Fear
I woke up this morning to a back full of knots, cranky as hell, and ready to rip off anyone's head who came too close. And.....he did. Poor man. Bill, I think he may need to go out for that beer with you. I didn't sleep well at all, Eliza being fussy and needing too much reassurance to give me more than a few consecutive hours of already-restless, angst-laden, tossing-turning half sleep. The coffee didn't even satisfy, the taste falling flat in my mouth. Normally, I need coffee like an addict needs heroine, but the only thing I could taste this morning was bitterness at meaningless platitudes flung out of other's selfish needs for their own validation and disregard for what might actually help me. In the midst of a fair amount of reasonable terror, by anyone's standards, trite phrases that attempt to put a mere band-aid on my gushing wound do little more than exacerbate the fear. To be fair, there have been precious few flung out, and particularly not from anyone who understands my commitment to honesty and truth. Nonetheless, true to my form, the few that do come grate on me, robbing me of precious energy I need to fight. Mostly, they distract me from a singular focus--to concentrate wholeheartedly on staying centered. I realized, as I tasted my coffee again, this is it: this is what fear tastes like.
I'm not really even afraid of the cancer. I'm afraid of what trying to conquer the cancer may do to my strong, steady resolve, untested up until now, content to linger arrogantly on the sidelines of pre-experience. My resolve has been pounding her breasts, very nearly daring cancer to come and just try, looking around at the audience and shaking her cocky head as if to say, "You know who's got it. You betcha! I got this bitch kicked in the ass already." Such is the confidence of the inexperienced and the ignorant. Also of the largely unaffected--people who don't really know me anymore who portend to know that I'm going to "be victorious" or "overcome." But, like my full-of-herself resolve, none of them know. Just like I don't know. I knew I'd be happy once a plan was in place. And I was. Last weekend was a triumphant, gleeful time, empowering and all about the building of momentum. Cheerleaders, we all were, so excited, confident beyond any doubts at my ability and strength to get me through this.
Well, now I'm scared. Fucking shitless. Friday, as I said, was hard. Yesterday was better. Today, symptoms aren't even close to Friday, but I'm finding myself struggling to stay out of a place of constant fear--fear of pain, fear of having to find places for my kids every day of every week for god-only-knows-how-long, fear of not having my kids with me if my mortality really is in question, fear of what happens if I don't endure the pain, fear of the pain I've heard about but haven't even had yet, mostly.....fear that I really am not strong enough to do this after all.
I thought I would spend time meditating to will out the cancer and speak in health. Now I think I may have to spend a good portion of my time meditating to mitigate the anxiety that the fear of pain brings. And the fear of not having any normalcy whatsoever, or any way to raise my pathetic self out of my pity-party and "buck-up, Camper!" and "Look on the bright side!" Sure, it's pretty easy to have everyone send me titles of funny movies, and be so cocky about how I'll kick cancer by laughter and faith and thinking positively.
Until I can't stay awake long enough after the kids are in bed to even watch a funny movie. Until I'm so tired from a night that made me tired that I wake up already wanting to cry. Where, exactly, is perspective then? Where's that resolve, all painted up and pretty? Nowhere to be found, I'll tell you. The only lingering taste is the metallic, slightly nauseating taste of fear--fear of the unknown, fear of the little known, and fear of not having the moxie, after all, to really do it in style the way I'd like, if the possibility exists to do it at all.
The worst part is that I used to privately scorn those who lived imprisoned to anxiety. I secretly considered them weak-willed and lacking sufficient moral rectitude to rise up out of such needless, silly worry. Never mind that I mind-fucked all over myself, worrying with every breath that I was completely screwing up my kids, or not being a good enough wife, or perhaps I had offended so-and-so and that was why she hadn't called me back, or spinning for the umpteenth time a relationship gone bad in an attempt to make sense of it so that I could find someone or something to blame. Oh, I was in prison to my anxiety, all right. I just gave it a different name so I could feel better about myself and justify what I was doing. Now, I realize I'm imprisoned to Big Fears so long as they have free reign to romp around in my addled mind.
So this afternoon, I set out to walk, knowing that some endorphins and fresh air would, if nothing else, give Clark a reprieve from my sharp tongue and give me some much-needed perspective. As I walked, I realized what I needed was courage. Courage to withstand the fear with fortitude and humor. When the fear of pain and side effects stalks me, I lurk around hunchbacked, almost willing the pain to come so I can just get it over with. How, I ask, do I prepare myself for something I don't understand? No one can answer this for anyone else. Today, it helped to walk, to be with people who love me enough to distract me from my neuroses, and it helped to be real about the fear.
While I'm still tired, I'm not quite so scared right now. I'm sure that will change tonight when I lay down and my chest tightens and the warnings of side effects start swimming through my brain. Perhaps it's time to bring on the marijuana.
I'm not really even afraid of the cancer. I'm afraid of what trying to conquer the cancer may do to my strong, steady resolve, untested up until now, content to linger arrogantly on the sidelines of pre-experience. My resolve has been pounding her breasts, very nearly daring cancer to come and just try, looking around at the audience and shaking her cocky head as if to say, "You know who's got it. You betcha! I got this bitch kicked in the ass already." Such is the confidence of the inexperienced and the ignorant. Also of the largely unaffected--people who don't really know me anymore who portend to know that I'm going to "be victorious" or "overcome." But, like my full-of-herself resolve, none of them know. Just like I don't know. I knew I'd be happy once a plan was in place. And I was. Last weekend was a triumphant, gleeful time, empowering and all about the building of momentum. Cheerleaders, we all were, so excited, confident beyond any doubts at my ability and strength to get me through this.
Well, now I'm scared. Fucking shitless. Friday, as I said, was hard. Yesterday was better. Today, symptoms aren't even close to Friday, but I'm finding myself struggling to stay out of a place of constant fear--fear of pain, fear of having to find places for my kids every day of every week for god-only-knows-how-long, fear of not having my kids with me if my mortality really is in question, fear of what happens if I don't endure the pain, fear of the pain I've heard about but haven't even had yet, mostly.....fear that I really am not strong enough to do this after all.
I thought I would spend time meditating to will out the cancer and speak in health. Now I think I may have to spend a good portion of my time meditating to mitigate the anxiety that the fear of pain brings. And the fear of not having any normalcy whatsoever, or any way to raise my pathetic self out of my pity-party and "buck-up, Camper!" and "Look on the bright side!" Sure, it's pretty easy to have everyone send me titles of funny movies, and be so cocky about how I'll kick cancer by laughter and faith and thinking positively.
Until I can't stay awake long enough after the kids are in bed to even watch a funny movie. Until I'm so tired from a night that made me tired that I wake up already wanting to cry. Where, exactly, is perspective then? Where's that resolve, all painted up and pretty? Nowhere to be found, I'll tell you. The only lingering taste is the metallic, slightly nauseating taste of fear--fear of the unknown, fear of the little known, and fear of not having the moxie, after all, to really do it in style the way I'd like, if the possibility exists to do it at all.
The worst part is that I used to privately scorn those who lived imprisoned to anxiety. I secretly considered them weak-willed and lacking sufficient moral rectitude to rise up out of such needless, silly worry. Never mind that I mind-fucked all over myself, worrying with every breath that I was completely screwing up my kids, or not being a good enough wife, or perhaps I had offended so-and-so and that was why she hadn't called me back, or spinning for the umpteenth time a relationship gone bad in an attempt to make sense of it so that I could find someone or something to blame. Oh, I was in prison to my anxiety, all right. I just gave it a different name so I could feel better about myself and justify what I was doing. Now, I realize I'm imprisoned to Big Fears so long as they have free reign to romp around in my addled mind.
So this afternoon, I set out to walk, knowing that some endorphins and fresh air would, if nothing else, give Clark a reprieve from my sharp tongue and give me some much-needed perspective. As I walked, I realized what I needed was courage. Courage to withstand the fear with fortitude and humor. When the fear of pain and side effects stalks me, I lurk around hunchbacked, almost willing the pain to come so I can just get it over with. How, I ask, do I prepare myself for something I don't understand? No one can answer this for anyone else. Today, it helped to walk, to be with people who love me enough to distract me from my neuroses, and it helped to be real about the fear.
While I'm still tired, I'm not quite so scared right now. I'm sure that will change tonight when I lay down and my chest tightens and the warnings of side effects start swimming through my brain. Perhaps it's time to bring on the marijuana.
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