Gone Dancing, or Social Side Effects of Cancer Part II

I did it: Yesterday evening, despite some pain near my incision, I went out to the local contra dance (if you don't know what a contra dance is, follow the link, watch the video, and then go find one near where you live to try it out). As my hair is now all between 0" and 1/8" short, depending on the patch, I wore a headscarf, and along with the Best Contra Dancing Dress Ever, I didn't totally have the "cancer patient look." I arrived late, left early, and sat one out, but I did dance.

Now, I've been contra dancing in Tucson enough over the past three years that the regulars know me. They've noticed I've been gone several months (the first of those several months had nothing at all to do with Grazelda), but this is a group I don't have much email correspondence or other contact with. So there they were - a bunch of people who know who I am and mostly haven't heard I have cancer. To add to the awkwardness, my encounters with each were mostly limited to the 8-16 counts of a swing or an alamand right. And when you have less than 20 seconds to chat, the proper response to "Good to see you! How have you been?" is definitely not, "I got cancer. How are you?" Needless to say, I lied a lot, or at least made a lot of gross understatements.

Why did I avoid telling people? Yes, partly because there just wasn't time during dances, but there were times in between when it could have been appropriate. Partly I didn't want to draw attention to myself because these people were gathered and hanging out with me (and each other), not because I have needs, but because we all wanted to dance. In fact, they wanted to dance with me, not because of the crummy things my body is going through right now, but because of one of the things my body does best: dancing.
I also didn't tell people to avoid putting them in an awkward situation. If I came out to them as a person with cancer, currently going through chemo, they'd have to feel sorry for me and express sympathy and wonder more about my hair and worry about my energy levels and be delicate with me on the dance floor. Ugh.

There was one man, though, as we were waiting for the dance to start who looked at my head scarf and asked point blank, "Is that a fashion statement or chemo?"
[Now, before you suffer outrage at this question, you should know that this man is also my standing waltz partner, the one person I usually spend the 3-5 minutes of the first waltz at each dance with. I know a little more about his life and he a little more about mine than your average "trail buddy," and he's familiar enough that his tendency for, um, straightforwardness does not surprise me.]
Back to the story. I wish I would have responded boldly, "I don't do fashion statements." But I didn't. I was grateful for the question, maybe a little shaken that my condition was so obvious, when here I'd thought I was blending in so well, and I told the truth straight up. He said he was sorry and asked about my prognosis and how long I'd be in chemo. Then it was time to dance. And it wasn't awkward.

In any case, it was good to be out, good to be dancing, and now I'm dealing with the possibility of sore muscles from that adventure. I'll take sore muscles over nausea, fatigue, and bone pain any day!