Tuba Christmas in Tacoma

It was a pleasure to attend Tuba Christmas in Tacoma. There were about thirty performers and a very good sized audience. I was especially happy to play along side my caregiver and son, David. He's a superb musician.  His perfect timing and pitch kept me honest for the evening. I was glad I attended but there was a cancer side to what should have been just a simple good time of playing carols. 

This was the first time since I knew I had cancer that I stepped into a room full of complete strangers. They were very polite and accepting people so they were glad to welcome the newcomers. 

I had the following short conversation on three separate occasions. "So where are you from?" they would ask.  "Alaska," I would answer proudly. They would usually smile and all of them would then ask the bombshell question, "What brings you to this area?"  My brain would go into semi-panic mode, fearful of their reaction to the truth. I would soften my answer by saying "I'm staying near the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance for treatment."  They would return a confused look so I would have to spill the beans completely and say "I have bone marrow cancer."  

With that statement, they returned a horrified look. They deeply regretted asking such a perfectly normal question of "What brings you to Seattle?"  They were now embarrassed and wishing to get away from the conversation and me as quickly as possible. In their mind, they were talking to a cheerful and smiling corpse.    

I too was embarrassed to witness their discomfort so my next mission was to try to ease the awkward moment by downplaying the seriousness of my cancer.  "It's really not so bad. It will be cured within a couple months,"  I would explain.  My true urge was to grab them by the collar and yell "I'm not got to die from cancer!"  

The conversations all ended with same type of statement. They would say, "You have such a great attitude."  The underlying tone finished that sentence with "for a person who won't be with us much longer."  No matter how hard I tried, convincing them that I would survive this ordeal was futile.  The belief that cancer nearly always takes away lives is engrained in our psyche. After we have all experienced a lifetime of repeated defeats to this disease, it's difficult to truly believe that a different outcome will soon be the norm. 

The cure for cancer is still a distant dream but for now, humanity is gaining momentum in this fight. Today, there are thousands of individuals surviving cancer who would not have survived just ten years ago. As the disease outcomes change for the better, so will our fears and belief in survival. 

I'm certain that in ten years from now, those painfully awkward conversations will sound more like this. "I have cancer."  The stranger will answer, "Oh, good luck with that. So what's it like living in Alaska and what kind tuba are you playing?"  This time, there isn't an unsaid, underlying thought. It will be the norm to beat cancer.  It will be the norm to be no longer afraid.