It's hard to dance with a devil on your back, so shake him off.
Yesterday, I was stomping through the woods, feeling sorry for myself, worrying about the future, and raging at the world. I passed a woman posing with her dogs on some logs and rolled my eyes. A guy on a bike came barreling down the middle of the trail and I glared at him. They both left and I was alone (finally), when I looked up from my silent temper tantrum and saw a raven perched on the branch of a tree to my left. I stopped and watched it, trying to maneuver my phone out of my pocket so I could take a bunch of blurry, shaky videos as per usual, when it squawked and flew across the trail in front of me, circling around to perch higher up in a different tree. While I was trying to find it in the dark branches, another raven came swooping down from somewhere, did a couple screams, and then flew in the direction of the nest from last year. Suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about my problems anymore. I was creeping through the trees, squinting into the sun, trying to spot the objects of my obsession.
Random shifts of emotion are nothing new lately, but I’m still always surprised when sudden anger or sadness or “this isn’t fair”-ness pop up out of nowhere. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I started going to therapy. I knew that my reactions to certain things weren’t what they used to be, and that I was getting especially frustrated and angry in situations that never would have bothered me before. The flip side of that coin was getting rid of my anxiety in most situations, which was nice, but I was still upset with myself. Sure, I was now able to approach most stressful situations with an “OK, who cares, I’ll figure this out” attitude, but then I’d be absolutely livid over something like my doctor calling instead of emailing. I’d stomp into Joe’s office and rant about how THEY OF ALL PEOPLE should realize talking on the phone isn’t an option right now, WHY ARE THEY CALLING ME?
It’s so hard to dig myself out of those moods. My anger is understandable, I know. but it’s often misdirected. I’m so mad, all the time, about what happened to me, but there’s no one to blame. Not really. It’s no one’s fault that I got cancer, not even mine. (As much as I’ve tried to blame myself, even my overdeveloped sense of guilt knows none of this is my fault.) But I really, really want to blame all of this on someone. I want somewhere to direct all these negative feelings. But...there’s no one, other than, you know, the universe in general and I don’t think the universe really cares.
When these moods happen, I remember how important it is to schedule self-care (I really hate that term) into my day. I need to make time to go for a walk. I need to watch the chickadees sneaking into the bird box to build their nest. I need to read a book, watch some TikToks, pet the foster pup, run into Joe’s office to distract him, lie on the floor and listen to sad-bastard-indie music, STALK THE RAVENS. I need to focus on something good, basically, even when it feels impossible. Especially then.
And there is still good. I don’t even always have to look far to find it. Lately, I’ve been seeing signs that my body is healing. My mouth, my neck, my leg, where they cut into me, cut things out of me, it’s all healing, even if I’m not back to where I once was (and am coming to terms with the fact that I never will be). Between radiation and the stress put on my body, I’ve lost so much hair. Not all of it, the chemo I got wasn’t the kind that makes all your hair fall out. But still...bunches and bunches would fall out whenever I’d wash or run a brush through it, and it was really alarming.
Months ago, when I was in the darkest valley of radiation and just getting out of bed each day felt impossible, I wrote that it felt like a wildfire had ravaged my body. At the time, I just kept reminding myself that the way I was feeling wasn’t forever. One day, maybe not the next day, maybe not the next week, maybe not the next month, but one day I wouldn’t feel so awful. One day I’d feel better, even if better looked different than it used to. I told myself that even though it was winter and my body felt like a dried up husk of a tree, spring was coming. And all I had to do was wait.
A few weeks ago, I noticed little baby hairs sticking out from my ever-present ponytail (thanks to not having had a haircut in over a year). My hair is growing back in the places it had been shedding over the past few months. It looks like ridiculous little bunches of grass, sticking straight out from my head. But it means things are healing.
As I circled the trail several times in search of another glimpse of the ravens yesterday, I noted the green buds on all the trees. The bird calls filling the air with music. The wildflowers popping up on the side of the trail. The fact that my legs, once weak and shaky after even a short walk, felt strong beneath me. Able to carry me wherever I needed to go.
I know things aren’t over. I know there is always a possibility that things could get really difficult again, at any time. I know that, as hard as I fought last time, cancer (and especially this cancer) is a real dick. But it’s stolen so much from me already. I’m not going to let it steal my spring.
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