...I would fix everything, and walk you back to your normal life. I would take the pain and nausea and put it in a box, and throw them into a volcano, permanently removed. I’d take the fear and confusion, and surround you with nothing but gentle hugs, a warm blanket, and a feeling of safety. I’d take the frustration and slap it upside the head, and then help you find something to make it all right. I’d look for something silly to show you how you can still smile, and how you really are still you in the middle of all of the chaos. (You really do have a great smile and laugh). I’d take away that feeling like you’re dying, and remind you that this is all temporary, and that you are the best candidate to survive all of this. Cancer doesn’t define you; it shows how strong you are. And you really are. But you are not cancer. You are so much more.
If I could, I’d figure out some way for you to know what is and isn’t normal in an abnormal situation you’ve never been exposed to. I’d give you all of the information you need to understand what is happening (that I know of), so you know that you have a solid chance at beating this. You’re strong, and you dwell in the positive when you’re you, in your normal life. I wonder if some of the pain is the grief of the life you’ve had to set aside for a while. I wonder if anybody has sat down and taken your hand and told you that it’s more than OK to feel that this level of vulnerability is terrifying, and affirm that it’s not going to last forever. And being terrified, and grieving isn’t going to change who you are. It will create another depth of character you didn’t know you had. I wish you never had to deal with all of this- but you will come out stronger.
I’d look you square in the face, and tell you that the drowsy feeling with pain meds is normal, and often gets better as your body adjusts to both the pain relief and the medication in your system. I’d let you know that you’re not going crazy. But I understand how it can feel that way (people who are truly going nuts don’t worry about it 🙂 ). Any bonafide goofy person I worked with wasn’t concerned in the least.
If I could, I’d stand on my head if I thought it would make you well (and if you can get a visual of me on my head, well…. that should be worth a giggle. I’d probably pass out half way up, and then what? A ‘fluffy’ middle aged door stop). But I’d do it if it meant you’d feel better ❤
You have an amazing support system with your friends/coworkers/family. It awes me that one person has so many people around for support. They will help you heal as I’m sure they already have. Just one more minute of pain, just one more hour of uncertainty, just one more day of STILL being here and fighting this beast that has turned your world upside-down. Take it in small increments. You’re stronger than a beast who was only brave enough to go in the back door ! You have a life that is waiting for you to get through this. And that will happen. I wish I could make the journey easier, and speed up the process, but one thing about cancer- you want the treatment that gives you the best longterm odds. Keep thinking about how mad the beast must be ! 😀
You are already a survivor, did you know that? Seriously, they consider anybody who gets diagnosed to be a survivor- unless you die of shock when you get the diagnosis and fall over stone-cold on the floor. But you got through that and stayed conscious ! So, you are surviving. There’s some work to do on the ‘thriving’ end of things, but you can’t get there all at once. Chemo is a direct assault on your entire body just to kill the beast. And, from what I hear, it’s helping. 🙂 You. Are. Winning.
Feeling like you’re never going to get through this is pretty normal. There is nothing like chemo that I can think of in 30 years of nursing that compares. ( nursing school -2 yrs , working as an RN -20 yrs , and the last 8+ as a patient on disability -I still keep my license to keep my own butt going). I’ve had a lot of medical stuff, over decades. And chemo is the hands-down winner for “WTH just happened to me?”. 😮 There are no clear ways to explain how it’s going to feel (and it’s different for everyone). But,’ lousy’ would be a vast improvement much of the time. And you can get through this. Your body can handle this treatment. You will feel better.
In the meantime, look out of the window (or find one that has a view), and just look at the trees and birds, the clouds and sky, the people walking around, and the ones taking care of you. Watch something goofy on TV (I lived on ‘Funniest Home Videos during the first 6 weeks of being in isolation for the leukemia- and I’m sure the nurses thought I was a bit ‘touched’ when howls of laughter would come out of my room). Find things that make you happy in the moment. No need to be elaborate- just what makes you happy right. This. Second. Tomorrow will take care of itself. Yesterday is gone (though those were some great GF almond cookies Carol made last Christmas Eve !!).
Take a deep breath- and remember you’re still here right now. And you’ll have the last laugh in the end. But until then, feel free to cry, grieve, be depressed, miss being at work (that was a really hard one when I ended up on disability- it’s not like retiring when you PLAN on not working, but it’s like it’s TAKEN from you by some rude disease), laugh at silly stuff, and deal with whatever else is going on. There are no wrong ways to do this- other than to just get through it. And it’s all temporary. Overwhelming, but temporary.
You can do this, dear cousin. I’m in your corner %110. And I know there are so many who are there in person and spirit that wish nothing but the best for you. You are loved. ❤