Tag Archives: cancer

I don’t think it means what you think it means…

Cancer, mental health, ,

On the advice of a family friend fresh out of her own treatment journey, I found a therapist who specializes in cancer patients. Very quickly an interesting pattern emerged. She would ask how I felt about certain words, and we would both anticipate my response. Sometimes it would be a visceral reaction (turns out I do not welcome the term “new normal”. I refuse to acknowledge this new-found fatigue and angst as any kind of normal, new or otherwise). The other common response was a blank stare. Words like grief, anxiety, fear, and achievement gave me pause. I had never stopped to ponder any sort of personal definitions, assuming there were basic universal interpretations. I was wrong.

Take the word “achievement”, for example. My therapist made a comment about the achievement of finishing chemo. I believe my response was something like, “finishing chemo doesn’t feel like an accomplishment,” and then she took a page out of my playbook and blankly stared at me. I’m rather familiar with this look and have since used it as an indication that more information is needed.

So, I continued. “All I’ve done is sit in a chemo chair then put up with the aftermath. It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment.” 

Her stare persisted.

“I guess I need to give that one some thought?” 

She nodded and suggested, “Maybe examine what ‘accomplishment’ means.” 

Message received. I had a week to figure this out before I saw her again. While that may sound anxiety producing, these little side quests into my psyche are not only brilliant distractions- something to focus on other than the current state; but also, opportunities to evaluate some long-held beliefs, and subsequently dump a lot of them because they are utter nonsense. (More to come on that.) 

Back to the side quest. What is an achievement? Obviously, it’s the attainment of some lofty goal – finish a second novel, run a half marathon, build a successful business. Essentially, I subscribe to the “go big or go home” way of measuring. “I’m giving up months of my life to lie here and not progress toward any sort of achievement”. But when you spend so many days lying in bed battling fatigue and illness, this definition obviously breeds anxiety and depression.

I shared my definition. Here’s her response (paraphrased). “If the goal is to make it to the other side of treatment, anything to help realize that goal qualifies as an achievement, right?!” 

Achievement. I don’t think it means what you think it means.

Apparently, lofty is irrelevant here, and more importantly, of my own making. Why would I choose to adhere to a definition that feeds anxiety? And it turns out, we can change those definitions (insert mind blown emoji here). Finishing an Audible book is an achievement (and I’m getting more comfortable saying “I read” instead of “I listened to” as if listening is less than). Being still and resting when needed is an achievement. Learning to give myself grace and love is an achievement. Learning to be patient with the seemingly slow progress of recovery is turning into an achievement. Learning to relax my shoulders multiple times throughout the day and stop wearing them as earrings – you guessed it – an achievement!

When only the grandiose wins the title of achievement, there are few finish lines to cross and even fewer celebrations. Having walked these past few months with Professor C, I am discovering I much prefer a life full of celebration and how that ultimately comes down to choices I make. The focus can be on the distant lofty achievement, or the beautiful experiences along the way.

I know, I know, some of you are thinking, “Duh, ‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey’.”  Sure. But until now, I always said it backwards in my head. Seriously. Not on purpose. I just didn’t get it. That’s probably pretty telling on its own and honestly, I still don’t 100% prescribe to that idea. It is a bit about the destination. How do you know which way to turn at the first intersection if you have no idea where you hope to end up? But, even my definition of “destination” may be changing. Maybe the destination is getting to the end, having learned how to celebrate life and having said the important things to the important people. 

Anyway, maybe that’s another post. Professor C pushed me into a room I didn’t want to be in. However, this created opportunities to reflect and examine who I am and who I want to be. Those opportunities have been terrifying, beautiful, unexpected…I still have a lot to learn (which I’m hoping takes decades). Clearly, I have a robust subconscious dictionary of words to redefine – and a lot of moments to celebrate!

man standing in front of old door

Grief – A Study of Maybes

Cancer, Grief, mental health, On Life, ,
man standing in front of old door

I’ve been challenged over the past few months to confront fear and anxiety. I have had the pleasure of unexpected visits from hope, signing off my last blog with this apt description of my current state – finitely human and infinitely hopeful. But, the journey continues. In a recent appointment, my therapist brought up a new aspect. She asked, “What does grief look like to you?”

I responded with a helpful distant stare, while thinking, “It looks like something I don’t want to talk about.” Needless to say, I have more appointments scheduled.

Since then, I have been trying to mold a blog post for practically a month now, using this medium as a way of untangling what grief looks like to me (thank you for indulging my cathartic exploration). Usually, I sit down, vomit on the screen, then walk away for a day or two before returning to refine the words and then post. But grief…I’m painfully wrestling with this one. So, I turned to a familiar friend of mine in times of uncertainty – research. I asked Dr. Google. One of the first suggestions came from the esteemed Mayo Clinic. Their experts describe grief as “…a strong, sometimes overwhelming emotion.”

Again, a distant stare. Um, doesn’t that seem a bit vague?

More research quickly uncovered the revered “stages” of grief (post to follow on how certain words trigger – spoiler alert, “stages” is one of them). As a math person, I get the trend and desire toward the measurement and application of patterns to our existence. Civilization is replete with such utilizations from our literal measuring systems (plural because for some reason America prefers a system based on random numbers instead of a base 10 model, but whatever), to our calendar, and the way we proportion our presence on this planet in reference to celestial bodies. Humans need to measure things.

Grief feels similar, measured somehow. I have lost people I love, but I have never lost a child, or a spouse, or a best friend. My tangible existence has never been consumed by fire or whisked away in a tornado. I feel like I’ve been a mere spectator to those levels of loss. More measurement, accompanied by the realization, I don’t feel adequate to write about grief, coupled with the challenge of dealing with something I cannot name or define. (I may have mentioned this before).

Grief feels like the giant elephant in the room that appears when someone looks at you and declares you are now a cancer patient. Maybe dealing with the smaller pieces feels like a tangible way to address the elephant. After all, that’s the best way to eat it right? One bite at a time? And maybe I currently only have the capacity to deal with the “smaller” things? (More topics for upcoming therapy appointments).

While we seem to accept the idea that some things are just spectrumie (definition “somewhere on the spectrum”), like light for example, we struggle in that space between things that can be measured and things that have span – beginnings and endings beyond what we can see or define.

Maybe that’s grief? 

At the risk of sounding flippant, I think grief is like that horse in “The Wizard of Oz”. You know the one that changes color? Sometimes it’s green, then it changes to yellow and then blue, without measure or pattern. A spectrum of color that represents how quickly we move from one feeling to another. But like light, there are some pieces that feel invisible, outside the realm of the seen – felt deeply but challenging to define or describe.

Maybe grief isn’t even an emotion?

I realized recently cancer is not actually my teacher. Prof C simply opened a door in my being to a room full of mirrors that provide opportunity to look at myself in ways I would never have chosen. A sort of House of Mirrors, but in this case, the distortion is the reality. I get to see how short and squatty my love can be, or how twisted and grotesque my anxiety is.

Maybe grief is like more like a door?

A door that propels you into a room of emotion and sadness and loss that cannot be experienced any other way. But honestly, I don’t know. And based on the definition provided by the Mayo Clinic, maybe it’s beyond easy definition.

We measure our lives by counting the boxes on a calendar. Some are filled with appointments, errands, meetings, chemo chairs – moments that gauge the productivity of our days and our accomplishments. In that frame of measurement, it’s easy to lose sight of the experience – the small spectrum of visible life we can see in the greater vastness of existence that begins and ends in the unknown.

I’ve committed to stand in this room, opened by Prof C, eyes open, looking at the iterations of myself I’ve created or allowed. Maybe I can change some of them, but maybe that isn’t the point either. Maybe this is a chance for me to experience and embrace the finiteness of my specific flavor of humanity. To learn to practice measuring days in things not tangible – the more spectrumie bits like joy and love and presence in between the measured notches on my calendar.

And maybe grief is giving myself permission and space to feel the losses, to wrestle, and hopefully, at the end of it all, accept what I cannot define. Maybe.

New Dance Partner

Cancer,
ID 28292912
© Makar
| Dreamstime.com

I’m not the first to waltz my way into this metaphor of life and dance. There are times life feels like a Tango, deliberate, full of beauty and intrigue. There are moments of joy and celebration akin to the Charleston. And then, there are seasons where you feel as though your two left feet leave you stumbling and consistently one step behind.

A new dance partner has interrupted the general choreography of my life. I may have mentioned him before. His name is Professor C. (C is for cancer for those just joining.) I gave him that title to help minimize and categorize this experience. A fitting title as the treatment was scheduled to take six months and I expect to learn something. However, this whimsical label did not have a minimizing or diminishing effect. I’m a few months into the treatment cycle and realizing I may have underestimated the reach of Prof C. Professor C has ignored the polite rules of society and appropriate academic boundaries, and has launched a full-on invasion into my life and my personal space. (Maybe “C” is for cad.)

He has become a dance partner everyone tries desperately to avoid, and reminds me of the Hungarian linguist in “My Fair Lady” – loud, obnoxious, controlling, presumptuous, and an inflated sense of his power to ruin one’s life. Statistically speaking, some of you may have never seen “My Fair Lady.” (I cannot imagine this world, but for the sake of argument, I’ll concede it may exist.) “My Fair Lady” is a 1963 film, set in 1910 London, where Professor Henry Higgins makes a bet with an old army buddy determining he can refine Eliza Doolittle, a crude flower girl. At one point, Eliza is taken to a ball to test the success of the experiment, and subsequently handed off to dance with a man, the Hungarian linguist, who believes he can speak to anyone and immediately surmise their lineage. But did I mention he’s a pompous ass…much like Professor C, my current dance partner. The pure gall and audacity! (And I shall leave it at that. You’ll have to watch the movie to find out if the ass succeeds.)

But, like Eliza and square dancing lessons during 3rd grade PE, I didn’t get to pick my partner. Nor am I familiar with, or have any control over, this new dance. My treatment was postponed last week to give my white cell count and liver enzymes a chance to recover before the next dose of chemo. It felt like a betrayal, a detour from the goal of finishing and moving on. The damn linguist whisked me off the main dance floor, out on to the balcony in some sort of forced side quest. UGH!

Professor C (now a weird cross in my head between a faceless academic and a Hungarian linguist), the unwanted dance partner, has started to teach me some things. Actually, that’s not accurate. The interval of being forced to dance with him has created a space where my perspective has been altered.

I was reminded recently of a poem that demonstrates this perfectly.

The Guest House – Jellaludin Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I have no idea what comes next in this dance or who shows up tomorrow. But, I’m dancing, and here’s what I think I’m learning:

  • The unexpected appearances of joy and pain no longer get a wave and brief acknowledgement but are invited to sit and stay as long as they like.
  • I’d like to think my gratitude has found deeper roots. I don’t take for granted the moments of connection with my family or my friends.
  • I’ve discovered there’s so much beauty in the world and in my space than I realized. And, the beautiful things have so much more meaning. They become the colors I paint my daily life with.
  • There’s value in learning the discipline of letting each day unfold and resisting the tendency to brace myself for the unknown. I cannot live in the future and trying to do is a colossal waste of energy.
  • I thought I controlled a lot of things. I control very little. And those things I thought I needed to control aren’t that important anyway.
  • Being undone does not make me weak or needlessly vulnerable, it just makes me human. The humanity of me is what connects me. And, those connections have tremendous meaning and value. Maybe even the most meaning and value.

As my new dance partner takes me places I don’t want to go, I’m learning the dark moments don’t destroy beauty or joy, and as invasive and tumultuous as Professor C can be at times, he cannot take away my ability to love, to create, to laugh, to pursue the best version of me. Honestly, I’m still remedial at all this. But maybe that’s the most important thing I’m learning…

one of the most beautiful parts of being human is the ability to learn and grow.

Fish out of Water

Cancer, ,

This picture asks a thousand questions. My best guess, a small child was escorted to the bathroom. Said child held shark toy until perfectly aligned above the toilet. At which point, small child let go, releasing the shark back to the water. Wasn’t it “Nemo” who taught us “all routes lead to the sea?”

One hopes the toy was dropped into a “clean” bowl of water, allowing adult escort of child to fish out the toy. (Pun intended). But then, how does adult convince small child to leave the shark on the rim? And if one goes to the effort of retrieving something from the toilet, wouldn’t the more obvious place of eternal rest be a trash bin? Or…someone before me found this little treasure in the water and retrieved it in case small child returned? Not sure I would be that person, but it’s comforting to imagine a world where such humans exist!

Back to the shark, which not only provided a wonderfully unexpected photo to send to my son who is vocal about his fear of sharks, but it also brought enormous joy from a normally mundane activity.

But how does this track with my current journey?

A few weeks ago, I described being in a state of anxiety and apprehension. My first chemo treatment was right around the corner. I felt like a fish out of water – flailing and unsure how I got here. How does one navigate the terrors of the unknown –  especially unknowns with names that illicit horrific connotations – like emergency surgery, or chemo? But, I’m discovering time marches on, and eventually, the terror inducing moment weaves itself into the fabric of personal history.

I survived my first round of treatments. The days after were not exactly fun, but they are in the review mirror. While I never wanted to say “been there done that” regarding chemo (and five treatments still to go), there is something to be said for a familiarity gained from experience.

Especially the experience of being a fish out of water.

While I’m learning to allow the spectrum of feelings their moment, it helps to remember, regardless of my feelings, time will move me along…through the thing…until it becomes a blip on my linear timeline. My dad used to boil it down to a well-known saying, “This too shall pass.”

Like my little shark friend, at some point, we all find ourselves on the brink of a toilet experience, literal or metaphorical. Chemo is my current toilet experience. However, I would bet a sizable sum my little shark friend is no longer in the same place. And neither am I. Round 2 starts on Monday and yes, I feel a bit anxious, but less so. Cheers to progress!

If you are in a toilet experience, remember my little shark friend. Perhaps the only constant in this life is change. Which means, toilet experiences don’t last forever.