by Cengizhan Sen
In trying times in life, hands are meant to be held.
By holding them can a person feel guided, supported and warm. When hands are vacant, they are filled by a glass of water, flowers and the feeling of abundance. When hands reach out, fingers slip in between and remind them of touch. When they are unable to raise themselves, it is someone else’s fingers that carry out the work. Hands lift burdens and cancer is an ordeal that calls for the hands of many – a community.
The term ‘community’ is portrayed by the sharing of particular values, features or perspectives, and for cancer patients malignancy becomes the unfavourable eligibility criteria for the cancer club. Past the revolving doors of the cancer centre, one finds a community nestled neatly inside. Greater inquiry into this unfamiliar, daunting world and smaller communities are scattered across treatment wards and charities. It’s a far cry from Soho House or any exclusive members club one wishes to be part of, but it guarantees far more community without the selectivity. After all, cancer does not discriminate.
Cancer survivorship joins hands with the scientific, psycho-emotional and holistic communities as patients subscribe to differing advocacies aimed at educating and preventing future malignancy. Medical practitioners, youth counsellors and carers all become recognised as members of our cancer community, unified by the efforts to subjugate cancer and its disturbances. Backed by research organisations and funding bodies – the trial to deal with cancer presents many hands at work, showcasing support apace with curative and palliative care. The contagion effect of cancer is cautioned by the collective efforts of this restorative community.
Whilst branches of this community offer a bounty, its roots are spoiled by the concession that certain relationships are formed involuntarily – primarily those with occupational ties. Carers may be unable to measure the depth of physical and emotional complications arising from cancer. Confiding in friends and relatives may confront an individual with the condition that their experience sadly warrants exposure or participation. They all remain valued as key performers in cancer care, treasured for their contributions to survivorship, but their hands can only offer so much. In attempts to withstand the growing isolation caused by cancer, attempts are made to form a community relative to our circumstances.
Community had become a comfortless word, for my cancer diagnosis saw its quick dissolution. In attempts to rebuild it, I found that it had entirely changed. Zoom meetings and chemotherapy sessions complimented by sanitised conversations would replace well-loved cultural events and congenial gatherings. Nonetheless, I appreciated and sought out these interactions, conscious of this new reality’s social endorsement, brought upon by cancer. Malignancy has the distinct quality of violently withdrawing an individual from what they are accustomed to and comforted by. This revised form of a community would offer support during the arduous shifts at the treatment ward, preserving this mutual aid in treatment or remission. Even so, the appreciation began to dwindle as the sessions lacked the organic, face-to-face interactions participants yearned for.
I was approaching a year into remission and survival mode remained in full force. Restoring my life to its former glory became a hungry pursuit and the building of community had taken a critical hit. Comforted by reclusion’s promises of safety and sanity, guarantees of finding community began to falter. The conversations in my mind sought to prioritise a seemingly dependable relationship – the one with myself – and forgoing community seemed the best solution. These thoughts were interrupted by the ping of a WhatsApp notification, endorsing a cancer retreat trip to a place known as Flynne’s Barn.
Cancer is a patron of insecurity. In our survivorship journey, we may struggle to find the right words to say, worry about the validity of our experience and question whether or not we are adopting the correct approach. As I contemplated attending the trip, my mind – in its deep-seated pessimism – pushed the isolated thought of reclusion closer to the roundtable of consciousness, reminding me of a fundamental truth. People need people. Epitomised by the care received from professionals and relatives, my trust in this belief unseated my doubts. Ushered by my keenness for adventure, I soon found myself staring outside a sun-washed train window approaching the Lake District, accompanied by a cordial band of adolescent cancer patients.
With the days dedicated to outdoor activities and the nights for sharing our feelings, the time spent at Flynne’s Barn felt like segments from a coming-of-age independent film. The emotional refectory that seemed ungovernable and reserved solely for depression began to cater to the ideals of hope and connection. The fear, paranoia, humour and grief associated with cancer found revelation through these discussions. In the moments when feelings didn’t cross paths, the time-served nods of these new-found community members were validating. There was solidarity in the fact that cancer’s rampant nature incited obscure, atypical events. We had all dealt with our own and understood that this was simply par for the cancer course.
The popular lyric – ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ – misses out on a key note. Cancer makes you stronger, and stranger. It turns fine-tuned bodies and minds into unfamiliar instruments. Wincing at its new trill, and noticing the reactions of bystanders, we quickly become aware of how our experience has transformed us and prescribes re-learning. Yet by engaging with the cancer community, this perceived strangeness begins to dissipate. Whether it was attending a meet-up, partaking in a workshop, or sitting by the fire at Flynne’s Barn – the exchange of insights, grievances and laughter gave realisation to the normalcy of our feelings. Cancer became the club that spirited the feeling of being heard, sane and seen.
As the climb through community grows greater and a horizon appears in view, we begin to understand that community exists in different forms. It can be physically led, preserved digitally or evoked in remembrance. It can even exist subconsciously, with patients yet to discern that they can participate and reach out. The sentiment that we are never truly alone holds truth to its utterance – it simply needs to be sought out. As for Flynne’s Barn, the relations kindled by the fireplace kept burning through a WhatsApp group chat, coffee meet-ups and a hopeful picnic get-together. This time-bounded stay led to unanticipated friendships that passed beyond the barn’s stone walls and ran deeper than the rivers we swam in.
Being a member of the cancer community can be deeply fulfilling and cathartic, albeit accompanied by the admission of existential threat. Yet, in the precariousness of the cancer landscape, I choose to confront its mountains, break through its cloudbursts and wade through its murky waters. I prefer to do so now because I have trust in my community to hold my hand throughout the journey. In the fullness of my experiences, I can understand that the cancer community exists not solely out of necessity, but out of gratitude. The needs of its members give way to appreciating the support provided, aided by hearing ears, regardful eyes and considerate hearts. With its continual efforts to advocate differing identities, interests and practices, we find the community continuously remoulding itself. Gratitude radiates in response.
Understanding the need for a community began as a questionable route in my cancer journey. It relied upon finding the right way of delivering myself to the appropriate group of people. The initial loss of community may have been an unfortunate necessity, piloting a deeper appreciation for it. Now and again, I like to think that the community was waiting for me when I needed it the most or that it would be welcomed when I felt ready, existing as something that wishes to be found and embraced. It seems that I was able to achieve this at last.
Written by Cengizhan Sen (born 1998), who is a London-based writer, producer, researcher and artist. His diagnosis with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma has sparked a writing practice that explores cancer, identity, their associative traumas and healing. He is currently supporting Trekstock as an ambassador and cancer advocate.
11.10.2024