The Grief of Cancer
I'm starting to learn that cancer doesn't just "happen" and then you move on. It's not a singular event that can be isolated. Maybe for some it does- if it does, I wish I was one of those lucky ones. Those that are able to take this diagnosis in stride and move on to the next phase of life. For me, cancer created a very deep chasm in my universe. So much so that I refer to a lot of my life as "before the diagnosis" and "after the diagnosis" much like we refer to our lives "Before Kids" (those were the real fun days).
The "after diagnosis" world also has very distinct pieces- it's almost as if each portion is a separate lily pad. You can't hop to the next until you've completed whatever is for you on the lily pad that you're standing on. I am sure eventually time begins to flow like a soft stream; but in the early days of the diagnosis and post- treatment, time is fragmented, cut as sharply from one to the next as a diamond.
I think I am on the third or fourth lily pad "after cancer". There was the treatment pad, the losing your hair and your reality shifting to an alternate dimension. There's the NED news and the swift metaphorical kick to the curb from the routine and life you had become accustomed to. No more weekly doctor's appointments and blood draws, no more living your life based on your White Blood Cell count. Then at some point you hit the "What the fuck just happened to me" moment which hit me like a freight train when I thought resuming my "before cancer" life was what I needed to survive, to move on.
It feels like I am sitting comfortably in the "I miss my old life" lily pad. The awareness has sunk in that my life is different, and will never, ever, ever be the same. The acceptance is the hard part. I have found myself running around the last 3-4 months trying to figure out how to get my health back - back to normal - back to something that feels normal. I have met with new doctors, naturopaths, nutritionists, and the like to figure out how to start to glue the pieces back together. I feel like a vase that was smashed into a million pieces and all I have is a bottle of slightly expired glue. There is no map, no directions. But it is up to me to figure out how to put the pieces back together. In all of these appointments, I find myself constantly referencing my "before cancer" life as if it was someone else's life being lived. I used to run half marathons for fun, I did a half-ironman when Max was just 1 year old; I used to be fit and athletic. I was always healthy....
Some of this commentary from my before cancer life has been met with questionable stares and perhaps some eye rolls. I have had doctors tell me to "stop focusing on the past" and promptly ignore my claims that I was once fit and healthy. Now I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I don't recognize my body, or my body's abilities (and lack thereof).
While I have not accepted that my life is forever changed, I have realized I am grieving the loss of my life that once was. I miss the old me. Sure there were a lot of improvements to be made and these experiences have given me that opportunity to identify and seek out those improvements. But I miss me. I miss 35 year old me that felt like life was just starting to come together. I was facing my past traumas head on and doing the work. I was finding joy and validation in my work and love and blessings in my family and our community. I was facing the pain that had once held so much power over me. And then my 35 year old self got side swiped by cancer.
There is some peace in at least accepting that I am grieving the loss of my old self. That this is the phase I am in. Eventually maybe I'll accept that my new self post cancer is a new and improved version. But we aren't there yet. So I will be sitting cozy on my lily pad, working through this stage.