The Guilt-Monk of Cancer

My mother was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and so I’ve been deprived of all right to complain. It’s not that my mother has taken it away from me—she actually often indulges in the delight of drudging up the day’s mishaps with an animated sigh—but rather cancer has guilted me out of the luxury of whining or complaining. It’s as if cancer has programmed me into one of Pavlov’s dogs. As soon as the words of complaint float from my lips, a grey color spreads across my face and a sinking feeling falls into my stomach. 

You just can’t do that, a little voice from inside springs up.

Do what?! 

Complain. Nothing can be worse than cancer after all. 

But I shrug it off, challenging that little voice with another complaint. But again, that uncomfortable feeling creeps in and I go pale in awkwardness. That voice, I realize, is my familiar friend: Guilt. (Ironic, isn’t it, that cancer and mothers are pros when it comes to giving you guilt.) 

So guilt talks to me now like a Zen Buddhist Monk when I’m walking through midtown at rush hour and people keep cutting me off (not allowed), or when I’m dragging my feet out of bed on a Monday morning mumbling about another day at the office (why should we work 5 days a week after all?). The Guilt-Monk sprouts irritating words of wisdom about the right to let people come and go and walk in front of me by sending them off with the best intentions for the rest of their day—just shrug it off with a smile. The Guilt-Monk warns of the danger of feeling angry when the copy machine keeps jamming with paper. The Guilt-Monk tells me to embrace the day with gratitude for waking up and being able to walk. Okay, okay, I get it! 

So this morning, I exhaled, ready and willing to metaphorically hug the a**hole that nearly plowed me down getting into the subway. I tucked the wet umbrella under my arm, ignoring how squishy my feet felt in wet socks. I smiled a crooked sort of smile, a half-smile, but a smile nonetheless. But when the train stalled in the tunnel making me late to an early meeting, I pulled out my mace and sprayed the Guilt-Monk in the face and temporarily deprived him of the possibility of preaching to me about peaceful states of mind. 

Can you believe this?! I complained to my subway neighbor. The MTA just melts in the rain. I’m late to work. Why does this always happen when you can’t afford it to happen?

Oh. Ah. Wow. That felt good. A complaint! The stress just seemed to drop from my shoulders. It felt so good to complain that I nearly indulged in another one . . . but then, as if on cue, Guilt-Monk recouped his eyesight and I felt that sinking feeling creep into my gut again. The cold flush then began to spread across my face. Ack! It’s best not to push it, I thought. But at least I got one in.