Tell me you watch too many movies without telling me you watch too many movies.
As far as I can tell, there are two types of cancer patients (dead and alive BADUMBUM I’M SORRY I CAN’T HELP IT AND YOU WILL SEE WHY IN A MINUTE).
The first and arguably most vocal group of people are the warriors (barf) who insist that everything will be fine if you’re positive or if you pray enough and they wear ribbons and shirts in their cancer colors like this is a team sport of some kind (double barf) and say things like they never have negative thoughts and they’re happy to just be alive (Oh really? You’re HAPPY to have had part of your tongue cut out, Carol? You’re HAPPY to have had radiation shot at your mouth hole? You like going to the doctor ALL THE TIME?)
Then there are the snark monsters who get by on sarcasm, gallows humor, and cancer memes. These people will punch you in the gonads if you try to tell them to focus on the positive when they’re just trying to complain about how cancer is GUESS WHAT not fun. They do not want to be called brave or strong or told “everything happens for a reason.” They don’t want to wear their cancer colors, they don’t want cancer shirts or bracelets or ribbons, but if you’re in the market for an inappropriate joke about cancer? They’ve got you covered.
(Guess which group I belong to…)
Neither group is right or wrong (everyone should cope however they can) and most people fall somewhere in the middle. I’m no different. I understand the benefits of trying to be positive about things, I just don’t want to be reminded of it when I’m complaining about how life sucks right now. And as snarky and inappropriate (and, yes, dark) as my cancer jokes have become, I do still tip toward the side of positivity, but with a healthy heaping of reality, especially after being kicked in the face so hard by life this year.
Most days, I’m able to catch a glimpse of the bright side. Or at least not be consumed by the dark side. But it takes a huge amount of energy, all the time, not to fall into that abyss. And lately? I’m not always successful. Part of it is connected to the most recent Bad News (The Bad Bad News? The Big Bad News?) because how could it not be? But I’ve also been tracking my side effects, both physical and mental, after each weekly chemo session and my mood is absolutely at its lowest a couple of days after chemo, when I’m feeling (physically) the worst.
I’ve never been what you might call a good patient. I don’t like when people try to take care of me. I don’t like not feeling well. And when I do? I’m not pleasant to be around. I don’t feel good and I want everyone to know it. It’s hard, at that point of the recovery period, to dig myself out of that hole once I’m in it. Mostly I just have to wait it out and remind myself that it’s going to get better, even though the angry part of me that doesn’t feel good is INSISTENT that things will be horrible forever and always.
Remember in Lord of the Rings when Gollum starts arguing with himself? That’s what it feels like. There’s a mean, bitter Jennie who just wants to pull regular Jennie down, drowning her in darkness, reminding her constantly of what she’s lost. How nothing makes her happy, how there’s nothing to look forward to, how she’s not the person she used to be. Sometimes these things are all true (especially that last one). Sometimes it’s not true. And it’s impossible to tell the difference in the moment.
Every day, I wake up and I’m greeted with two different paths. One is filled with darkness and bitterness and constant reminders of what I’ve been through and “what ifs” about what’s waiting around the bend and how much all of this, well, sucks. It’s honestly impossible not to feel burdened on a daily basis by the unfairness of all of this. To not constantly have “Why me?” and “This isn’t fair,” running through my head. I find myself feeling desperate for gold stars for merely continuing to exist because how does anyone do this?
The other path, thankfully, isn’t as hard. It’s the one I always hope to stumble upon. There are still roadblocks on this path, to be sure, but they’re easier to get around. This path is brighter. More inviting. Filled with birds and books and dogs and all the things and people I love.
The problem is, both of these paths look exactly the same. I’m never sure which one I’m on until it’s too late to turn back. It’s not like in Beauty & the Beast when Belle’s dad is trying to decide which path to take to the fair and Philippe is like “Um, how about not this dark and scary one,” and Belle’s dad is like, “Actually if we don’t take that one, there won’t be a movie, so let’s go.” Nope. Two roads diverged in a wood and I took either one because they both look exactly the same. To make things even more complicated, sometimes the paths swap while I’m on them, like the moving staircases at Hogwarts. Sometimes I don’t realize the path has changed until there’s no going back. I just have to wait it out. It’s terribly inconvenient.
At the end of the dark path is a scary castle (in my head it looks like the Beast’s castle because I watched too many Disney movies as a child SEE ABOVE). I step inside at the end of a long, exhausting journey, sweep the cobwebs away from the doorway, to find a mostly-empty foyer. My footsteps echo as I approach a lone table, sitting in the middle of the room. On it is a deck of cards, and when I start to flip through them, laying them all out in front of me, I see they illustrate the little upsets and injustices this cancer gifts me with every day. Little things like eating pizza, celebrating a birthday with cake, talking nonsense with Joe all the way up to the big stuff, like having to hoard words and only release the ones that will be understandable, that won’t physically hurt to come out. Losing time. Metastasis. Advanced. Incurable. Untreatable.
The days I can stay on the light path are great, or at least fine. They’re uneventful in the best possible way. These are the days I don’t cry for no reason. I don’t make anyone else cry with my horrible cancer “jokes.” I don’t worry anyone with my bleak outlook about the future. I can do more than sit on the couch, staring at nothing, interacting with no one. These are the days that I remember there are still things worth living for. I’m not going to lie, though. These days have been harder to find since I got the Big Bad News.
The days immediately after chemo are usually dark path days. I’m tired, I don’t feel good, I don’t feel like myself, I get sick of answering people when they ask how I’m doing, and I feel sad if people don’t ask. I’m cranky and impossible to please. I feel guilty for putting Joe through this, for not being the happy-go-lucky woman he married, for being a silent, grumpy couch gremlin.
A couple of days after chemo, I can usually find my way back to the light path. But most days, if I’m honest, I walk on both. Sometimes multiple times a day. Some days, I wake up cranky and in a foul mood, but I’m pulled out of it by something or someone along the way. The days where I start out on the good path are harder. I’m constantly worrying that something is going to swing out of the trees and ambush me, like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. Sometimes this is enough to stop me in my tracks. All I can do is sit on the imaginary path and sob, grieving for what I’ve lost, all that’s to come, and let myself feel sorry for myself, for Joe, for my family and friends who have to watch me struggle along when all they want to do is help.
And then, once I’ve cried it all out, I take a deep breath, wipe the tears away, take a drink of water, and get up and keep walking. I don’t really know what’s at the end of the good path. Not really. I like to imagine that it ends in a bright clearing, trees gathered in a circle, a soft carpet of pine needles littering the ground. There’s a tree that overlooks a body of water, one perfect branch curving out like a bench. There are birds chirping, wildlife to spot. It’s quiet, no sound of traffic or other humans around, just the sound of the wind rustling the leaves, and I can sit and think for as long as I want.
So I keep walking, trying to find that peaceful sanctuary. The optimist in me, that annoying ray of sunshine, is still there, whispering at me to keep going, that I don’t really know what’s around the next bend. Maybe it’s the light I’ve been looking for. Because, at this point, why not?