Aaron Laughs With Cancer

“Mental it out!” That’s my go-to inner chant, the safety phrase I resort to it when trying to write that last page of dialogue at 1AM or trying to do those last ten reps of a barbell that I will let you imagine is really heavy. I also shout it at Amazing Race and Survivor contestants when I think they’re whining too much. The statement is a motivator, my reminder that if I want something bad enough, I just have to be motivated enough.

But that’s idiotic. I’m essentially re-purposing that damned Secret book and adding some macho flair. Because the last three days have taught me that “mental-ing it out” is far less helpful than completely letting go.

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I was warned that the first weekend after five straight days of chemotherapy would be a doozy, but that didn’t stop me from tentatively RSVP-ing to multiple Christmas parties. “I’m 27, I got this,” read my cocky inner monologue. I’m of the generation that made ugly Christmas sweaters their own raison d'être and I wanted to celebrate accordingly. But Friday evening brought fatigue. And then fatigue and nausea started tag-teaming me. At one point, nausea grabbed a folding chair and went to town. I spent most of the weekend in bed, rolling back and forth. I tried saying, “Mental it out.” I may as well have said, “Walk it off.”

Mind over matter extends to attitude and optimism, and I still feel very optimistic about this whole cancer thing. But mind over matter isn’t about control, and it’s been truly humbling to learn that. Cancer and chemo are going to battle inside my body for awhile - that’s the deal. I can view it through whatever-colored lenses I choose, but I can’t control the process. I can’t make the pain submit to my will. I’m not an Expendable.

I’ve touched on this before, but recognizing how little you’re in control? It’s a valuable experience. More than ever, I have to accept that I’m not in charge. I’m not God and my plans may not be His.

The nice thing, though, is that by letting go of control, I can relinquish responsibility. (I’m essentially arguing for the inverse Peter Parker, here.) It’s no longer my “job” to feel well, to be the guy who can bust through chemo and still hit the sweater party. If I can, great. But I don’t have to hold myself to that standard and I don’t have to fight for that control. I have to be open to weakness, pain, fatigue… they’re part of this experience and I, personally, can’t fight them off. Sometimes I won’t be able to leave the couch and that’ll be OK; at least I can keep yelling at reality show contestants.