What You Don’t See
“Blindfold” | photo by Jackie Leishman
This is the most important post from the cancer blog I kept in 2014, while I was receiving cancer treatments in Australia. If you, or anyone you know, is going through cancer, please feel free to share. I hope my experience offers some comfort and validation to those navigating the intestity of a cancer diagnosis. Dedicating this to the friends who are undergoing treatment or who have recently recieved the frightening news.
~some updates and edits were made from the original
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I don’t share everything. On facebook. On instagram. Not even on this blog. I do share a lot, but it's important for me to disconnect and remind myself what my life was like before we were all instantly connected. And don’t get me wrong, I’m a major fan of facebook and most social media because I love keeping up with my friends and family. BUT, I also believe in standing right here and using all of my senses to be present.
I realized I was falling victim to the habit of grabbing my phone when I couldn’t sleep at night. Or pulling out the laptop and watching something with the hubby instead of catching up and actually looking at his face. So, I moved everything out to the living room. When I go to bed, my phone and laptop go to their bed too. No working, no writing, no connecting, no fall back distractions. Remember what that was like? Pretty much fantastic. Alive, real, organic, present, here, now, eyes, laughing, telling jokes and talking until we fell asleep all diagnol-like on the bed. THE best.
The other reason I don't share everything all the time is that it's hard for me to relive my misery with others. Most especially when I’m going through it. It feels multiplied somehow. I tend to update people after things have happened and I've had a chance to catch my breath and get over it. (I must insert here that I don’t think it's bad to be able to talk about misery publicly while you're in it. In fact, it’s bold, brave and selfless. There be can so much benefit to you and others if this method works for you). But for me, when hardships hit, I need to focus. It takes everything I have to get through it. All day praying, and holding my husband. Not just his hand. Picture a koala bear.
When you hear from me, it means I’m coming up for a breath of air between treatments. So far, I’ve been able to keep a fairly positive perspective, but I owe so much of that to the most incredible companion, plus tons of prayer. Not to mention awesome children, extended family, and world-class caring, wise empathetic friends. My people. (Have I ever mentioned this? Maybe once or eighty times). I’m sure people can find joy and positivity without these things, but I tell you what, they are everything for me.
What’s happening when I am seemingly quiet?
You mean those times when I find myself having a panic attack walking down a corridor away from yelling medical personnel? Only to find myself collapsed with an oxygen mask over my face unable to find answers to simple questions like, “Where are you?" Or, day after day staring straight ahead for hours on end because it’s all I can do to keep myself from throwing up. The beautiful but inescapably depressing room where I sit with much older men and women, while the chemo is administered. The pain and stabbing in my chest from the pressure and pulling from this alien port trapped in my chest. The unsightly scars on the thinnest skin of my body that will be there as a reminder for the rest of my life. The random, sharp, long lasting pains that have put me in the emergency room more times than I care to count. The soreness in my mouth that seems to flare up on the weeks I am finally feeling well enough to eat. The off and on painful swelling of my tummy that makes it hard to button jeans, and so on. Having a bald head is nothing compared to the weight of everything else. Taking notice of little happy things, or finding tiny roots to grab ahold of when you’re crawling through a storm are when you discover the remarkable mercies of life.
But I don’t want to fool anyone into believing that cancer hasn’t been an insane struggle. This experience has left no box unchecked. Every single part of your psyche, spirituality, physical body and emotions gets a crash course overhaul. And just like the house that gets gutted and torn apart, the process is not pretty. It’s a horrifying mess instead. But who doesn't need a good remodel every now and then? There are so many attributes I’ve been dying to grab ahold of for years, without much luck, so maybe now’s my chance. I’ve always wanted to be more nurturing, more thoughtful, more confident, more compassionate, more aware, and more grounded. Thanks to cancer and her wrecking ball for clearing the path for just about every one of those areas! Seven full swings. One more to go. BOOM!
I should be as good as new after two weeks of radiation. Many people have given me props for my positive attitude. Thank you for that, but not everyone has the awesome set up I do. I would hate for my attitude to reflect how you think anyone needs to behave to have a better experience. If you find yourself in this dreaded situation, you need to give yourself grace to ride the emotional wave, you do not need extra pressure of being positive to make everyone else comfortable.
In addition to the great set up I mentioned earlier, I have one of the most treatable cancers. I also happen to be an old pro with nausea and physical ailments. Pregnant much? And I promise you, even in my situation, words can't tell you how difficult this has been. If you would like to comfort someone going through cancer, I would not recommend telling them to have a positive attitude.
Try to realize that the thirty-thousand other feelings blasting through them simultaneously need to be considered, validated, and processed most of all. When I was in the emergency room with sharp pains in my kidney after I was first diagnosed, a younger medical staff told me, “It really is all about attitude. You just have to have a positive outlook.” I recognized this as a well meaning effort to usher the elephant out of the room, so what I couldn't respond with was, "How does that make this all better? How does that make me not die? How does that comfort my children who may loose their Mom? And look over here at my husband who is standing in the lonely street hoping the lights won’t go out." Sometimes we fail to realize that when we want to comfort a person in mass distress, we need to allow them to feel however they are feeling at the time, and leave our discomfort out of the conversation.
You don't have to understand it, you don't have to make it better. You simply need to be there. Your presence alone offers the best thing during this dark time; hope. You could express how much faith you have in them, how much you love them. You could say something as simple as, “Wow, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling," and that would be absolutely perfect. And true. Because the invisible-to-the-eye wrecking ball crashing through the other person at unrelenting strength and speed cannot be understood unless you have gone through it. And besides, we are all in a different space and a different state of mind when bad news decides to come knocking. Sometimes we're on our game and sometimes we're not. I say we forgive ourselves and others, and just aim to accept what is, and move through it as best we can.
I'm all about blue skies and rainbows, bring it on. But there is necessity and beauty in allowing yourself and others to thoroughly move through painful experiences, however they need to, with honesty and integrity. Because then, the sunshine of life will become all the more spectacular.
Love,
Rachel Adell
