Aliza Pollack – on re-entering the cancer zone.
The following exchange took place this autumn between Open Letters contributor Aliza Pollack and editor Paul Tough. Aliza is the author of four previous letters about her cancer and its treatment; here are links to the first, second, third, and fourth. Unlike most open letters, which are published soon after they’re written, Aliza’s letters have always appeared several months after they were written (for reasons explained here), and so have often been out of sync with her actual condition. On September 26, for instance, we published a letter Aliza had written in April, about a low moment in her chemotherapy; but in fact, Aliza’s cancer was in remission by the time the letter was published. That time warp is one of the subjects of this exchange.]
Los Angeles
September 17, 2000
Paul:
I almost forgot – got the results back, finally, and everything seems to be clear. As far as my doctor is concerned, I am in remission. Everyone is thrilled and I know that I am too (somewhere inside), but I am also cautious. The reality is that I have to be monitored every month, take tests every three months for the next two years. It is kind of hard to grab relief. I don’t know how much I can take and I kind of feel cheated. Relief should be unmeasured. One should be able to grab a handful unabashedly, but alas, it does not seem to be the way right now.
Aliza
San Francisco
September 26, 2000
Aliza:
You know, I don’t think I ever wrote you back to say (cautiously, of course): congratulations. That’s great news. Because I’ve just been working on your letter from April, I think I’m sort of stuck in your situation back then – but I’m glad you’re not.
I had a few misgivings today about not explaining in the editor’s letter that you’re better. But I think it’s important not to give people any relief from the situation that you describe in that letter – part of what makes that letter so powerful is that you didn’t know how things were going to turn out.
Anyway, if you have any thoughts on all this, please let me know.
Paul
Los Angeles
October 10, 2000
Dear Paul –
First of all, thank you for your congratulations. I still don’t think in terms of remission because, well, because I don’t know how to think about remission. It isn’t that easy a concept to get my head around. It is sort of final, but sort of not, and that’s not reassuring. I’d rather just get on with my life, ignore the medical terminology, and integrate my various doctors’ appointments into my “regular” schedule (whatever the hell that is). Basically, get used to the fact that I, as my doc said, am now in the medical system. I am trying to think about that in a non-depressing way. On the other hand, I do love my doctor. Really. Love. In love. It is a totally idealized relationship. In the back of my mind, I think he has saved my life which, in a way, he has. He is fantastic and I am experiencing a very large, very robust crush on him and a monthly visit ain’t a bad thing. I’ve discussed it with my boyfriend and he is fully aware of my feelings. There are two men in my life. Lucky girl.
Now, then, I know what you are saying about the letters. It’s weird because we are in the present and the letters are so, so (believe me, so) in the past. As me, Aliza, I’d love to tell everybody what is up, and that I’m better now. It is hard to get some of the letters from readers who don’t know, who empathize, who have had a similar experience and wish me well. I kind of feel like I am leading them on – but then I have to tell myself that they are not reacting to me, they are reacting to the letters. And the letters are from another time.
We have been manipulating the time thing from the beginning and you’ve been explaining the situation so I don’t think we have to feel too bad about never being in the present. I wonder, really, if we are ever going to catch up. I am way ahead of the letters in terms of recovery.
Regards,
Aliza
Milford, Connecticut
November 3, 2000
Hi Aliza,
Sorry for the long delay in getting back to you; I hope you’re well. I’d like to run a third installment from you next week. I spent the afternoon reading through a bunch of your letters, and here’s what I’ve come up with: What I’d like to run next is a combination of two letters that you wrote to Miriam early on in the radiation process, one that was focused more on ending chemo (the relief letter) the other that was focused more on the radiation itself. I think they were written within a week or two of one another, and though the mood’s a little different, I think they’ll be most effective if we can combine them.
Let me know what you think. Hope all’s well.
Best,
Paul Tough
Los Angeles
November 6, 2000
Dear Paul –
I can’t get to it this week. I’m sorry. I’ve got this tingly feeling in my arm and I have to take some tests and I am mildly anxious and I just can’t concentrate. I’m sorry. I’ll keep you posted. Hopefully, by the end of this week, all will be well and I can get something to you.
In mild anxiety,
Aliza
Milford, Connecticut
November 7, 2000
Dear Aliza,
I’m sorry to hear about the tingle. I hope everything’s just fine. I’d say I’m sure everything’s just fine, but I’m in Connecticut, and it’s hard to be sure of anything out here, so I’ll just be hopeful instead. Please let me know how those tests turn out, and whenever things are better, we can turn to installment number three.
Best wishes,
Paul
Los Angeles
November 10, 2000
Hey –
The news is not so good. There is a recurrence of my tumor and I have to go back in for treatment. Different this time. Something called a stem cell transplant which necessitates me being in the hospital for four weeks. First, I have to do two more rounds of chemotherapy – most probably next week: three days in a row, then rest three weeks; another round, rest three weeks. Then I go into the hospital, they take out my stem cells, give me five days of chemo in the hospital and eventually, return my stem cells. The whole thing sucks and I am not in the mood at all, as you can imagine.
Nothing much left to say.
Am shocked off my ass.
Aliza
Milford, Connecticut
November 10, 2000
Dear Aliza,
I’m very sorry to hear that. That must be really disappointing, not to mention frightening, and it does indeed suck. I was used to the idea of a healthy Aliza, and I’m sure you were, too. Please keep me posted as much as you can, though I’ll of course understand if you have more important things to do. And I’ll remain hopeful, out here in Connecticut, and be thinking of you.
Best wishes,
Paul
Los Angeles
November 26, 2000
Dear Paul –
Thank you so much for your thoughts. I’m okay. That about covers it. Up, down, all around. At the same time.
At first, I was pissed, pissed, pissed, thinking, “What? You have got to be kidding. I’ve only had two months of being clear and I still appreciate it, surely that must count for something.” But oncologists, while I’ve noticed they are really personable – mine has a great sense of humor – do not kid about these things. So I started the inevitable questioning: Did they not get it the first time? Whose fault is this? Did I do this? Did I bring this on? Karma? What? What? What? Then there is the questioning of faith and the questioning of the way in which I believe – is this God’s doing? Because so many people were trying to comfort me by saying something like, “God gives to each of us what we can take – and this will only make you stronger.” And I’m thinking: (a) I don’t believe in that kind of God, and (b) I’ve already been through six months of chemotherapy and radiation. I’m feeling good. I’m feeling strong. The rest of the strength that I need, I can pick up in my daily life, through normal travails, as I get old and make mistakes, like other people do. So that God approach fizzled.
Then I had to move on to my personal belief system of “randomness in the world” and “shit happens” and the worst, worst, worst, most incomprehensible fact of all, which is that life is not fair. It takes so much out of me to accept that some people get bad things and other people don’t and that’s just the way it is. A part of me feels (or hopes) that life is more balanced than that, but I just don’t think it’s true. Why do kids get sick? Why do they die? Why do nice people get sick and mean people don’t? I know of a lot of people who are positively floating through life in some sort of dark cloud: bad relationships, bad communication with others, intense misplaced anger, nervous, frenetic energy, frustrated dreams, lies, Satan’s package, the whole deal – and they are just the picture of health. No colds, not even a swollen gland. Floating.
My every instinct wants to say, It evens out. Don’t worry. There is more joy coming for you. But the reality is that being a patient sucks. You can try to call your clients and sound happy, look for an apartment and think about moving, write your novel, but the foremost thing on my mind is that I am twenty-nine, on the cusp of what I want to do, and I have cancer again. I have to lose my hair again (I mean, is there ever a good time for a girl to lose her hair?), I have to go through chemotherapy again (once was more than enough), I have to be absolutely anal about the people that I see and come in contact with because of the germs that they may bring near me, I have to look at my family as they take care of me (sad, sad, sad), I have to have this between me and my boyfriend (sad, sad, sad), I have to have copious needles and doctors and nurses and blood and syringes in my life (not my favorites), I have to kiss goodbye a certain kind of freedom and three precious months (or more) of my life as I go through the chemotherapy, recover from it, get my transfusions, go into the hospital, get more chemotherapy and spend four weeks there resting and hoping to something or someone that this works, that this is it, that I can move on, that I can stop being the damn patient and start being me.
That is how I feel. That said, I want to keep working on those letters, okay? I am going to look at the one you sent me and send it back to you this week. While I need rest and silence and all that, I also need projects and vague deadlines not imposed by me.
Take care then –
I will too. Oh I will.
Aliza
