On Bravery and Strength

There are two words I often hear in connection with living with my CHD, and more recently, when I had uterine cancer last year: “Brave” and “Strong.” I know my friends and family intend these words as compliments and as a way to encourage me when facing a challenging situation. But, I must admit, they make me cringe.

I don’t think of myself as particularly brave or strong. When I think of someone who is brave, I think of a person who chooses to do something scary or risky—like the firefighter who has chosen, either as a professional or a volunteer, to rush into the blaze from which most of us would rush away.

So, when I was diagnosed with cancer last year and was told I was brave for undergoing the prescribed surgery, it made me uncomfortable. Where was the bravery? What other choice did I have?

Similarly, when people say I am a strong person for living as I have with my congenital heart defect and its related issues I don’t know how to respond. Am I strong? Or am I merely doing what needs to be done—taking a stress test, wearing a 24-hour Holter monitor, having a catheterization—to remain healthy and alive? Would anyone else facing these same health issues do any differently?

This is not to say that I am not proud of how I have handled things. Throughout the years I have faced fears and overcome them. I remember watching a TV movie back in 1989 when I was in high school (yes, I am dating myself) about Ryan White, the young boy who had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion. There was a scene in which Ryan walks around the hospital with his IV pole. For some reason that freaked me out; I could not imagine walking around with a needle in my arm, attaching me to this large pole.

Yet later that month, I was hospitalized for three weeks after an episode of supraventricular tachycardia and found myself wandering the hospital halls with my own IV pole—doing exactly what just days earlier I had feared. A small victory.

Yes, I have learned to handle needles like a champ. I have learned to set my own limits and know when I can or cannot participate in a particular activity, regardless of whether or not I truly wanted to join in. I have walked into operating rooms. I have signed my rights away moments before going under general anesthesia. And, I have kept my humor in tact in even the most stressful situations.

I have also broken down in tears. Yelled in frustration. Picked my nails when I was anxious and stayed up all hours consumed with worry.

In other words, I think I have behaved just as anyone else would. So while I appreciate people’s well-meaning words, I don’t feel like I can take credit for being brave or strong. I can only do my best to get through what needs to be done so I can be healthy and live life as fully as possible.