It’s been a year and 10 months since I finished what I like to refer to as the “intense” phase of my chemotherapy regiment. Intense meaning being pumped so full of poison that you can’t find one hair on your entire body, spending days on days on days driving an hour (there and back) to the outpatient clinic, and all of those wonderful hospital stays for silly things like the common cold or a blister on your foot.
It was a blessing and a curse to be done with it. But I wasn’t really finished. As part of my treatment plan I had something called “maintenance therapy.” Small doses of mostly oral chemo to be administered over the next year and a half as a way of regulating the restart of my newly healthy immune system. It was during this time that I was able to start recovering both physically and mentally. My hair began to grow back, I regularly met with a physical therapist to regain my strength and I reveled in the blessing of remission.
I was a bubble of positivity, I felt like I’d been to the end of the earth and back. I was a completely new and better person than I’d been 8 months before. My illness gave me fresh perspective and the ability to appreciate every moment. I was so excited to live. And so thankful to be alive.
It is now November of 2015. I can’t remember the last time I went an entire day without considering relapse. It’s been three months since I finished my maintenance therapy and lately having no poison in me feels like the biggest poison of all.
It has been suggested to me that I am suffering from some form of Post Traumatic Stress. I feel constantly on the edge of a breakdown. I feel anxious. I feel isolated. I feel scared. More so than I ever felt when I was actually sick. It was different then, I was already sick then. All I could do was sit back and let it all play out. I was either going to be cured or I was going to die. Besides getting to my appointments and taking my medicine the only thing I could do was choose to be happy or miserable. It was easy to be happy then.
Now I worry. It has occurred to me that there is nothing keeping me from relapse. No more little maintenance pills regulating the production of my cells. I know that it is illogical. I know that it is unhealthy. I know that I should not, but every ache, pain, lump, bump, bruise, funny feeling, bout of tiredness, sends me spiraling out of control.
I have dealt with anxiety my whole life but never to this extreme. My arsenal of coping mechanisms developed over the years is no match for this level of paranoia. It kills me that I can’t seem to fix it myself. I beat cancer, shouldn’t I be able to keep these poisonous thoughts from my mind?
And because I can’t I feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty for surviving, I feel guilty for surviving and not enjoying it. I am painfully aware of the fact that I am finally free from all chemotherapy, my energy level is at its peak of the past three years, yet I can’t seem to find a way to make the most of it. I am struggling to be happy, something that should come so easily to someone so blessed. And it feels horrible.
At first, I thought cancer made me special. I felt strong and inspired. I survived. I wanted to share my experience and be an inspiration or at least a friend. But lately I’ve shied away from all things cancer. This blog, the people that I’ve connected to through it, I can’t even listen to the ads on the radio. I don’t want it to be a part of me anymore. I’m no longer proud of my experience, I wish it never happened.
And I am tired. I’m so tired of carrying this burden.
But I’m strong. And I know that for damn sure. And I am confident in the fact that this is a phase in my recovery. Maybe its the worst phase. Is it over yet?
I took this picture one day after chemo. I was sitting on the counter in the bathroom looking at my reflection but not seeing myself. That girl is not me, but I see her today, just like I did then. Who is that sad girl? How can I help her?