I Had A ‘Legitimate Cancer’

Before it all started, I looked through the school window off into the distance at the beautiful green mountains of my childhood and wondered how fast I could get into the woods and get away. I am a pretty fast runner, even after being weakened by the radiation, and I guessed I could bolt out the back door and make it to a nearby hollow in about five minutes. I could live as a hermit for a few years. Maybe my cowardice wouldn't be remembered when I came back to civilization around 2013.

But it was too late to run. The doors swung open and we marched out into the sunlight. One of the nice women who was running the walk stood over a tiny boom box perched on a chair near the track, her finger poised above the play button. "Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no," I thought. "What could it be?"

She pushed the button, a tinny sound came out, and I immediately recognized the song: "At first I was afraid! I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side …" It was "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. Now, not only am I trapped out in broad daylight, in public, in my purple T-shirt, walking around in circles with people clapping at me, but I'm having a hard time not walking in time to the music. The only line I could identify with was: "Just turn around now … 'cause you're not welcome anymore!"

I wasn't the only one suffering small humiliations on this day. Earlier my dad and brother were talking when an elderly neighbor lady walked up. My father is a southern gentleman of the old school. He is a man of few words, and if he had his druthers, one of those words would not be "testicular." That goes double if he's talking to a woman. "What kind was it?" she asked. My father had to answer. (To save us from this situation in the future, my brother Chris came up with the euphemism "man-area cancer," which I prefer in every way to that other word.)

When darkness fell, and I'd suffered through the promised laps, I sat on the ground with my family beneath the moon. We listened to the roll call of those locals who had died from cancer—names of old friends and familiar mountain surnames—lilting off into the cool night air. Brown paper candle luminaries representing victims formed a circle of light on the ground around the track, and people took turns reading as photos of the fallen were projected on a movie screen.

It was then that I realized something profound about my day. It wasn't humiliating. It wasn't cheesy, or corny, but just right. My mom was right to sign me up. The people that really know me—the ones who watched me grow up, who coached me in little league and went to the Presbyterian church with my family—were here for me and all of the rest of the men and women who'd lived through their own lonely cancer hell. It mattered to them that I was still here. That is no small thing. And that realization made me feel so at home and safe there in that place, sitting on the grass in my purple T-shirt, as the images of my old friends flickered on the screen, their faces made blurry by the tears in my eyes and the fleeting passage of time.

Tuttle is an editor in NEWSWEEK’s Washington bureau and lives in Alexandria, Va.

© 2008