KNOCKED FOR A LOOP

“Whew, now you can get back to normal.”

“It’s time to snap out of it.”

“You should be grateful.”

“It’s in the past. Leave it there.”

Stop wallowing. Move on.”

These are just a few examples of messages that cancer survivors hear from friends and family once treatment is complete.  Our loved ones are, understandably, relieved that we are still around and that we appear to be on the road to recovery.  They are often dismayed, then, to find us irritable, depressed and rather uncooperative.  For them, the ordeal is finally over and we now can get on with our lives. What they don’t get, at all, is that cancer is never really “over” and that a return to “normal” will never be possible because it, simply, no longer exists.  Our very Selves have been radically transformed and, therefore, can never be resurrected.  Nothing, in fact, will ever the same again.  Normal just has no meaning. We are, of course, greatly relieved that the acute phase of our cancer journey appears to be over (though we will never be sure of even that), but simply slipping back into life-as-I-know-it is not an option.  What we are feeling, instead, is severely stunned and confused, scared and lost, as though we have just received an extremely powerful blow or have had our tether to life, our symbolic umbilical cord, suddenly severed, leaving us afloat in a great black expanse with no guide or sense of place or direction. Instead of asking “how do I move forward,?” most of us are asking “what just happened?”  Like a tsunami, cancer rushes in, engulfs you, stripping you of everything, and then sweeps back out, leaving you feeling destroyed and without bearings.

And what is it about this state of affairs, this PTSD-like experience, that summons such denial in those around us?  Fundamentally it is, I think, an overwhelming fear that arises when they start to become fully aware of how fragile our lives really are.  They develop a sudden knowledge of how very close they came to losing the other and, thus, become aware of how vulnerable and powerless we all are.  This is so difficult to acknowledge that denial becomes a more comfortable alternative and, so, the cancer survivor in one’s life is encouraged to “move on” and “snap out of it.”

As with my initial diagnosis, I thought that I knew this drill and was fully prepared to face and cope with the post-trauma abyss.  Again, I was wrong.  Fortunately, no one in my immediate world was forcing my recovery or trying to push me to react one way or another.  On the contrary, my loved ones keep reminding me to take my time and to not try to rush anything or to “tough it out.”  Rather, it’s been my own guilt and perfectionistic tendencies that invaded my brain and attempted to push me into becoming the model survivor.  I wanted to prove that I was strong and resilient and deserved an “A+” for my successful endurance.  And not only did I want to do it all perfectly, but I wanted to do it immediately.  Only yesterday, after two long doctors’ appointments where it was made clear to me that recovery from this type of extreme radiation treatment can take up to several months and that I need to be very, very patient and forgiving towards myself, was I startled into realizing how much I had been denying and pushing myself.  And although I did feel relieved to hear that my snail’s-paced recovery was completely within normal expectations, I have, nevertheless, quickly slipped right back into cooking up a plan to speed it up and defy those expectations.  I need to be special, better, the most successful survivor.  And, despite knowing, on an intellectual level, that that is not possible, I still feel tremendously guilty for having developed complications like thrush and mucositis and for still needing so much pain medication. I feel like a failure at cancer survivorship.

Sigh…

Taking a step back…taking a breath…pausing…waiting…giving it time…having patience.  Every morning in my meditation, I repeat “I practice stopping” and “I practice letting go.” These intend, of course, to show me how to release negative emotions and fabricated stories and the theory is that if I cultivate the ability to stop and to let go, I can apply these where they are needed in my everyday life. But unfortunately, as soon as I spring off of my zafu and prepare myself for the day ahead, I’m on the run, pursuing the elusive and once again seeking to do it all perfectly and quickly. I can only guess that I need a great deal more practice at stopping and letting go!

Recognizing that we are all afraid and only giving fear different faces, it becomes possible to see that we’re all, actually, in the same boat, terrified of our fragility and mortality.  So while some are suffering a life-threatening illness and others are trying to protect loved ones, as well as themselves from the pain that is cancer, we are all, nevertheless, scared stiff.  By not acknowledging this and, thus, ignoring our common bond, we allow ourselves to remain isolated, resentful and in a muffled panic.  Our vision remains cloudy and it’s such a struggle to reach out. For myself, the stubborn pursuit of unrealistic perfection only serves to keep me stuck in my fear- the fear of knowing myself to be vulnerable and mortal and the fear of admitting my need for support.  Given the shared underlying emotions that drive this post-trauma experience, it seems logical to conclude that we, the survivor and the co-survivor, can contribute enormously to one another’s healing.  By having patience, remaining non-judgmental, maintaining a willingness to truly listen,  and by keeping love front and center, we do what in some communities is known as “holding space” and so, we recover, in the most holistic sense. This, to me, is genuine healing and it helps one get over the panic and the sense of being lost and abandoned that characterize the post-traumatic period, not only for the person who had had cancer, but for those s/he loves as well. So while “getting back to normal” is not possible, creating a brand new, honest and well-informed normal actually is. We just need to lend one another a hand.

Holding Space

The fear awakens and roars

coming at each from a different place,

but landing just the same.

It can drive a wedge and build a wall

or soften like nothing else.

Allowing us to gently hold one another

and yield.

We find relief where it’s never been known

and peace that permits breath.

We rest in that space

knowing this cannot be taken away.