By Norma Logan

Cancer patients used to always freak me out. Bald heads were one thing, but those with no eyebrows or eyelashes really got me. They had an alien, other worldliness about them. I'd try not to stare, but inevitably my gaze would be drawn back. Once in Paris, I watched a couple check out of a hotel. The wife, drawn and tired with a scarf on her head, sat in a chair while her husband handled the luggage. I created a life for them. She was dying of cancer, and this was their trip of a lifetime. I pitied her as I did other cancer patients, but in truth they scared the hell out of me. "Oh my god, what if that was me?" I could work myself to the point of hysteria, obsessing about every ache and pain. So now when those pity stares are directed at me, I understand where the person is coming from. Still, that doesn't make them any easier to take.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer in May 2003. I stayed in the house during my course of chemo. Part of being housebound was fear of infection, but in truth I was hiding. I didn't want to appear vulnerable, looking like an alien. I didn't want to be pitied or stared at. One day my mother-in-law popped in unexpectedly and saw me bald; I cried and cried. She could have cared less what I looked like, but for me it was devastating. It was as if the gig was up; I'd been exposed; the truth was out; I had cancer and had crossed over to the world of "otherness".

Following treatment my hair grew back, and my life with my beloved husband resumed. We traveled to Barcelona and throughout Italy. I returned to work. I had a sold-out solo show of my pottery. Life was good. Then my cancer returned and metastasized to my liver. I was now literally in the fight of my life. Once again I was put on chemo and lost all my hair, including my eyebrows and eyelashes, but this time it was different. As a Stage 4 patient, I would likely be on some form of chemo for the rest of my life. I needed to come to terms with my appearance, and how I was going to interact with the world. I couldn't hide in the house forever. The first time around I wouldn't wear a wig. They work for most, but I felt like a clown. I might as well be wearing a football helmet. This time was no different, so I made peace with scarves. But now, I'm a poster child for cancer. Not surprisingly, I'm also the recipient of those pity stares I used to give and have come to dread.

I can forgive the children. "Grandma, that woman doesn't have hair". They are innocent, naïve, and simply state the obvious. It's the adults I find most difficult to deal with. Most just stare, but occasionally someone will feel bold enough to speak up. Then it gets worse. Recently at a farmer's market, a complete stranger came up to me and stated (with the requisite sympathy head tilt), "How ARE you?" I was stunned, and only later wished I had said, "I'm wonderful, how ARE YOU?" (head tilt included). Then someone came up to me at work and asked if I was in any pain. Again, shock prevented the resort I later crafted. But it not just strangers. Even well intentioned family members manage to hurt me with their compassion, which comes across as patronizing. "Shouldn't you sit down?" "Aren't you over doing it?" It's as if they have given up on me. Just once I want someone to say, "You go, girl!!"

I do understand that these comments and stares are often generated from true compassion, and other times it's fear. But these individuals will never know how deeply their actions hurt me. The pain of being, stared at, pitied, or treated as an invalid is far more painful than any chemo treatment, or how I felt the first time I stared at that bald woman in the mirror. What I want to scream to all who will listen is that I'm still the person I always was, I'm okay, really. Cancer is part of my life, but it is NOT my life. Yes, I wish I didn't have cancer. Yes, I sometimes cry in the shower. Yes, I worry about how much time I have. But in truth, even with cancer, my life is happy. I lead a richer, more fulfilled life than most people I know. I'm active. I walk and swim regularly. I recently walked 60 miles to raise money for breast cancer research. I travel. I have a great job and that pays me well and a lovely home. I am a successful artist. I have a circle of friends that could keep the Titanic afloat. And most importantly, I'm still madly in love with my husband of 25 years, and we're planning our next trip to Italy.

So the next time you see a cancer patient, don't rush to pity. Look deeper. There is a good chance she doesn't want your pity and plans on beating the disease. And even if her prognosis is poor, she may still actually have a life to be envied.