Make it Through Every Single Day

When we are silent, we are still strong. Even when we feel like a cup not even half-empty, but tipped over, spilled across the floor, kicked, stepped on, cracked and forever broken, we’re still strong.

You have a track record of making it through every single day up to today.No matter what choices you made, what mistakes happened, what shit was thrown your way, you’re still here. That counts in a way that nothing else compares to.

I was certainly surprised when I first admitted to having feelings of depression – hopelessness, despair, suicidal thoughts – that everyone rushed me to get on medication. But I thought, hell, if a pill can help, why not?

And medication has helped me in some aspects, like energy levels, but after spending several years on different medications, I’m not doing very well at all. I can’t think like I used to, I can’t function like I used to before meds. I haven’t been able to work. That’s a problem! Not to mention the migraines it’s given me.

Maybe if all the medication had truly helped my depression I would maybe not be writing a blog about depression. I’d be writing about how fantastic life is. 

I need to write to get through this. I need you. I have a lot to say, I’ve just been in a really rough spot. There’s a lot going on in my life that is making me just curl up inside myself the way I used to. I get this idea that if I don’t talk about things then maybe they won’t be real. Well, they are real. And like my favorite quote says, “Expression is the opposite of depression.”

I’m playing a confusing game of cat and mouse, trading one pain for another. On one hand, I feel like I’m getting somewhere, but on the other, I feel like I’m going crazy.

So far, the migraine pain is down but my time spent crying is going way up. My drive to do creative things is better, but I’m having a really hard time actually doing these things. I can’t concentrate. I can’t rest.

 I feel like a shadow of my reflection, some foreign ghost.

Somehow, though, I feel closer to who I used to be before I became so depressed. Yes, I’m crying an average of three hours a day but I’m also thinking about a future for myself. A future beyond depression.

Is this recovery? Is this relapse? Or am I in the middle of a change that’s impossible to predict?

I feel like we can’t ever really predict where we’re headed at all in life. We can try, we can plan things and make goals and maybe even reach them, but actually getting to the finish line is an illusion.

It’s like those line-ups at Disneyland. You think you’re at the front after waiting for forty-five minutes but then some park employee leads you through the doors not to the ride itself but to a different room. In this room there’s another line of people who look oddly like the people in the room you just left, except they’re not the same people at all.

I keep forgetting how far I’ve come, how many rooms I’ve been in. I don’t know if I’m at the back of the line or at the front. I don’t know if I’m being scammed or if I’m almost at the ride that I’ve heard can be really good.

Life…what if it can be really good? What if the ride really is worth all this waiting?

That chair you’re sitting in?

I’ve sat in it too.

In waiting rooms.For tests. Surgeries. Procedures. Inpatient. Outpatient. Emergency visits. Routine visits. Urgent visits. To see generalists. Specialists. Surgeons. Alone. With friends. With family members. As a new patient. Established patient. Good news. Bad news. I’ve left with new scars. Prescriptions. Appointments. Words of wisdom. Theories. Guesses. Opinions. Statistics. Charts. Plans. Tests. Words of assurance. More bloodwork. Nothing new. Nothing gained. Nothing but a bill.

That feeling you’re having?

I’ve had it too.

Shock. Disbelief. Denial. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Numbness. Sadness. Resignation. Confusion. Consternation. Curiosity. Determination. Dread. Anxiety. Guilt. Regret. Loss. Pain. Emptiness. Embarrassment. Shame. Loneliness.

That day you’re dreading?

I’ve dreaded it too.

The first time you speak the words, “I have cancer.” The first time you hear “Mommy has cancer.” 

Those reactions you’re getting?

I’ve had them too.

Stares. Questions. Pity. Blank looks. Insensitivity. Jaw-dropping comments.

Those side effects you dread?

I’ve dreaded them too.

Nausea. Vomiting. Pain. Broken bones. Weakened heart. Everywhere. Unrelenting runny nose. Fatigue. Depression. Hot flashes. Insomnia. Night sweats. Migraines. Loss of appetite. Loss of libido.Phantom pain. Infection. Fluid accumulation. Bone pain. Neuropathy. Numbness. Joint pain. Taste changes. Weight gain. Weight loss. Some of them happen. Some don’t. Eventually, though? You name it. It changes. Temporarily anyway.

That embarrassment you’re feeling?

I’ve felt it too.

Carrying an oxygen tank around 24/7 everywhere you go. The stares. The questions.

That fear you’re suppressing?

I’ve squelched it too.

Will this kill me? How am I going to manage 3 kids and get through it? Will my cancer come back and take me away from my life? Will it make the quality of life I have left so bad I won’t want to be here anymore? Is this pain in my back a recurrence? Do I need to call a doctor?

That day you’re yearning for?

I’ve celebrated it too.

First walk-without-being-tired day. First game-of-catch-with-the-kids day. First day out for lunch with friends day. First haircut day. “Hey, I went a whole day without thinking about cancer” day. “Someone asked me how I’m doing, I said ‘fine’ and I meant it” day.

That hope you have?

I have it too:

A cure.

Don’t you think that would be amazing?

I think so too.

Is my writing an extension of my desire to control things when cancer has taken away so much of this ability?

Is part of the reason I write an attempt to document my thoughts, my perspective for after I am gone?

If I don’t do it, who will do it for me?

And in my odd way of thinking, am I trying to save anyone the considerable effort of having to work to figure out who I was– deep down?

My blog has the title “You’d Never Know”: I am telling you things about myself, my worldview, and my life, that you would otherwise have no knowledge of. One of the things people say to me all the time is, “You’d never know to look at you that you had cancer.” After hearing this comment repeatedly I realized that much of our lives are like that:

If we don’t tell someone — share our feelings and experiences — are our lives the proverbial trees falling (unheard) in the forest?

What if you die without being truly understood?

Would that be a life wasted?

If you don’t say things for yourself can you count on others to express them for you?

Further, can anyone really know anyone else in her entirety?

It’s not that I focus on the negative. I just want to be prepared for whatever I am about to confront—good or bad. Of course, being prepared for bad things is harder. But I’m not even sure that I’m ready for good things to come my way.

Here it is in a nutshell: I have a terrible fear of being unprepared.

The passage of time is helping me with these questions. I know you can’t control it all. And I don’t have the energy to worry all the time. But I also know that in being prepared I am self-soothing, rubbing my mental worry beads, trying to reassure myself that things will be okay.

I’m not sure I believe that yet. It’s a daily struggle. But I learned my lesson by dropping my guard. As a student of life, I failed once. I won’t do it again. Control what I can, be prepared for what I can’t. That’s as far as I am right now.

I don’t think things happen for a reason and I find it unsettling when people want to tell me that cancer, or my mother-in-law’s death, or anything that has been a challenge has happened as part of some grand plan for something better.

I just don’t believe it. And I don’t want you to believe it about my life, either.

I think things just happen — and when they do, you have to decide how you are going to handle them. Those actions, those responses, can teach you lessons, but they are lessons you teach yourself. You can grow, get stronger, do something that you otherwise never would have. Alternatively, you might learn that you made a mistake and should deal with a situation differently the next time it comes up.

My attitude?

Don’t give away the credit.

Don’t minimize the hurt or disappointment.

Don’t rationalize why it isn’t as a big a deal as it is.

There isn’t necessarily a purpose in suffering; it’s not part of a causal narrative that “passing the test” will get you to the next step. You make your own tests, you find your own lessons. But using the word reason implies that it was given to you, designed for you.

And I just don’t believe that.

Love you all and truly mean it....and God loves you too,

Shanna xoxoxo