Exactly one year ago, I weighed 117 pounds.
I was in severe pain; my belly, my ribs, my brain. For a month, nothing was “officially” wrong. Blood tests were fine, organ functions were skipping along, and- if you disregarded the fact that I couldn’t eat a thing- my doctors assured me that I was all good.
I would wake up in in the middle of the night, weeping, panic gripping my chest, the knowledge that I was actually dying keeping me up until sunlight would filter through the blinds. I knew that all of the blood tests had missed something, that “this was my cancer,” that this was the diagnosis that everyone had somehow overlooked, that this would be the phone call with the grave voice informing me that something finally showed up on the tests, that they were so sorry.
(Does anyone else experience this? I can’t be the only one who’s lost entirely too many loved ones to cancer in the last handful of years, or the only one who, when faced with an inexplicable body reaction has to shush the cold voice in the back of their brain: “This is your cancer.”)
(I promise this post gets happier.)
The weeks that followed…
…Found me crying on the kitchen floor after bedtime, not recognizing my own hands or the walls of my home, and forcing Christmas and birthday merriment for my kids- desperate to keep this season happy and normal, and trying to muster enough energy to even be merely present at the events that usually filled me with such sustained joy. P.J. would hold me steady, help me breathe, reassure me I was safe, I was safe, I was safe.
Through it all- the lies that my brain continuously told, the searing pain, the walloping fatigue- the thing that broke me most was the knowledge that I would have to leave my babies. Each night before bed, the kids and I would snuggle on the couch with books and puzzles and advent calendar activities, my face hurting with the smiles I kept frozen into place. They’d kiss me goodnight and P.J. would scoot them off to brush their teeth/find pajamas/discuss important things in backpacks, and I’d barely make it until they were a step out of the room before I’d weep hot tears under a blanket, so full of fear. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want them to grow up without me. I didn’t want P.J. to have to navigate our life alone.
I wanted what we had always wanted.
(No really, this post gets happier.)
Very long story slightly shorter:
A week or so after Christmas, the incredible Nurse Practitioner at our family doctor’s office discovered that I had been having a toxic reaction to my immunosuppressants.
Turns out, one of the slightly less common side effects noted on the prescription was psychotic episodes. Not “rare,” mind you, just “slightly less common.” (It was even written ON THE INSERT. I mean, WE’RE ALL OKAY WITH THIS?)
And how did my wonderful NP discover this reaction?
She asked about my mental health.
I said I was fine, sad, busy, you know, “the holidays.”
She kept asking.
I told her I was really worried about how my health was impacting my family, you know…and how I didn’t want to leave my kids.
“Why are you leaving your kids?” she gently asked.
And thennn the floodgates opened. I cried and cried and cried and, sure, I think the bit about not recognizing my own hands was a bit of a tip-off, but she quickly yanked me off of my immunosuppressants- and insisted I make an appointment with a therapist.
Two days later my hands starting feeling like my own again.
Within a week I was speaking/crying through therapy sessions with Michael. I was officially diagnosed with panic disorder, anxiety, and OCD, and we’ve been working for the past year to slowly slowly find ways to take care of myself, feel safe, and keep my brain quiet when panic rears its ugly head. (And while the term “nervous breakdown” isn’t generally bandied around so much anymore, that’s pretty much what happened last Christmas. Frankly, I feel a little bereft that I missed my chance to be wheeled out to the seaside for some quiet airing-out time.)
The biggest takeaway from this ordeal?
No one realized anything was off. Sure, I told my family and closest friends what I was struggling with- once I had the words to describe what the heck it was- but for the general public? I showed up and volunteered and Christmassed and reviewed shows and threw a birthday party for a five year-old. All the while I braced and smiled and gave every last bit of energy out to the greater world, so terrified that if I stopped…I’d stop. You know?
So, along with the rush of ever-increasing gratitude- especially at this time of year- I have a renewed goal for myself on the days where I feel like my batteries are mostly to fully charged:
Check in on my people. (Call/text/set up coffee dates/send that funny article I meant to send last month)
Take care of my people. (Listen- really listen/offer to take a task off of their plate/call out the good stuff they’re doing)
Show up for my people. (Bring food unexpectedly/drive someone’s kid home/sit and create the kind of space where people can talk…if they feel like it)
Mental illness lies, and a text exchange of “how was today”/”good” doesn’t always cut it. (I mean, sometimes it has to, since everyone has Tuesdays at 5pm that aren’t useful for much of anything at all, but we- I– need to do better.)
I want to be the soft landing spot for loved ones where they know they’re safe, they’re safe, they’re safe…long before anyone starts to question their own hands (for a very weird example).
(Frankly, I LOVE that Nora is holding a copy of “Guts” for this photo. #metaphor)
Personally, I know that I was very, very bad at articulating what was wrong and what was needed. Shortly after my diagnosis, I ended up cancelling a girls’ weekend that had been in the works for a while- and I was terrified that two of my closest friends would be furious with me.
They rebooked their flights, came to Chicago on a bitterly cold weekend, and watched Clue on my couch with me while I cried a little, breathed a lot, and babied my brain.
The takeaway there? Another important life lesson for me: Let people help. After I told Kat and Annie that I was a mess, they said they’d take care of it. They did. And I let them. Knowing how to show up and quietly hold space with someone is a gift, friends. (It still makes me teary.)
I guess it all boils down to taking care of each other, right?
There’s a heck of a resolution for 2020: Take care of each other.
(And I’m so grateful that I’m here to give it another go.)
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