Two days ago I found a split end! A split end!! In MY hair!! Now, since you can't hear my tone when I say that let me just spell it out...I am THRILLED that I found a split end. It has been nearly 5 years since I had hair that was long enough to split! Split ends are so normal. Split ends are what happened to me before cancer. During and after cancer? No split ends. Not until August 1, 2013 anyway! So, here's to another "normal first" after cancer: my first split end. I've been checking and re-checking my hair the past couple of days and so far I've only found one...but I'm still looking. And, yes, I realize I need a trim. I'll do it soon, I swear.
When I was a kid I had this long, long, loooonnnnngggg hair. Hair I could pull in front of my face and examine whenever I was bored. If I found a split end (which was frequent), I could pull it apart. It was sort of a nervous habit. Plus I was morbidly fascinated with how a hair could split in half.
Five years ago, I felt like I was split in half. Half of me was "the otherness" and the other was attempting to deal with my new reality. I had no idea what I was doing (thus the millions of phone calls and desperate attempts to focus on anything outside of myself), I had just turned 29 (with all the unhelpful thoughts about birthdays), and I was still waiting to see an oncologist for the very first time. After my birthday, we hit a lull. There were no more phone calls to make. There were no other celebrations to force myself to have. There was nothing to do. Nothing to do but sit with my thoughts. Not a great place to be 5 years ago. I struggled with the otherness; I struggled with reality. So, I just turned off. I entered..."the funk."
"The funk" is a term coined by my dear husband. He noticed it and eventually pulled me out of it. Frankly, I had noticed it too. I just didn't care. You see, the funk was me not feeling anything. I was blank. I just sat where ever I happened to be located and looked off into space. I didn't see anything clearly. I didn't hear anything clearly. I didn't feel anything. I didn't care about anything. We would be sitting on the couch and the husband would ask what I wanted to watch on TV. "I don't care, anything," was my standard reply. We would be out running errands and he would ask, "Where do you want to go next? What do you want to do? Are you hungry? Where do you want to go eat?" "I don't care...I don't care...I don't care," were my replies. I had no interest in anything. I didn't care what I did, where I was, or who was with me. If I sat in silence and did not speak to another soul...that was fine. If I sat in front of the TV not watching whatever was on...that was fine. It was a chore to think. It was scary to think. So I just...didn't. It is hard to accurately describe exactly what I was feeling during this time. I felt completely numb. Like my mind was not connected to my body which was not connected to my emotions. Like I had no emotions. I did have some small thoughts that would flit in and out of my consciousness..."Malinda, you are depressed. Malinda, you can't stay like this. Malinda, what if you stay like this? Malinda, you have cancer." Cue more numbness.
At first the funk was welcome. At least I wasn't hurting. At least I wasn't scared. This lasted for a few days, during which I pushed myself further and further down into the funk. It was like I was swimming though jello...just laboring to get to the bottom where I could be more detached. More insulated from everything and everyone. Where I could feel less. Where I could be safe from the otherness and the reality. But then the funk started taking over. I didn't have as much control over it. It got worse. I remember this one definitive moment, when I knew I would have to do something at some point about the funk. I was sitting in my living room. The TV was on but I wasn't there enough to know what was on or pay any attention to it. I was just sitting there. Not feeling anything. Staring off into the space behind whatever was on TV. And this thought pops into my head: "This is why people cut themselves. Just so they can feel something. Anything. Even pain." I turned my head to look into my kitchen. And then I felt scared. It all happened so fast. The fear was fleeting. But it had been there, and it wasn't fear of cancer. It was fear of the funk. It was fear that I would never feel again, never be able to connect myself to anyone or anything outside of myself again. Fear that I would slip so far away I would stop living while I still had life left. But then it was gone. I went back to the nothing. But I knew; I knew I could not stay this way forever...but, for now, just a little longer.
Two nights later, I was still in the funk. My fear of it had come and gone and I still had no desire to do anything about it. That's when my husband stepped in. We were getting ready for bed and I was just laying there in the funk. He was trying to talk to me but I wasn't very responsive. I didn't look at him. I just stared off at the ceiling, waiting for lights out so I could go to sleep and be this all again tomorrow. That's when the husband started picking a fight with me. He started by trying to annoy me...I didn't respond. He started challenging me...I didn't respond. He kept at it...I didn't respond. Finally, he pushed the right button. I'm not even sure what he said, but anger...hot, colorful, boiling anger bubbled up from the deepest part of me and radiated out. I was incensed. I rolled over, looked him in the eye, and started verbally biting his head off. And then he did the strangest thing. He said, "There. That's better. I don't want to see you like you've been the last week." Oooh, I was mad. "You mean you did this on purpose?" I yelled. "Yes," he said simply. "I had to do something. You wouldn't respond to anything else I did." And then, in that moment, I had a choice. The funk was still pulling at me. I could choose to sink back into it. Or I could choose to feel. Feel the anger at being prodded into a fight (who does he think he is anyway?!?). Feel the pain and fear and confusion wrapped up in cancer. Feel the desire to fight...to fight like I've never done before. Feel the desire to kick cancer's ass. Feel the desire to live...not just physically...but to live, with or without cancer, until it was my time to go. Somehow, in that moment of pushing my buttons, my husband had given me the map to my future and it had only two roads: the funk or the fight. In that moment, I became a survivor. I chose the fight. The funk evaporated and held no pull for me anymore. "Fine," I said, "I'm here. I'll do it. But don't you ever say that to me again!" "Fine," he said, "I'm glad you're back. No matter what happens or what you think or feel, I can help you if you let me in. We can deal with it. We'll win. I can't help you if you give up. Don't give up, no matter what." Whew. Good thing I had some awesome company with this whole cancer thing. The love of my life saved my life that night.
And that is the story of how Daddy helped Mommy choose the survivorhood, Little Bear.
Til next time...Always and Ever After.
No comments:
Post a Comment