Talking to Myself

As a Key Collaborator, I was invited to a Rethink discussion this month about Caregiver content. I was thrilled to be asked to provide my insight into my experience when Adrienne was diagnosed at 27. Everyone at Rethink is always sensitive to how people like me feel in those moments and this was no exception. I always feel safe with people who have an idea of what it was like for me and although I am usually fine with telling the story; this time, for some reason, I was not.

I could feel the physical sensations happening, but I pushed them back. It was a very busy day for me with meeting after meeting and I really didn’t have time to start processing anything. The disassociation continued for the rest of the day and I went through the motions with my colleagues and family. Then I was lying in bed, in the dark, and it came.

And I started to weep.

Grief is like that.

In “The Before” I really thought grief was linear. Go through stages one through five in order then permanent acceptance. I was old enough when Adrienne was diagnosed that I had experienced big losses and that’s how it had worked. Watching my girl go through it all, being helpless, I learned I could be broken. Nothing had ever done that before. And as part of that particular gem of self-awareness I have come to understand that there isn’t one lane of grief for Adrienne and I to move along as a result of her joining this club; this is like the 401 in the middle of the GTA and I’m just looking for the right off-ramp to escape the chaos. News flash: there isn’t one.

Adrienne revisits anger a lot. She’ll be doing just fine then an appointment will be moved or a service changed and she’ll get, in her words, “unreasonably angry” which in her case always ends in tears. She calls me, I talk her through it, and it’s set aside for the moment. In my case, I revisit depression the most. Not as in clinical depression, but rather a deep sadness that makes my body feel heavy and my heart ache. When that happens the only person I feel completely safe with, the only person who I know truly understands what this is like for me, is me. So I talk to myself, and this is how that conversation goes:

Hey Debbie…it’s okay for you to be sad. I know you usually manage things without getting to where you are now but this is different. This is a REALLY big thing. Cancer took something from you that you can’t get back; the innocence of a world where you would outlive your children and never have to experience the pain of that kind of loss. It took from you the certainty that you could protect her from everything, that you would always find a way to make it better. I know you don’t want to stay here, you CAN’T stay here, but for now allow your heartache to slide down your face. Let it in. All that love that you may not be able to give her, all the sorrow you have about how her life has been altered by this terrible disease; let it in. All the wishes you have for her future, for her to HAVE a future, let those in, too.

And when they are all there, rolling around weighing down your spirit, remember what it feels like to hold her. Remember what it’s like to see her eyes light up with joy, to hear her laugh. Close your eyes and feel her hand in yours when you’re together and she just needs to connect with you. See her life now, YOUR life now, and remember when you didn’t know whether or not she’d be alive to see her next birthday and she’s still here. It’s important to know that with every day that goes by science has more time to find the answer so it won’t be the same if you hear the words “Mom, it’s cancer” again.

She’s still here, Debbie. So take a breath, and then another, and then as many as you need to. You may not be okay right now, but you will be.

Yup…I will be.