Rough Waters

It has been a rough week or so. I have always tried to be as honest as possible on here and I want to continue that as long as I can.

Since childhood, most of us have been fortunate to have our parents in our lives to go to when life gets hard. A phone call, a text or a trip home can be the security blanket we need when the world gets a little darker. This week I needed them as the world felt pitch black around me.

I felt low, really low. I have been sitting and pondering the latest progression of my cancer off and on these last few weeks. New treatments, more spread and dwindling odds- it’s not a recipe for hope and optimism. Now the toxically positive angel on my shoulder would say to embrace the time I have, make the most of it all and be grateful for what I have. And that angel is right. However I can’t negate the other side no matter how hard I try to distract myself, think positive or anything.

The sadness and fading hope- or reality of my situation- is unavoidable. Hope isn’t lost completely but hope is not on a lit up PET scan. Hope is not in the pain in areas where cancer has metastasized. Hope isn’t another failed medicine plan. Hope isn’t apparent in factd and definites- like scans, tests and labs. Hope still exists and it always will until I no longer exist- but I am not going to ignore reality either. I can’t ignore reality.

Wednesday into Thursday reality felt even heavier. I could not stop crying. Heavy ugly crying.

Time was all I could think of. Not enough time. Running out of time. The time I’ll miss. I couldn’t hold it together really and felt trapped in a hurricane of sadness, despair and fear.

Note: I know the world is hell right now and many people are scared, lost and worse given the state of politics and more. I recognize in many aspects how lucky I am and at the same time how life can be hard. Often people tell me ‘my problems are nothing compared to yours.’ My response is always that all our problems coexist and are not negated by each others’. TLDR: I recognize I am lucky in many aspects and that the world is a dumpster fire right now. But sadness, grief and privilege can all coexist.

Back to me of course. Seriously though the hurricane feeling was all consuming. Brushing my teeth, showering, getting dressed and everything else was between tears and mental torment. I have gone to my parents for many things- advice, help, money, support and more but this felt different. In previous situations there always felt like a fix or a solution- something could be done to fix or minimize the consequences of whatever problems I was going through. This was not the same. There is no fix they can provide nor can anyone. There is no minimizing the fall out from cancer. There is just what is to come, inevitably the end.

So the text I sent was out of fear and isolation and despair. But it also was a call for help that I already knew there was no fix for. It was also a text that I knew would break my parents’ hearts too. Both my parents say, often, that they would take this for me AND that at times they feel selfish for crying or being down when I’m going through it. To that, I respectively answer that I don’t want anyone taking this and again both our fears and feelings coexist. I often speculate what my reaction would be if I was in their spot, having to ponder the mortality of their own child and truthfully I think it would be harder. To see my kid go through this and there is nothing I can do to fix or solve this for them feels harder for me than anything I’ll go through. So Mom and Dad I get it as much as I can. Please don’t hide the feelings and emotions from me- as any cancer patient can probably attest, in a sense it reminds us we’re loved.

My Mom called me instantly and we talked, followed by my Dad. It was a comfort in darkness that felt as warm as it could possibly be given the circumstances. Were any of us fine and all better? No of course not but I felt seen and heard and cared for. And in that moment it helped as I didn’t have the ability to do nothing. (I did have an appointment that day which I’ll cover in a different post).

They both came over. We talked and cried and talked more. It’s difficult to wade through something that no one can fix. How do you comfort yourself or others when really there is no solution? You don’t really. You try to just maximize what you have and spend as much time as you can together. We talked about planning and end of life and other logistics. We talked about fears and feelings and wants. We were together. And I needed that more than I realized.

Am I feeling better? I don’t know. I think the best way to put it is I feel less rattled. Less frantic. Maybe I’m still in the ocean I felt I was drowning in but I see land. How long can I live on that land? Can I make it to that land? Is their help there? I hope. And that hope is propped up by the support and love from everyone I feel. The sun guiding me to that land, the current helping me to shore- at times the calm waters giving me a break.

When I hit that land and what it holds for me I don’t know. I know that I’m here today and I’m going to try to focus on that, but when I can’t or when the waters get too rough I know I have people that will help me stay afloat.

-Joe

P.S. Please know that I will never give up hope or stop trying. That I promise. But this isn’t a movie and there’s not always smiles and inspiration and sunny days. This is the reality of (my) cancer.

P.S.S. I appreciate all the support from everyone. I try to respond back but this cancer brain forgets or loses track. Know that if I don’t respond it’s probably because I forgot or lost track.