A Survivor’s Guilt

Imagine you wake up in the middle of a frozen lake. It’s spring, and you can hear ice melting all around you. At any moment a crack could form and you’ll plunge into the cold water, but you’re smack dab in the center of this thing, so you have no choice but to pick a spot on shore and start putting one foot in front of the other.

Now imagine that you’ve made it to dry land. It took a while, and your body is wrecked after the ordeal, but you did it. A huge crowd on shore is cheering and patting you on the back – you bask in their admiration as the terror and agony slowly start to wane. You might even start to think you’re pretty dang strong. You might think you made it because of how determined you were, how you stayed positive and never gave up. You might even dole out advice here and there in order to help anyone else who might get dropped onto that lake. Then you turn around.

Someone else is out there, trying to make it to shore. She’s just as strong as you, just as determined, and just as positive and funny in the face of her impossible task. More so, maybe. But right as you turn and catch sight of her journey, she falls through. Gone. Just like that.

This is what cancer is like, friends. No rhyme or reason, nothing you can do to improve your odds, not really. And the pain and horror of it never goes away.

I’ve spent the last four days completely consumed by the pain and suffering of one person I barely knew, and her husband, who I haven’t known outside of Facebook in a long time. But cancer is like that I guess – being diagnosed is like joining this horrible club that no one wants an ID card for. It’s a lifetime membership, and what happens to other members will forever move you, regardless of how well you know them. Kinda like that parenthood club – once you’re a parent, you mourn for other people’s sick and injured children with a fervor that doesn’t even always make sense.

I’m grateful that this woman – this incredibly beautiful, light-up-the-room woman – has set aside her suffering. The legacy she has left behind will be celebrated by the Chicago theatre community for many, many years. And I’m grateful that this same loving community will carry her husband and hold him in their arms while he navigates this horrifying new normal. I’m also grateful that I turned around in time to catch sight of her journey, because it was beautiful – because of the light she carried inside of her and the strength she found as she faced impossible circumstances, it was beautiful.

A close friend listened patiently yesterday, as I tried yet again to understand why I was so affected by this woman whom I barely knew. Why I woke up every day with a weight on my chest. Why if left alone with my thoughts I can’t stop crying. I tried in vain to pick through the emotions and thoughts to find a reason why I should mourn so hard for her. Then my friend gently introduced an idea.

“You made it through your entire experience without having to face your mortality,” she said. “Death wasn’t on the table for you – it couldn’t be while you were fighting – but now you have to deal with that part of the journey.”

Sigh. The flood of emotion that came after those statements tells me she’s right.

Watching someone similar to me in age, community, humor, and strength…watching her fight a battle that in reality was just one step next to mine…one stupid roman numeral that marks the difference between temporary treatment and lifetime treatment…this is part of the process. And part of the responsibilities of my club membership.

Erin Myers, I remember you. I remember how everyone was so taken by you, including me. I remember that you were someone who lit up every stage you stepped onto. I remember watching from afar and being so excited that Rob was the one you chose for a husband – I remember thinking how lucky the both of you were to have found each other. I remember how sad I was that I screwed up and left the Chicago theatre community, because that meant I wasn’t able to get to know you.

You did it. You reached the shore. The crowd on your side is different than mine, but I’m betting they’re cheering just as loudly and carrying you on their shoulders right now. And those of us who are still here and fighting are stronger, softer and brighter from having just known of your existence.

Love and light darlin’, love and light.