I'm so tired of this, so tired. I don't feel unwell, just drained. I know my body needs rest, and I'm resting, but I feel myself resisting giving into rest. I hate being idle.
I feel a bit like a fire that is burning down, the coals are still glowing, and there's an occasional spark, but the person tending the fire isn't adding fuel very often. When they do, it burns rapidly and is gone, and the fire yearns for some long-burning logs.
I guess the analogy of a fire is comforting, as long as I keep the coals burning and conserve my energy, there will be renewed resources ahead.
It's just so hard to stay positive, to not feel sorry for myself, to resist the waves of anger, guilt, envy, resentment, self-blame, regret, and sadness. I guess this means I need to improve my mindfulness, let the feelings come and go like clouds, blah blah blah. I'm afraid of giving in to the grief, afraid it will overwhelm me. I don't want to get depressed, I've already felt twinges of the weighty darkness, and irrational anxiety that threatens to consume me. I'm not going to let that happen. I have to keep my head above water, keep floating and watching the clouds go by until I can get out of the water.
Breast cancer seems to be perceived as something that makes you stronger, survivors like Olivia Newton-John present a cheerful face, talking about how glad they are to have gone through the frigging "journey". I can't recall anyone talking about how damned hard it is. The difficulties of treatment are mentioned in hushed tones. Our society wants to hear the happy success stories, the trials of the treatment aren't something to be discussed, it belongs in a mysterious darkness that decent people don't want to know about.
Yet on television I see horrendously graphic portrayals of murder and man's inhumanity to man. This is acceptable fodder for the masses, but talking about the horrible treatments that people must endure in order to live is not?
It's a crazy world.
I feel an obligation to be positive, upbeat, cheerful. Stiff upper lip and all that. It's tiring to maintain this attitude, because it means suppressing the miserable feelings that any rational person would expect someone to have in my situation. But I try to maintain a bouyancy in my outlook, so I won't sink into the abyss, and because there's evidence a positive attitude helps with recovery. Bloody hell! If I don't stay positive, my outcome may be worse. What a cruel incentive. Carrot and stick together. And this poor mule just wants a rest.
(some hours later, lying on the couch at home)
For me, going through chemo is a bit like going to fight in a war. People pat the departing soldiers in the back, wish them well in battle, and pray for their safe return. They might send care packs and letters, but there isn't much contact with the soldier during the fighting. The solider might return home briefly for leave, but the battle is fought only with a small squadron. Some are conscripted, some are too young to be fighting, others will join freely. The people at home wonder what is happening on the battlefield, their imaginings fearful, but they don't want the gory details, the stench of mortality is too horrific, too confronting. Far more comfortable to welcome the soldiers home from battle, to commiserate over wounds and losses, to encourage the battle-worn to return to normality, to get on with life, to put the past behind them. Society celebrates the ones who act as if nothing has happened, or who embrace life again without demonstrating the emotional scars or the fears that war will return. They're admired for seeming stronger or wiser for the experience, but it seems indelicate to ask them what it was really like to be in mortal combat, and few are willing to talk about the experience. Perhaps they don't want to relive the fear, the boredom, the sacrifices. Perhaps it's too intimate, like talking about the experience of sex, or of moving one's bowels. It's taboo to talk about some things.
I don't know if it's taboo to talk about this. I've probably offended some people months ago, some may think this is a form of attention-seeking. It's not. I'm writing this for my friends and family. This is the way I talk to those closest to me, so some of you are getting to know me much better than I'll probably ever know you.
Returned soldiers find it hard to talk to people who haven't been through it. Far safer to share recollections in hushed tones with other survivors. They'll understand the flashbacks, the aching wounds, the disturbed sleep, the anxiety, though the PTSD symptoms aren't identified as such. I suppose the taboo of talking about horrific experiences is protective, it suppresses the memories, and saves the naive from vicarious trauma. Sharing some of the terrible war stories I've heard from elderly WWII veterans would not help anyone, but they haunt me when I recall them, so I try to keep them locked away, hoping the memory will fade.
As someone going through the battle, I worry that I'll seem like weak if I express my fears. I want to seem strong, resilient, uncomplaing. Nobody likes a whinger. I don't want to to complain. I'd like to be inspiring. I don't want to put people off having treatment if they ever need it. That's my greatest concern. Chemo is hard, but better than the alternative. I'm grateful for the treatments that are achieving such good outcomes. I just wish the battle was over. I want to feel well again.
