08-31-2020
The month is but a day away from being done, and wow, it went so fast.
The grind of getting radiation everyday of the week is tough and for all the speed of the actual treatment, the getting there and back again, interrupts my day-to-day plans, but mostly because it adds to the fatigue.
For the first time in a while, the guy with the face mask hanging off his face wasn’t there! And for all my complaining about it, there are now signs everywhere, up and down the hall reminding everyone to not only wear a mask, but wear it properly.
That felt good to know that talking about the lack of compliance has now led to a nice array of signs that show how to wear a mask the correct way. There is no avoiding it with saying, “I didn’t know,” at this point, at least not in the cancer center.
Knowing, and acknowledging the issue makes me feel more empowered, even though I only have one more treatment left tomorrow. Some fights, albeit a small one, are worth it for those that will continue to have treatments during the Covid19 crisis.
Thank you and gratitude
My mental health feels shaky as of late. I’m sometimes overwhelmed by all that is happening in the world with the upcoming elections, unrest everywhere, global warming and it’s ramifications, Covid19, and oh, yeah, breast cancer and its treatment, just to name a few.
It’s a lot for anyone, but everyone tells me I’m strong and can beat this, and while I would love to believe that, those words seem contrived when my brain won’t stop pressing the panic button regularly. Unlike some annoying alarms that can be ignored, this one grips me around the neck and I feel threatened by so many things in this world right now, as do many people, and I question why am I putting myself through all this treatment just to live in a potentially scorched earth that is being created by not caring for our world or humankind in general.
It’s not healthy to be fearful all the time, and I’m typically not one that gives into fear, but it’s a lot to deal with, and there is this “in your face,” mortality question that looms, not just from the cancer, but I’m now 66 years old, and aging adds to my anxiety about all of these complex issues that face so many of us that are empathetic, and worried about all of those around us.
Thank you to Linda, the Sharp social worker that I met with last Friday after my treatment. She had breast cancer as well, so she does understand the process, which is really helpful, since, unless you have had to go through the physical and mental challenges of breast cancer, it would be difficult to, truly understand the ups and downs of this E-ticket ride. I sure as hell didn’t until I was diagnosed in March.
Nobody told me just when I think I’m going to be able to catch my breath it feels like I’m taking a bat to the head, and it knocks me to the ground again, withering in pain and sadness.
Linda just allowed me to vent for nearly an hour about the mask-less people, Covid19, the lack of communications by so many in the medical field, the treatments, the emotions, the lack of support and my anger at needing to have another surgical procedure, which is scheduled on the 22nd of September. And then she said, “It’s a lot and you have every reason to feel like you do.”
It made me realize that if I were listening to someone telling me all the things I told her, that I would have to agree, it’s a lot and some days I’m not going to be able to handle it all, want to climb in bed to sleep and be mad at people that just don’t have a clue or respect for others. It’s okay to feel what I feel, it’s okay to cry sometimes, and it’s okay to huddle up in a ball to forget the world just for a time.
There are still side effects, and Linda explained it could take a couple of years for the effects from the Chemo and radiation to dissipate, and even then, I might not feel the same as before. That was honest and weirdly enough, felt good to hear, and I thanked her for that honesty.
I tend to be a “Pollyanna,” type of person, looking for the good in people, believing that the best outcome will happen, and when I have read that people go to work, deal with families, and more during their treatments, I wanted that to be me.
It wasn’t, and it isn’t, but having Linda explain from her own experience and from working in the field dealing with lots of trauma, it was helpful to know I’m not the weird one that isn’t coping well with the side effects, I’m more the norm, although a good definition of “normal,” might be in order, since none of this seems to fit what most might define as “normal.”
In her wisdom, Linda told me she once bought a magic wand that was bedazzled and pretty, but it still didn’t work, in spite of the name, the magic was elusive, like all magic.
Magic is a trick that makes you believe what your eyes think you see, and it’s fun to be fooled, but it’s really not wizardry, it’s an illusion, and reality is still lurking just beyond the smoke and mirrors. Cancer and it’s treatments is reality, as are the pain, the side effects and dealing with the world during a pandemic.
I didn’t sign up for any of this, but in some ways, dealing with cancer and the horrible treatments are sometimes a gift, because it forces me to face reality, and walk through the smoke to see the mirrors reflecting my life with this disease. It’s not pretty, it’s painful, exhausting and until you have lived it, most will not know how incredibly over bearing a cancer diagnosis is. It seems unfair, unjust, unhinged, undone, and the “un” of all of those things has a really big voice in my head at times.
With all of that, Linda explained, it’s okay to have a magic wand that doesn’t work. That wand doesn’t judge, it demands nothing, and in a weird way, it represents hope. Hope implies living in the moment, and with my own, new, very simple and plain magic wand that arrived in the mail yesterday, it will be my reminder to live as best as I can in each moment, and know that I can, at times, live in the “magic,” and the smoke and mirrors. This allows me to take a break from reality now and then, but, still understanding there are times I will have to ignore the illusionist moments and live in the real world, with the pain, the sadness and the reality that I have cancer, and with that, I hope that the magic comes in the form of surviving.
Thank you Linda, I’m grateful for those lessons.
I have fuzz, which seems like magic, and grateful for that as well.
