An open letter to Pope Leo XIV on cancer and how to survive it

Debbie Dana

Dear Pope Leo:

     Whenever a friend gets cancer, I usually buy them a copy of “Time on Fire: My Comedy of Terrors,” by Evan Handler. The actor’s 1996 memoir is an excellent guide to navigating cancer, full of practical tips, such as making sure your nurses wash their hands.
     It’s funny, honest, and best of all — spoiler alert! — Handler survives, to this day.
     While I did consider shipping a copy to Rome, I immediately envisioned the package being tossed into one of dozens of huge canvas-sided rolling postal carts jammed with goodwill offerings: prayer cards and inspirational books and charms from the spectrum of faiths. You’re a popular guy, as I’m sure you already know.
     So I figured, better to drop my advice into this newspaper bottle and toss it into the electronic sea. Perhaps a favorable breeze will nudge it your direction. If not — the sure bet — it might help someone else in a similar position.
     My apologies about giving advice. I have a few rules regarding friends plunged into sickness or misfortune, and Rule No. 1 is: “Don’t try to fix things,” a rule frequently broken. It’s hard to resist trying to help, and handwashing is so important. People forget, and nice guys such as ourselves, we have a hard time greeting a nurse striding into our room with: “Did you wash your hands?”
     I imagine the pope gets first-class treatment, something to be thankful for. Gratitude is key in overcoming travails. My major health troubles have all been mostly mechanical rather than metastatic — spine, hip and now shoulder — which strikes me as far less severe than the Big C. I try to focus on how lucky I am to have access to advanced medical treatment, as opposed to most people in the world, who don’t. Attitude is important.
     “A cheerful heart is good medicine,” says Proverbs. But look who I’m quoting Scripture to. I’m not someone who believes in divine providence. But coincidences happen. Within hours of your lung cancer surgery Tuesday, my older sister, Debbie, arrived from Dallas. I don’t write about Debbie much, because she’s usually deep in the heart of Texas, arm wrestling the Angel of Death. But she’s here now, visiting, and as a true cancer warrior — she’s had three kinds over the last 14 years — I asked her for any wisdom she might share with a newbie such as yourself.

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Me and Debbie, circa 1963