All cancers are not equal. That is a terrible thing, but that is the reality of it. Some are more deadly, some are tougher on the body. Some are quick, some take years to develop. Some are common, some are rare. Some are caught early, and some are never caught. I was one of the lucky ones. Womb cancer grows slowly, it is usually discovered early, and it can often be treated successfully with surgery, with or without the need for adjuvant therapy.
My final diagnosis was of endometrial adenocarcinoma, Stage 1a, Grade 1. After the operation, I was not encouraged to have any further treatment, as the risk of recurrence was quite low. That meant no radiotherapy, no chemotherapy. Other than the mess that is my head at the moment, the only proof I have that I had cancer are four small scars on my lower abdomen (unless you have an MRI machine at home – then I can show you I have organs missing from my body). Four small scars, only a couple of centimetres long, purple against my terribly pale skin. They will fade in time, and will no longer be so visible.
I know I am incredibly lucky. But there is a part of me – a part that I despise, and that I wish I could get rid of altogether – that feels guilty about this. That feels like I did not really have cancer, that I am claiming to be part of a group where I do not belong. My experience was so easy compared to others, it should not even count. I have no right to claim I am a cancer survivor.
I had been told that, after the results of the surgery came back, there was a chance I would need radiotherapy, even just as a preventative measure. So I had read all about it, and prepared myself for it. I had been ready for the doctor to tell me I needed a few sessions, I had researched how it would work, informed my manager of the possibility. When they instead told me they did not recommend any further treatment, and that the grade of the cancer was actually lower than they had initially assumed, I felt a huge sense of relief, which was immediately followed by a feeling of unease. So that was it, for now at least. That was my whole experience of cancer treatment, and it did not match what I most associated with cancer. No chemo, no radiotherapy. Without that adjuvant treatment and the risks and side-effects associated with it, I feel like I cannot claim that I have lived through a real, valid cancer experience. I feel guilty telling people about my cancer, I feel guilty of now having anxiety, depression and PTSD, when my experience was so much easier than most people. I should be glad, and I should be thankful.
I cry about it. I make myself sick when I think about it. I feel like I have no right to talk about these things, that it is not my place. I feel like I should not be struggling, it is shameful of me to complain, to feel bad about my situation, when so many other people have it much, much worse. Even writing this blog makes me feel guilty. Do I have the right to speak about this? Do I have the right to feel low, when people are grieving their relatives, when people are losing their lives to this awful disease? I did not even want children, so the loss of my reproductive ability is nothing compared to women who have always wanted children and have had that option ripped away from them. There was very little sacrifice on my part. I had it easy.
Those are all thoughts I have, maybe not every day, but at least a couple of times a week. There are words for them. Impostor syndrome. Survivor guilt.
I always worry that people are going to judge me if I say I suffered because of cancer. After all, all I needed was a quick operation – an hour and a half, snip snip, all done, goodbye cancer. Yes, I have follow-up appointments. Yes, I will be monitored for at least five years, to make sure the cancer does not come back – or catch it early if it does. But all that does not equate the pain and suffering of people with other forms of cancer, or more advanced disease.
I am afraid that people are not going to believe me if I tell them I had cancer a year ago. I am afraid of their reaction, of the fact they might judge me, and refuse to believe me because I show no exterior sign of having, or having had cancer at all. After the operation, when I first took public transport, I was afraid to sit down in a crowded train. I was afraid of the looks I would receive – me, a seemingly healthy woman in her twenties. I was exhausted, I was barely standing up, but I was afraid of people not realising that I was seriously ill, and judging me for taking someone else’s spot.
I always used to associate cancer with chemotherapy and hair loss, but all I needed was surgery. I kept all my hair (until I decided to cut it all off, before shaving half my head). It is something that still bothers me. I did not have the cancer experience that, for me, is the very definition of the disease. Did I even have cancer, if my experience was so easy, so short? Was my life really in that much danger, was it really overturned by the disease? Have I made it much bigger in my head than it was? Am I entitled to request help? I have a medical exemption certificate, which means I do not have to pay for my prescriptions for five years. And every time I use it, I feel guilty. Surely, there are people who need it more than I do, people whose body, whose life, whose livelihood have been affected by cancer a lot more than I have.
I sometimes feel like I should keep quiet about my mental health struggles. More than seven months passed between the moment when I first started feeling anxious and depressed, and when I finally spoke to my cancer team about it – and even then, it was only because I had a full-blown panic attack at my hospital appointment that I spoke to someone. In that moment, I was not able to hide it, to pretend everything was fine. If I had not been overcome by anxiety at that point, I would not have said a thing. After all, I am managing. I am living my life, I am still functioning. I go to work, I earn money, I pay my bills. Surely, I am not that ill. If I manage to do all this, surely I am fine, it cannot be that bad. Despite all the reassurance I have received from doctors, from my CNS, I still feel like I am wasting their time. There are people that are suffering more than I am, and they need their time more than I do. I am claiming help that I am not entitled to.
I read stories about people with cancer. I hear my friends talking about their family members, their own friends. I have lost people to cancer myself. I have family members currently undergoing treatment for advanced cancer. People who know there is very little hope. And I feel guilty. Why was I so lucky? Why did I have it so easy? And why, why do I not feel relief, why do I not rejoice in the idea that I am, as far as my doctors can tell, cancer-free? It is unfair.
I have not joined any support groups. I am afraid of being faced with people whose experience was a lot harder than mine, afraid that this will invalidate my own story. Afraid of the looks on their faces when I claim being one of them, when I know so little and have suffered a lot less. I feel like I do not belong, because of how easy I had it.
Every time I upload a new blog post, I have this ache in my heart, in my stomach. I worry about people reading this, and feeling like I am cheating. Like I am discussing things that I do not know. I am afraid they are going to see me as a fraud. As someone who is taking advantage. As someone who is claiming distress that they are not entitled to.
I have not spoken of this to anyone before today. Not to my doctors, not to my nurse, not to my family, not to my friends. I was editing a completely different article last night, which I was planning on publishing today, when I typed the title for this one. And then I could not stop writing, the words pouring out of my fingers and onto the page. I finished at 3am, long after the fireworks of Diwali had stopped.