I suspect that the phrase most guaranteed to make those living with cancer cringe is, ‘You’re so brave!’ Of course, when people say this, I smile sweetly and receive the compliment graciously. But it’s odd the effect the phrase has on me. I feel at once elevated – and isolated. Bravery is, after all, one of those old-fashioned virtues (like modesty and steadfastness) to which, frankly, few of us aspire. I don’t want to join the regiment of earth angels who must be brave when they’d rather be smart, fortunate or carefree.

Mortality  

Cancer seems to confer on those who live with it the special status of bravery given the sometimes-harsh treatments we receive of chemo, radiation, surgery. Cancer forces you to face up to mortality. Looking away isn’t an option. And that’s why the ‘you’re so brave’ phrase grates so much – I haven’t ‘chosen’ to be brave. I’ve been cornered. I’ve been given no way out but to be brave.

And those who believe I’m brave will not have borne witness to the reality behind the stoic smile: my rage, my tears, my protests (though to who, I’m not sure), my terror. Brave? You see before you the original scaredy cat. I hate physical pain, heck, I can’t bear the insertion of a cannula without a stifled squeal when the needle plunges into my unyielding vein. I will go to enormous lengths to avoid physical risk. I look away during horror films. I haven’t been able to drive on motorways since 2007. And I have never boarded a plane without a swift Johnnie Walker and the mumbling of the Lord’s Prayer.

Courage

No, I’m not brave. But over the past few months I probably have cultivated some ordinary moral courage, the stuff that gets so many of us through every day and not just the tough times. I might not have choice over having cancer, but I’ve dug very deep to work out how to be with it. That’s taken lots of thought, hours of therapy, many tearful conversations with those closest to me and much cursing. I have learned that courage isn’t some special quality enjoyed by the chosen few, but an attitude I can adopt. It’s something I believe we probably all have at our disposal, though accessing it can be tough, even impossible, without support.

Courage demands my effort and my commitment. And to reinforce it, I have adopted courageous ‘self-talk’, a kind of inner running commentary that gently cheers me on or accepts without judgement my many moments of discouragement.

Most of all, courage connects me to the rest of humanity, to the difficult business of being human. My guess is that that what I and others living with cancer might appreciate more than a compliment about how brave we are, is permission to not be brave.

No heroes allowed.