Someone is the first person to climb a mountain -- or climb it in a particular fashion (e.g., no rope, no bottled oxygen, new route to the top, etc.). And the news reports that "So-and-so has conquered Mount Whatever." Can that be true?
Does the climber now have actual control over the mountain? Is the mountain now less high? More beautiful? Less dangerous? Or is the mountain essentially the same as it was before the ascent? Did anyone inform the mountain that it had been "conquered"?
The word "conquering" in this sense can also show up in articles about surfing the winter storm swells in Hawaii, running across America barefoot or rowing a small boat across the Atlantic. You've seen or read these stories, yes?
So that's what I don't get. This idea of "conquering."
It's likely that the reporter for the newspaper, TV show or magazine simply picked up this time-worn cliche of "conquering" and pasted into the report. It feels like hollow 19th-century bravado: "conquering" the desert, "conquering" the jungle...
Now, I do get that the person who's done the climbing, running, rowing or whatever has faced serious danger and extended himself or herself to the utmost to achieve the goal. But while this person may feel she or he has accomplished something laudable, my hunch is they don't feel they've "conquered" anything. They understand that the mountain remains as it was, that the surf continues to pound the shore in Hawaii, that the Atlantic was totally unfazed by the rowboat. I believe it's the reporting, not the doing.
This may sound like quibbling over words, but it's important to me now. Because to me, the word "conquering" speaks of arrogance. Smugness. Pride.
And I don't plan on "conquering" my cancer this way. I will work assiduously with my doctors to find and remove the tumor. I will particpate in any and all follow-up work that is assigned to me. I will rest in the love, compassion and caring of my friends and family.
And when I am declared to be cancer-free, I plan to greet the news with joy and celebration. And humility and gratitude. And the knowledge that the cancer can reappear at any time.
When the first lymph node was removed from my neck, I felt certain that it was only a sebaceous cyst or other harmless bump. My certainty was so strong that the shock of hearing that the bump contained cancerous cells was all the more bewildering and frightening. I'm sure of this. (In fact, I was busy composing an e-mail telling everyone that the biopsy came back as a benign growth when the doctor called and told me differently.)
There's work to be done, and done with reverence and confidence. But without bravado and false pride.
Yes! With reverence.
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