I know. That’s kinda sick.
But as I have watched my own fight with cancer and the beginnings of recovery, sometimes from a fly-on-the-wall perspective, it has truly been quite intriguing. The whole ordeal has been a study. (Of course I’m sick. Look at the profession I have chosen – a therapist. I observe and carefully monitor pain every time I walk into my office. Really? Who does this?)
I’m using this blog, at times, to write parts of my story in a public forum that I would normally only discuss with close friends. Here is why: I believe that there is a certain universality in suffering. Intense pain can show an unlimited number of creative faces: the death of a family member, betrayal by a spouse, fighting cancer, losing a limb, financial disaster, chronic illness, war trauma – the list is endless. But in the end, it seems that there are certain themes in genuine suffering that are universal. Some results are very visible, some are less so. Therefore, I am choosing to put the inner workings of my story in this blog in the hope that someone might feel less alone on their own journey. This year and a half, difficult though it has been, has by NO means been the most difficult time of my life. In fact it probably rates #3 or so. (THAT, my friends is a story for another time!) J
So here’s the fly-on-the-wall story of the last few weeks of my journey…
This season started about a year and a half ago. The first 6 months consisted of 2 car wrecks, multiple bouts of sickness, calling 911 on my husband and many other things in a long list of life stressors. While still very weakened physically and emotionally from that six-month period, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Two surgeries, treatment in isolation, ugly scarring, thyroid levels not being regulated well – all of these have contributed to a very difficult year and a half.
During this time, I have unconsciously and reflexively wrapped myself in a cocoon. I have deeply hibernated. I have been asleep. A very, very deep pulling in. Withdrawal. I have had to do this to survive. I have been fighting for my life… both physically and emotionally. The cocoon has been absolutely essential. A sheltering protection of which I have been largely unaware. I have gone through the motions and look like I’m functioning “normally”, but those close to me feel the cocoon, the desperate withdrawal.
As my health has begun to improve, I have slowly begun to peek out of the cocoon. There is a type of “waking up” that is happening. But (as in all of my recovery) it is not happening in a straight line. I poke my head out and say, “Wow! I’ve been asleep a long time!!” Then I reflexively pull back in when I get exhausted or overwhelmed. BUT! I AM poking my head out and waking up here and there. That is happy.
There are certain areas of my life in which I have NOT been asleep… I have HAD to be (sometimes maddeningly) aware of my physical health. I have been intensely riveted to my daughter’s life and journey, as this year has been intensely brutal for her. I have been largely aware of my husband’s world (as I wake up, I realize maybe not as much as I thought, but still quite a bit). I have been awake for the life movements of my very closest friends. Probably most significantly, there has been a beautiful clarity and connection with God that I have not had for years… for that, I have been gratefully, blessedly awake.
The bare essentials. Stripped to the absolute basics of survival.
Here is what non-cancer life is like for me: I am given a package by life (an event, a relationship, a change, an idea, etc). The package can be big or small. I take the package. I look at it. I process it. I think about it. I make connections. I may talk about it. I may write about it. Once I have absorbed most of the meaning from the package, I put it on the shelf marked “Processed”.
This last year when I have been given a package by life, here’s how it goes: I take it. I look at it. If it does not fit one of the categories above (those for which I have been “awake”) then it IMMEDIATELY (and I mean immediately) goes on a shelf marked “To be Processed at a Later Date”. And there are a heck of a lot of packages on that shelf right now.
OK. Back to the cocoon. As I re-emerge, I am beginning to identify areas in which I have been asleep. I don’t think this is a complete list, but some of these are my environment (the seasons, my overall physical surroundings), my senses (fully seeing, tasting, hearing, smelling and feeling), life events (ones that would normally hold substantial meaning for me) and second level relationships (ones that are genuinely and deeply important to me). I don’t like this list. It makes me sad to write it.
Friday night, I spent a warm and comfortable evening with my husband reading in Barnes and Noble – one or our favorite date spots. (Don’t laugh. We are a very exciting couple. Really.) As I walked out of Clackamas Town Center the sun was setting beautifully. There was a cool breeze. The air smelled like so very much like summer. It immediately reminded me of the beauty and joy of summer and of summers past. Within a fraction of a second I teared up. An involuntary visceral reaction. It was the beauty of the evening and the memories associated with it. And right on the heels of that was the sense of the lost summer of 2010. I didn’t LIVE it. I was (necessarily) asleep. And pretty soon tears were running down my face – such a profound sense of loss. And a lot of questions:
What all have I missed?
What have I lost?
What beautiful things have happened that I haven’t been able to absorb?
What has changed and I haven’t been aware of it?
What will life be like when I wake up?
Who will be there for me when I wake up?
Has my cocoon done permanent damage to important relationships?
Can I wake up fully yet (please?!?) or will my system demand that I wait until after Elizabeth’s major back surgery on July 13th and her following weeks and months of recovery? (answer: wait)
So… I feel both eagerness to pull the packages off the shelf and truly “live” and “remember” what is needed of this last year and a half… AND a wariness about some of the loss that “processing the packages” may bring. All of this, of course, while still living in the tension of wanting to get better more completely and “wake up” soon and knowing that Elizabeth’s upcoming surgery and recovery will likely require me to “cocoon” for longer than I want.
Cancer is interesting.
There are often more questions than answers.
There is no tidy box to put all this stuff in.
And I sound like a therapist. J
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