Cancer treatment is often described as a battle, but my experience taught me it’s more of a surrender – surrendering to the process of healing. Six months of chemotherapy and immunotherapy hospitalizations revealed a stark reality: as patients, we have limited control. Treatment protocols dictate our schedules, leaving little room for negotiation. I remember pleading with my oncologist, “Isn’t five cycles enough? Can’t we be done?” only to be met with the unwavering logic of established, time-tested protocols. Reluctantly, I agreed to the full treatment for non-Hodgkin lymphoma. By the final cycle, I was physically diminished, a mere shadow of my former self.
Yet, amidst this surrender, I found a small act of rebellion, a personal way to reclaim a sense of control and normalcy. I refused to wear hospital gowns. Every other patient donned those standard-issue garments, but I opted for my regular Street Clothes. Not sweatpants or loungewear, but the clothes I’d choose for any day out in public, even my signature British driver’s cap. This wasn’t about defiance, but about resisting the perception of being solely defined by my illness – as someone weak, pitiable, and requiring special treatment.
A person wearing a driver's cap and street clothes, standing in a hospital room, expressing the desire to maintain normalcy during cancer treatment.
The Importance of Maintaining Identity Beyond Illness
Cancer strips away so much – your health, energy, and often, your sense of self. For me, wearing street clothes was a conscious effort to preserve the remnants of my identity. It was about holding onto the “me” that existed before cancer, the person beyond the patient. This need to maintain normalcy in the face of the abnormal was a powerful driving force during my treatment.
Beyond clothing, this desire manifested in other ways. My hospital room became a space for creativity and life. I brought my easel and paints, transforming the sterile environment into a makeshift art studio. Reading turned into writing; I penned nearly 100 poems capturing my experiences and emotions. These poems, surprisingly, resonated with others, finding publication in cancer magazines and eventually culminating in my book, “Running from the Reaper: Poems from an Impatient Cancer Survivor.” It seemed that even in the depths of illness, the world craved the healing power of poetry.
Street Clothes as a Passport to Normal Life
Wearing street clothes extended beyond personal comfort; it became a passport back to normal life, even within the confines of the hospital. Whenever possible, freed from IV lines and chemo bags, I would explore the hospital halls. Walking became a form of therapy, a way to regain physical strength and mental clarity. Hospital cafeterias offered a semblance of routine, a chance to partake in everyday activities. I even found solace and normalcy in the hospital chapel, playing the piano and browsing the gift shop.
My daily pilgrimage to the coffee kiosk for a good cup of Joe was another ritual of normalcy. Emboldened by my street clothes disguise, I even ventured outside the hospital, seeking refuge in a nearby coffee house. These brief escapes, though perhaps rule-bending, were liberating. For those precious moments, I wasn’t a patient; I was just another person enjoying a coffee, blending seamlessly into the everyday world. This feeling of normalcy, however fleeting, was invaluable, offering respite from the constant awareness of my illness.
“Elvis Has Left the Building”: A Poem of Resistance
The poem “Elvis Has Left the Building” encapsulates this feeling of confinement and the small rebellions I enacted to reclaim my freedom and identity, symbolized by the refusal to wear hospital gowns and opting for street clothes instead.
## Elvis Has Left the Building
Three things to tell you first:
My middle name is Elvis.
I’ve always been a rebel.
My hospital room was the nicest you ever saw.
But a cage gilded with gold is still a prison.
For me, I could never stand a cubicle job
or one in a small office. I feel imprisoned.
Raised in the wilds of Alaska, I need the freedom of wide, open spaces.
I would have tied bedsheets together and rappelled out the eight-story window
if they gave me enough sheets.
Instead, for six months, I snuck out from the oncology floor
half a dozen times a day. My great escape didn’t include
jumping over a barbwire fence on a motorcycle.
It was more devious than that.
I’d shuffle out to the elevator lobby with my IV poll
and act nonchalant like I was looking at a magazine or the vending machine
until the nurse at the desk was distracted, then I’d push the button
and take the first elevator anywhere but there.
Sometimes, when the nurses were waiting
for the next chemo bag to come up from pharmacy
(which sometimes took two or three hours)
I’d sneak past security at the main door
and leave the building entirely, walking blocks away,
ducking into coffee houses, a grocery, a record shop and a bakery.
To aid my duplicity, I never wore those back-and-ass-baring hospital gowns.
I always wore my street clothes so folks wouldn’t know I was a patient.
It felt good to be seen as normal, even if only for a spell.
For those brief but cherished escapes, I was free of my cancer, free of my fear.Ultimately, my journey through cancer treatment underscored the importance of agency, even when facing circumstances largely beyond our control. For me, choosing street clothes over a hospital gown was a small but significant act of self-preservation. It was a way to maintain my sense of self, to navigate illness without losing sight of the person I was beyond my diagnosis. It was a reminder that even in the most challenging times, reclaiming normalcy, in whatever form possible, can be profoundly empowering.
