"Peace is not the absence of conflict, but the handling of conflict without losing your balance"
I love this quote. It is such a perfect way to describe how I often feel. Off balance. It is as if I am constantly losing my balance and stumbling. Moments when I feel inadequate and completely insecure. I had one of those moments yesterday.
In the past few years I have distanced myself from so many people. My fears and depression, which I have now accepted have been with me much longer than I ever realized, have kept me from so much. Some days just picking up the phone would cause a panic in me that felt like death. One of the major steps in my healing is changing this pattern. I make dates with friends, go outside for walks, sit on the porch at least once a day, and most importantly make time to see my father every few days. It may be difficult to understand, but these are HUGE steps for me. Anyway, yesterday was the first time I went to the rehab center by myself. I was very shaky in the morning, feeling the cold, icy fingers of panic reaching out to me. I did my breathing exercises and some thought replacement exercises I have been working on in counseling, and off I went.
My Dad was in a great mood, if maybe a little sleepy. He is getting stronger, and is always happy to see me. His roommate was being discharged after a 3 1/2 month stay and there was a lot going on in the room. Chaos around me is difficult. My mind begins to spin and my thoughts become jumbled. The man's wife commented that the glasses her husband was wearing looked too big and she didn't think they were his. She asked if they were my father's. I said I didn't think so. They were wired rimmed and my father always wore solid frames. Plus I hadn't seen him wear his glasses there at all, but the woman kept going on and on and looking at me like I was an idiot (or so I perceived) that I didn't know if they belonged to him. I tried one of my sisters, who has been his major caregiver for the past several years, but her phone was off. I did get a hold of my other sister who also was pretty sure his glasses weren't there at the rehab center. Of course my Dad was no help, he insisted he never wore glasses EVER, even though I knew he had my whole life. I felt those panicy fingers reaching for me, and even began to doubt myself. Did my father really ever wear glasses? Am I crazy to think he did? I held it together, made the decision that no, they must be the roommates, even against his wife's protests. When I left the center, I sat in my car and sobbed for ten minutes. So much self-doubt and guilt crept in. I should be able to handle a simple situation such as this. I should know what my Dad's glasses look like. I am a grown woman and should be able to go to a public place and do normal things without fear and panic coming along like evil little stalkers.
Of course when I got home I lost it even more. I cried in my husband's arms and just blurted the whole story as well as my feelings of embarrassment and self-loathing and the longing to just be normal and whole again. He started pointing out all of the baby steps I made that day. Just going out by myself was a huge accomplishment. I figured out the glasses situation, and didn't panic or cry in front of strangers. I came home and told him about it instead of holding it in. I needed to hear that, and he's right. But I say again, this is the hardest thing I have ever done. It would be so much easier to just retreat to my room, where I feel safe. I am so sick of those four walls, though. I am working on finding the safe room inside of me. The place where no matter what the situation, how bad the storm, how intense the conflict I can stand my ground. I will not stumble or fall. I have a long, scary road ahead, but at the end I will find my peace.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Stages
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step"
There are said to be 5 stages of grief. At the "Livestrong" website it talks about the grief associated with cancer, either as the patient or the family. Another website I visited believes there are 7 stages of grief, and this is closer to what I have felt since the possibility arose that I may have cancer, and through the testing process. I would like to take you through each stage, and share a little about how I was affected.
STAGE 1: Shock and Denial.
Denial is a wonderful thing. You can pretend things aren't happening or not accept them and life can be peachy. In the long run though, this only causes more pain when actually have to face the situation. I knew that when the radiologist saw the nodules on the CT Scan that cancer was a possibility. I felt fairly confident. After all, if I was going to get cancer, it would be breast cancer. That only made sense. And let me tell you, thyroid cancer is such a complex, confusing disease, it is hard to cope with, or even find information that is useful. The testing process took months. First blood was drawn. My numbers, which would be impossible to go into detail, were high, so my PCP told me to schedule an ultrasound and make an appointment with an Endocrinologist who came highly recommended. Of course I had to wait 5 weeks to get in to see him. In the mean time I had my ultrasound and was told 2 of the masses looked "suspicious". So, finally at my appointment with the Endo, he ordered a fine needle biopsy to tell us more. That appointment, of course took 4 weeks to get in. The biopsy was awful. I was so glad my husband came. they took 11 samples total, and several of them could not be reached with the fine needle, so they had to use a much larger syringe. The next 6 days were agonizing. I went to my PCP on a Thursday and she asked if I spoke with the Endo yet. I said "NO" and she informed me that the nodules were cancerous and I would need to see a surgeon. Here's where the denial comes in. I was shocked. I did not cry right away. I kept telling myself and my friends and family that it was "good cancer" because it is very treatable. But when you stare at a piece of paper and in bold letters is typed **POSITIVE FOR PAPILLARY CARCINOMA*** your world begins to spin and it all becomes real.
STAGE 2: Pain and guilt.
Now comes the part where you, the patient, find yourself comforting others. I would tell my husband and children and family and friends, "I'm fine, it's gonna be easy, no sweat" but inside I was terrified. I hate that my boys have had to go through this, not just the cancer, but the depression too. They constantly worry, and have seen me cry far too many tears. They are the most amazing young men on the planet, and I thank God for them everyday, but I hate that I have put them through this. And holding all of my fear and pain in, ultimately caused more damage in the end.
STAGE 3: Anger and bargaining.
Boy did this one hit me hard! After my surgery I was pissed at the world!! I was angry at doctors for not telling me how difficult recovery would be. I was angry at strangers in stores and doctors offices that didn't have cancer. I felt like I should be able to say anything I wanted because I had cancer damnit, and F*&% anyone that dare have a problem with me. This was way out of my character, and I'm glad it didn't last long, maybe a week or a little more. Being angry takes a lot of energy. This still creeps in once in a while, but not so much. I never bargained though, my attitude was more like "really?, seriously, give me a break!"
STAGE 4: Depression and loneliness.
Obviously I am stilling dealing with the depression, but it was there before, just made worse by my diagnosis. As many of you may have read on facebook, I went through a terrible phase of loneliness. I felt so alone and abandoned. I posted things I regret, but I was truly feeling them at the time, and was reaching out. That feeling is slowly fading, but I have to put forth an effort as well, and reach out. That is definitely a two way street. You can't scream loneliness, than cut people out of your life. Boy did I learn that the hard way, as I do most of my life lessons.
STAGE 5: The upward turn.
I believe I am beginning the long walk up this hill. I have more moments of strength and less of despair each day. Sarah Evans sings it perfectly in her song "Stronger." Certain things will remind that I am fighting several fights here, but each day I become just a little stronger. And soon that glorious day will come when I do not shed a tear, and then maybe 2 days will pass, and before I know it a week. I am not there yet, I still have some really bad days, but not as many, and I achieve small, simple victories each day.
STAGE 6: Reconstruction and working through.
When a tornado or hurricane rip through a city, it only takes minutes or even seconds to destroy what took decades to build. The actual reconstruction takes years. To this day New Orleans is not the same. As with me, It may take months or years to rebuild the structures inside of my heart, mind, and body, that have been crushed by disease and depression, but someday they will be restored to their former glory. No, strike that. I am going to emerge a stronger, new, improved, better version of myself. I am the butterfly, waiting quietly in her cocoon, changing, evolving, waiting for just the right time to come out.
STAGE 7: Acceptance and hope.
Even though I have had the surgery and see the scar every day, and am awaiting treatment where I am actually injected with radioactive fluid that could harm others if I expose them to any bodily fluids in the first few days, I still have not fully grasped the concept that I am a cancer patient. For the rest of my life I will need mediation and testing. The treatment to rid my body of this cancer actually raises my chances of getting other forms of it. Most days I am just trying to get through with my heart and mind in tact. I don't have time or energy to worry about such things. I do have HOPE though. I am overflowing with it. I have a husband and three children that love and adore me and take amazing care of me. I have 2 BEAUTIFUL grandchildren and I plan to dance at their weddings. I know my husband should be the love of my life. I love him more than words can say, and could never live without him, but Jake and Kaylynn are truly THE LOVES OF MY LIFE! They are my future. They are why I fight. They are why I cannot give up. One touch from them is more healing than any pill or therapy available. HOPE. Yes I have hope, and it is radiant and warm and healing. Hope is my future. Hope is faith holding it's hand out in the dark.
There are said to be 5 stages of grief. At the "Livestrong" website it talks about the grief associated with cancer, either as the patient or the family. Another website I visited believes there are 7 stages of grief, and this is closer to what I have felt since the possibility arose that I may have cancer, and through the testing process. I would like to take you through each stage, and share a little about how I was affected.
STAGE 1: Shock and Denial.
Denial is a wonderful thing. You can pretend things aren't happening or not accept them and life can be peachy. In the long run though, this only causes more pain when actually have to face the situation. I knew that when the radiologist saw the nodules on the CT Scan that cancer was a possibility. I felt fairly confident. After all, if I was going to get cancer, it would be breast cancer. That only made sense. And let me tell you, thyroid cancer is such a complex, confusing disease, it is hard to cope with, or even find information that is useful. The testing process took months. First blood was drawn. My numbers, which would be impossible to go into detail, were high, so my PCP told me to schedule an ultrasound and make an appointment with an Endocrinologist who came highly recommended. Of course I had to wait 5 weeks to get in to see him. In the mean time I had my ultrasound and was told 2 of the masses looked "suspicious". So, finally at my appointment with the Endo, he ordered a fine needle biopsy to tell us more. That appointment, of course took 4 weeks to get in. The biopsy was awful. I was so glad my husband came. they took 11 samples total, and several of them could not be reached with the fine needle, so they had to use a much larger syringe. The next 6 days were agonizing. I went to my PCP on a Thursday and she asked if I spoke with the Endo yet. I said "NO" and she informed me that the nodules were cancerous and I would need to see a surgeon. Here's where the denial comes in. I was shocked. I did not cry right away. I kept telling myself and my friends and family that it was "good cancer" because it is very treatable. But when you stare at a piece of paper and in bold letters is typed **POSITIVE FOR PAPILLARY CARCINOMA*** your world begins to spin and it all becomes real.
STAGE 2: Pain and guilt.
Now comes the part where you, the patient, find yourself comforting others. I would tell my husband and children and family and friends, "I'm fine, it's gonna be easy, no sweat" but inside I was terrified. I hate that my boys have had to go through this, not just the cancer, but the depression too. They constantly worry, and have seen me cry far too many tears. They are the most amazing young men on the planet, and I thank God for them everyday, but I hate that I have put them through this. And holding all of my fear and pain in, ultimately caused more damage in the end.
STAGE 3: Anger and bargaining.
Boy did this one hit me hard! After my surgery I was pissed at the world!! I was angry at doctors for not telling me how difficult recovery would be. I was angry at strangers in stores and doctors offices that didn't have cancer. I felt like I should be able to say anything I wanted because I had cancer damnit, and F*&% anyone that dare have a problem with me. This was way out of my character, and I'm glad it didn't last long, maybe a week or a little more. Being angry takes a lot of energy. This still creeps in once in a while, but not so much. I never bargained though, my attitude was more like "really?, seriously, give me a break!"
STAGE 4: Depression and loneliness.
Obviously I am stilling dealing with the depression, but it was there before, just made worse by my diagnosis. As many of you may have read on facebook, I went through a terrible phase of loneliness. I felt so alone and abandoned. I posted things I regret, but I was truly feeling them at the time, and was reaching out. That feeling is slowly fading, but I have to put forth an effort as well, and reach out. That is definitely a two way street. You can't scream loneliness, than cut people out of your life. Boy did I learn that the hard way, as I do most of my life lessons.
STAGE 5: The upward turn.
I believe I am beginning the long walk up this hill. I have more moments of strength and less of despair each day. Sarah Evans sings it perfectly in her song "Stronger." Certain things will remind that I am fighting several fights here, but each day I become just a little stronger. And soon that glorious day will come when I do not shed a tear, and then maybe 2 days will pass, and before I know it a week. I am not there yet, I still have some really bad days, but not as many, and I achieve small, simple victories each day.
STAGE 6: Reconstruction and working through.
When a tornado or hurricane rip through a city, it only takes minutes or even seconds to destroy what took decades to build. The actual reconstruction takes years. To this day New Orleans is not the same. As with me, It may take months or years to rebuild the structures inside of my heart, mind, and body, that have been crushed by disease and depression, but someday they will be restored to their former glory. No, strike that. I am going to emerge a stronger, new, improved, better version of myself. I am the butterfly, waiting quietly in her cocoon, changing, evolving, waiting for just the right time to come out.
STAGE 7: Acceptance and hope.
Even though I have had the surgery and see the scar every day, and am awaiting treatment where I am actually injected with radioactive fluid that could harm others if I expose them to any bodily fluids in the first few days, I still have not fully grasped the concept that I am a cancer patient. For the rest of my life I will need mediation and testing. The treatment to rid my body of this cancer actually raises my chances of getting other forms of it. Most days I am just trying to get through with my heart and mind in tact. I don't have time or energy to worry about such things. I do have HOPE though. I am overflowing with it. I have a husband and three children that love and adore me and take amazing care of me. I have 2 BEAUTIFUL grandchildren and I plan to dance at their weddings. I know my husband should be the love of my life. I love him more than words can say, and could never live without him, but Jake and Kaylynn are truly THE LOVES OF MY LIFE! They are my future. They are why I fight. They are why I cannot give up. One touch from them is more healing than any pill or therapy available. HOPE. Yes I have hope, and it is radiant and warm and healing. Hope is my future. Hope is faith holding it's hand out in the dark.
Friday, June 24, 2011
River of Tears
“Perhaps our eyes need to be washed by our tears once in a while, so that we can see Life with a clearer view again.”
I cry everyday. Some days it's brief, some days it lasts for hours, and just when I think I am done it starts all over again. The simplest of things can set it off. Usually it's a thought or a word from someone that to others would seem harmless. I constantly feel as if I may break at any moment. Lately, I have been experiencing panic attacks. I have had three this week, each while in public. I will begin to sweat, feel like I can't breathe, my chest gets tight and I have an overwhelming urge to run. How did I get here? I don't want to be here. I want my joy and spirit back.
Sometimes even the thought of another breathe or step is unbearable. I am not saying I am suicidal. I could never do that. But the thought of going on like this is painful. I am going to counseling, and have been for about 6 weeks. My counselor is amazing. He is kind, patient, accepting and always has fabulous ideas and information to aid in my healing. I will also be seeing the clinic's psychiatrist next Friday. It's hard to accept that I am in that deep. My Endocrinologist and Nuclear Med. Dr. will not allow me to have treatment for cancer until my depression has improved. I find this impossible to grasp. I went to my PCP on Thursday and she said that the Radioactive Iodine Treatment is very hard on your body and can have long lasting effects, up to 6 months, and if I am not mentally strong enough to deal with what's ahead, I will only get worse, and take longer to physically heal. While it is required I go to counseling and see the psychiatrist, I believe it is saving my life. It is a slow process, there is only so much that can be addressed in 50 minutes once a week. But I have homework, and I am putting in the time and the work. Not going NEVER feels like an option.
Who would have thought that healing my psyche and delicate heart would be the hardest thing I've ever done. As I've said before, I am facing things that have long been buried, or are so painful the thought of it makes me feel as if I am drowning. I have to consider each tear a cleansing one. One drop or step closer to my Warrior Princess. I am occasionally beginning to see shadows in this formally pitch black scary place. Each time I make the decision to leave the house, go to counseling, go to see my father (that is a whole other post, he is very ill, and 88 and tired, and I am trying to make up for a lot of lost opportunities over the last few years) it is a small victory, and the tiniest bit of light is let into my dark place. I am facing down demons, and am in my own personal hell, but if I am quiet and keep on moving, I might get out before the devil even knows I'm here.
“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.”
I cry everyday. Some days it's brief, some days it lasts for hours, and just when I think I am done it starts all over again. The simplest of things can set it off. Usually it's a thought or a word from someone that to others would seem harmless. I constantly feel as if I may break at any moment. Lately, I have been experiencing panic attacks. I have had three this week, each while in public. I will begin to sweat, feel like I can't breathe, my chest gets tight and I have an overwhelming urge to run. How did I get here? I don't want to be here. I want my joy and spirit back.
Sometimes even the thought of another breathe or step is unbearable. I am not saying I am suicidal. I could never do that. But the thought of going on like this is painful. I am going to counseling, and have been for about 6 weeks. My counselor is amazing. He is kind, patient, accepting and always has fabulous ideas and information to aid in my healing. I will also be seeing the clinic's psychiatrist next Friday. It's hard to accept that I am in that deep. My Endocrinologist and Nuclear Med. Dr. will not allow me to have treatment for cancer until my depression has improved. I find this impossible to grasp. I went to my PCP on Thursday and she said that the Radioactive Iodine Treatment is very hard on your body and can have long lasting effects, up to 6 months, and if I am not mentally strong enough to deal with what's ahead, I will only get worse, and take longer to physically heal. While it is required I go to counseling and see the psychiatrist, I believe it is saving my life. It is a slow process, there is only so much that can be addressed in 50 minutes once a week. But I have homework, and I am putting in the time and the work. Not going NEVER feels like an option.
Who would have thought that healing my psyche and delicate heart would be the hardest thing I've ever done. As I've said before, I am facing things that have long been buried, or are so painful the thought of it makes me feel as if I am drowning. I have to consider each tear a cleansing one. One drop or step closer to my Warrior Princess. I am occasionally beginning to see shadows in this formally pitch black scary place. Each time I make the decision to leave the house, go to counseling, go to see my father (that is a whole other post, he is very ill, and 88 and tired, and I am trying to make up for a lot of lost opportunities over the last few years) it is a small victory, and the tiniest bit of light is let into my dark place. I am facing down demons, and am in my own personal hell, but if I am quiet and keep on moving, I might get out before the devil even knows I'm here.
“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.”
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Liitle Girl Lost
My favorite author is Stephen King. I have read every one of his books at least twice. My absolute favorite story he wrote is "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon." Briefly, it is about a little girl, whose parents are divorcing, which has caused major issues between her mother and older brother. One day her mother decided to take the children for a walk through the woods near the Appalachian Trail. While caught up in their own argument, her mother and brother do not notice that she stopped to go pee and got turned around and remained lost for many days. She got through with a walkman radio, listening to baseball games at night, and thinking about her hero, Tom Gordon.
Recently I have been doing a lot of self-reflection and think I know why I love this story so much. I believe metaphorically I relate to young Trisha in the story. To understand, I need to go back into my childhood.
I am the youngest of eight children, the oldest of which is 19 years older than I. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer while I was very young. She spent most of my young years in the hospital. From what I understand she would come home for brief periods, but I have only a few memories of her. I only own one picture of her, a copy of my parents wedding portrait, and I have no pictures of she and I together. I remember a lot, though about the night she died and the few days that followed. She came home from the hospital and my father set her up in a small room off of the living room where we watched tv. I am sure the doctors knew it was time for her to go, and wanted her to be with us in her last days. It was a Sunday night, March 16th. I was watching Kojak with my brothers and it was just after 10. What a seven year old was doing up past 10 watching Kojak, who knows, but I didn't complain. My father went in to give her the nightly meds she needed, and came out and called to my sister Joanne. Shortly after, many people began coming in and out of our house. My older sisters showed up soon. Aunts and Uncles came. People kept hugging me and saying things like "She's in a better place" "She's no longer suffering" "She's with God now" Things a 7 year old could never understand. It was decided that I would go home with my Aunt for the night. She took good care of me. The next morning I woke up and put the clothes on that were packed for me. I remember her making a big deal that it was St. Patrick's Day and I needed something green. Nobody packed me anything green. She decided I needed to wear my cousin's shirt. It was green, however, he was a BOY and 3 years older than I, so I was wearing a too big, ugly BOYS shirt and I didn't understand why it mattered because my mother was dead, and it didn't seem important to wear green. To this day, I rarely wear green on St. Patrick's Day.
Either that day or the next we went to the funeral home. We only lived 2 blocks from there so we walked. I remember my father insisting that I go to see her in the coffin. I was confused and overwhelmed and didn't want to, but you were supposed to do what grown-ups said, so I looked. For some reason, it horrified me. I ran from the funeral home all the way home and all I remember is one of my brother-in-laws staying with me and we watched tv and played Yahtzee.
Her funeral was at St. Mary's of Royal Oak where we were members and all of us went to school. My family sat in the front row, and the entire school came. From my class all the way up through the high school. During the service I heard giggling, and when I turned around it was two friends from my class. How could they laugh? But, they were 7 like me, and I am sure they had no idea what was happening either.
My father remarried after a time. I don't think it was a long time. I believe I was 8 or 9. She was a nice lady. She took care of my brothers and sister and I (there were only 4 of us at home at that time). She cooked, kept an immaculate house, did our laundry, buffered between us and my father. But she was not very affectionate, she was distant. I am sure it was hard for her, marrying into family whose children had not long ago lost their mother. I spent a lot of time with my two oldest sisters. Weekends and summers. One had two children just a few years younger than I was and together we would all play board games, watch Fraggle Rock and Charlie's Angels and eat popcorn on Saturday nights, and again I was well taken care of and safe, but I wasn't their child. My father was busy working and making his marriage work with my stepmother, and I was just kinda in the way. I was the little girl lost. Nobody's child yet everybody's child at the same time.
One summer when I was 12 I was sent to North Carolina to spend a month with a friend of my stepmothers. I had never met her before. I was sent there by bus. I have no idea why. I don't remember if my dad and stepmother were traveling, did they just need a break. I really don't know. That summer while I was there I started my period. I was scared, confused, humiliated, and in a stranger's house. Again, she took good care of me and was very kind, but I wasn't her child, I was the little girl lost.
I consider myself very lucky, because I had such great older sisters and brothers. I knew they loved me. My father worked very hard to provide for us, and my stepmother made sure we were clean, fed, and well taken care of. I had more than most. What I didn't have but waned most was a mother. When I am so deep in sorrow, and feel completely lost in despair at my lowest moments I cry out for my mother. At those times I am once again the little girl lost, in the woods, scared, cold, alone and desperate for her mother's arms. I only recently realized how losing her at such a young age has impacted my whole life. Please, if you are reading this, call your mother and tell her you love her. Give her a hug. Forgive her shortcomings. Be thankful to have her in your life. I would give anything in the world to remember what my mother's face looks like or feel her arms around me. You see, I was like Trisha in "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon". While she was lost in the woods, scared and alone, I was just kind of lost. While others lives went on around me, I was just there, sometimes in the way, sometimes in the background, lost alone and scared. The Little Girl Lost.
Recently I have been doing a lot of self-reflection and think I know why I love this story so much. I believe metaphorically I relate to young Trisha in the story. To understand, I need to go back into my childhood.
I am the youngest of eight children, the oldest of which is 19 years older than I. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer while I was very young. She spent most of my young years in the hospital. From what I understand she would come home for brief periods, but I have only a few memories of her. I only own one picture of her, a copy of my parents wedding portrait, and I have no pictures of she and I together. I remember a lot, though about the night she died and the few days that followed. She came home from the hospital and my father set her up in a small room off of the living room where we watched tv. I am sure the doctors knew it was time for her to go, and wanted her to be with us in her last days. It was a Sunday night, March 16th. I was watching Kojak with my brothers and it was just after 10. What a seven year old was doing up past 10 watching Kojak, who knows, but I didn't complain. My father went in to give her the nightly meds she needed, and came out and called to my sister Joanne. Shortly after, many people began coming in and out of our house. My older sisters showed up soon. Aunts and Uncles came. People kept hugging me and saying things like "She's in a better place" "She's no longer suffering" "She's with God now" Things a 7 year old could never understand. It was decided that I would go home with my Aunt for the night. She took good care of me. The next morning I woke up and put the clothes on that were packed for me. I remember her making a big deal that it was St. Patrick's Day and I needed something green. Nobody packed me anything green. She decided I needed to wear my cousin's shirt. It was green, however, he was a BOY and 3 years older than I, so I was wearing a too big, ugly BOYS shirt and I didn't understand why it mattered because my mother was dead, and it didn't seem important to wear green. To this day, I rarely wear green on St. Patrick's Day.
Either that day or the next we went to the funeral home. We only lived 2 blocks from there so we walked. I remember my father insisting that I go to see her in the coffin. I was confused and overwhelmed and didn't want to, but you were supposed to do what grown-ups said, so I looked. For some reason, it horrified me. I ran from the funeral home all the way home and all I remember is one of my brother-in-laws staying with me and we watched tv and played Yahtzee.
Her funeral was at St. Mary's of Royal Oak where we were members and all of us went to school. My family sat in the front row, and the entire school came. From my class all the way up through the high school. During the service I heard giggling, and when I turned around it was two friends from my class. How could they laugh? But, they were 7 like me, and I am sure they had no idea what was happening either.
My father remarried after a time. I don't think it was a long time. I believe I was 8 or 9. She was a nice lady. She took care of my brothers and sister and I (there were only 4 of us at home at that time). She cooked, kept an immaculate house, did our laundry, buffered between us and my father. But she was not very affectionate, she was distant. I am sure it was hard for her, marrying into family whose children had not long ago lost their mother. I spent a lot of time with my two oldest sisters. Weekends and summers. One had two children just a few years younger than I was and together we would all play board games, watch Fraggle Rock and Charlie's Angels and eat popcorn on Saturday nights, and again I was well taken care of and safe, but I wasn't their child. My father was busy working and making his marriage work with my stepmother, and I was just kinda in the way. I was the little girl lost. Nobody's child yet everybody's child at the same time.
One summer when I was 12 I was sent to North Carolina to spend a month with a friend of my stepmothers. I had never met her before. I was sent there by bus. I have no idea why. I don't remember if my dad and stepmother were traveling, did they just need a break. I really don't know. That summer while I was there I started my period. I was scared, confused, humiliated, and in a stranger's house. Again, she took good care of me and was very kind, but I wasn't her child, I was the little girl lost.
I consider myself very lucky, because I had such great older sisters and brothers. I knew they loved me. My father worked very hard to provide for us, and my stepmother made sure we were clean, fed, and well taken care of. I had more than most. What I didn't have but waned most was a mother. When I am so deep in sorrow, and feel completely lost in despair at my lowest moments I cry out for my mother. At those times I am once again the little girl lost, in the woods, scared, cold, alone and desperate for her mother's arms. I only recently realized how losing her at such a young age has impacted my whole life. Please, if you are reading this, call your mother and tell her you love her. Give her a hug. Forgive her shortcomings. Be thankful to have her in your life. I would give anything in the world to remember what my mother's face looks like or feel her arms around me. You see, I was like Trisha in "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon". While she was lost in the woods, scared and alone, I was just kind of lost. While others lives went on around me, I was just there, sometimes in the way, sometimes in the background, lost alone and scared. The Little Girl Lost.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A Fragile Swan
Pain of mind is worse than pain of body. ~Latin Proverb
I have started and stopped this post probably a dozen times over the last few days. I did not like the way it was coming together. I seemed whiny or negative, and I do not want to come off that way. My intention of this blog is to have a place to put my thoughts and feelings, but, knowing that I am sharing it with others, I don't want to make it a bitch-fest either.
My heart and mind are fragile. Picture holding a small, delicate, detailed swan made out of the thinnest of glass. Even the slightest touch could break off her wing or beak, and even a small squeeze could shatter her to pieces. That is how I feel most of the time. The most innocent of comments I can perceive as the harshest criticism, the most fleeting thought can grow into a large, dark ominous figure in my mind, leading to hours, or days of anxiety, self-loathing, and crying.
I have always been able to see the good in others. Even when someone has hurt or upset me, I try to look for good, and focus on that. I try to get over things easily, you never know where someone is coming from, or what they have been through it their own lives, to bring them to where they are. I am not so forgiving of myself. I hate myself for decisions I have made in the past. For others I have hurt, or who's lives I may have effected negatively. I often wish for things to have been different, and I live with a lot of regret. Add that to the fear, anxiety and hurt I am currently feeling, and my heart and mind are a mess. All of this chaos in my mind has caused me cancel plans with friends and family, not answer phone calls, and not allow others in to help me. It is a vicious circle. All of that leads to feelings of loneliness and abandonment, which ultimately I created myself. Which of course in turn leads to more self-loathing............
I am learning, through reading, writing, and a lot of hard work on myself how to put that self-hatred and fear behind me. I can do nothing to change it, only move on from this moment and make myself the best person I can be from this point on. I make small goals each day. I may say "Today I will leave the house at least one time" That may sound like such a simple thing, but sometimes the thought of it is terrifying to me. The world is scary. Very often I don't feel safe while out at public places. I don't mean physically, I am not afraid of being a victim of a crime or getting hurt. I just feel like that fragile glass swan that could break at any moment. I am getting better with this. I can not affect change in my life without making different decisions than I would have in the past. I had two plans for today, outside of counseling, but when I woke up this morning I had an overwhelming feeling of fear and wanted to cancel both. But how can I get better, become the Warrior Princess I wish to be if I continue in the same pattern. I will keep my plans. I am looking forward to seeing my friend this evening. I don't know that I could have said that a month ago, maybe not even yesterday, who knows. But today, TODAY, I will go out with my friend, I will smile, laugh, and probably cry, I will get through today, I will not break. Tomorrow? Well tomorrow hasn't happened yet, I think I will just think about today, and wait until tomorrow to see what it brings.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
It Takes a Village
“Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” Lance Armstrong
Pain is strange. It's effects are different in each individual. Physical pain can be measured (somewhat). If you have ever been to the doctor's or hospital with any kind of pain you will be asked "On a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the worst pain you can image how bad is your pain." Sometimes they even have a smiley face chart to demonstrate. I have always found this a hard question to answer. For one thing I have a very high tolerance for pain. All of my children were WELL over 8 1/2 lbs (Jeffrey was 9 1/2) and never even considered any type of pain relief. To me it wasn't that big of a deal. I also had to go an entire month with gall stones before surgery could be done because of insurance issues, and I would actually rather have another 9 1/2 lb baby than do that again, but I got through it with only motrin and naprosen. As most of you know I have suffered from migraines for 17 years. They have worsened over the past three years. But I have worked many days with a migraine in a room of 20 toddlers, that don't necessarily cooperate because Ms. Berta has a headache. I had to work because I needed to keep my job. I also have chronic joint and muscle pain as a side effect of my thyroid problems. My point is, I can deal with physical pain, and if needed I can give the doctor a "number" and they can try to help relieve it.
How does one measure emotional, physiological, spiritual pain. It cannot be given a number. There are medications, sometimes referred to as "happy pills", and they can help. I take my Zoloft everyday and still cry most days. I can also take Xanax for anxiety and stressful situations, and it helps sometimes, it may ease the symptoms a little. But popping a pill is not the answer to relieving this type of pain. I am learning it is actually harder than overcoming physical pain. It is work. I have to bear my soul and strip down my emotions and expose parts of myself to not only my loved ones, but every Wednesday a stranger. I have to be completely honest with others and myself or no matter how much work I put in, I will not fully heal. I have to confront ugly parts of myself such as fear, guilt, past mistakes, disappointments, ways I have hurt others, I could go on and on. I have to think a lot about losing my mother so young. I get very upset when people complain about their mothers. I would give anything in the world to spend one day with my mother as my brothers and sisters remember her. I only have 3 memories of my mother, and they are related to her illness. I have no pictures of my mother holding me. But that is all for another time and post. In order to heal my psyche and find my happiness and become a better person I have to face a lot of pain in the next few months. I made a decision a few weeks back that it was time to either do what it takes to get better, or give up. Trying to fight it on my own was too hard and I don't have the strength. I need my family. both my immediate and my brothers and sisters and extended family. I need my friends. I have learned in the past few weeks which of my friends can become "keepers of my heart". It is surprising and amazing which of my girls I have found out have deep love and patience for me and will be there, even if it is just a kind word on facebook, or a quick call or card in the mail. Those things are beautiful and healing, and hold more meaning to me than any of you can even image. Healing this deep inner pain and sorrow is a process . It's like a deep terrible wound and in order to heal, scabs must fall off leaving it raw and exposed so it can heal again and the process can continue. A lot of tears will be shed over the next several months. They will be cleansing, antiseptic tears.
I also have found an amazing counselor. Next post I will speak of him more, but he will be there through the whole journey, listening, observing, suggesting, handing me tissues. He is the "doctor" overseeing the whole operation. I cannot take this long, scary, arduous journey by myself. I have to do the work and feel the pain, but it will take a village to see me to the other side. I promise to cherish and appreciate each one of you that helps me get there.
Pain is strange. It's effects are different in each individual. Physical pain can be measured (somewhat). If you have ever been to the doctor's or hospital with any kind of pain you will be asked "On a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the worst pain you can image how bad is your pain." Sometimes they even have a smiley face chart to demonstrate. I have always found this a hard question to answer. For one thing I have a very high tolerance for pain. All of my children were WELL over 8 1/2 lbs (Jeffrey was 9 1/2) and never even considered any type of pain relief. To me it wasn't that big of a deal. I also had to go an entire month with gall stones before surgery could be done because of insurance issues, and I would actually rather have another 9 1/2 lb baby than do that again, but I got through it with only motrin and naprosen. As most of you know I have suffered from migraines for 17 years. They have worsened over the past three years. But I have worked many days with a migraine in a room of 20 toddlers, that don't necessarily cooperate because Ms. Berta has a headache. I had to work because I needed to keep my job. I also have chronic joint and muscle pain as a side effect of my thyroid problems. My point is, I can deal with physical pain, and if needed I can give the doctor a "number" and they can try to help relieve it.
How does one measure emotional, physiological, spiritual pain. It cannot be given a number. There are medications, sometimes referred to as "happy pills", and they can help. I take my Zoloft everyday and still cry most days. I can also take Xanax for anxiety and stressful situations, and it helps sometimes, it may ease the symptoms a little. But popping a pill is not the answer to relieving this type of pain. I am learning it is actually harder than overcoming physical pain. It is work. I have to bear my soul and strip down my emotions and expose parts of myself to not only my loved ones, but every Wednesday a stranger. I have to be completely honest with others and myself or no matter how much work I put in, I will not fully heal. I have to confront ugly parts of myself such as fear, guilt, past mistakes, disappointments, ways I have hurt others, I could go on and on. I have to think a lot about losing my mother so young. I get very upset when people complain about their mothers. I would give anything in the world to spend one day with my mother as my brothers and sisters remember her. I only have 3 memories of my mother, and they are related to her illness. I have no pictures of my mother holding me. But that is all for another time and post. In order to heal my psyche and find my happiness and become a better person I have to face a lot of pain in the next few months. I made a decision a few weeks back that it was time to either do what it takes to get better, or give up. Trying to fight it on my own was too hard and I don't have the strength. I need my family. both my immediate and my brothers and sisters and extended family. I need my friends. I have learned in the past few weeks which of my friends can become "keepers of my heart". It is surprising and amazing which of my girls I have found out have deep love and patience for me and will be there, even if it is just a kind word on facebook, or a quick call or card in the mail. Those things are beautiful and healing, and hold more meaning to me than any of you can even image. Healing this deep inner pain and sorrow is a process . It's like a deep terrible wound and in order to heal, scabs must fall off leaving it raw and exposed so it can heal again and the process can continue. A lot of tears will be shed over the next several months. They will be cleansing, antiseptic tears.
I also have found an amazing counselor. Next post I will speak of him more, but he will be there through the whole journey, listening, observing, suggesting, handing me tissues. He is the "doctor" overseeing the whole operation. I cannot take this long, scary, arduous journey by myself. I have to do the work and feel the pain, but it will take a village to see me to the other side. I promise to cherish and appreciate each one of you that helps me get there.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Doors and Windows
I have been keeping a journal of sorts for the past few weeks. That's one reason I decided to write this blog. I find writing my thoughts down healing and therapeutic. I always have. I wrote an entry trying to put into words what depression is like, at least for me. It was both painful and healing to write. If my loved ones read this, please understand I am writing it down to be free from it. My counselor has told me I need to reveal myself more, in order for others to understand and help me. Also holding in my pain and emotions is like a cancer (some pun intended) and I need to be rid of it. So the following is my description of how I feel most days.
I want my strength back. My physical strength of course. But more so, emotionally and spiritually I feel weak and broken. Cancer and depression has stolen so much from me. I don't mean physical health. I will heal, I will move on, I will get physically stronger. It has taken so much more. Like a thief it has stolen my soul, my happiness, my spirit. I feel like a shell, hollowed out. It's dark and it's cold and damp. I am in there somewhere but when I scream there is either silence, or it just echoes and echoes and echoes......
There are doors there. I can sense them, but I cannot find them to open them. Sometimes I forget about the doors and look for windows. If I can find a window I can open it and let some light and fresh air in. I can hear faint voices around me. I know others are there just beyond those doors and windows. I can feel their warmth and love, I hear whispers and rustles, but in the darkness, they are just out of my reach.
Sometimes I close my eyes. I picture myself as I wish to be. She is part Rosie the Riveter, part Aztec Warrior Princess. She is a bad-ass bitch, dressed in pink and purple, of course. She has all the tools to fight this. She has strength and fortitude and attitude and perseverance. All the things I know are inside in the dark with me but I just can't find them. I think I need to keep looking until I find the door she is hiding behind. I need her here to help me get out of this dark awful place.
I want my strength back. My physical strength of course. But more so, emotionally and spiritually I feel weak and broken. Cancer and depression has stolen so much from me. I don't mean physical health. I will heal, I will move on, I will get physically stronger. It has taken so much more. Like a thief it has stolen my soul, my happiness, my spirit. I feel like a shell, hollowed out. It's dark and it's cold and damp. I am in there somewhere but when I scream there is either silence, or it just echoes and echoes and echoes......
There are doors there. I can sense them, but I cannot find them to open them. Sometimes I forget about the doors and look for windows. If I can find a window I can open it and let some light and fresh air in. I can hear faint voices around me. I know others are there just beyond those doors and windows. I can feel their warmth and love, I hear whispers and rustles, but in the darkness, they are just out of my reach.
Sometimes I close my eyes. I picture myself as I wish to be. She is part Rosie the Riveter, part Aztec Warrior Princess. She is a bad-ass bitch, dressed in pink and purple, of course. She has all the tools to fight this. She has strength and fortitude and attitude and perseverance. All the things I know are inside in the dark with me but I just can't find them. I think I need to keep looking until I find the door she is hiding behind. I need her here to help me get out of this dark awful place.
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