Think of a wonderful thought, any merry little thought.
When I was little, I spent a lot of time trying to fly. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and I mostly used it to convince myself that anything was possible, no matter how fantastic. I thought there was another world on the other side of the mirror, if only I could find a way in. I tried drawing a door on the side of our house because, in Beetlejuice, that’s how they got into the underworld. Sometimes I’d click my heels together three times, even without ruby slippers, thinking it might eventually take me to Oz. And it was why I would try to fly whenever I got the chance.
The ways in which I tried to fly were varied, frequent, and mostly unsafe:
Standing at the top of the jungle gym at recess with my eyes closed, thinking happy thoughts and waiting for a burst of strong wind before jumping off.
Hanging off the monkey bars by my knees and then dropping, thinking the fear would cause the flight response to kick in.
Jumping off of swings once they got as high as possible.
Jumping off of anything, really, with an umbrella (thanks, Mary Poppins).
Sitting on various rugs in our house, urging them to take off, in case one of them was actually a flying carpet like in Aladdin.
And my personal favorite, standing on one end of a teeter totter and asking my friend to push really hard on the other end, assuming I’d soar gracefully into the air. (Narrator: she did not.)
Lately, all I’ve wanted to do is fly away from my problems. So far, no luck, though I haven’t tried the teeter totter thing.
It’s probably not all that surprising that I’ve been struggling lately. Physically, I’m starting to feel more like myself, with the exception of eating and speaking (which is going to be a struggle for...a while, maybe forever). Mentally? Oof, I don’t know.
Since surgery, I’ve been so focused on how my body is feeling that I’ve mostly ignored my mental well-being. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I’d have to process everything eventually, but I didn’t have the headspace or the energy for it at the time. But now it’s like this tidal wave of trauma, all hitting at once. (Basically, I procrastinated on feeling all of my feelings which...if that isn’t the story of my life, I don’t know what is.)
What that means is that EVERYTHING feels really hard right now and like it takes energy I don’t have. For instance, my speech has gotten much more understandable, but it’s still exhausting to speak. My tongue gets tired if I talk too much or for too long. My mouth is still incredibly dry from radiation, which makes talking even harder. And I still find myself feeling, just, kind of SAD after I talk to people. It was one of the first things I asked my therapist about, because I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling that way.
“You’re grieving,” she said. “You’re grieving the old you, and every time you speak, you’re forced to think about all you’ve been through.”
It was such a DUH moment. Of course I’m grieving! This stuff isn’t going to just go away. It’s why I cycle through a million emotions a day, most of which I can’t even identify. It reminds me of how I felt the week I was first diagnosed. Just…a mess of tears and feelings and confusion.
At the end of that week, Joe and I went in search of a reminder that there was still a world that existed beyond cancer. We ended up at a quiet nature preserve we’d never been to, where a short hike led us to a deserted beach. At the time, I wrote that visiting that spot allowed me to realize that the things I was feeling wouldn’t be forever. That the real me would still be waiting when treatment was over. That my life wouldn’t be cancer forever. It’s something I keep trying to remind myself as I work through the bad feelings that continue to pop up.
Joe and I went back to that spot last weekend. It was another beautiful day. When we arrived at the trail, we were greeted by a multitude of weird ducks. When we got to the beach? Two black oystercatchers! A goldeneye hung out in the water near us, diving for food. A harbor seal popped its little head out of the water, having just caught a fish, and we stared in amazement as two bald eagles swooped down and stole the fish from the seal before flying away, screeching like a couple of assholes.
Again, we had the beach to ourselves. I spent some time poking around rocks and tidepools, kneeling to admire all of the tiny snails. I couldn’t help but compare this trip to the last one. Joe and I are doing so much better than we were at that time, even though it’s still a daily struggle to claw our way back to some semblance of normal.
Physically, though, I can’t help but catalogue all of the ways I feel so much worse than I did then, even though when we last visited, I had cancer aggressively attacking my body. Since that time, I’ve lost parts of myself, had parts rebuilt, had my body poisoned and burned from the inside out, and I’ll be recovering from all of it for a long time.
But, just like last time we were there, it was a reminder that nothing is forever. The last time we visited was the end of the worst week of my life, and I was so unsure of where things were going and how we’d make it through. Now that we have? I know that I’m capable of so much more than I ever realized. If I can make it through the last six months, I can make it through the next six, and then the next and the next and the next, until this constant daily struggle feels like a distant memory.
And hey, I’m still waiting on my radiation superpowers. Fingers crossed for flight. I need to talk to a couple of eagles about being nicer to seals.
Before and after. (For now.)