“geez, i guess you were a little late on throwing out all the plastic.”
my friend was standing in the front doorway of my house, her arms loaded with glass containers full of cooked dinners, a bag of oranges and a bottle of wheatgrass juice.
word had started to get out that i had a rare blood cancer. she had come to offer meals, advice and unhelpful commentary — like reminding me of my pre-cancer purge of all plastic things that contained bisphenol a (bpa), a potential health hazard.
“and the lack of sleep,” she tried to shake her head as she used her chin to balance the wheatgrass. “i told you it was going to catch up with you.”
and so it began: well-meaning people blaming my diagnosis on getting too much sun, not eating enough carrots, my hairspray, my house’s proximity to a busy, fume-filled street, my father’s work at a nuclear power plant or my love of burnt red peppers. (there was also the one who tried to tie my cancer to “excessive” breastfeeding, but that’s a whole other story.)
apparently, there were a thousand reasons why i developed a life-threatening disease, most of which hadn’t even crossed my mind. and all of them were my fault.
about a month later, i was at a patient support meeting and i met a young woman living with lung cancer. she was young, fit and fresh-faced.