“I thought that my recovery required that I turn in any right to lament. Sick people were allowed to lament; healed people should be grateful. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how alone I had felt.”
Abby Norman, You Can Talk to God Like That
(It’s not years later yet for me. Conventional memoir/reflections-writing wisdom tells me that it may be too early to write this post. But here we go anyway.)
In August, I finished my radiation treatment for breast cancer (click on my Instagram feed in the sidebar if you want to see the video of me ringing the bell). It was a good day. I was so happy and relieved. Going forward, I have quite a few tests to make sure the cancer stays gone, but there’s a good chance that the hardest parts are behind me.
This is where I say again that I have an amazing support system. I am surrounded by people who love to hear good news because it’s currently true, not because I’m pretending or hoping it will be true. And even when the good news is currently true, they understand that there is more going on in any given situation, especially an ongoing trauma such as cancer treatment and recovery, than just the facts or prognosis. They know how to leave space for despair, even when they can see that things are working out or will likely work out in the future.
Even with such a support system in place, however, there have been (and continue to be) so many times I feel like my problem isn’t quite big enough to merit complaint. It is often hard to convince myself that I have a good enough reason to take the rest I actually need.
If you’ve had chemo or other types of treatment, you’ve been bombarded with reading material detailing how many things can go wrong. If you have spent time in those waiting rooms – you know exactly how bad it could have been. You’ve seen it. You meet so many people who have it worse.
With a few hiccups along the way, my recovery has gone pretty well. I’ve had some scares and setbacks, but I’ve generally healed as the medical team expected me to.
Add to this that I am Gen X, oldest daughter, former gifted child, and high-masking neurospicy cocktail of a human, and before I even know what’s happening, I’m should-ing myself to death.
Should be grateful.
Should be happy.
Should be energized.
Should be back to normal.
Should be better – at my job, at my hobbies, at my life.
To my distress, I’m not usually any of those things these days. I am having a hard time.
Maybe I’m writing this post because I need a reminder right now that I have the right to lament.
My body looks different than it did before. My relationship with my body was already complicated, but now it seems like a stranger who assumes a familiarity that isn’t there. I feel like my body thinks it knows me because it follows me on Instagram. But we are not real-life friends right now.
I’m having more neuropathy symptoms now (specifically, tingling and numbness and poor grip in my fingers, especially in my right hand) than I did when I was undergoing chemo.
I am easily saddened and overwhelmed. I spend a large portion of my day and energy fighting back tears so that I don’t cry at the slightest inconvenience or change in plans. I sometimes cry for what seems like no reason anyway.
I’m tired. So, so tired. Just all the time.
I don’t know what to do with all my feelings. But I am slowly remembering that I have the right to have them. Even the negative ones.
Maybe you need someone to tell you that you have a right to lament, too. I urge you to give yourself permission to do so.
Sometimes reading brings up hard things. I’m writing out some of my reflections this month.
