At what point in a new relationship is it appropriate to reveal your status as a cancer survivor? I posed this question to my friend who is HIV positive; his situation is obviously a bit more relevant to a dating relationship where sex could be involved. His answer was that every situation is different, and that I would just have to do what feels natural in each case. The funny thing is that I never have trouble revealing my “status” to new friends or even total strangers—it just seems to come out—usually in the form of a joke.
For a long time, I just avoided the situation altogether by not dating. I had broken up with someone about a month before my diagnosis, and hadn’t had a date since (about a year and a half now for those who are counting) until recently. I did have a fun hook-up at a St. Patrick’s Day party last year when my green That Girl wig covered up my GI Jane post-chemo hairstyle. It was great to realize that someone was actually attracted to me. Cancer doesn’t do a lot for your looks—surgery scars, weight gain from steroids given during chemo, and baldness are all par for the course. A shiny head and lack of eyebrows and lashes is a major blow to the self-esteem, though some friends suggested that the lack of hair on the rest of my body was probably a turn-on for some. (Did you know that chemo makes you lose your hair EVERYWHERE?)
Isn’t it strange enough in these days of internet dating to know so much about someone before you even exchange the first email? I mean, I know that Chanandler Bong (don’t you just love fun screen names?) wants kids, makes more than $70,000 and is an orthodox Jew—if he’s telling the truth in his profile. The photo he posted is likely to be the best he’s ever taken in his life—those are the ones we share—and may in fact have been taken more than seven years ago (actually happened to me once). Come on people, please use a shot from the last year or two at most, and try not to post those photos that you have taken of yourself. It doesn’t look good if you don’t at least have a friend to come by and snap a picture of you.
So, I mentioned that I hadn’t dated until recently. By the time I had at least two to three inches of hair back, I decided I looked normal enough to not have to deal with the question of whether I was a lesbian or a cancer-survivor on the first date, and I put myself out there. I started trolling the personals on Craigslist—a first for me. I have done the online dating thing before, but always the services that required payment, and usually I had been overwhelmed by the number of incoming emails. This time, I decided to do the choosing myself rather than wading through responses.
On the one Sunday afternoon that I browsed through the ads, there were about five guys who seemed smart enough, funny enough, and normal enough. I emailed all of them. All of them responded, and most of them kept emailing even after photos were exchanged. One of them kept asking me questions I had answered in previous emails, so I lost interest fast in repeating myself. I guess there was a pretty good connection both ways with one guy. We are having our third date tomorrow night, and I still haven’t revealed my cancer status. Why? I don’t really know. I like him. I feel comfortable with him. We’ve even talked about health care several times. It just hasn’t come up.
How do you tell someone that you know wants kids (because he mentioned it in his ad), that you probably won’t be able to have them because you are now one ovary lighter, and chemo poisoned your eggs? I find it ironic that so many women spent high school and college trying desperately not to get pregnant, and then, when the doctors tell you that you have the Big C, one of the first issues they bring up—if you are lucky and have a good oncologist—is preserving fertility. You can pay a bundle to freeze your eggs in hopes that someday Mr. Right will provide the sperm to bring those puppies to life. Lance Armstrong froze his swimmers when he was diagnosed, and was happy he did later when he and his wife decided they wanted a family.
