Today is hard. Maybe it's just a case of the Mondays... but today feels bone crushingly hard. Like every stupid item on my to do list is a lofty task. I feel like I can't take one more question, one more conversation, one more living thing depending on me. I'm just feeling overwhelmed and I'm not even sure why. I wouldn't even know where to begin when people offer to help. It's just shit I need to do, and I need to muster up the energy to do it.
Things that should be positive, like visiting with friends feel like a chore instead of a treat. My plate just feels too full. It's the mental energy to deal with this that's draining me. Putting on a good face to be in the company of others sounds exhausting. Being honest and moping around in the presence of others sounds even worse. I think I just need a glass of wine, some trashy realty TV, and an early bedtime for the kiddos.
Graham met with the doctors today and the weight of it all is just hitting me. It feels like PTSD. All those fears come flooding back. The ugly moments you had suppressed are like fresh wounds again. I don't want to do this again. I don't want to do this again. I don't fucking want to!
Tomorrow will be a better day.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
I've moved from a state of constant worry to numbness. I'm not sure that I want to live in this place indefinitely, but it's a welcome reprieve. I'm in full business mode - booking appointments, scheduling flights, reserving hotel rooms. It is giving me something to focus on and DO rather than sit idly and worry.
The hardest part right now is the not knowing. I guess, knowing he's going to be in the best hands, makes the not knowing a little bit easier this time. What kind of cancer are we dealing with, anyway? Is this a recurrence or an entirely different beast? What will the treatment look like? How long will it last? Will he be able to work? Can he receive treatment back home? Will he be home with the boys for Christmas?
I was LONGING for a normal holiday this year. There was almost no joy in Christmas last year, despite the birth of a perfect and beautiful baby boy we had prayed & longed for. The wonder was choked out by the reality of surgeries, chemotherapy, and frequent hospitalizations. Death hung heavy in the air. We had NO idea what to expect next. It was suffocating. Combine that with the stress of caring for a new baby, a severe lack of sleep, & a major bout of post partum anxiety and you had a recipe for the perfect storm.
I suppose if this situation has taught me anything, I'm learning that we can wish away our lives waiting for the next milestone. We get so caught up in the next THING we fail to appreciate the moment that we're in. "When we get the news he's cancer free..." "When Christmas rolls around..." "When he's out of the hospital..." We're putting our hope for a brighter tomorrow in a future that isn't guaranteed. Maybe it's a bit cynical - after all, we've been put in a situation few people our age face... or maybe it's just realistic. But I feel like we need to stop looking so much to the future and start trying to make the best out of the ugly moments that we're mucking around in.
Speaking of ugly moments - we had a dark spot a few days ago. We KNEW he needed to go to MD Anderson. We knew, at this point, being in the right place was a matter of life or death. We knew money SHOULD be no object... and yet we kept wavering on what to do, as the financial burden of traveling out of state (even just for the initial consultation) was crushing. We were BARELY starting to recover (in every way) from the first diagnosis. We were trying to make a decision about whether Graham should drive the two days to Houston to save money on a plane ticket, when we heard the news that a coworker had created a GoFund me page to help assist us with Graham's medical expenses. It is something we would never have had the courage to ask for ourselves, but someone stepped in for us - knowing what we needed better than we knew ourselves.
The weight that has been lifted by the generosity of others is like nothing you can imagine. Cancer steals away your control. You can't control the disease, the emotions, the treatment, the response. You are at the mercy of a disease you are powerless to. Having the financial weight lifted gave us back a sense of control & power over this disease. We can make decisions that are in Graham's best MEDICAL interest vs. our practical and financial interest. That in itself is SO healing.
So here's to brighter days ahead. Wherever they may be, and whatever they may contain. Here's to looking less toward the future and spending more time in the present. It may not be idyllic here, but at least we've made it to this point.
The hardest part right now is the not knowing. I guess, knowing he's going to be in the best hands, makes the not knowing a little bit easier this time. What kind of cancer are we dealing with, anyway? Is this a recurrence or an entirely different beast? What will the treatment look like? How long will it last? Will he be able to work? Can he receive treatment back home? Will he be home with the boys for Christmas?
I was LONGING for a normal holiday this year. There was almost no joy in Christmas last year, despite the birth of a perfect and beautiful baby boy we had prayed & longed for. The wonder was choked out by the reality of surgeries, chemotherapy, and frequent hospitalizations. Death hung heavy in the air. We had NO idea what to expect next. It was suffocating. Combine that with the stress of caring for a new baby, a severe lack of sleep, & a major bout of post partum anxiety and you had a recipe for the perfect storm.
I suppose if this situation has taught me anything, I'm learning that we can wish away our lives waiting for the next milestone. We get so caught up in the next THING we fail to appreciate the moment that we're in. "When we get the news he's cancer free..." "When Christmas rolls around..." "When he's out of the hospital..." We're putting our hope for a brighter tomorrow in a future that isn't guaranteed. Maybe it's a bit cynical - after all, we've been put in a situation few people our age face... or maybe it's just realistic. But I feel like we need to stop looking so much to the future and start trying to make the best out of the ugly moments that we're mucking around in.
Speaking of ugly moments - we had a dark spot a few days ago. We KNEW he needed to go to MD Anderson. We knew, at this point, being in the right place was a matter of life or death. We knew money SHOULD be no object... and yet we kept wavering on what to do, as the financial burden of traveling out of state (even just for the initial consultation) was crushing. We were BARELY starting to recover (in every way) from the first diagnosis. We were trying to make a decision about whether Graham should drive the two days to Houston to save money on a plane ticket, when we heard the news that a coworker had created a GoFund me page to help assist us with Graham's medical expenses. It is something we would never have had the courage to ask for ourselves, but someone stepped in for us - knowing what we needed better than we knew ourselves.
The weight that has been lifted by the generosity of others is like nothing you can imagine. Cancer steals away your control. You can't control the disease, the emotions, the treatment, the response. You are at the mercy of a disease you are powerless to. Having the financial weight lifted gave us back a sense of control & power over this disease. We can make decisions that are in Graham's best MEDICAL interest vs. our practical and financial interest. That in itself is SO healing.
So here's to brighter days ahead. Wherever they may be, and whatever they may contain. Here's to looking less toward the future and spending more time in the present. It may not be idyllic here, but at least we've made it to this point.
Monday, November 14, 2016
It's nearly 1 am and despite my exhaustion my brain is too wired to sleep. It's the strangest thing, to be given this news, then expected to go on like nothing has happened. Graham is out of town on a business trip and I can't shake the memories of nights alone when he was in the hospital the first time around. My mind would go wild with frenzied, anxious thoughts. I hate that we're going to be facing that again here soon.
We've had so much kindness poured out on us, so many prayers, well wishes, offers to help. And yet somehow this experience remains so isolating. The reality is, I'm not even ready to face this yet. I've aimed my frustration and anxiety at meaningless targets, because it's easier to be irritated at the cat's for shitting on the porch than it is to be mad at God for allowing this to happen. Again.
Cancer gives you tunnel vision. Every aspect of your life suddenly revolves around this beast. You can't make even the most mundane decision without first consulting the cancer card. It's not like some cheerful light at the end of the tunnel vision though. Instead it's a constant fear that rather than a reprieve at the end of the tunnel, it's actually the lights of a train barreling towards you. And it doesn't much care that you've got your wife and kids standing in the middle of the tracks with you.
We've had so much kindness poured out on us, so many prayers, well wishes, offers to help. And yet somehow this experience remains so isolating. The reality is, I'm not even ready to face this yet. I've aimed my frustration and anxiety at meaningless targets, because it's easier to be irritated at the cat's for shitting on the porch than it is to be mad at God for allowing this to happen. Again.
Cancer gives you tunnel vision. Every aspect of your life suddenly revolves around this beast. You can't make even the most mundane decision without first consulting the cancer card. It's not like some cheerful light at the end of the tunnel vision though. Instead it's a constant fear that rather than a reprieve at the end of the tunnel, it's actually the lights of a train barreling towards you. And it doesn't much care that you've got your wife and kids standing in the middle of the tracks with you.
Friday, November 11, 2016
The News
I'm throwing this out as a general disclaimer - these posts will likely be raw and unfiltered. Writing has always been cathartic for me, so this is a way to get out the ugly shit in my head. I don't promise it will be pretty, in fact, quite the opposite.
Now that we have that out of the way...
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
Yesterday evening we learned the devastating news that my husband's cancer has returned. Four months after his last chemo treatment and our life was finally starting to make sense again. We had plans for a Christmas out of the hospital this year... we were moving to a new house in a new city... I had just shed the anxiety of him leaving for business trips because it reminded me of the lonely nights while he was in the hospital.
The first time you learn someone you love has cancer is crippling. I remember sobbing uncontrollably in his hospital room, 9 months pregnant and literally feeling like my world was crumbling.
The SECOND time you learn someone you love has cancer is heart breaking. You KNOW what it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like. You know all the ugly behind the scenes shit you're getting into this time, so there's no blind optimism. No fooling yourself into thinking, "It won't be that bad." You know you're in for months of nauseatingly sterile hospital stays, middle of the night emergency room runs, watching the person you love literally wither away before your very eyes. Sunken in eyes, rapid weight loss, loss of energy, lost joy, SO MUCH PAIN. The needles, the drugs, the nausea, the bone pain, the chest pain. Trying to muster up the strength to be a cheerleader when you are just so fucking tired yourself.
Whenever he tells me he feels sick, he has a headache, he's itchy... my brain goes right to - "The cancer is back." And now it is. I feel like our whole lives we'll be on hyper alert to every twinge, pain, or ache. There is no respite now.
"It'll be ok." "At least they caught it early." "He's young." My 34 year old husband has cancer. Not ONCE, but TWICE. I wish people would stop trying to see the bright side of ugly shit. I am optimistic he's going to beat this too, but there's no "at least..." in this scenario for us right now. It sucks. It's just really really crappy and there's no "at least" about it. Not yet, anyway.
I've spent the last 24 hours wavering between being a problem solving superhero and wanting to curl up into the fetal position and not move for the next 6 months until this is resolved. One minute I think, "I can do this... I can keep my shit together long enough to get us through this rough patch." and the next I wonder how I'm going to drag my ass off the couch without crumbling into a heap on the floor. The teetering between the two extremes is exhausting.
Right now, we wait. He gets up and goes to work. I take care of the kids. We wait for a phone call, a surgery, an appointment, a plan. We wait and carry on like normal, knowing what lies ahead is going to be ugly and inevitable. I REFUSE to believe my sweet boys were meant to grow up without their Daddy. REFUSE. They both just adore him way too much for him to be ripped off this earth before they can even live long enough to have memories of their time with him. But DAMMIT is it unfair what he has to go through now. I am just grateful they're both too young to absorb or remember the kind of havoc this wreaks on a family.
Now that we have that out of the way...
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
Yesterday evening we learned the devastating news that my husband's cancer has returned. Four months after his last chemo treatment and our life was finally starting to make sense again. We had plans for a Christmas out of the hospital this year... we were moving to a new house in a new city... I had just shed the anxiety of him leaving for business trips because it reminded me of the lonely nights while he was in the hospital.
The first time you learn someone you love has cancer is crippling. I remember sobbing uncontrollably in his hospital room, 9 months pregnant and literally feeling like my world was crumbling.
The SECOND time you learn someone you love has cancer is heart breaking. You KNOW what it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like. You know all the ugly behind the scenes shit you're getting into this time, so there's no blind optimism. No fooling yourself into thinking, "It won't be that bad." You know you're in for months of nauseatingly sterile hospital stays, middle of the night emergency room runs, watching the person you love literally wither away before your very eyes. Sunken in eyes, rapid weight loss, loss of energy, lost joy, SO MUCH PAIN. The needles, the drugs, the nausea, the bone pain, the chest pain. Trying to muster up the strength to be a cheerleader when you are just so fucking tired yourself.
Whenever he tells me he feels sick, he has a headache, he's itchy... my brain goes right to - "The cancer is back." And now it is. I feel like our whole lives we'll be on hyper alert to every twinge, pain, or ache. There is no respite now.
"It'll be ok." "At least they caught it early." "He's young." My 34 year old husband has cancer. Not ONCE, but TWICE. I wish people would stop trying to see the bright side of ugly shit. I am optimistic he's going to beat this too, but there's no "at least..." in this scenario for us right now. It sucks. It's just really really crappy and there's no "at least" about it. Not yet, anyway.
I've spent the last 24 hours wavering between being a problem solving superhero and wanting to curl up into the fetal position and not move for the next 6 months until this is resolved. One minute I think, "I can do this... I can keep my shit together long enough to get us through this rough patch." and the next I wonder how I'm going to drag my ass off the couch without crumbling into a heap on the floor. The teetering between the two extremes is exhausting.
Right now, we wait. He gets up and goes to work. I take care of the kids. We wait for a phone call, a surgery, an appointment, a plan. We wait and carry on like normal, knowing what lies ahead is going to be ugly and inevitable. I REFUSE to believe my sweet boys were meant to grow up without their Daddy. REFUSE. They both just adore him way too much for him to be ripped off this earth before they can even live long enough to have memories of their time with him. But DAMMIT is it unfair what he has to go through now. I am just grateful they're both too young to absorb or remember the kind of havoc this wreaks on a family.
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