This may shock you: the year I’ve lived in remission has
been harder than when I was dying.
I’ve only shared that with a handful of people until
now. My friend recently reminded me, “I
wouldn’t have known that unless you told me.” My hope is that in a series of
posts I can explain why I haven’t shared that life has been brutal, and also my
reasons for sharing now. Even as I type,
I have doubt that my feelings and experience are worth sharing. That it won’t make a difference or that no
one will care at all. That people will
think that I just want attention or sympathy.
It hasn’t escaped me that this is a cancer blog and I currently don’t “have
cancer.” Yet I’m learning that I should
share anyway… to help others, and to help myself. (But, mostly to help others. I’m altruistic like that.)
Emily McDowell said the worst part of Lymphoma wasn’t
feeling sick from chemo or losing her hair, but the loneliness and isolation
she felt when many of her close friends and family members disappeared. She created empathy cards in response to this
feeling. I read about her maybe a year
after having received one of these cards from a friend- the only card among
many that I still have on display in my room.
It states: When life hands you lemons, I won’t tell you about my
cousin’s friend who died of lemons.
This sentiment is hilarious and right on. I’m so thankful she made that card and so
proud that one of my friends knew to buy it for me.
When you get diagnosed with cancer, pretty much everyone
around you is in on the heartbreak and heroics.
It’s the human response! It’s
loving and beautiful. So many people rushed
to my aid and it cushioned my heart, mind, bank account, and body during
treatment. I have not forgotten these
acts of generous kindness. But that’s
not what this post is about. This post
is about introducing the navigation of post-trauma life as people fade back
into their own lives and how it can leave you feeling really, deeply alone.
Don’t wonder if I’m angry or upset with you, because I
assure you I am not! I’m not writing to
make anyone feel guilty. I know I would
have responded the same exact way in those shoes, having never been through
such a thing. I take responsibility for
socially withdrawing myself as a defense mechanism after a while. I just want to take this opportunity to learn
together how to face trauma and grief a little better.
I’m writing for the people who I know may be headed down a
similar road. I’m writing for the people
that you know, who don't yet know that they will be forced down these roads. And I’m writing for the people that will be able
to take the hand of those people along the way.
The road is long, winding, and not always as well lit as we would hope. And silence seems to increase suffering.
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