The Bumpy Road to Recovery

At the end of each year, the company I work for holds a day-long planning and reflection meeting. We review our company successes and what needs improvement for the upcoming year. We also reflect on our personal goals and achievements. One of the questions asked is, “What did you learn this year?”

That question can sometimes be hard to answer. It’s like when I was in school – I always felt like I learned a lot, but I couldn’t test well enough to prove it. This year was the exception. I’ve learned so much in the last 12-15 months and only wish I had another lifetime to put it all into practice.

First and foremost, as cliché as it sounds, life truly is very, very, VERY SHORT. 

Someone once said, "I don't know how you do it."

I said, "I wasn't given a choice."

So, do what you love. Stop doing what you don’t love or what no longer serves you. Do what makes you happy. Spend time with the people who matter. Spend time alone. Self-care is important. Stop worrying about things that may never happen. 

When I’m on my deathbed, I’m not going to be regretting all the spreadsheets I could have created but didn’t. I won’t be saying, “I wish I’d have spent more time at work.” 

Instead, I’ll be regretting all the time I didn’t spend outdoors, sitting under a tree, reading a book, writing a book, listening to music; being near the water to listen to the seagulls and watch the sailboats; living in a house with a yard so I could adopt a dog; experiencing the freedom of having a reliable car of my own so I could go anywhere I wanted to go whenever I wanted to go; taking my dog on road trips with me, taking more real vacations where I actually went somewhere and didn’t think about work or responsibilities at all during that time without feeling guilty about it, exploring the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and doing more things with friends and family. I’ll especially regret that I didn’t take better care of myself; I already regret that.

The only things I’ll really regret about my career is that I let family talk me out of studying to become an architect, and that I undersold myself far too often starting with my first job, and I let too many people take advantage of my naivety or undermine my confidence in the workplace. I’ll regret not standing up for myself more often or giving myself enough credit for all the smart and wonderful things I accomplished in my career.

I also learned an important lesson from the Cancer Transitions classes that I attended last month, something I hadn’t even considered. I am experiencing the various stages of grief over some very real losses: health, self-confidence, self-esteem, independence, peace of mind (uncertainty over a cancer-free future), control over my day-to-day life, financial security, a voice and visibility, a seat at the table, full-time hours, flexibility, an office, ease of mobility (downstairs workspace and walking to and waiting at bus stops), and the possibility of one day moving into a house or buying a car. But I didn’t just “lose” a few fundamental things; it feels more like they’ve been taken away from me.

At first, I denied any losses as a result of my breast cancer diagnosis and my coronary artery disease and managing the type 2 diabetes. I was just grateful to be alive, but now I’m stuck on anger while at the same time skipping right over bargaining to go straight to depression – a rebel even in following the proper sequence of the grieving process. Sad and angry. And acceptance isn’t even a blip on my radar yet.

Just being grateful to be physically alive is not enough. 

Surviving from one day to the next is not enough. 

I want to thrive again. I need to be doing impactful things, making a difference, and finding fulfillment, rather than drowning myself in an endless stream of meaningless mundane tasks, even if others see those tasks as meaningful or necessary.  

I miss having something in my life to get excited about and a future to look forward to. I grieve the loss of that. Sure, therapy could help, but no pill in the world can truly fix a broken spirit. And maybe that’s what I am right now: a broken spirit, seeing only what’s not there anymore instead of seeing what is still there.

People know me as optimistic and positive; but honestly, keeping up that front is exhausting right now. Those attributes have come naturally to me my entire life, but I’ve had to fake it lately. It’s one of the masks I wear now. 

How do you let people know you’re hurting inside when you don’t want them to see you in a different light or treat you differently?

But… people already see me in a different light. My diseases have changed the way they look at me. I’ve somehow become less of the person I used to be or that they need me to be. Overnight, a frail, incapable, old woman with half a brain has replaced this vibrant, intelligent, creative, confident, professional woman. I keep telling myself I haven’t changed, but I must have.

Recognizing and acknowledging what’s happening is the first step in understanding and resolving the problems. My road to recovery has been and probably will be a long and bumpy road for some time to come. As much as I want my life to return to “normal” again, I know that won’t happen quickly or may not happen at all. And I may experience more unwanted changes in my life that I’ll have to deal with in the meantime.

All I ask is for understanding and patience from anyone who interacts with me while I muddle through this life-altering experience. Remember that I wasn’t perfect a year ago and I’m not likely to suddenly become perfect a year from now. I will make mistakes and forget things. I may become frustrated or confused or overwhelmed. I might lash out or hide myself away from everyone. Instead of thinking less of me for it, rejecting or avoiding me, or treating me differently, help me make any necessary course corrections along the way.

I am working on trying to view the glass as half full again rather than half empty, and I acknowledge that either way, the glass is refillable. No matter how tempted I might be to run away and never come back, I know I can't give up.