How to Be a Superhero Warrior Angel

My dear friend Jenna accompanied me to my second chemo infusion, armed with a boat tote overflowing with crunchy snacks, cool drinks, a gourmet lunch, magazines, puzzle books, slipper socks, a scarf, and a brand new rubber figurine of Wonder Woman. We delighted over her classic fierce form, poised her atop the chemo drip machine, and posted her picture across social media. She was my totem for the next three months, traveling inside my own tote bag to each chemo infusion. After chemo was over, she moved onto a shelf opposite my bed, nestled between particularly funny or inspiring greeting cards, a set of worry dolls, a bracelet of beads meant to transfer strength, a shiny silver rock with the word BELIEVE etched on it. My shelf of cancer touchstones, Wonder Woman lives there still, now joined by an old Barbie-esque Wonder Woman doll I had bequeathed to my daughter from my own childhood. Tess played with her enough to break her weak arm for good, but luckily her stretchy full-body catsuit keeps her in one piece.

It’s this smaller, older Wonder Woman doll who inspires me now. Her rubber counterpart, carved so curvy and muscular, dwarfs her considerably. Next to the true Amazon, she is more like Wonder Girl. Thin, almost frail, her joints are awkward and angular. Wonder Woman can stand atop the chemo drip machine with great presence and poise, signaling singular power. But this vintage Wonder Girl is a hell of a lot closer not just to how I felt during treatment, but reflects just how off the mark the Cancer Superhero/Warrior meme is.

The meme is deeply, broadly pervasive, and I am not remotely the first to take issue with it. I read an article railing against the Warrior culture in the early 2OOOs after my first cancer. I can’t find it now, unless I’m willing to sift through two million Google matches. Judging from the first few pages of links, the matches are either pro-Warrior or distinctly anti. There is no in-between.

Here’s the pro-superhero argument: It helps to have support and inspiration during a cancer fight. I am strong, I am powerful, I am a superhero. I'm a Pink Warrior going into battle and I am going to kick cancer’s ass. Such positive thinking has its place, and can be very encouraging. Eradicating cancer is indeed a fight, like any other sickness — I often forget that people say Fight a Cold, but no one ever claims themselves to be a Cold Warrior — so going into battle necessitates a good rally cry. Let’s go get ’em!

After I finished chemo, before my big surgery, a friend was diagnosed with throat cancer. He was heading into surgery to remove the lump in his neck, then radiation and chemo the following week. His prognosis was excellent, and his treatment was scheduled to be over in a matter of weeks, but I still wanted to share some strength with him. I sent my mother to Cost Plus to find the superhero figures; she called me from the store as she sifted through the options. I had several reasons to choose Batman, like the most hummable theme song ever. Also the deep scratchy voice seemed to perfectly suit a man who’d be cut and radiated in his throat. Most importantly, the best thing about Batman is that while he’s a superhero he’s not a superhuman. He didn’t get bitten by a radioactive spider or come from a different planet. He is a regular human with a mission and an endless supply of gadgets and tools to help him. He also has a dark side: anger and vulnerability urge him on as strongly as his sense of justice does. He’s the only one who really embodies what I think our cancer culture should be.

I am not a superhero, not a warrior. I am human. I have strength and endurance and a pain threshold higher than I ever thought imaginable. I also have fears and anger and bad days when I don’t muster anything resembling force beyond making myself leave my bed to get a glass of water.

We wrap ourselves in superhero costumes and put on the visage as armor. The worst of the superhero culture creates standards most of us can’t match. Endless fortitude, a constant positive attitude, fearlessness, relentless fighting. And winning. Always, always winning. At any cost.

Kim wanted to be a warrior. I have never seen anyone fight so hard. Kim dropped her first doctor who coldly told her ovarian cancer would kill her; she was determined not to let even an ounce of negativity color her mission. She quickly converted to clean eating, subsisting on power smoothies and organic salads, even when a pile of starchy potatoes might have better soothed her acidic stomach. Kim endured treatments that didn't work and fought with her insurance company to be allowed entry into a cutting-edge trial at MD Andersen in Houston. While her husband stayed home with their six-year-old son, Kim boarded plane after plane to stay in hotels and with virtual strangers, to receive radical infusions that may or may not slow her cancer’s growth. She lost weight, she had to be wheeled through airports. Yet she kept going.

Kim was a sunny, positive person before cancer arrived. It was natural for her to reach for optimism. But she was also human. She cried, she wearied, she fought her fears as hard as the cancer itself. Every time she felt herself weaken and tire, she spoke with an overwhelming sense of failure. Superheroes don’t cry. Warriors aren’t afraid. Warriors keep going until the battle is won. But what do warriors do when they are fighting and fighting but they seem to be losing? Warriors don’t lose. Superheroes don't quit.

It's not uncommon to pour all our positive thinking into the superhero persona — or expect that the patients we know want to — when we are feeling small and scared. I think that's what Shannon was doing, when I met her in the Gilda's Club support group in 1999. She was 19, the youngest in the room by a decade, and was finally facing the fallout from the childhood cancer she had survived. When we first went around the circle introducing ourselves, Shannon spoke for the first and last time. "I believe cancer survivors are angels," her voice was soft and high. Shannon listened to the rest of the group share their stories, their fears and anger and despair. She never came back. I wonder if we disappointed her, displaying emotions that were not angelic, but deeply, darkly human.

I'm still not clear on Shannon's logic, but I find her angel ideal interesting. No longer a warrior or superhero, her battle was long since decided a victory, but she still clung to an otherworldly persona. Cancer wants to turn ordinary humans into mythical creatures.

Of course, none of us are radioactive Amazon princess angels. We are still just human. But humans are impressive, strong beings that endure unimaginable experiences all the time. We weep, hide, rage, weaken, rally, laugh, cry some more and get back up again to face whatever is next. We should let ourselves be human, in all our multi-faceted glory. We don't need Wonder Woman to front for us. Although I'd take her golden Lasso of Truth any day.