On Shoes Dropping

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Last fall when I was really sick after my first dose of Taxol, my dear friend Carla sent me an incredible book to help wile away the hours of headaches, fever and worry.

The book was “In the Body of the World,” a memoir by Eve Ensler, the writer and activist best known for creating “The Vagina Monologues.” It details her fight with uterine cancer, while giving a healthy dose of perspective in the form of harrowing tales of the horrifically abused women she advocates for in the Congo.

While I related to her words and experiences on so many levels, one point she made really resonated with me above all others. Ensler talks about her cancer diagnosis and dealing with the feelings of “why me?” She explains that having survived sexual abuse at the hands of her father, as well as abusive relationships with other men, she sort of felt like she’d been through her really bad thing. And now, even though she’d already been through hell, she was being put through it again.

Yes! I know it’s unrealistic, but after my mom died, I sort of felt like I’d paid my heartache dues. Sure, I knew there were plenty of bad things that could and would happen to me, but I felt like maybe I’d earned a pass to not have to experience anything really catastrophic for a while.

As Ensler and I both learned, unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. Bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen to people who’ve already been through more than their fair share of bad things. Bad things happen on top of other bad things. Bad things don’t have a rhyme or reason. There’s no real pattern. And that’s what makes them so damn scary.

As I walk this path of survivorship, it’s hard for me to keep the fear at bay knowing this truth. There are no free passes. This shit could come back. It could come back today, next week, next year. There’s no guarantee.

I made a therapy appointment today. As I wrestle with all these feelings, I know this is the right move for me. Thankfully, the cancer center has counselors on staff to help people like me make sense of all this and try to move on with our lives. I’m excited to take the first step.

 

Smoke and Mirrors

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Searching “vintage magic” to find this image was super-fun. 

In the past month or so, I’ve gotten a lot of compliments. Some of them are on my hair (the chemo curls are coming on with a vengeance) or how healthy I look. But most of them go something like this:

“You are just so strong. There’s no way I could have managed all this.”

“You are holding up so well; I would be  a mess if this had happened to me.”

You get the picture. But the truth is not very inspiring.

Inside, I’m a complete mess. Truly. I just do a good job of hiding it.

This same thing happened 17 years ago when my mom died. I was so composed (at least publicly) throughout the months following her death that I actually had two friends take me aside to tell me they were worried I was in shock and on the verge of a breakdown or something. Little did they know I’d cried a river of tears almost every day, just behind closed doors.

My people are a stoic bunch. I’ve seen/heard my dad cry exactly four times (three after my mom’s death, the other after his beloved dog died). I don’t think I ever witnessed my grandmother shed a tear, despite burying her husband and two children, as well as several grandchildren. Tough as nails. But it’s not that we don’t feel these emotions–we just rarely express them publicly. (I’m sure this is a conversation to have with a therapist one day.)

The truth is, I still cry often. In the car. At night after everyone’s asleep. Holding my baby in my arms in the dark as he dozes off. Even sometimes after doctor’s appointments.

And if you could see my Google search history, well, you’d know what an overly-paranoid freak show I’ve become. I consult Dr. Google on a nearly daily basis. Every little pain or twinge could be something in my mind. I read symptom lists. I read message boards and blogs, looking for people who felt the same things I do but were OK. It’s totally unhealthy, yet I can’t stop.

So, yeah, I look like I’ve got it all together. But don’t be fooled–I’m still a mess inside.