“She’s in good spirits.”

How often have we heard that expression? It reminds me of the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” in which Glinda, floats in on her bubble, asking Dorothy a blunt question, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Those of us who are diagnosed are often met with the expectation we will be “in good spirits.”

We hear so much about a positive outlook, about how joy and laughter are healing for any recovery. We are shown countless stories of individuals who had such sunny perspectives, even though they were end stage this or that disease. We see heartwarming testimonies of how a person is determined to “beat the odds,” “to never give up,” and “to be an inspiration for the rest of us.”

Then, there’s usually some chronicling of this individual doing something impactful, to help others, to make people smile. Noble. Inspiring. Worthy of being labelled “in good spirits.” And, perhaps, making things ten times more difficult for the rest of us diagnosed, as the rest of us are struggling, feeling angry and depressed. We feel like we’re only draining people, not helping them, because of our circumstances. We, by comparison, are “in bad spirits.”

As part of my “Cancer Care,” I have regularly been in doctor’s offices and exam rooms. Part of my treatment and monitoring involves me filling out something called a distress test. It’s the add-on feature after answering a slew of questions about any new symptoms, like unusual pain and difficulty breathing. You know, fun things to think about. The distress test gets right to the anxiety and depression questions, probing about suicidal thoughts, feeling isolated, even getting into one’s own spirituality.

Indeed, like clockwork, I get flagged as I respond honestly to the question, “Are you experiencing anxiety or depression?”

“Yes, I’m scared; I’m depressed.”

And then I have to encounter a further interview from that nurse about my mental state.

“Do you feel like you are struggling with your spirituality?”

“Yes, I have faith and I pray about my situation, but I’m still scared and depressed.”

The nurse’s brow furrows a bit.

“Do you feel like people would be better off without you?”

And here’s where I’m expected to respond with something like…

“Oh, no, of course not. My loved ones are there for me and are supporting me. Everything’s great. I’m blessed!”

But most of the time, I just respond with, “No,” and leave it at that.

“What kind of support do you have in your life?”

Get ready for some cliché responses, everyone…

“Well, I have a wonderful, loving husband, some great friends and I am in therapy.”

The nurse nods, conveying a sigh of relief.

I guess I answered correctly. Maybe I even passed the distress test with flying colors.

But, make no mistake about it, I’m still distressed.

I’m not ragging on the medical community for sheer ragging sake. I know everyone is just trying to do their jobs. Saving lives. But there still seems to be this built-in discomfort surrounding my diagnosed reality. They get uncomfortable with my uncomfortable truth. They want me to be Pollyanna Optimism when it comes to how I view “my cancer,” my life and my attitudes about mortality. They want me to “beat the disease” and “be a warrior.” Here’s a Breast cancer pink ribbon for you to wear and get more life- affirming for wearing it.

Medical community, your heart may be in a good place, but it’s still misguided.

You want me to respond a certain way because it makes you less uncomfortable. Yeah, sure, you want to save my life, but you’d rather not hear about my scary, two o’clock in the morning death thoughts as I lie awake in the dark. I have heard from you nurses just how inspiring my fight is, how courageous I am. But you’re not as inspired to know that, before my routine appointment with you, I cried for an hour, gauging exactly, when I should put on my makeup, so that I wouldn’t cry all of it off before I showed my face in public. How courageous am I now? How inspired are you by me now?

I am not “in good spirits.”

It feels like no one knows what to do with me, other than give me some more cliché responses like, “you’re a fighter,” “you’re a trooper,” “you are going to beat this!”

Are you sure? How can you be so sure?

You may be reading this and assert I’m choosing to think and feel negatively. I’m whining. I should make the choice to be positive about my plight. I should embrace life and focus less on death. I should count my blessings, be thankful for all of the good that surrounds me. I hear all of that, partly because its messages come from within, not just from other people’s suggestions. All of the “should’s”- yep they’re here for roll call.

But how, exactly, is all of this “shoulding” supposed to help me “beat cancer,” anyway?

How is not being honest with my real, true feelings, sublimating them under an inspirational script of stock answers, supposed to help me? Truth reveals itself, regardless.

Do you really want me to lie that much about my diagnosis, prognosis, life and death circumstances? And, if so, why? Is it because you feel better about the lies instead of the truth?

Most of us do, if we’re honest. Lies are comforting; truth is less so.

If I were Dorothy, responding to Glinda’s question, I guess, nine times out of ten, I’d have to honestly answer her with, “I’m a bad witch. Go ahead and drop a house on me.”

My diagnosis has taught me a lot about who I really am, cliché as it sounds. I know who I am not. I am not optimistic. Realistic, at best. I can go full-on pessimistic in the blink of an irritated eye. I have spent much of my life trying to override that, believing I was wrong, immoral, sinning, all because my feelings weren’t the stuff of “get well” cards. And, even though, as the medical community likes to say, “we don’t know why a person gets cancer,” what if, just what if, suppressing my less-than-inspirational emotions helped to create the disease? What if that suppression was carcinogenic? It’s possible, right?

So, couldn’t it, likewise, be possible that “getting real” about all of the fear and ugliness could help me feel better, even if it didn’t cure me? Healing is different than curing. Healing is deeper. And that’s what I’m about these days. I’m doing a deeper dive.

And, if it takes me being “in bad spirits” to do so, then, so be it.

Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse