The advert about cancer keeps changing. I recall the statistic, one in three people will get cancer in their lifetime. The subtext was that they would die from the illness, and that’s powerful. But we’ll come back to that later on. I don’t watch a great deal of TV but I did see an advert for a cancer charity on catch up the other day while I was having a crime solving commercial break so that Poirot could wax his moustache and I could get another cup of something warm and comforting. It will have been hot vimto, after all, I’m a proud northerner. The new statistic is one in two people. 50% of the population. They’re good or bad odds depending on whose team you’re on. So with a coin toss chance of getting cancer at some point, this seems a pretty bleak first paragraph. However, remember that the increased number is because of a lot of factors that I’m certainly not qualified to dig into here, including that fact that our lives are largely safer now, so we’re more likely to get cancer than stuck down a mine, (northern yeah?). If half of us are going to get cancer, (not necessarily die from it), I believe one of the most powerful steps that you can take for your story, and to live well, is to banish the word “fair” from your narrative. Here’s my thinking.
Fair breeds sulking. When I was a child, doing my best, and yet things did not go my way, I felt that the world was not being fair with me, also my parents, siblings, teachers, rounders umpire etc. I went in to bat for my team, paid attention to the bowler, and as the ball came to me, I hit it, an absolute beaut. As it soared skyward for the edge of the playing field, I knew that I’d done my best, and this should be a rounder, no question. But then, what’s this? That fielder so bored at the edge of the game that they’ve sat down, is no longer sat down, in fact, they’re running, staring up at the sky and a small sphere of stitched leather which is coming rapidly towards the ground. They catch me and I’m out. No glory, no adoration from my team for my excellent hit, just a walk back to the bench. Not fair. On another day, that would have been perfect, not carried aloft by my pals (I was an active and strapping teaenager) but definitely smiles all round. Now I am sulking. What more could I have done? Maybe nothing. Fast forward to my illness and that could become a helpless place. If I can’t do anything to ensure the fairness of this life, why bother trying? Have another pizza, eat three cakes, sit on the sofa all day, stay in my PJs. That’s today ruined now. All because it isn’t fair. It seems the easy option to do all those things, and I do love cake, but that isn’t long term sustainable without other repercussions to my life. That matters, because that is caring about living. It’s why you take out a mortgage for all of your working adult life, why you save into a pension. It’s a vital human folly to believe that things will carry on, and go well. There is no space for fair in that narrative, and I hope that’s one you can choose, or work at choosing.
Fair encourages anger. It’s the sly kid who winds everyone up and then slinks away when the fight all kicks off. The problem with this fight is who are you going to fight? God? From my experience, and I confess that I’m agnostic if I really try and an atheist by nature, God isn’t too keen on replying when you ask him questions. Imagine now that you’re yelling at him, with all the unfairness of your life, medical situation, fact you’re single, rubbish job, whatever it is that has got your dander up. In my mind he becomes the disapproving parent, or kindly school teacher who cannot hear children who don’t have manners. So choosing God will be a very unfair fight, and one where no clear winner will appear. Who next to vent your spleen at then? The world? That’s possible, but I imagine that it can be an exhausting experience being angry at everything. There are studies into the positive effects of positivity, and you’re missing an easy win by directing your anger at the lack of fairness in the whole world. Plus people who don’t know your life will just think you’re a bit of an idiot, and potentially give you tangible things to be angry about. As our battlefield of people to have beef with is shrinking, we see the people in your life appear. Those people who you care about and who care about you. You want to fight them because of statistical chance? You get the picture. You need to assess what your main goal is. Do you want to live long, or live well? They aren't necessarily the same, but if it’s the latter, then anger will not serve you as a mainstay of your mood.
The judge sits in the courtroom, and you are in the dock. Classically, the walls are wood panelled and there is no jury, no spectators, no lawyers, just the two of you. In this kafkaesque waking nightmare, you’re not entirely sure what crime you have commited. The judge turns to you and asks you how do you plead? What should you say? Indeed, which crime of the ones that we have all committed at some time, is the one to admit to? Are they ranked? Can you really say that you’re blameless? The judge looks over their glasses and you know that they’re waiting for an answer. The background spins and you’re on the stage of a gameshow, all 1970s bright lights and garish lettering. The audience are cheering and applauding for the excitement that is about to begin. That same judge, transformed in a shiny burgundy suit, turns to you and explains the rules of the game. You can swap places with someone else. It can be anyone you nominate, but you must do it before the timer runs out. The timer beats with the blood in your ears. The host repeats that you can swap out and someone else could be in your place. Their voice slows and deepens and distorts as you try and decide what would be the fair thing to do, because damn right you don’t want to be in this game. Fair, and I believe this could be the worst of it all, is entitled.
Of course, nobody seeks to have angry, entitled or sulky as the adjectives that spring to mind when they are described by others, and you can choose for them to not be. That’s not all, there are other advantages to banishing fair to the very far edges of you narrative. Firstly, without “fair”, you gain space. The fair that was keeping you pinned to your sofa, comfort eating and being cross about the weight you gain, has gone. That’s one less thing to stop you from living the best life you can. Heck, you’ll want some wiggle room to avoid being crushed by a diagnosis, setback, or failure in a treatment. I’m not suggesting that I’m all smiles when I hear that my super smart cancer has super smart got its way around yet another treatment in super quick time. However, I try and prepare for the worst before I collect results, and move quickly on the day to any questions I might have about what’s next. I have also recently taken to offering my condolences to my oncologist, who’s a kind, hard working, wonderful person, and having to spend a proportion of her time telling me that what we are trying hasn’t worked is pretty rubbish. There’s not only me of course, I feel like she’s solely mine, but she has plenty of other patients with incurable cancer, and so this is a part of her job. She’s really very awesome. Removing fair means that I can be more agile, more adaptable, more flexible to look for the next good thing. There is a next good thing, I promise.
I was told several times to try the idea of my cancer being a pet. I get it, cancer becomes a part of your persona, it’s with you all the time, and it can be hard for people to not ask about it, should you choose to be open about your illness that is. That’s obviously because they care, it’s lovely, but also tiring when everyone you meet asks you how you are. It’s exhausting when you never have any good news to give, only the weak sunshine that things aren’t worse, yet. I find holding people’s sadness for me, their wish if they’re older than me that they could give me a long life in place of their own, a difficult thing to do, but I’m getting better at it. A swiftly spoken “but today things are good, and that’s what I’m focusing on,'' usually does it enough for the situation to return to cheery. Remember the ‘pet’? It has no name, no full persona. It’s not sentient, so it cannot do things which are fair. Or unfair. It’s nothing to trouble your intellect. Are you feeling stronger? You are strong. If you can remove “fair”, you remove so much of the power in the story from cancer or any other troubles. I believe that if you remove fair from your life, you place its power, rightly, on your shoulders. You did that, you powerful, wonderful, living human, you.
