.One recent morning, I woke up and things felt different. I felt alert, curious about the day, and relieved. Not numb. Not grieving. “I’m back,” I whispered. “I’m back.”
What’s the deal with humans– at least, this human– needing to give everything a name? What’s happened this summer hasn’t been depression, CancerShrink says. Elements of it, for sure, but…he spread his hands: just figuring things out in a new way, learning about trauma…. He shrugged. Formal names don’t seem to matter to him; I’m the one who half-hopes words can overpower ideas– especially ideas we don’t like. “Nervous breakthrough?” I suggested. He laughed.
(It feels risky to talk so openly about emotional bobbles, but as so many lung cancer folks work through a multiplicity of ups and downs, I figure the more it gets talked about, the better.)
Here’s what I think triggered my awakening.
I received an alert from GO2, a support and advocacy group for lung cancer folks. The ask was to sign on to a letter to legislators requesting that they vote to increase government funding for lung cancer research from $25M to the full $60M that advocacy groups had begun requesting more than a year ago.
Part of the form letter leaves a space to add personal experience. It’s not that I wrote anything new. I just wrote to evoke a response from legislative staff that might read it (and sometimes they even call you back!) Turns out I’m the audience I needed my comment to grab.
Some of what I wrote:
“Every day, I wake with quiet dread. Every day I wonder, will it be enough? Will what I do today be enough to know I have lived well? Lived to my fullest potential? Learned all I could have learned? Made a difference?”
Like I said, it’s a little dramatic. On the other hand, it’s not completely untrue.
I had a moment of weeping. Just a moment, though. Because, in a flash, I saw that I may have taken my own stable lung cancer status enough for granted that I could overlook my own cancer-ness. Until, that is, I got hit hard by respiratory illness and a very, very slow recovery. Until one friend experienced progression and difficult treatments. Until another friend died.
With each new wakeup call, it’s as if I replay the early days of diagnosis.(Trauma response, anyone?) I think, too, that once trauma awakens, other trauma rises to join the gathering dark (think zombies, stumbling from their festering earth…..)
.
.
I had to do something to ward off the zombies. My theory: low-key action in lung cancer education (and maybe some advocacy) will help keep my awareness fresh without burying me. A Facebook lung cancer group I belong to has been asking for volunteers, so I did. I’ve also done a little research, read about some new FDA approvals.
Not long after I decided to tackle things head-on is when I woke up…different.
This is quite the journey. I’m still in a quiet space, not yet ready for full action in the world. But it’s coming.
Thanks for reading. Here’s hoping you’re having a peaceful day, unencumbered by zombies.
And, if you’d like to sign on to the funding request, you can do so here. Scroll down and select the letter that asks for the full $60M. (No personal comment needed.) Thanks.
I love this–trauma zombies!
After I finished my 33 radiation treatments, Anne and I went out to lunch. I think it was around that time that I realized that 1) I had been treated for cancer and 2) while it wasn’t over, I was a cancer survivor.
From the time of my surgery in September 2017 until I finished radiation in December of that year, I was on automatic pilot. This is what has to be done, I can do it.
When there was a downtime and I had a chance to think about it, it all hit me. My oncologist said something like, you are different, you’ve had cancer.
I, too, need to name things. Of course, I’m 76, so I will die of something sometime.
I just would like not to think about it every day.
As always, thanks for writing–your posts inspire me.
Peace.