So, for most of my life, I’ve learned how to compartmentalize. You know, the skill where you put something “aside” because whatever it is that you are currently doing simply cannot be done with the distraction of that thing. Perhaps you, like me, can visualize putting that something into a container, one designed specifically for what it is holding, and then adding it to other designed containers in some figurative organization system in your head. Your collection – vast. Varied. Some containers more fragile than others. Some buried. Some forgotten. Some replaced. And there are even likely some that are locked up extra tight and purposely ignored because of what they hold. *Raises hand*
For me, the emotional intelligence of this is then knowing how and when to pick those containers back up, address what is inside of them and then use the whole process to make things matter – good or bad, easy or difficult. For years I would help clients with this process as I counseled them and worked with them through their collections. My own counselor even helped me with my own. But this past week something happened. I watched someone dear to me grieve. I didn’t say much because it wasn’t my place. I didn’t counsel or coach them in it because that wasn’t my role. I wasn’t their been-there-done-that go-to because I haven’t grieved what they were grieving. I simply watched.
By watching I saw. By seeing I learned. And then I was able to articulate something that I’ve experienced but struggled to put into words since my diagnosis. I actually think it isn’t about compartmentalizing much at all. It isn’t about putting something in a box and then putting it off to the side…even if you do pick it up later when you’d much rather ignore it. I think we would all do better if, in the literal middle of it [grief, pain, sadness, despair][elation, joy, happiness, glee], we integrated how we were feeling and let it coexist with the showing up and living. If we learned early and practiced often how to hold both. In doing so, our healing would be deeper. Our process of making things matter would be more profound. Our experience would be more authentic. Our living on purpose would be more genuine. …All because we aren’t limiting our feelings by the containers we put them in.
PS. “Boundaries” are not containers. These are not to be confused.
PSS. Some compartmentalizing is instinctual and protective. This kind is different and necessary.
Past Posts from 2018:
Holding Reality :: April 12, 2018
I don’t have much to say tonight….I’m heavy hearted but I’ve learned how to function in that space. Holding reality with authenticity looks like that… And I really don’t have energy for much more of that tonight…
Hurt and Hope :: April 13, 2018
Oh man…”Heavy” has been the theme this week. It’s been a tough one.
Today, a large majority of the interpersonal interactions I had were very heavy. Difficult conversations with clients, holding difficult realities with my close friends, walking in the midst of those things while being in my own storm… This side of heaven is wrought with challenge and heartache. Purposeful. But hard. My friend said today, “I can’t believe how much hurt I can handle.” Yup. Agree. It’s amazing how much hurt we can hold. Our courageous resilience.
I’m grateful that as much hurt as I can hold, I can also choose to hold hope. Even in the midst of the pain. 2017, as hard as it was, and 2018, a close second, has taught me to find the gratitude and hope among the destruction of pain and suffering. That joy and sorrow are so interwoven. That I can choose to see God and see good in the same space as darkness and despair. That I can be devastated of the fact that cancer has taken so so much but to also be celebratory that it has not taken my life (thank you, Marcy, for that reminder). That while this feels heavy and dark, I’m grateful I am not alone. Ever.
(No Post :: 4/14/2018)
Life Lessons in a Kayak :: April 15, 2018
So……I went kayaking yesterday. For the first time ever. And while we thought the conditions would be just fine, turns out they got bad pretty fast. It was pretty windy getting to the opposite shore but it was really really windy getting back.
What stands out to me from that experience were the many metaphors for our current chapter…..
…Conditions can seem fine and then suddenly turn bad.
…Being out in the middle of a lake in a self-propelled water craft requires the necessary amount of self-propelled strength to get to shore. No motor can ease the waters coming back.
…Perspective is skewed when out in the middle…am I moving forward? Backwards? Sideways? Is shore getting closer? I was finding myself getting discouraged because no matter how hard I worked, it seemed as though progress was not being made. It felt easier in my mind to just look down and keep paddling but the problem with that was if I didn’t look at a focus point of where I was going, I would lose direction.
…And of course, perspective from the shore looks very different than from out in the middle. And it radically changes when you’ve been in the middle and you’re safely on shore looking back to where you’ve come from.
…Paddling into the wind has a very opposite feel than paddling with it.
…The second I stopped paddling for a quick break, I lost covered-ground; all momentum was lost, the wind would push me back faster than I could gain, and the same difficult ground had to be covered twice.
…My husband, not far from me, in his own kayak, on his own waves, with his own paddles, was cheering me on.
…While we prayed for the wind to stop, even if just for a second so we could catch our breath, it didn’t ever let up. We had to just keep going despite seemingly “unanswered” prayers.
(I also found it kind of interesting that kayaking, the very activity that is the basis of these metaphors, uses the same muscles that have been rearranged in my body due to cancer.) On that note…I’ll just hold that experience as a literal illustration of the past 9 months and as I continue to battle, I will remember it well.
Tomorrow is another chemo…….4 of 12…..one more closer to the end. Perseverance.
4 of 12 :: April 16, 2018
Today was chemo #4 of 12. (Or 10 of 18 if you count my first six rounds even though the drug combination was slightly different.)
This is what I posted on social media today: “#4 of 12. I was thinking on the way here several things. 1. I haven’t had to make this drive in a few weeks. Weird! 2. I get to see some amazing nurses today and I’m excited. 3. Oncology nurses are a special kind of humans. Amazingly gifted to do hard things. 4. Odd that I’m excited to see them because I’m so heavy-hearted that I have chemo. 5. I have cancer. 6. I will see this drive to Rose in every season. I will see the view outside from my infusion chair in every season. Huh. 7. Thank you, Lord, that I made it to another treatment. One more closer to the end.”
I wasn’t feeling all that well today. I have found that the first couple rounds of this 2-drug combination have been tough on the first couple of days whereas the first 6 rounds would have a few-day-delay in the onset of side-effects. Interesting. Acupuncture comes on Wednesday….maybe she can work her magic again.
While I was at chemo, Cami, the social worker that works out of the Rose Rocky Mountain Cancer Center location, spent an hour with me. We talked, she listened, she asked good questions and I was able to process some of my recent experiences. It was so helpful talking to her…she validated how strange it is to be where I am. I’m on the other side of some really hard things…but still very much in the middle… I told her how silly I felt the first time I saw the word “survivorship” and that I thought it meant Chris, the girls…those I would be survived by if I died. (Shows where my mind was soon after diagnosis when I saw that word for the first time…) It actually means what life looks like for the cancer patient post cancer treatment… I’m not quite officially to that phase yet as I still have 8 chemos to go, but I can’t help but feel strange in this place of still-in-treatment-but-not-quite-done-and-past-some-really-hard-stuff-but-not-quite-to-survivorship-status……….
It’s odd to be so close to what the awful was but just far enough away from it that it is kind of hard to remember just how awful. It’s odd being in an old normal while also living totally changed. It’s odd when people say, “You did it” or “you’re done” knowing all too well that it’s far from over. It’s odd having a larger percentage of my days be good and then having to go in for chemo – it’s kind of like when a doctor tells you “take all your antibiotics, even if you start feeling better…you need to finish the whole bottle.” It’s odd walking around with hair growing back in after the process of shaving it, losing it all and now seeing it all come back. And then still wanting to wear my purple wig because…It’s odd that I will miss having purple hair. It’s odd looking in the mirror and seeing the evidence of cancer and still somewhat disbelieving that this is actually occurring.
Weird. So so weird. I guess as each passing day gets me closer to “official” survivorship, I will continue to trust that the experience of each day is, in and of itself, purposeful in surviving.
Some Days Just Need to be Over :: April 17, 2018
Everything that could have been annoying today, was. Hot flashes while trying to put on make up. Ironing and having the iron ruin a shirt. Trying to get out of the house on time and being just slightly behind schedule. Hitting every stoplight. Not finding the things I needed at work. Slow internet. Hitting every stoplight. Sitting behind a train so very close to home…… Seriously, so many things today were just “off” enough to be irritating.
And I didn’t feel well. And I was so uncomfortable in my own skin. And all the emotions. Right below the surface. My Haleigh looked like the weight of the world was on her shoulders this morning. My Cate and my Annie are fried, too. As is my husband. Normally I can shake things like this off and come out of it. Today, I struggled. I was sluggish and heavy and sad all day long.
A friend of mine this morning asked how my girls were doing. I immediately started crying. This friend, who’s mother has also battled cancer, said, “your girls have had to accept and watch and be reminded that their mom is human.” Ah. She’s walked this road. She knows. She understands. And it helps me understand my girls’ experience. And it makes me sad. By the grace of God, we will see many many more years to come, but for this chapter, we are tired. Tomorrow is a new day. Everything is temporary. I won’t feel like this forever. And neither will they.
Cancer Sucks :: April 18, 2018
A better day. A tough night. Going to sleep because I feel awful and I’m hoping I can sleep it off……Cancer sucks.
Past Posts from 2019:
Stuck :: April 12, 2019
Pharmaceutically induced depression is an interesting thing. I’m completely aware of it so there isn’t a denial. But I’m stuck….Blech. I feel terrible tonight. Terrible in my heart. I’m nauseous. And I’m in pain. Cancer is really hard.
Walks and Talks and Med-Induced Blahs :: April 13, 2019
I went on a walk tonight with Chris…we are trying to go on a walk every night for a few reasons – it gets me active and is just the right amount of active for my body, it gets me outside and helps my emotional state and mental health and it gives us time together to talk and connect.
All of those things are so good and I am grateful for a husband that prioritizes me and time together while also helping me manage the side effects of cancer and tamoxifen and, well, let’s be real – the traumas of the last couple of years……. What is difficult is that every step I take is painful. My joints ache terribly. Stupid tamoxifen. I was hoping that by walking every day, that would lessen. Nope. Not even a little bit…and it actually feels like it’s getting more painful. Lovely. And tonight it was chilly and it really hurts me to be cold. Being cold is uncomfortable anyways, but I am in literal pain when I’m cold. *eye roll
Stupid cancer.
And the real kick-in-the-pants: I can go on a walk and be outside and spend time investing in relationships … all things that are natural anti-depressants … but then, because I’m pharmaceutically depressed, those things only help for a little bit and then I’m right back in my funk. UGH.
I’ll take what I can get and I’ll continue to seek ways to naturally manage med-induced blah, but man…cancer is really hard.
Pain :: April 14, 2019
Oh man the arthritic pain is intense today. Weird that it is more today than normal… My neck, shoulders, hands, back, hips, knees, ankles….all hurt. And my chest (wow how I struggle calling it that) my mastectomy/reconstruction surgery site is extra painful tonight, also. It’s a good thing I’m seeing my oncologist for a follow up tomorrow. We are gonna talk tamoxifen, side effects, other options, blood work, tumor markers and this thing called survivorship.
Hope. Despair. And Hope Again. :: April 15, 2019
Today has been a mix of things…. I had a great appointment with my oncologist. She’s supportive of us trying a new med. And wants me to take a few weeks off of everything so yay for that. I left my appointment feeling hopeful. And that felt good.
Then tonight, I got home and took a walk with Chris and every step I took hurt. Every. Step. The hope I had this morning waned…. the main side effect of the new med we’re trying next is arthritic joint and bone pain. While I’ll be thrilled if I don’t have to battle drug-induced depression, the constant pain isn’t going to be a pleasant walk in the park either. Literally.
I’m planning on enjoying the next three weeks with no meds in my system and at the same time, try to hold onto hope that the bridge I have to cross when we get there is as good a scenario as possible. And as I finish writing tonight, I am finding my head and heart are stuck on the word “oncologist”…
AAAAHHHHHHH :: April 16, 2019
My mind, body and spirit are ping-ponging alllllllll over the place tonight.
I’m hot. I’m cold. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m stuck. I’m hopeful. I’m grumpy. I’m insecure. I’m uncomfortable. I’m uncertain. I’m fearful. I’m at peace. I’m struggling. I’m hurting. I’m holding too tightly. I’m letting go. I’m resentful. I’m grateful.
#thisiscancer
Bridges and Wastelands :: April 17, 2019
Early on and throughout this cancer story, a visual that has come to mind often is that of a bridge. I see myself standing on a precariously rickety bridge that is stretched over a chasm so deep that the view to the bottom is indiscernible. The wooden rungs are connected haphazardly by fraying rope – some rungs are solid, while others are small shards left over from the rotten, weather-worn wood that has fallen the long distance into the blackness of the chasm below. The rope that I hold onto as I navigate each step is tattered and worn and, in some places, undone and completely useless. And the end of the bridge is obscured by the densest fog imaginable…a fog that is both suffocating and unyielding.
Each step on the bridge is uncertain, unpredictable and scary. Will I fall to my death? Will the next rung hold me steady while I wait until I am able to take another step or will it rot out from under me? Will I ever get to the other side where I can place my feet on solid ground? How far away is the other side…will it be my next step or will it take 100 more? Does the other side even exist or is this my forever?
The bridge still holds significance, no doubt, but I’ve struggled with how to put my experience of survivorship (a new and strange and waaaaaaay-harder-then-expected) experience into words because the words are too elusive…too difficult to capture. But today, I had a new picture.
Today, I find myself in a barren wasteland that looks the same from horizon to horizon. I’m surrounded by a fog of a different nature – a fog that doesn’t obscure my view but a fog that exists purely because there is nothing to see. Every direction I turn looks the same. Barren. Nothing. No hills, no paths, no trees, no signs, no people… As uncertain as the rungs on the bridge are the steps into no man’s land. I’m turning in circles. Unsure of where to step. Wondering if the steps I’m taking are forward or backward or not actually steps at all. Not seeing the horizon get any closer because I don’t know if I’m even moving. I have no anchor points to gauge if progress is happening. No one to tell me where to start or where the end is. No directions. No guidance. For a while in this land, I had people with me…telling me what to do next, where to go, who to talk to, keeping me company. But people have gone on with their lives because they have bridges and wastelands of their own…. The hard reality is that this land is only mine anyways, as no one else can walk it for me and while I am here, I am ever so vulnerable to the landmines of doubt, fear, uncertainty and cancer’s recurrence.
#thisissurvivorship.
A Powerful Encouragement & a Thank You :: April 18, 2019
Got this from a friend today: “While no one can walk the path for you, every person (past and present) who has ever touched your life is mixed in with the particles that float around amidst that fog. We are here..even though we may be small and invisible, we surround you with love and support extending through time and space. We are part of the oxygen that sustains you and keeps you walking. While every breath may be labored, we are here to help you breathe. Just because you don’t see us, doesn’t mean we aren’t here. Look for us in the inbetween spaces in those quiet moments of clarity and you will see us. We are with you every step of the way. 🙂”
This is all truth. And I’m incredibly grateful for each one woven into my story. I know and deeply value the purpose of my friendships and I want to make sure everyone that has walked with me in this (however near or far) knows how precious they are to me. Thank you Chris Powers for this powerful encouragement. And thank you to everyone in this with me. I am forever grateful.
Past Posts from 2020:
(No Post :: 4/12/20 or 4/13/20)
Also :: April 14, 2020
I woke up funky today. Couldn’t really put my finger on the ‘why’ but I didn’t force myself to work too hard to figure it out. I’ve learned that doesn’t really make my process faster or make me feel better. The whole “trying to figure it out” thing rushes me from one minute to the next instead of just fully experiencing the minute I’m in.
I love working from home. I also find it very challenging. I love spending time with my girls. I also want them to get to go back to spending time with their people. I love the slow-down of time. I also love the hustle and bustle of a life rich with experiences. I love getting to spend my days looking at my husband over at his desk working while I work close by. I also can’t help but recognize the amplification of what cancer so unfairly stole from us. I love hearing my girls get along and be each other’s best friends. I also get why they are missing their non-sister-friends. I love the quiet. I also notice that my body’s, my heart’s and my mind’s pain are really loud in it. And I miss spending time with my mom and dad.
(No Post :: 4/15/20)
20 Days :: April 16, 2020
I’m comfortable in the unknown…I have peace where there is angst…I hold steady in the tensions of seemingly opposing thoughts and feelings…I find I am calmest in the free-fall… I haven’t always been, but I’m different now.
Since the beginning of this pandemic, I’ve noticed these things about myself but haven’t quite been able to put them to words. Today, though, words came. I haven’t been fearful of getting Coronavirus and my actions and behaviors are more for respecting others and how they may feel about all of this and less about how I feel about it. I’m careful when I go to into the office for the 3 hours a week that I do, I wear a mask for the one work-related errand a week that I run, I use hand sanitizer when I’m out of the house for the once-a-week shopping I do with Chris… And I’ve certainly struggled with my own shame over this attitude asking myself things like, ‘why are you not more afraid?’ or ‘shouldn’t you be *more* careful than the average person because of cancer rather than *less*?’
Maybe. But here’s why I’m not…
There were these 20 days…. 20 days between “you have cancer” and “your pathology results are back.” 20 days where I didn’t know if I had a lifetime ahead of me to plan out and live through or if I had 2 weeks to live. 20 days where time stopped. 20 days where no new information came my way to inch me along this path.
20 days where I spent deeply pondering the feeling of closing my eyes for the last time.
*Will they tell me it’s stage 1 and I won’t need treatment? Will they tell me it’s stage 2 and I’ll need radiation? Will they tell me it’s stage 3 and I’ll need chemo and radiation? Will they tell me it’s stage 4 but as long as I do treatment for the rest of my life, I’ll live a long time? Will they tell me it’s stage 4 and it’s beyond treatment so I’ll need to plan my last few weeks of life on this earth? Will any of that matter because I have a 6 hour surgery coming up and there is no guarantee that I’ll even live through that?*
20 days where I had to rehearse my own death.
*Will I be on the operating table? Will it be another car accident? Will I be doing something on my bucket list? Will I be quietly sleeping in my bed? Will I be rushed to the hospital because of a bad reaction to chemo (if I have to even have chemo?) or because I have an infection from surgery? Will it be in the ambulance or will I make it to the ER? Will they need a crash-cart to try and bring me back? Will my family have time to say goodbye to me?*
Those 20 days were hard. Those 20 days hurt. Those 20 days were real. And those 20 days turned into months…and years. Thoughts of opening my eyes to see Jesus’ face were easily conjured up in the throes of chemo or in the nights of painful surgery recoveries or in the moments of desperation for the emotional pain of the traumas to stop. And as I sit here tonight, amidst a pandemic two and a half years later, I can close my eyes, take a deep breath and feel like I’m just inches away from heaven. Because of those 20 days.
My heart is heavy with this reality tonight. I am so comfortable with my own mortality that I can literally close my eyes and feel a last breath away from meeting my Maker. How deeply tragic. But also how deeply precious.
(No Post :: 4/17/20 or 4/18/20)