I have a bachelor of science degree in health promotion and nutrition. For my degree, I was lucky enough to snag an amazing internship at a cancer research center and hospital. It was, probably, the most amazing part of my undergraduate degree, and the hardest emotionally. This internship educated me in ways I never expected and showed me the face of cancer that I had never seen before. There are things I will never forget – hearing a man in his thirties plan his own funeral, talking to a woman who was doing some research while her husband had his leg amputated, eating lunch surrounded by kids with no hair and IV’s hanging out of their arms.This internship showed me that cancer is a horrible disease and everyone who fights it deserves to be recognized for how incredible they really are. You will find the strongest, most incredible people in a cancer hospital.
There aren’t many people I consider role models, or heroes. I’m a little too cynical for that sort of thing. However, if I’m going to be completely honest with you, Jay Lake is one of the very few I’d put in that camp. I have such admiration for him. Not only is he an incredible author, but he’s an incredible author valiantly fighting a horrible disease and still churning out quality material people read and love. Jay Lake is a living, breathing example of how strong people can be. He is an incredible man, and a true role model.
Besides all of that, Jay Lake is a prolific author. He has written a ton of stories and novels and won and/or been nominated for plenty of awards. Jay Lake is a name anyone who reads speculative fiction knows. He has an incredible talent with telling an amazing story and his ability to delve well below the surface and explore unique cultures only works in his favor. Jay Lake is an author everyone should read. Period.
Jay is one of the few authors I was very specific with when I asked him to write for this event. I had a topic in mind, and it’s a really personal one I really hoped he’d be willing to write about. The truth of the matter is that cancer isn’t necessarily a disability, but cancer is disabling and I think it has a place in Special Needs in Strange Worlds and the people who fight it deserve to be recognized. Regardless of what kind you have, the diagnosis changes patients in some incredibly profound ways. Since Jay is such an admirable, well known author, I wanted him to talk about how cancer has affected his writing.
I’m not lying when I say it took me two days to pick my jaw off the floor and unscramble my amazed mind enough to write him a thank you after I received his post. It’s probably one of the most touching, raw, and absolutely humbling things I’ve read in quite a while and I’m honored that he wrote it for this event.
Please continue reading. I guarantee it will touch you profoundly.
About the author
Jay Lake lives in Portland, Oregon, where he works on numerous writing and editing projects. His 2012/2013 books are Kalimpura from Tor Books, and Love in the Time of Metal and Flesh from Prime Books. His short fiction appears regularly in literary and genre markets worldwide. Jay is a past winner of the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and a multiple nominee for the Hugo and World Fantasy Awards. Jay can be reached through his blog at jlake.com.
Cancer and Writing
My name is Jay Lake. I made my first professional sale eleven years ago, in 2001. My first small press novel was published in 2005. My first trade novel was published in 2007. In the last eleven years I’ve sold about 400 short stories, ten novels, five collections, and over a dozen anthologies edited or co-edited by me. I’ve won the John W, Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and been nominated multiple times or the World Fantasy and Hugo awards.
In other words, I’m a writer.
Four years ago, in April of 2008 on the day my first trade novel was released in mass market paperback, I became a cancer patient. I’ve spent the last forty-eight months living with stage IV colon cancer, through multiple metastases with repeated surgeries and chemotherapy. (For those interested in more on that story, the Sunday Oregonian recently interviewed me.)
Cancer is not a disability in the usual sense of that term. It’s not even really a chronic disease, like lupus or MS. Rather, it’s an acute disease which can recur on an overlapping basis until one is cured or killed. Some cancers, such as indolent forms of prostate cancer or lymphoma, can be lived with until one dies of other causes. Other cancers such as pancreatic cancer can move like wildfire, with a patient lifespan measured in weeks or months from diagnosis to death.
My cancer falls somewhere in the mid range between the two. And though I wouldn’t think to claim it as a disability in either the social or legal senses of that term, it has a lot in common with disabilities.
Cancer has affected my writing in two basic ways. First, the disruptions of treatment. Second, the shifts in my own thoughts and inner life as I respond to the distorting presence of the disease in my life.
The treatments are brutal. Surgeries are rough, but they’re fairly time constrained. I’ve had four, a major resection of my sigmoid colon, a minor resection of my left lung, and two major resections of my liver. In each case, I spent three to six days in the hospital, followed by several weeks at home in a fairly serious recovery mode. I was back to writing within a month every time. These days, when I contemplate future surgery (far more likely than not, given the odds of recurrence for my cancer cohort), I budget a month of time lost and all it good.
Chemotherapy, though, is a truly vile beast. Both courses I’ve undergone were six months of biweekly treatment. The first time, in 2010, we ran from January to June. The second time, in 2011, we ran two months in May and June, broke for surgery, then ran again from August to December. Where surgery disrupts my body and my calendar, chemotherapy disrupts my mind. My cognitive abilities are compromised, as are my emotional abilities. I know from experience that somewhere around the end of the second month of treatment I begin to lose my ability t write first drafts. By the end of the third, my ability to revise goes. Then I’m shut down until at least a month after the end of treatment.
In effect, it steals almost half a year from my writing.
This from someone who’s never been blocked for more than a weekend. Except by cancer.
In a large scale sense, cancer has caused me to significantly revise the way I schedule my writing projects. Every year I make a ‘healthy’ schedule and a ‘cancer’ schedule. I know about how long it takes me to draft a movel. I know about how long it takes me to revise one. I plan my calendar in elapsed months. Healthy years, I get twelve. Cancer years, I get six.
My productivity is cut in half, in other words.
In a small scale sense, cancer has caused me to shift my expectations for daily and weekly writing, at least in those marginal times when I’m undergoing or recovering from treatment. I’ve also begun doing things like negotiating longer deadlines into my book contracts, as after three rounds of this, I know I can’t predict when I’ll fall ill again. It’s frustrating, as I’ve always been very time-efficient and deadline-oriented. But this is life with cancer.
Secondly, that shift in my thoughts and inner life has driven some changes in the way I view the themes of my fiction, and the characters I choose to dig into. I don’t write directly about cancer, at least not in my fiction, but time and mortality and the failings of life have become larger topics for me. I have lost a certain innocence that it seems strange to claim having as late as age 43, when the disease came upon me. But even now, at 47, I have yet to lose anyone close to me to death. Not a parent, nor a sibling, nor a loved one. I may well be the first of my immediate circle to die. It would be very strange to go to my grave having never known that kind of loss.
And it weighs on me. This disease levies costs on my parents. On my teen-aged daughter. On all those who know and love me.
All of this is a form of introspection, of course. One of the worst pieces of writing advice I ever got, well before my professional career ever started, is that writing is not therapy. I’d say precisely the opposite. The pain of life is one of the strongest drivers for gut-wrenching reality in characters and plot. In my case, some of my close friends have observed that my writing has grown stronger, though at the cost of a tuition I would never have willingly paid.
One of the biggest reasons cancer is not a disability is that I may yet be cured. You can’t walk away from crippling arthritis or cystic fibrosis or spinal bifuda. But I might be able to walk away from cancer. I have times, right now is one of them, where I have all my pre-cancer health and energy back. Waiting for the next tumor to arrive, surely as trees in the forest wait for lightning. But this is ultimately a kill-or-cure disease, at least my form of it.
For now, I walk free and write freely. My next checkup is in August. I could lose another year of my life to surgery and chemotherapy, another six months of my writing. Or I could continue to journey under the open skies.
This changes me, and it will change me again and again before it claims me.