TAMPA - A friend wrote a song about my cancer to the tune of `Jambalaya (On the Bayou).` I wasn't offended; I say bring on the silly songs and jokes.

People have a hard time talking about cancer and death. But what's the point of all this suffering if we can't laugh occasionally? Plus, I know my cancer has a musical name: leiomyosarcoma, pronounced `lie-oh-my-oh-sar- koh-ma.`

That works quite well with `Good-bye, Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh.`

But don't think I'm Suzie Sunshine. I spend plenty of time in bed with the covers over my head.There's no evidence that a positive outlook guarantees a positive outcome, says psychiatrist Jimmie Holland, a pioneer in cancer treatment. She calls this `the tyranny of positive thinking'' in her book `The Human Side of Cancer.`

A review of 30 studies, printed in 2002 in the British Medical Journal, came to the same conclusion: `People with cancer should not feel pressured into adopting particular coping styles (including 'positive thinking') to improve survival or reduce the risk of recurrence.`Nevertheless, as Holland says, a good attitude has advantages. People may live longer because they may be more motivated to seek and complete treatment.

And life is more fun if you wear a multicolored tinsel wig to chemotherapy.

I decided to write about my experiences to combat the shame people feel about their bodies. That shame often stands in the way of early diagnosis. Also, I find that few people understand that cancer comes in many forms with many treatments. People will whisper about you anyway; they may as well have the correct information.

My cancer started with a vaginal cyst, which I was assured was benign. The cyst was still tiny in early 2002 when I left Tampa to help care for my ailing father in Texas.

My student health insurance was set to expire that May, and I was still scrambling to find another insurer when I began bleeding between periods. Who knew getting private insurance would be so difficult? I was unemployed and thus, apparently, a deadbeat. An occasional patch of eczema on my elbow and a bout of tendonitis raised eyebrows. (When I die, I want my ashes sprinkled in the coffee cups of insurance executives. Let them taste my bitterness.)

In June, I saw a gynecologist. She told me the cyst looked like cancer. I had found state insurance, but it wouldn't start until July 1. She told me I could wait.

Through June, my cyst grew so big, I thought I would have to switch to men's underwear. I smelled like rotting flesh because my flesh was rotting - parts of the tumor were dying.July finally arrived, along with surgery, or, as I like to refer to it, female genital mutilation. A surgeon removed my ovaries and uterus and `obliterated'' my vagina, according to the medical report. The morphine almost made up for it.

`They took out my vagina,` I wailed to any hapless soul who entered my hospital room.If a man had to have his penis removed, I imagine a surgeon would wake him on the operating table and ask, `Should we just let you die?''

The next day, a nurse's aide propped me in a chair, gave me a basin to wash myself and abandoned me.

Many friends could not understand how my vagina could be removed. They don't think of it as an organ, simply an opening into the body. I had to perform a `No-Vagina Monologue'' for them. Actually, I kept about an inch and a half, sort of a vaginette.

Radioactive Reactions

I had a 60 percent chance of dying in the next two years, and some doctors assumed my sex life was already over. Even a gay male friend asked, `Just how DOES one have sex without a vagina?''People who lack imagination or have a limited definition of sex may find the American Cancer Society's `Sexuality and Cancer'' booklet especially helpful. An ACS support group once held a discussion of the topic but used the unfortunate title `Cuddling With Cancer.`

My first pathology report had misdiagnosed me, but the second and third confirmed leiomyosarcoma.

Sarcomas are rare cancers of the connective tissues; my type can occur throughout the body's smooth muscles. For every 1 million people, there will be four new cases diagnosed each year.A pathology report described cells of diverse shapes and sizes, uncontrolled and unorganized - my politics encoded in damaged DNA!

Leiomyosarcoma has been linked to radiation and certain chemicals. People often ask how I got it. I'm tempted to say I stood too close to the microwave. Or, maybe I shouldn't have used radioactive panty liners. The real answer is: I don't know. Just lucky, I guess.

When they hear the news, some people say, `How terrible!'' I long to respond, `Wow, thanks for clarifying this.` Others relate the painful death of a friend or relative.

Many suggest a different diet or home remedies. After being encouraged to consume scaly anteater bile, I got fed up.

Some New Age types suggest I got cancer to learn a lesson. The lesson must be tolerance of idiots. Some feverishly tried to convert me to their understanding of Christianity. If they were in the hospital, would they be comforted if I dropped off a pamphlet saying their pain would be eased only by converting to another religion?

On the other hand, I understand friends intend the best when they pray for me or hold me in their thoughts.

`If you think it might help, I will pray for you,` one friend e-mailed. `I don't usually pray except for monetary gain or casual sex opportunities ...`

Fried Cancer

Friends have been terrific, visiting, sending cards and gifts, donating to sarcoma research, massaging my feet, pushing me in wheelchairs, driving me to doctor visits and waiting with me in emergency rooms.

One friend came from Washington, D.C., to drive me to daily radiation treatments. (Yes, I know it's ironic that a cancer that can be caused by radiation may be treated with radiation.)

Radiation burned my once- private parts. I had one of those tricolored monkey butts you see in zoos. After showers, I would ask a friend to dry my butt with a blow-dryer because my flesh was too tender for a towel.

I had six weeks of radiation. When I was first marked up, I had to lie on my stomach on a narrow black table with my face in a plastic form. The radiators (not the official term) pulled up my dress, spread my legs, bound my feet, and stuck another plastic form in my vaginette. My muffled voice called out, `Is this what happens when you're abducted by aliens?''They drew on my flesh to indicate where the radiation would go. Queequeg (from `Moby Dick'') couldn't have had more tattoos on his butt. On my last day, I thought of turning the circles into smiley faces.

A Stylish Catheter Bag

Throughout radiation, I remained catheterized. Nerves had gotten cut during my surgery, and I lost the capacity to urinate on my own. For almost four months, I carried a catheter bag with silk straps I'd attached, purse-style. My father's accountant drawled: `Don't let my wife see that. She'll want one.`

Some people studied the contents as if they were doing quality control in a brewery. `Are you drinking enough?'' they would ask.

In a bookstore, I ran into the psychology professor who dumped me when I was diagnosed with cancer. As I tried to maintain my dignity, my catheter bag leaked, filling one of my shoes with urine. The next day, I told the others waiting for radiation, and they yelped, `Hahahahaha, she tried to go to a bookstore!''

Radiation and chemotherapy can make you feel fatigued, like the people in purgatory who have to wear lead coats.

After radiation, nurses taught me how to catheterize myself, a technique that involves sticking something like a straw up your urethra to your bladder. I had never paid much attention to my urethra, and so, at first, it was like `Where's Waldo?''

My bladder has made a great recovery, but I still catheterize once a day. I'm such a pro that I can do this while talking on the phone.

I learned in January 2003 that the cancer had spread to my right lung. This meant that I was now considered incurable and that the cancer will keep recurring till I die. Why do I always get news like this at dinner parties? I need to turn off my cell phone.

I had chemotherapy off and on for the rest of the year. At times, my immune system was so damaged that I couldn't go out in public. Thus commenced the Chemo Film Festival, during which I watched many, many movies on TV.

Deep In The Colon Of Texas

Although I had treatment in Dallas, I went to the enormous M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston - the Magic Kingdom of Cancer - to see a sarcoma specialist and get CT scans every three months.

For scans, I had to drink three heaping helpings of barium, which tastes like chalk. At Anderson, I also was treated to barium enemas. I learned: Don't wear silk pants on the day you get a barium enema. At least they were my sister's.

At Anderson, I attended a discussion on `chemo brain,` but I can't remember what the professor said. Actually, chemo can lessen your ability to make sense of the world, at least temporarily. At Anderson's volunteer center, I stuffed myself on cookies before heading to my appointment with the nutritionist.

I was hospitalized twice during chemo and had almost every side effect imaginable. Sometimes I had a rash on my face, and people would tell me: `You look good - you've got some color in your face today.`

I lost every single hair on my body. I looked like a naked mole rat. People looked at me with pity. I thought of getting a T-shirt that read `I'm going to die'' on the front. The back would say, `And so are you.`

In the American Cancer Society's program `Look Good, Feel Better,` I learned to draw on eyebrows and other tricks.

When my hair started growing back, I had a 5 o'clock shadow that made me look like Eddie Munster. For special occasions, a friend bought me a long red-haired wig.

In December 2003, my lungs were clear, and I stopped chemo. A few months later, they were spotted like a leopard. The doctors didn't know if these tiny spots were active cancer, dead tissue, scar tissue or hairballs.

Instead of treatment, I traveled throughout 2004. I attended the Leiomyosarcoma Hugfest in Cherry Hill, N.J. And I had a romantic rendezvous at the Connective Tissue Oncology Society meeting in Montreal.

Last August, I moved back to Tampa to be among friends. Between hurricanes, I settled into an apartment near H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Center, one of the few hospitals that has a sarcoma program.

In October, my CT scans showed my lungs clear, and I've remained in remission.

Now what will I do for fun?

Suzie Siegel can be reached at suziesiegel@tampabay.rr.com.