Two Monsters

The picture above is The Love Monster. My daughter drew it, and named it. It hangs on the wall of my bedroom, and it makes me smile. This week it’s giving me comfort in a way nothing tangible seems to be able to.

I’m going to talk out of my ass for a minute, about something I don’t know anything about, and then I’m going to compare it to something I know about more than I’d like.

If I was a soldier heading to a war zone, I imagine I’d be terrified. I’d know that a certain percentage of my unit was not likely to survive – it’s just a matter of numbers. I’d hopefully feel confident in my training though, and confident in my strength and my ability to withstand stress and fear. I’d hopefully feel safe with those above me in rank – the ones who would be making decisions for me and telling me where to shoot. I might be able to steel myself against the fear, and the knowledge that war isn’t something you come out of unscathed – if you come out at all. I might pretend that I’ll be able to handle it when someone in my unit is killed.

I think it’s safe to say though, that none of the above would prepare me for the actuality of war, or the reality of watching someone next to me die.

So here’s where I make a rude comparison. When you start cancer treatment, you’re terrified. And I mean terrified. You know what’s coming, but you know that you don’t actually know what’s coming. You rely pretty heavily on doctors and nurses and PA’s and pharmacists. You meet others going through the same thing, and you know not all of you are going to make it. It’s just the law of averages, you can’t all get out alive.

So you steel yourself against that fear and against that knowledge. You pretend that you’ll be able to handle it when the inevitable happens and someone you went through treatment with loses their fight. You think you know.

It’s been four years, and every time I think I’m numb, the universe throws another rock at my glass house. Last Sunday, a chemo sister lost her battle. I never met her in person, but we were in an online forum together. All of us in the forum started chemo the same month that year, and after treatment, we stayed in touch with a private Facebook group. We support each other in ways no one else can, because we get it.

Another one of us is gone now.

And I’m not bouncing back from it very well. I’m fine in the loud moments, and the busy moments. When someone needs my attention, or there’s a task to complete, I’m fine. But the quiet moments are really…heavy. It’s like I’m holding a smile on my face that weighs fifty pounds, and as soon as I’m alone it drops, you know? I’ve been here before, and it just takes time. Sometimes I look at my daughter’s painting, the Love Monster, who looks back with her innocent, adoring imperfection, and for a moment the Cancer Monster backs down.

I’m eight months away from my five-year anniversary. That magic number five, when my chances of recurrence supposedly drop significantly. I keep thinking it will get better then. I’ll reach the five year mark and I’ll suddenly be like everyone else.

Yeah fat freaking chance of that.

In order to continue the soldier comparison, I would have to stay on-call for the rest of my life. I’d have to live knowing I could be called back to that war zone at any moment. Maybe I brought a sniper back with me who follows me around, keeping me in their sights day and night.

It never freaking ends.

So what do I tell my friend who is at the beginning? Who hasn’t even really been suited up yet? How do I offer him strength and a sense that he can do this, when I don’t know if I can do this?

The crazy thing is, I didn’t used to be afraid of death. I’ve been in quite a few situations that I probably shouldn’t have made it out of, and emotionally I was fine. I’ve even had moments along the way when I thought, ‘You know what, if this is it, if I die right this second, I’m good.’

But I have kids now. And that changes everything. I’m not scared of death at all – I’m scared of my children’s lives without me. The terror that puts me into a frozen state several times a day right now has absolutely nothing to do with what happens to me after I die. It’s them. I don’t have any control over where my kids go after I’m gone. I can’t force their dad to let them stay in their schools, or even stay in this state. And even if I did have that control, the idea of them being raised by anyone but me is completely unacceptable.

So I’m afraid. And there are reminders everywhere that I’m not like everyone else anymore, and I never will be. I’ve been branded with my own lack of immortality. And most days that’s not a huge deal. We’ve all got that thing that makes us feel like an outsider, and cancer certainly isn’t the only thing that sets me apart and makes me a little weird in certain company. Most days I’m more concerned with drama at work or my successes and failures as a parent. I’ll make it back there this time too. Like I said, I’ve been in this place before, and I made it out. I made it back to positive thinking and stubborn optimism. I made it back to my version of normal. You don’t have to worry about me, is what I’m saying. Writing is what I do. Over-sharing is what I do.

If you need me, I’ll be curled up over here with my Love Monster.