One of the things that has thrown me most off with cancer is the body trauma. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised, but before this was my story I always thought of cancer more as an emotional trauma. It could be that because I was so petrified of it, I never got past the emotional fear of “oh let that NEVER be me!” Well. It is me. And it is every bit an emotional trauma just like I had feared. But it is also massively traumatic on and in the body…

My body hurts. Like all of the time. Pants of all kinds hurt my hip-to-hip DIEP scar. My scalp stings. I breathe shallow because breathing deep hurts. I can’t sleep on my sides or tummy-side-down. I can’t do push ups. Every step hurts my feet and joints. My skin aches. My teeth hurt. My eyes burn. My nails throb. And the parts that don’t hurt – well, those nerves were severed because of 10 separate surgeries. I’ve been poisoned from the inside. Burned on the outside. IV’d, intubated and cut into so many times I’ve lost count. So much physical trauma. . . 

How it shows up:

I hate showering. Being alone with my body is something I dread every time.  

I wince when my kid comes in for a hug and I don’t see it coming.

It feels like fire when my husband touches my skin.

My instinct is to pull away and create space, to look away, to throw up the emotional wall. Don’t come close…it hurts me too much. It’s not always like this, but how trauma works – it shows up at random moments. It shows up when I’m not expecting it. It breaks me apart when my guard is down. And then it’s clean-up time…the emotional picking up of the pieces, for me and for those closest to me. These are the parts I didn’t see coming. 

Alice thought she was stuck forever in the White Rabbit’s house having gotten so large she took up a whole room. With arms hanging out of windows and a foot shoved up a chimney, she was quite unhappy. “There seemed to be no sort of chance for her ever getting out of the room again…” but, lucky for her, she wasn’t stuck forever. A few little cakes later and she’d shrunk back to just the right size to fit through the door and escape. 

Battling cancer took some legit grit. Turns out, surviving it does, too. I will readily state my gratitude that each step I get this side of heaven is a gift in and of itself, but talk about living forever changed in this upside-down-forever-changed self… I don’t get to eat just a few little cakes for my escape. 

I don’t write these things so that you’ll feel sorry for me or try and fix it, but rather you’d be reminded of two things: 1. Cancer is ugly, its impact is unique to each person touched by it and I’m just telling my story and 2. Everyone is fighting a battle you likely can’t see. Be kind.

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It’s a Grind :: May 7, 2018

My post on social media today: “11 of 18. Progress…slow, but still progress. Thankful to have gotten to one more. Thankful one more is almost behind me. Thankful for God’s promises.”

My colleague and friend today said, [in response to my “I’m down and tired and am struggling to shake it,”] “It’s a grind…so of course you’re exhausted…”

Yup. That is a good word. Being here is tough. It is a grind. But another word that I like: Grit Even when I don’t feel like fighting, I do. Grit. Even when I hate this part of my story but find parts to be grateful for. Grit. Even though I hurt all over, I get up and keep moving. Grit. Even when my husband and daughters are tired but they remain resilient. Grit. Even when cancer has taken so much, it has not taken my life. Grit. Even though it’s hard to find beauty, beauty is redefined. Grit. Even though my identity is shaken, it is not shattered. Grit. Even though my soul is weary, I am relentless. Grit. Even though my faith waxes and wanes, I know that my God is constant. Grit.

I’m tired. But I hope for tomorrow. Grit.

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Meltdowns at the Dinner Table :: May 7, 2019

I melted down at dinner. My heart is tired. I have vacillated between sadness, hopefulness, stuck-ness, overwhelmed-ness, present-ness, peacefulness, gratefulness and anger(ness) all day today. 

Why am I all of these things?

My body is ugly. I’m glad it’s strong and stubborn but man is it ugly. The scars. The bruising. The needed extra fat. …I’m even blistering. 
My confidence is fragile. In one minute I’m saying EFF it. Whatever. This body is temporary and I’m more than appearances. And then in the next, I’m a puddle on the floor because I desperately want out. 
My patience is fickle. I can totally live 5 minutes at a time and it’s best for my mental health to do so. And I actually prefer it because there is so much in the now that I don’t want to miss. But there are times where I get so dang antsy for what’s next, for the fast-forward button to exist, to “skip ahead” because the present hurts like hell. 
My resilience is waning. I’m. So. Tired. It’s a good thing I’m stubborn…. 
My joy is elusive. I have to actively seek it and choose gratitude…Imagine a dark and heavy fog that clouds everything. That fog doesn’t take any energy to create, it’s just there, it’s simply reality. The light of joy is also there in the reality and exists despite the fog. But seeking the light in that dense darkness takes a lot of effort. Certainly always worth the effort, but effort nonetheless. 

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