In Some Subconscious Manner

by Alex Dopkin

I always knew that my life has been a very different one from most peoples my age, but I’ve never thought of it as something negative. I have lived through many experiences that one would not expect from a person of such a young age, and each experience has in turn influenced the next. Unlike some, who may choose to say it was their childhood and how they were raised that shaped who they have become as people today, I choose to say it was my cancer. It was my fight with cancer that created the mold for who I am today, and continues to influence every decision I make and adventure I go on, whether in an obvious and blatant way, or in some miniscule subconscious manner.

I see no clear way to begin this story, as my childhood memories and memories of my battle with cancer all seem a blur to me today. I am learning as much, if not more, from my cancer nowadays than I did when I was fighting it. So I can find no other way to start the story, than by saying the same, simple sentence that I have been saying for years:

“When I was 8 years old, I was diagnosed with cancer.”

Preceding this thoughtless insignificant statement for me is a question almost always along the lines of, “Oh damn. What kind of cancer did you have?” usually followed up with an uneducated guess of “Leukemia?”

“No” I would say, “Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.”

Silence or an occasional, somewhat awkward, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry’ of incomprehension usually follows. Then, depending on the person and situation, I would either assure the curious worried listener or listeners that it is no big deal, or emotionlessly summarize my battle as a chapter in the past with no current effect on my person. However, this is no quick summary, and this is not so much a chapter as it is the setting of my life.

I fear that that simple, generalized statement, “When I was 8 years old, I was diagnosed with cancer” may be as concrete as this memoir gets. I understand that I am already beginning to ramble about the lack of clarity in this, but I cannot stress enough the difficulty of deciding where to start my story. I mean come on! This is my first write about this experience without some large outside influence setting restrictions and predilections on my story, and thus reshaping it to satisfy themselves; like college applications or a banal girl of whom I have no interest in besides her exterior, and already I am feeling the limitations of keeping you readers reading.

I find myself asking my parents for the facts on my cancer, as on top of my clouded memory, these facts seem so unimportant to me. But for you readers and the sake of a more complete memoir I will include them, although they are not necessarily my personal memories. When I was seven years old, my parents began noticing a small lump behind my left ear. Over a period of 6 or so months they watched the seemingly insignificant lump as it slowly grew. After my once a month haircuts at ‘Supercuts’ (only the best!), the lumps’ growing size became even more apparent to my parents.

My doctor told my parents it was most likely just a lymph node and was nothing to worry about. However, my mom, also a doctor and like all moms, an overly intense worrier, and my dad, a real estate agent and well, like some dads, a steadfast and somewhat concerned man, pushed to have it removed. And the results well, you already know, it was cancer: Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

The next step was to undergo a series of dangerous sounding, crazy, Frankenstein tests like ‘Total Body CT Scans’ and ‘PET Scan Radioisotopes Test’ along with hundreds of blood tests and so on, just to be extra sure that I did in fact have a terminal illness. If I remembered all of these, I may say that these tests were scarier than having cancer itself, but fortunately I do not.

Now I had apparently been told multiple times of what was happening to me and of what cancer was and its dangers. I had also been told about the side effects of chemotherapy and that it would get rid of the cancer for me. However my mind had built up walls to keep this information out or to suppress it somewhere deep in my subconscious, and for many years to follow I held a large amount of resentment towards my parents and doctors for not telling me that information they had apparently told me so many times before.

I quickly became oblivious of nearly everything: of my surroundings, of myself, of my schoolwork. I was so unaware of my surroundings that I do not even remember missing school for 3 whole months. In fact, I never even noticed that my hair thinned and fell out and my skin paled, I went so far as to think of myself as an exception to chemo’s side effects. All I knew for sure was that for some odd reason, because of something called cancer that I had no understanding about, my mom would draw my blood twice a week and once a week I would have to trek out to Stanford to get a shot and a checkup.

I grew to enjoy the blood test days. I would go downstairs to the kitchen table where my mom would be waiting with her little kit and next to it, a brand new pack of Pokémon cards, every time. At first it seemed like a horribly unfair deal, “A needle in my arm??? For some stupid cards? Hell no!” But I soon learned to love the wondrous prize that the cards were. Every pack held a world of magic and creatures just waiting to be released into the world and shared with my friends. And besides, I just had to “Catch ‘Em All” right?

Anyway, the cards may have been the only part of the experience I enjoyed at the time, besides my new super hero power of peeing orange that is. Yea, chemo can make you pee orange! But unlike my amazing new pee color, I could never get used to the chemotherapy shots, and in fact they got worse and worse every time. They always hurt despite the numbing cream the doctors used on the injection sight. The chemo felt strange and bubbly as it went in. Sometimes it felt hot to me, other times cold and tingling. Although my memory is very much obscured, I remember this feeling so vividly. After each shot my arms grew a little sorer. They switched off which arm to use for the injection each time I went in. Eventually they stopped using the upper part of my arms and moved lower, closer to my wrists.

I remember the day of my final shot. I was at my favorite camp and place to be, Camp Blue. My parents woke me up extra early in the middle of our trip to leave the fun, the games, and the wilderness all behind to drive all the way out to Stanford. I refused, multiple times, and fought to stay, but of course I had to get the shot, and my parents after a long struggle managed to get me into the car. Once Camp Blue was left behind, and with it my last bit of hope of returning without getting my shot, a subtle excitement began to take its place. It was about to be my last shot, then no more, I was going to be all done.

At the hospital I had a new nurse. After examining my arms, she decided the best injection site would be on my hand. I was a little skeptical at first and asked, “Isn’t your hand just all bones?”

She smiled and reassured me that there were plenty of good veins in my hand. And just like that she had me convinced, and the excitement of my last shot quickly flowed over my doubts.

She missed her first attempt at an injection and instantly tears rushed to my eyes. Someone kindly lent me their finger to squeeze as I fought back the impulse to cry. After an unknown period of time I nodded and through stifled words told her I was ready for her to try again.

She missed again. Tears quickly rolled down my cheeks as new tears quickly pushed the old ones from my eyes, and I released a painful scream. I no longer resisted the temptation to cry as I focused my energy on not yelling at the nurse. I cried until the pleasant reminder of this being my last shot snuck its way back into my mind. Slowly excitement took over and fought back the tears until I was ready for her to try again.

This time the hospital had a new nurse come in to give me the shot. The new nurse decided to give me the shot in my right hand, to give my left hand a break. She too, however, missed the vein. I snapped and resumed crying, and let out hundreds of pained, muffled comments and insults.

“Ah Fuck! You hit my bone! You hit my bone! What is wrong with you? Why can’t any doctor in here give me a shot correctly? I just want to go home, I want to go home! Aaahhh”

My parents held me as I cried and screamed. My anger eventually turned to sadness and I became depressed. I sat there crying while my parents comforted me and the nurses bribed me with a water syringe fight after the last shot. I continued to cry until that familiar excitement crept back into my body. After calming down I told the nurse I was ready for her to try again.

She too missed again. Instantaneously the feelings of hope and thrill for the end of my chemotherapy left my body. I burst into tears yet again, and resumed expelling the angry dialogue I had been saying before. I can only imagine how it must have seemed for the other children in the hospital nervously awaiting their routine check up or flu shot; their parents desperately attempting to reassure them that the hospital is a safe place and that everything will be okay while some patient in some mysterious room is screaming frantically. Of course, this thought never crossed my mind at the time, and if it did I do not think I would have cared. This was my last day with chemotherapy and it was taking forever! I continued to cry until I couldn’t cry anymore and told the nurse I was ready for her try again.

It was the first nurses’ turn to attempt giving me the shot this time. I placed my hand on the fold out hospital room table and grabbed the mysterious finger that always seemed to be there when I most needed it. I squeezed, preparing myself for yet another error. But this time the nurse got the vein, and I felt for the final time the chemo infuse itself into my bloodstream.

I never forgot that day. The date and the exact details I don’t remember, but I remember exactly how I felt. Not only was this a very physically draining day but it was technically my last day of my fight against cancer. There is of course, the 5-year waiting period of consistent checkups after the final chemo day before a cancer patient is considered cured, but still. The excitement, the pain, the general mix of emotions, all wrapped up with a syringe water fight the nurses created caused for feelings I simply cannot forget, feelings that it was finally over.

-To Be Continued-