Zibby Mag

By Laura Hartman

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross published On Death and Dying in 1969 when I was five years old. The book details how we as humans reconcile ourselves to death in five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But grief weaves its way into our lives in many ways, not just with death’s finality. Cancer, whether it’s yours or that of a loved one, causes that same emotional kaleidoscope of grief, as does the end of a relationship. How we grieve shapes our personalities as we play different roles throughout our lives. In the end, we contain multitudes.

My current role is Wonder Woman, and I have the underwear to prove it. Not a Halloween costume: literally three pairs of fierce, strong, superpower-starred Brazilian briefs. I purchased them per hospital instructions to bring larger sized underwear the day of my surgery, and I only owned thongs and g-strings. These days I wear my wonder woman armor to all infusions, scans, and doctor visits—even telehealth visits, because I’m superstitious and need all the strength I can get.

Wonder Woman, the comic-book superhero whose civilian name is Diana, is impervious to fire and capable of flying with or without an invisible airplane she summons telepathically with her crown. Her powers include super strength and agility, limitless dexterity with wrist shields that deflect bombs and bullets, and a lasso functioning as both whip and chain, flinging combative villains out of her way.

I’m just like that! Well, not exactly.

When I was diagnosed with a rare sarcoma, I consulted with five hospitals across the country, four sarcoma surgeons, and, when my first chemo was unsuccessful, flew out of NYU and into Sloan with superhuman speed. I’ve become a survivor. My body irrevocably changed, with lung metastases that require treatment for the rest of my life. Talk about life stages! The cancer stage pretty much locks you in a pinball machine: a bright, disbelieving silver ball, navigating the bumpers of denial and anger while bargaining with whatever god you believe in as you second-guess your doctors.

I didn’t need a superhero; I had to become one.

You’d never know I’m a superhero. I dress stylishly for every errand—even chemo. Maybe you’d notice the bald spots beneath the artful comb-over, or perhaps the lack of eyelashes and assume that I’m weak and sick. You’d have no idea that I am someone who obsessively gets shit done. I still cook all our meals, except on vacations, which are sacrosanct. After five weeks of radiation, I hosted fourteen people for Thanksgiving, baking five pies, crusts, stuffing, and everything else. Sick from six cycles of the chemo referred to as the “red devil,” still I walked three and a half miles, shopped at BJ’s, and baked my husband an apple pie for his birthday in June. I work out five days a week, although I’m not allowed to lift weights or do CrossFit anymore (that’s me taking it easy). To keep myself sharp, I deeply research every single phase of my treatment.

Emotionally, I bounce between anger and acceptance, not unlike how I felt losing both parents seventeen months apart. In retrospect, Dad knew he was dying of kidney disease and couldn’t take care of Mom, who had Alzheimers. He finally allowed me to move them into an assisted-living facility. There is not another person on the planet who could have accomplished that feat in three months besides Wonder Woman: touring facilities, the long-term care claim, moving them out of their home and into a new one.

I have a very specific memory of Dad from when I was in high school. We were watching The Greatest American Hero. But he’s inept, and could barely fly without crashing, always tangling in his cape, being human. His self-deprecating humor is hilarious. Dad roared with laughter, and it was infectious. No matter how bad my day was, I could lose myself in the fantasy that somehow I could rescue myself.

All of life’s stages are precious, and we continually must adapt our roles, using whatever costumes or props enable us to play the part. So, I’m not in my kitchen drinking electrolytes. I’m leaping across buildings, chasing new studies, clinical trials. Or in my invisible plane, wearing a hot, red, white, and blue swimsuit, battling with my lung tumors. Whatever terrifying medicine the doctors beam into me, I deflect all side effects with my bracelet-clad, powerful arms.

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Laura Hartman is a 58-year-old amateur poet and essayist, presently fighting a rare cancer diagnosis. She is determined to heal herself through the power of writing. She lives on Long Island and is an avid reader, skier, and scuba diver.