ABOUT THE AUTHOR

(I am) a Cancer with can·cer

Suggested listening: “Time Is On My Side,” by Irma Thomas

My name is Erin F. Buckley, of no relation to William. The "f" stands for Flashner, which is my mother’s maiden name, and what I understand to be a Southern, historical convention. I was born and raised in the most lustrous city in all of America: a unique gem nestled in the coastal wetlands of the United States, the pearl that is New Orleans.

A friend of mine, and in this case I use the word lightly, once referred to New Orleans as a pearl. I have been fascinated with his beautiful, yet disconcerting analogy ever since. An oyster’s natural reaction is to cover up any irritant or foreign substance that manages to make its way between the mantle and shell. The mantle covers the irritant with layers of shiny, lustrous, iridescent nacre known as mother of pearl. The innermost nacreous layer, which creates the shell, subsequently forms this unique gem of sorts.

Like an oyster growing a pearl, New Orleans is a city of elegant decay. For although a pearl does not kill the mollusk inside, when harvested the shell dies slowly decomposing around the living organism; a rare, but beautiful disaster.

I delivered three weeks late on Thursday, July 21^st in 1983 at 9:01am in the long closed F. Edward Hebert Hospital on the Westbank of the Mississippi River in Orleans Parish. I measured twenty-four inches long and weighed an unnerving 9lbs 10 oz. My mother tells me, that I was so long and so large that medical forceps were needed to pull me out of her. Nonetheless, this was the way I entered this world, and what a way it was. 

Since I was a young child, my baby pictures have always been difficult for me to look at. On the rare occasion that the baby Erin album comes off of the shelf, there is no cooing. I was by no means a beautiful baby. Due to the forceful use of forceps on my infantile head, for most of the first year of my life I carried a large red mark on my forehead above my two eyes, as well as a mark just around the right side of my nose. These bright-red literal birthmarks were unfortunate bruises that I am sure left most people either heartbroken or very uncomfortable when being in my newborn presence. Evidently, the red marks stayed with me for far too long. My mother’s pediatrician assured and re-assured her that the marks would eventually go away, and when I was close to one year of age for the most part they did. Not obvious to most, my birthmarks very much still remain. Though they look more like some form of Rosacea rather then the dark red marks that were present in the beginning of my life, I have a daily reminder of my difficult birth. 

On that twenty-first day in July, I was born under the sign of Cancer on what Gary Goldschneider’s Secret Language of Birthdays refers to as the ”Day of Tragicomic Controversy.” Ernest Hemingway, Cat Stevens, Robin Williams and I all have this is common. The first time I read Goldschneider’s description of the day on which I was born I had picked up the book while browsing with my mother in a home decor big box store. It sat alone on part of an almost empty shelf, begging me to have a look. Upon reading the first paragraph, no written words before that day had ever spoken to me so deeply about my life. Just about every word rang true.

“Try as they may, those born on July 21 cannot stay out of trouble for very long. Somehow a storm is usually brewing around them, one often of tragicomic undertones. Surprisingly enough, this can be equally true of quiet people born on this day; they seem to get caught up in exciting or unpredictable happenings not of their own doing. A more flamboyant July 21 person is, of course, more likely to at least partially be responsible for stirring up such excitement.”

Like Hemingway (July 21, 1899), Williams (July 21, 1948), and Stevens (July 21, 1951), who were all writers (whether literary, comedic, or musical) stricken by illness and/or near death experiences, I too have found writing and story-telling to be the best medium for relaying the heavy load that comes with being born on this day. Story telling and writing have always come naturally to me. I spent a good amount of my weekends as a little girl writing short stories and entries into a series of journal books. I never found myself dreaming to one day grow up to become a princess, a dancer, or movie star like so many other girls my age. I wanted to be a journalist or author. However, much like my personality my writing, both educationally and personally, has been received at the opposite extremes of praise or harsh criticism over the course of my young life and in turn was not something I would pursue with higher education. 

In high school, my freshman English teacher took me aside after class to express her appreciation and admiration for the assigned personal essay that I had written about a candid experience I had with my father one evening.  It was an essay that detailed the night that I held my sobbing father as we watched the death scene of Sargent Elias in Oliver Stone's "Platoon". The exact moment in my life when I realized why my father, who was drafted into the Vietnam war at nineteen, was an alcoholic. She further encouraged me to write more stories about my life and to consider taking my interest and ability further. It was one of the first times that I received reassurance about my writing from an educator, which at fourteen years old meant more than she will ever know.

During my first freshman English course in college, my English Composition professor continued to fail me for every writing assignment. This was especially troubling to me despite the fact that English was not my major. Over the course of the semester I worked harder and harder to write how I thought he wanted me to write, but it was for naught. When I scheduled a meeting with him after class to discuss his course and see what measures I could take to raise my grade, he affirmed the nineteen-year-old, freshman standing in front of him that I would not pass his class, before shamelessly stating that it was because he does "not like my writing style.” Not only did this educator waste months of my time and money for college, but he also took away something very dear to me: a confidence in something that I always held a great passion for. 

But in this story, negativity fails and only positivity prevails and with that being said, the following semester I re-enrolled in the course with another professor where I received reverence from my bright and beautiful professor, but also a regained confidence in my writing. It is because of these two women that I feel as though I am able to share and present my story to you today. 

I began writing about my journey as a Cancer with cancer with the intention to fill a void on the Internet that I believe could have been invaluable to me in 2012 upon receiving a Stage IV brain cancer diagnosis at twenty-eight years old and in the beginning of my professional career. Hopefully, my story can bring solace, hope and help to those who also find themselves at the beginning of their young adulthood or otherwise staring their own mortality in the the face.  

Some may call it fate, some may call it luck, and some may call it destiny, but my story is one of the serendipitous and synchronistic nature of the universe in which we all as humans live and face. A world that if ones’ eyes, heart and mind are open one is bound to be witness to in this marvelous, but fleeting existence that we as humans share.

After receiving, what at the time I believed to be the gravest news of my life, I could not help but think that maybe I have even more relation to the city in which I was born into the world than I ever conceived before. The pearl growing inside of the oyster that is my head, made me recognize that I needed to change the way I thought about my life that indeed was filled with tragicomedy and controversy every step of the way, and with intention set this life in a new direction. The moment I received my cancer diagnosis, the first thought that raced to my head was a self-deprecating one. "Fuck! Erin ... you have cancer of the mind..."

On that harrowing day, a powerful quote by Mahatma Ghandi presented itself to me,

“A man is the product of his thoughts, and what he thinks, he becomes. If he has consistent positive thoughts, he’ll become powerful in his own rights.”

That day, the day of my "terminal" diagnosis, was the day that I mindfully made the decision to view "the Day of Tragicomic Controversy" in a different way. To work on letting go of the negativity in my past, to find and look to the positive side of any and every situation, person, or thing; to argue less and compromise more; and like a shark to only move forward. Moving backwards is never an option. Some parts of my personality cannot and whether I like it or not will not be changed, but I will never cease in my efforts and I will never be the same person that I was before I was declared terminally ill by medical professionals. It is a difficult ongoing transition where I have lost so much, but I have gained so much more. And although even to this day I refuse to claim my diagnosis, my brain tumor will remain the greatest gift that I have ever received.

I am living proof: a brain cancer survivor and a now ongoing scientific study that if you set your intentions, have faith within yourself and others, and live this life that was so graciously given to you with empathy, gratitude, and compassion you will be so fortunate to see how incredible this life truly is, no matter what you must endure to triumph. 

Thank you to all who have taken the time to allow me to share my story with you, for being open, and allowing me into your life, your mind, and your heart.

With love and light,
Erin F. Buckley

Are You a Cancerian (1932)