The Bravery of Being Out of Range

It's easy to be brave when you're not staring death in the face.

Recently, someone told me I was strong and brave for continuing to work and go to school while in treatment.  Being called "brave" is hard for me to hear, because I’m not.  I'm not facing my own mortality – that’s “out of range.”  Enduring treatment is less about being brave and more about doing what needs to be done - what anyone else would do or has done - in the same position.  For me, I don't feel brave for sitting in an infusion chair, or getting out of bed and going to work, or making it to class, or living each day as much as possible.  It’s just what needs to be done.

Yes, I am afraid of dying; yes, I am not ready to die.  Yes, I know we're all going to die some day (see previous posts), but today is not my day.  It's not my day because today, my diagnosis says so.  It could be my day in months or years, but not now. 

When I was first diagnosed, I could not get the thought of dying out of my mind.  I had lost two people I cared about just months before to cancer; it seemed to happen so quickly, so suddenly, and I was selfishly so very, very afraid.  As I started to feel better about my diagnosis we learned of my potential recurrence rates and again, my anxiety soared.  Now, months into treatment, I am at a point where somehow I've found some peace with what is, and am trying not to focus on what could be.

I ran into one of my favorite “little guys” (I believe he’s 10) last night; he hadn’t seen me since before treatment, and he said, so very sweetly and genuinely, “I’m really sorry about your cancer.”  I thanked him for his concern and told him I was feeling better, and that I really was okay.  His comment reminded me that it’s not bravery that keeps me going every day – it’s the blessing of being alive to fight another day.