostly--I think--it's the sprawl and the heat. Friendships here take an amount of effort and planning that ones in DC never required. 

DC is full of politicians and has terrible parking, though, so it's not perfect.

And I didn't mean to turn this into a post about how hard it is to connect with people in Phoenix. After six years, I have formed some really outstanding friendships with people I've met through Chris's job at ASU and my yoga community and Quinn's school. I have other moms I can call on for help when I'm feeling overwhelmed or friends I can invite over for a (relatively) impromptu dinner. Our social life is quite different than it was ten years ago, but I'm okay with that. 

What I want to talk about is what happens when I do meet new people here, and this is a direct consequence of cancer: I never know when or how it's appropriate to share my health history with others. I feel awkward and insecure, which is not typical for me. I went to three different high schools. I know what it's like to be the new girl, know how to make small talk with strangers. Or at least I did. Now I can be found milling awkwardly over the guacamole and chips while others mingle. I can't be the only woman living with Stage 4 cancer who has this problem, right?
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A family in our neighborhood hosted a block party over the weekend and I met a couple of new faces. One woman complimented me on my haircut. Do I mention cancer? I wondered. Ultimately, I did, saying this was grow-out from chemo and I'm not quite sure what to do with it in this in-between phase. "Oh, I'm so glad you're a survivor!" she responded. And then I wondered whether I should explain further--that, actually, I'm still in treatment, and I'm not completely comfortable with that word. But I didn't. I just smiled and said, "Yeah, me too." A version of this exchange happens pretty frequently. More and more, as my hair gets longer, I'm less inclined to mention cancer, but should I? Do I then become that weird cancer woman who doesn't talk about anything else? Am I already her?

Another neighbor standing nearby chimed in: "Oh, I just did the 3-day walk! It was so inspiring!" See? Cancer makes everyone awkward. I did resist the urge to get on my soap box about the evil empire Komen. 

Another couple of women at the potluck had seven children under the age of seven between them, and asked the inevitable question of whether we were going to have more. What should I say? I debated saying I couldn't get pregnant because of health issues, but I didn't. I just said we had our hands full with one for now. I felt like I was admitting defeat to these super producers of little humans, like I am a lesser being because I don't know if I could handle more kids and here they were with three or four each. But I don't want every conversation to be about cancer.
Yet another woman asked whether I worked and whether Quinn was in preschool. No and yes were my answers. "He's in school a couple days a week because I have some health issues and need the extra help so I can make it to all my doctors appointments," I said. Or something like that. I skirted the issue, which felt disingenuous. Should I have just talked about how good I think it is for his social development? Probably.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Because lately, cancer has been making me feel awkward, insecure, and insincere. All good qualities for sparking friendships, right? So. . . short of becoming more of a recluse, how do I navigate this weird space I'm in where I look mostly healthy but have treatments and am on disability and still live with this disease all the damn time? 

Hey, at least I don't have to worry about dating.

20 comments:

  1. Jen I am going to share your post on The IBC Network-Inflammatory Breast Cancer Network page. I know you were not diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer but your experience with a late stage cancer, also at such a young age, lines up so well with the experiences of our IBC sisters. Also we need to move more of "pink" conversation to metastatic breast cancer. In my mind, 30% of funding, education, conversation needs to be focused on stage 4, since 30% of all women diagnosed with breast cancer do become metastatic. As just an fyi, to any one who is not familiar with Inflammatory Breast Cancer, ( I know you are) Inflammatory breast cancer cannot be detection prior to a stage three. We definitely have our work cut out for us to increase education for late stage cancers.
    Thanks for sharing your experience.

    Terry Arnold
    dx TN IBC summer of 2007

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    1. Thanks, Terry! I may also submit this to Huffington Post to see if they'll republish it there, too. The more we can spread the word about living with late-stage cancer, the better, in my opinion. xoxo

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  2. Hi Jennifer, Yeah, cancer sure cramps a person's style all right and I imagine being stage IV takes it to a whole different level. There is always that dilemma about wondering how much to share and who really wants to know the details... Thanks for your insights.

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    1. On the one hand, I feel like I have lost so many boundaries over the past few years (because life is short!), but then I have moments when I feel like maybe I'm sharing too much -- about my reconstruction, my fertility issues, my chemo side effects... It's a fine balance! One friend suggested just letting each conversation develop organically and letting it flow with however I'm feeling at that particular moment. What a novel idea, right?! ;) xoxo

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  3. I understand the awkwardness. Sometimes it is there even with people you know. "So glad you are cured." Do I say anything or let it go? "You are so lucky you got well, So-and-So just got diagnosed with stage 4 in her bones." Hey, did you forget already? it's in my spine and I'm still in treatment! Usually, I let these kind of things go because I don't want everything in life to be about cancer.
    About our Arizona heat - get to know people during our nice winters, then you can get together in the summer someplace with AC.
    Elizabeth J.

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    1. Yes! I get these types of comments all. the. time! And I usually just let it go, too. I suppose this is why Stage 4 can be so lonely -- it's hard to feel like others really "get" what you're facing. That's partly why I write, to connect with others and share this weird journey that is Stage 4 cancer. Thanks for weighing in. Lots of love to you!

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  4. Yes, I know exactly what you mean. In fact, I also wrote a blog post about it!
    http://lil-lytnin.blogspot.com/2014/01/coming-out-with-cancer.html
    The interesting realization I had is that it can be tricky for anyone going through major stuff (difficult divorce, death in the family, depression, etc). How do you answer a simple "how are you" without launching into your life story?

    I'm in a new play group with my little girls and I have consciously not mentioned anything about my cancer. I am doing well on my targeted med, and from the outside I look fine. I'm sometime late to group if my stomach is being particularly bad that day, but I think the others just chalk that up to having two kids to get ready! It might be a bit dishonest, but it's nice to just be a plain old mom for that brief time.

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    1. I loved your post, Tori -- thanks for sharing it! And I agree, it is nice to just be a plain old mom once in awhile. Glad to hear you're doing well on your new med!

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  5. I know it's not quite the same..but I dread the have you got children question I get asked every time I go to a social event. I can only answer with no - such a tiny word that hides a world of heartache for me.

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    1. And I know it's not the same, since I have Quinn, but my heart still aches at not being able to have more children. There are so many losses from cancer, so many things to grieve in this process.

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  6. skirt all the issues you feel like skirting - but don't feel it's disingenuous. you have a right to protect yourself from anything you feel will lead you further afield than you want to go. you are doing the best you are able, jen, and in social situations, you should be able to relax and enjoy yourself. our society is being invaded by armies of curious minds that seem to derive the greatest satisfaction from gathering as much info as possible on any given person. a simple cocktail party sometimes feels like I'm being surrounded by google clones who don't really care about the people they are quizzing - just the information. I actually have people in my own family who converse mostly with asking questions, without providing any feed-back of support of caring. Screw 'em! there are enough nice and authentic people whom you will be able to be discerning about, and you will feel in your gut that they really care about you. and you are smart and exceptionally sensitive - it's just hard sometimes to realign the boundaries with a new group of people - maybe it just takes time for the boundaries to evolve depending on to whom you are with.

    much love and light,

    Karen xoxo

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    1. How perfectly well-stated! Thank you for the support and virtual friendship, Karen. It means so much.

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  7. Jennifer, one of the big life lessons I've learned in middle age is that I don't have to answer every question I'm asked with complete detail. I agree with Karen that you have the right to the amount of privacy that is comfortable to you. I am generally pretty open about personal issues but sometimes not. When people ask me how much my husband and I paid for our house (rude question, by the way), I just laugh and say, "Oh, somewhere between one and one million dollars."

    And I hate the "second kid" question! Asking people if they are going to have kids at all or have more kids is very rude! There are all kinds of personal and painful reasons behind why women have the number of kids that they have. I am old enough now that I am not asked that question any more. But when I did get asked, "Why do you only have one child," I used to say, "Because one is all we have."

    This was a good post. This is my first time visiting your blog. Thank you for writing about this and I wish you the very best.

    -Elizabeth

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    1. Thanks for visiting and the well-wishes! As I get older, I am (slowly) learning the art of crafting my answers to better suit my own comfort levels. Sometimes that depends on the day!

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  8. I lived in Scottsdale then Cave Creek for 6 years after growing up in San Francisco. Talk about culture shock. I was used to having my whole life exist in this tiny bubble. Friends were no more than 10 minutes away. I agree, with the sprawl of Phoenix, sometimes its not worth even trying to start to be friends if you know that there is over an hour of driving in between you. When I was living in Cave Creek my closest friend (who I met through work in Phoenix) lived in Mesa, so we'd usually meet in scottsdale which was in between us.

    On the awkward thing, I totally feel you. I have an inoperable low grade brain tumor which is considered an incurable cancer. I always feel weird wondering when and if I should disclose this information to new people I meet. I find that the weirdest conversations have been with new doctors. Most recently a new dentist and optometrist. As they go over my medical history they see cancer and ask about it. Then they assume it was benign or I'm in remission.... nope, full tumor is still there and I did my radiation and chemo and its still there.. so this is life, I'm done with treatment and still living with cancer. Both doctors were just flabbergasted. One started harassing me about getting a second opinion and inferred that I wasn't taking my life serious enough. Totally annoying.

    Sorry to ramble on. I read this and connected a lot with what you said. :o)

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    1. I'm glad my post resonated with you, and I'm sorry about your tumor. I hope it's not causing you too many issues beyond the awkwardness with new doctors (which is so annoying!)

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  9. Wanted to share that I don't have the answers, but it is awkward all around. In hindsight (didn't know much/anything about metastatic breast cancer back then), I realize that a mom in my daughter's preschool must have been stage IV. I didn't know her well: our kids weren't friends. I just knew that she had cancer and was going through treatment. She was bald and her babysitter had shared bits and pieces. But I guess i always wondered how she was doing, when her chemo would be over, etc. (and probably other things that weren't any of my business) But the cancer was the proverbial elephant in the room. I didn't know how to make chit chat with her. The fact that she had cancer was obvious - did I mention it (I mentioned her warm hat in the dead of a cold Chicago winter) or ignore it? I didn't want to mention it - she probably hated being "the cancer mom". But it felt weird not to mention it either - like I was oblivious and insensitive. And what if I said the wrong thing? These days I'm aware of many posts where people list all the things NOT to say to someone with cancer. I didn't want to say something like that. So we drifted along smiling and saying hello, and then preschool ended, our children went to different schools, and I never saw her again. So I wonder would we have become friends if the cancer elephant wasn't there? Or would she have been just another preschool mom, like the many others that I saw for 2 years, and then never saw again (whose issues (and let's face it, we all have issues) I was totally unaware of)? But I still think about her, and I am sure that is because of her cancer.

    Unfortunately, the bottom line is that is absolutely sucks. For you and the other women living witih stage IV. The awkwardness is there for me too, and it's not your fault. It's not my fault. It just is, and it sucks.

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    1. So many truths here -- thank you. Maybe I will try to write a post someday about what TO say to someone with Stage IV cancer, although it is hard to speak for everyone. Almost always, "I'm sorry you have to go through this" is a welcome place to start.

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  10. Love this. So well captured for those of us who want to but cannot imagine what you're living with - all your writing does that so well. And tell who you want, or don't. I cannot imagine there is an easy answer but sounds like you're handling it as best as you can which is pretty damn great. Plus you have so many other amazing things in your life you're not going to become the woman who only talks about cancer. Impossible.

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    1. Thank you, dear! You're right--I DO have so many other amazing things in my life. I am so lucky for that.

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