Dark Clouds and Geysers

processing grief and uncovering new hope

I slept well last night, until I didn’t.

Unfortunately, this has become a bit of a pattern lately. The easier nights are when it’s because of the need for a quick trip to the bathroom or when one of the dogs needs to go out. The harder nights are when a change in sleeping position triggers a coughing fit. And by fit, I mean a five minute coughing-my-lungs-out, I might-never-speak-again fit. It probably doesn’t help that I often try to suppress the cough so as to not wake my husband. But who am I kidding, he couldn’t ignore it if he wanted to. And now, I’ve added full body convulsions and a shaking bed to the mix before eventually letting out all the coughing anyway.

Photo by Rach Wang on Unsplash

If you’ve ever tried to hold in a cough or sneeze, you know what I mean. There’s the wish for it to just pass quickly and putter out but instead you’ve built up all this pressure inside that it comes spewing out like a geyser. It’s actually a bit comical now that I write it all out. Definitely not comical in the moment though.

The unfortunate side of these wake-ups, no matter what the reason, is that my mind is now awake. And when you have Stage IV Cancer, that is visibly progressing in your body, it’s hard to shut that back down. That’s why I’m here at 3:04 am getting some of this out.

In my last video post, I shared about the unsuccessfulness of the NIH clinical trial and my utter disappointment at what that meant. It’s really hard to believe that it’s only been two weeks since I received that news because it feels like so much has happened, physically, mentally and emotionally, since then.

First, I have to admit that I went into a dark place for a bit. Fear got a grip on me. Hearing that my cancer is spreading, knowing that one of the larger tumors is now 8cm and growing and actually watching that happen in the lymph nodes near my clavicle and neck…that shit is terrifying.

Then there’s the fear and anxiety about returning to chemo. The fear that the cancer has progressed too far for the chemo to be effective. The fear around how my body will handle the side effects of an aggressive chemo this time around. The fear that I might not ever again have a day where I genuinely feel good.

I sank further behind my dark cloud. Fear gripped me tighter. My crushed dreams about the trial and now the fear that the disease had progressed too far. The fear of dying fast. The fear of dying fast and in pain. I’d felt so unwell for the past month and it was utterly exhausting. I also realized that in the past, I’d been able to blame chemo for making me feel so sick but this time around, it felt like I only had cancer to blame. The back pain, the abdominal discomfort and pressure, the shortness of breath, the feeling of unsettledness in my stomach. All of those noticeable signs that the cancer was growing in my body.

I did my best to be patient and so hopeful that the trial would work but I couldn’t help but think that I wasted 3 months of my life because it didn’t.

And for the first time, I had thoughts that maybe I couldn’t take it anymore.

I began to question whether chemo was worth it. What’s the point of wasting 3 days every other week hooked up to this toxic infusion that is only meant to extend my life? Did I really want to extend this current life filled with daily pain and discomfort?

I took all of this fear into my return to chemo last week, and let’s just say it was a rough week. Now I had the chemo side effects of intense nausea, a non-stop runny nose, heavy fatigue and zero energy to contend with. I felt like a useless blob. Tears leaked out randomly as I tried to keep it together.

And then I broke down. I let myself cry. I stopped trying to keep it together because the reality was that shit was far from together. I had been trying to shove down my emotions and be “strong and brave” like what I felt was expected of me. But just like that damn cough of mine, that geyser needed to burst. And burst it did.

It began with an unexpected 6am very intimate and tender conversation with Chris. There were lots of tears as we talked about my death and our fears around it. It was a hard conversation but also something we both needed. I felt lighter after this. Like the sun was starting to peek through that dark cloud.

Then I saw my therapist. In that safe space, I allowed myself to be vulnerable and continued to let myself feel all the emotions. The waterworks were flowing, snot was everywhere…and then a calm came over me and I felt fear loosening its grip.

In a sense, I feel like I had to grieve the outcome that I had hoped for with the trial so that I could again move forward. (It reminded me of the grieving that I did for a baby bird awhile back.) Not that grieving is a one-and-done moment, but this release of my built up emotions really did allow me to break out from behind that dark cloud. I’ve accepted my current reality and now feel more like my true self.

Sure, I still have pain and discomfort and honestly will not be looking forward to chemo again this Tuesday, but I’m in so much better spirits. I no longer feel defeated. In fact, I have a renewed sense of hope and trust. I’m ready again to be proactive about my health and am back to trying to think two steps ahead.

And you know what, I am strong and brave.

Lastly, as we wrap up March and Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month, I want to remind everyone of the importance of getting screened. If you are 45 years or older, or have a family history of colorectal cancer, please schedule your colonoscopy today. Also, please be aware of what potential symptoms are and don’t be afraid to advocate for yourself in order to get screened if you are under 45! Sadly, this disease is affecting younger and younger people and is expected to be the leading cause of cancer death in people under 50 by 2030. The disease is curable IF caught early. I’m here if you ever have any questions.

March was busy! Here's photos from our Fight CRC Advocacy trip to Washington D.C., being a guest speaker for Johnson & Johnson MedTech team, and returning to chemo.

Thanks as always for being here and for your continued love and support.

With love and gratitude,

Jess

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