One afternoon in early December, when I was 42 years old, I got a call from my local hospital. I’d just had a mammogram—my second ever—and the kind woman from the radiology department told me that they wanted me to come back for further imaging. I’d heard this was common; I’d even had a small lump biopsied years before. I told her sure, no problem. “Great!” she said. “Can you come in tomorrow morning?” Normally it took weeks to get an appointment. That’s when I started to get worried. I didn’t get the pathology results for two more weeks. But after the ultrasound, I knew. Ultrasound reports are given a score from 0 to 6; no cancer to definitively cancer. A score of 5 means a 95% or higher chance of malignancy. Mine was a 5. I had breast cancer. The diagnosis was completely unexpected. I was a vegetarian and a runner, with no family history; I’d had a clear mammogram the year before. The only time I’d even had anesthesia was to get my wisdom teeth out. Over the next several months, I went through two major surgeries, and I’m now in the middle of a five-year course of hormone-blocking drugs with side effects like hot flashes, brain fog and joint pain. And I know I’ll always be scared that it’s going to come back. In the 2 ½ years since my diagnosis, there’s been a spate of stories about people faking cancer. Amanda Riley, made famous by the podcast Scamanda, who collected money and well-wishes from supporters during her “cancer battle.” Belle Gibson, subject of the Netflix series Apple Cider Vinegar, who built a wellness empire on claims that she’d treated her (nonexistent) brain cancer through natural remedies. Elisabeth Finch, a writer for Grey’s Anatomy, who faked a cancer diagnosis for years and pitched multiple storylines “inspired” by her experience. I’ve followed these stories with fascination. Because here’s the thing about faking cancer: I get it. That’s probably not what people would expect me to say. After enduring the fear and pain of a cancer diagnosis, it would be natural to assume that someone who profited (often literally) from that diagnosis without experiencing it would be high on my personal s— list. But despite the fact that having cancer was unequivocally not a good thing, there were good things about it. I can understand why people might want those things. I can especially understand why women might want those things, and from a very unofficial survey of well-known cancer-fakers, it seems like most of them are women. Cancer made me feel entitled to be cared for, to take up space in a way I never had before. People brought me soup and filled my living room with flowers, and instead of feeling awkward or beholden I just felt thankful. People offered to take my son to the zoo or to play mini golf, and I let them. People came over to visit, and I didn’t feel awkward if there were lulls in the conversation. I had cancer—thinking of things to say could be their job. After my diagnosis, I began writing personal essays for the first time—because it helped me to process, but also because it was the first time I felt like I was experiencing something that was serious enough to write about. Like many women who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s, I’d spent a lot of time making myself smaller. But cancer—especially at a relatively young age—was big. Cancer wasn’t the first time in my life when I felt like I needed to be cared for. I felt like I needed to be cared for as a new parent. I felt like I needed to be cared for during the pandemic. I felt like I needed to be cared for when my marriage fell apart. None of those things were as hard as having cancer, but all of them tested my limits, and in all of them I felt relatively alone. But when I had cancer, I got a tremendous amount of support—from friends, from family and even from strangers. I recently watched Dying for Sex, a limited series based on the true story of a woman who really did have cancer. She embarked on a journey of sexual exploration when she learned her condition was terminal. I love the show, and it’s been critically acclaimed. But I can’t help feeling like people’s reactions to a story about a woman who left her husband in order to have a lot of kinky sex with strangers would be different if she didn’t have a cancer diagnosis. Cancer functions as a sort of permission slip. But it’s a permission slip for things we shouldn’t need permission for. It gives us permission to rest. It gives us permission to accept help. It gives us permission to go after the things we really want. I don’t think there’s any excuse for faking cancer. But I wonder if the love and support we give to people fighting cancer could be something we all try to give each other all the time. I wonder if, even without the threat of a deadly disease, we could be just easier on one another. I wonder if we could just be easier on ourselves. Lia Romeo is a playwright, novelist, essayist and TV writer. All views expressed in this article are the author’s own. Do you have a personal essay you want to share with Newsweek? Send your story to MyTurn@newsweek.com.

Original source: US