Who is this person plugged into tubes and pumps and ports? This blog is about to get existential. I have detected a difference in myself lately, and I don't mean the outward scars I lamented in the previous post. My path is leading me into unknown territory and throwing up alternate versions of myself which I only notice when others reflect them back to me. I don't know if I have changed in the eyes of others, or I am simply evolving due to circumstances. I am not as I used to be, and I suppose I am trying to assimilate and acclimatise to who I am these days.
Last night I shared a ward with three other cancer patients. That's one new label I am still getting used to: cancer patient. I vehemently reject terms such as cancer sufferer, cancer victim etc. for obvious reasons. In fact I'm considering coining new terms such as cancer surfer, cancer disco dancer or cancer avenger, feel free to send me your suggestions. Anyway, this new identity of mine was reflected back to me from three other beds, even though I was the youngest by a margin of roughly 20 years. We were all receiving chemotherapy, I was the only one for whom it was the first time. Half of the room had lost its hair, I am fortunate in that my oncologist has assured me I will not lose mine. (In petulant rebellion, I have upped the ante on my haircuts and colours, throwing down the gauntlet and making the most of it in case he's wrong.) But on consideration, sitting there observing my roommates, perhaps I am wrong in trying to coin a new term for this identity, as the overall mood in this room was of patience (I have contemplated whether I misread resignation, and I am confident I did not). Those ladies took their chemicals with fortitude and forebearance; they looked like old hands, maneouvring their tubes and trolleys around to get to the loo, taking their meals with grace, using books, TV and visitors to help the time go past (I appeared to be the only one on an iPad :). They seemed to know that beating this beast is going to take time. So, patiently, I will accept my status as cancer patient and add it to my baggage.
According to Thoreau, the language of friendship is not words but meanings. Friends have a unique way of reflecting back to us our attitudes and values, as well as aspects of ourselves we like and dislike, like holding up a mirror. Friends who have lately cared and expressed support to me in both words and in meanings not only show their own inner strength, drawing on their own resources of confidence and assurance, but also boost mine. I can't believe I was surprised by this, but certainly the profound effect of verbal, texted and Facebook affirmations has been unexpected. Behind the words is the care, the intention and the wish for me to be sustained. I occasionally worry that the person being reflected back at me is one to be pitied - and I shudder. I try to see myself through others' eyes, and hope my that friends can see the strength they give me, so that pity is not required. I'm very much an encouragement junkie at the moment, as every message of support gives me another positive push along the road. Thankyou to all of you. It really matters.
To amplify the reflective effect, my family provides a house of mirrors without the distortion: reflecting parts of my former self as well as some newer versions. What they mostly reflect is courage - I am told I have it, but I have to get it from somewhere - which helps me to hold it together through the day-in, day-out aspects of my 'new' life. That is, after all, how it feels - one information pamphlet on cancer treatments referred to arriving at 'a new normal', which seems right as pretty much everything is different now. As I adjust to this new normal life, when my family looks at me it is with optimism, openness, overwhelming protectiveness and understanding. They want to know it all (except the gory bits, for some!) and travel the bumps along the way. Particularly I want to mention a niece who at sixteen shows such love, maturity and sensitivity that I am frequently overwhelmed, and feel so restored by her faith in me that I cannot but succeed. Through my family, my old bits merge and assimilate with the new through the positive image reflected back.
Every now and then though, I check my own mirror. I see self-pity some days; my last post was a bit of a whinge overall. I don't like the part of me that wallows every now and then. Sometimes I feel bad for being needy and seeking assurance from others that I'm handling things ok. I used to be much more self-assured and independent. The grief that sneaks up on me is also hard to cope with - I don't like to cry in front of others, even though they might need to see it. So I cry alone a bit, which is self-inflicted pain of a new kind. Perhaps I can change that. I know I'm lucky in lots of ways - I'm young enough to respond well and heal well after surgery, both tumours have been successfully removed and so on, but cancer is a tricky beast, and none of my doctors has made any promises beyond a 'good chance'. This is the circular self talk that goes on in my mind all the time - the down thoughts and the 'buck up, you're lucky' kind of stuff and then back to 'poor me'. It's a good thing I have this blog for sorting out the mess in my head. Glad you can share it.
But I have to say my husband's mirror is the one I like best. It is uncomplicated and I believe it to be honest. He sees my human frailty and doesn't let me get away with anything. He knows I'm strong and demands that I be more so. He knows I'm weak and wants me to cry. And he sees me as I am, even as I am changing. Thank God for him. Amen.
Apology: my blog intro promised I would try not to navel gaze and this post failed miserably. However, my blog is named 'Sweet Blog Therapy' so in the interests of it's therapeutic benefits, this post stands.
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