How to Laugh When the World Says Cry:
Coping with Cancer as a Teenager

When I was 18, I packed up my belongings and headed west. Finally out on my own, I was ready to set the wind to my sails and live. I started university and started having the time of my life. Shortly into the school year I e-mailed home to explain all the exciting things that were going on. "Oh yeah," I added towards the end, "I have some lump in my neck. Must be cancer," I joked.

And as karma would have it, almost a year later, at the age of 19, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease. I underwent eight months of intensive chemotherapy while I watched my friends carry on with the type of life I never expected myself to stray from. I dropped out of my second year of university, moved away from a houseful of friends, and returned to my parents on the other side of the country. I was forced to face the fearsome thought of my own mortality. I felt like throwing up a lot of the time; I lost my hair, my eyebrows, my eyelashes and my immune system.

But I smiled more than I frowned; I laughed more than I cried and it wasn't that hard to do.

Welcome to the world of chemotherapy. Get ready for the battle of your life. It's a frightening concept - filling your body with toxic drugs but it is definitely far from being devoid of amusement.

Once you've adapted to this new feature of your life, don't forget to pay attention to the same features that were there all along - they're still there. Cancer may have invaded your body without invitation or without your control but it does not steal the control that you have over your mind. Happiness is determined mentally and individually. Humour is unique to each of us. Be happy because you want to. Laugh because you can. The events in your life may not always be controllable. But your reactions to and interpretations of these events lie in your hands only. The control over one's mind is so much more powerful than any cancer ever will be.

Alas, it's true: the chemotherapy room can be a gloomy place. On the other hand, you can have highly interesting discussions with your neighbours about your favorite drug flavors - like 'fruit punch', 'blueberry', 'banana' or 'metal chair leg.' And with all of those drugs pumping into the bodies in the chemo room, there's no doubt that the bathroom is a popular spot. Turn this into an event. Dance with your IV pole all the way to the bathroom. Race other patients. The average age of fellow patients gives you a huge advantage in Chemo Room Races. As soon as you see that man across the room start to stir as he's eyeing the bathroom, grab your pole and make a run for it. But make sure your IV pole is the appropriate height first! There is nothing more self-deflating than slow-motion running towards the bathroom, squeezing past the man, humming 'Chariots of Fire', only to wrestle with the doorway.

With chemo comes the almost-inevitable side effect of hair loss. It's safe to say that no teenager wants to lose his or her hair, so this is a difficult issue to grapple with - until you discover the perks of pre-premature balding. Ask an unsuspecting person to brush your hair. Have shedding contests with your cat. Get frustrated with store employees and explain that you're so mad you could rip your hair out. Proceed to do so. When your eyebrows go, if they go, experiment with new eyebrow styles - magic markers work wonderfully for this.

Cancer, in and of itself, is not fun. But cancer never exists in and of itself; it exists as a part of an ordinary person - ordinary people who can live life and laugh often, in the face of uncontrollable forces that try to get in the way. These natural forces of the earth make it so easy to fall; and so much more difficult to fight to get back up. But the view is so much nicer from up top. It makes the fight, no matter how difficult, all worthwhile. Because that moment, when you rise above it all, is beautiful.

I remember the days I lay on the bathroom floor, nauseated, complete with bruised arms and an even more bruised ego; I remember the nights I would cry myself to sleep after my diagnosis or when the road to recovery seemed too long. But if someone were to ask me what stands out the most about those eight months of my life, I would tell them about the laughter, the smiling, the love, the jokes, the nights I lay awake in bed grinning, giddy, because that afternoon I had been told I no longer had cancer, or I had finished my last chemo, or my eyelashes had started growing again. That's what those 8 months were about. And as the memories of nausea and needles fade, those are the things I will never forget.

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