Being a cancer patient is a lot like Clark Kent/Superman. In one sense, you feel completely like a normal human being, similar to Clark Kent and his day job. You go to work, take care of the kids, and then suddenly you are at another oncology appointment. Yes, you look the same, but now you are fighting an evil force. Your weapon of choice is chemo, radiation, pills, shots or a combination thereof. What sets you apart and identifies you as a “superhero” is your wristband. It’s obvious that Clark Kent is Superman, but for those who don’t know us, it may not be as obvious that we are fighting a battle. Those who have hair loss may be more obvious, but for most of us, we have our hair back and appear fine- it’s the management part of the cancer people don’t see when you are now at Stage 4.

I thought about how many wristbands I have worn since my original diagnosis in 2021. I’ve lost count, but now know I will wear at least four a year (an appointment every three months). Multiply that now by how many years God blesses me with. I wish I had saved them all.

Kryptonite, as we are all familiar with, is Superman’s ultimate weakness, which causes severe pain, loss of power, and eventual death from prolonged exposure. Cancer patients realize that we have our own Kryptonite, and it’s when and if our medicine stops working. Unfortunately, for us, it doesn’t glow green like Kryptonite as a warning.

That all being said, Superman doesn’t give up, and neither will we. Our capes hide underneath our seemingly normal existence until it’s time for another appointment, scan, medicine change, etc. We face it as best we know how- dark humor, copious amounts of Diet Coke (don’t hate), and laughter. We silently grieve at night and return as Clark Kent, ready to be thought of as a normal member of society (which we will never be).

We live our lives wide open and grateful for the time given and the people who fight beside us. We are better people for our battle, with scars to prove it. In research, I found that the original Superman of 1938 could not fly; he could only “leap an eighth of a mile.” He didn’t gain the power of flight until 1944. Maybe that’s true of us- cancer patients- we may start out with small steps to fight this terrible fight (leaping an eighth of a mile), but ultimately we will prevail; we will fly.