Technically I'm surviving every day that I draw breath, so literally it still fits. But it also has some "done and won" connotations that don't fit as well anymore.
So, what then is the opposite of survivor?
According to WordHippo.com the opposite of survivor is casualty. Contributors at WikiAnswers have it down as victim, fatality, or loser.
Nice.
In the context of language and opposites, I can't take it personally. Really, I do understand that those answers weren't ever intended to be used in this particular context.
But still, it's kind of funny to think of myself throwing around, "Hi, I'm a cancer victim," or, worse yet, "Hey everyone, I'm a cancer fatality." I have a feeling something like that would come across very, very badly. To put it mildly.
"Cancer loser" is at least ridiculous enough to be funny. Not, I hope, very accurate, but funny.
But, more to the point, I'm not a casualty just yet, thank you very much. Not a fatality, nor a victim. Yet, on the other hand, unless something even worse happens to me, the expectation is that at some point (and the plan is some very distant point), it is expected that the cancer will someday rise up and take me down with it.
"I'm surviving--for now," isn't the kind of thing I want to say either. Or hear. Or be. Even if it is technically true, it's dark, with undertones of hopelessness and pessimism. We may know cancer is likely to someday do the deed, but talking about it like we're expecting it to happen any day now is more than a little depressing and also untrue.
And besides, who among us isn't actually "surviving--for now," when you get down to it. It is part of the human condition, after all.
"Cancer patient" is one of the better choices, I think. It's both technically true and good at avoiding adding that overwrought sense of impending doom that the other phrases do. Or, post-impending doom (fatality and causality, I'm talking to you).
But it also seems like a bit of a cop out, because in cancer-world, the word "survivor" isn't just a statement of whether or not you've survived, it's also your ticket to that special place in the whole survivor culture that runs through all manner of fund raising and celebration.
"Survivor" is a message of hope and a statement about the successes that have been achieved. It's something that encourages people to feel good about donating and personalizes the mission into a cause people can rally around.
Chemicals in a Petri dish? Not very engaging. Lots of shiny, happy women grateful to be alive? Much more engaging.
Stage IV can still be a rallying point, but it pushes things out of "successes" and back to the "still more work to be done" category. If it is still a message of hope, it's one that's a little frayed at the edges and pulled out at the seams.
My husband, daughter, and I did a walk to raise funds for breast cancer programs and research last October (of course October). It was a good experience for us and nice to feel like we were paying forward some of the care and treatments I had had the year before (and actually, even now knowing how that turned out, it's still nice to feel like we did something to help fix this thing for future generations and help enable discoveries that might help me). I walked out of that walk with a free pin that calls me "survivor" and a soft pink Miss America sash that boldly proclaims me one. Felt kind of dorky, but also kind of nice. Because I was a symbol of hope on that day.
Chevy and the ACS have teamed up for a initiative in support of cancer survivors (website here) as a follow up to that moving commercial they ran during the Super Bowl (also on the link above). I even found out cancer survivors get the color purple. Who knew surviving had its own color? But, (and this is not because anyone else has made me feel excluded, only because of my own muddled feelings on the matter) I feel like it isn't really my team anymore. Or maybe like it is my team, but I'm cheering from the sidelines after having been benched for poor performance.
I guess I have a new team now. The "living with metastatic disease" team. And the plan is for the emphasis to remain on the "living" part of that.
I'm finding there is sometimes an undercurrent of "they want to forget we exist" from some metastatic patients in the stage IV world, but I'm happy to report that I haven't witnessed anything like that myself. I hope I never do.
Besides, as I sit here and type this, I'm wearing the pink breast cancer awareness Under Armor Wonder Woman t-shirt one of my stepsons and his wife gave me and my daughter for my birthday. It's the shirt that I wore on that cancer walk. Unlike the "survivor" sash that sits hidden away in a box, too symbolic to throw away, too awkward to use, I wear this t-shirt as often as I can.
As I've said before, I obviously don't have much in common with Wonder Woman herself, but I love this shirt. I love the image of strength, I love the people who gave it to me, I love the people who walked with me and the people who donated to our walk, I love the memories I have of watching the Wonder Woman TV show in the '70's with my parents and big brother (accurately called survivor himself--go bro! My little brother I also love, but he was just a baby back then and didn't watch TV), pretending I could spin around and turn from the me version of Diana Prince into everyone's version of the awesomeness that is Wonder Woman, and watching those shows again as an adult and sharing the joy with my daughter and husband.
Under Armor's breast cancer campaign is one I like. It features real life woman and their stories and, as far as I can tell, raises real money for real research (not all pink goods do). But the reason I like the shirt is that it reminds me of some of the best parts of living, my husband, daughter, stepkids and stepdaughter-in-law, my family and friends, old memories and new ones.
And the good parts are still the good parts, whether I'm "living," a "survivor," "living with metastatic disease," or predending to be the awesomeness that is Wonder Woman.
Take that, "cancer loser" moniker, take that.
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