I just heard someone say that time doesn't heal all wounds -- it just makes them worse. I guess it depends on the wound. I imagine losing a child is one wound that never really heals. But I've found that my cancer wounds -- both physical and emotional -- have healed with time. And a trip down memory lane proves it.Two years ago I wrote about my wounds, fresh and raw and painful, on my Breast Cancer blog.
Confession
Wednesday, February 23rd, 2005
I must confess my not-so-positive feelings about my treatment process. In addition to the queasiness I feel from the chemo drugs, I have started feeling ill at the mere thought of this entire ordeal. It's hard not to think about it so I get this feeling quite often. I am actually repulsed by what is happening to me - the drugs that are cycling through my system, the scars on my body, my bald head, the nausea, the dry taste in my mouth. Reading my breast cancer books makes me feel ill. Sometimes when I look back on my journal entries, I feel sick. Some of it I suppose I can control. I can stop reading. I can stop looking at what I've written in this journal. But the day-to-day thoughts and experiences I cannot erase.
I am still making it through each day without too much difficulty. I am still positive and hopeful. But while I once felt completely motivated and somewhat unphased by breast cancer and its implications, I now feel sickened and a bit angry. I am sure I will someday turn towards acceptance and will one day think of this journey as a life-changing gift. But for now, I just feel sick.
I read recently that some patients feel nauseated each time they see their oncologists - even years after cancer and treatment. So I know I am not alone.
These wounds are gone, missing, absent from the life I live today. Time may not heal all wounds -- and I agree that it can make some worse -- but in my case, I am thankful for the passage of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Because time has healed the worst of my wounds.
I have a new friend who is a new breast cancer survivor. She is surviving a new diagnosis, a recent lumpectomy, and the moments leading up to another surgery to further investigate the margins surrounding the tumor removed from her breast. She is surviving the first phase of her breast cancer journey. A phase full of uncertainty and fear and panic. A phase so new and so fresh and so raw, her mind is whirling. A phase that has her grasping for any bit of direction she can find as she navigates a terrifying, unfamiliar road.
After my breast cancer diagnosis, I received endless offers from friends and family who offered to help me. I was offered meals, babysitting, errands, escorts to appointments, and two faraway friends even told me they would hop on a plane in an instant to come stay with me. I accepted a tiny bit of help -- like a meal here and there and a morning of babysitting -- but I really did not want much assistance. Mostly because I am do-it-myself type of person and however unhealthy this can be -- especially in the midst of a health crisis -- I wanted my life to remain as normal as possible. And if that meant taking care of my kids, despite nausea and fatigue, I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the one in the driver's seat on my way to treatments and procedures. And I wanted to run my own errands. Part of me believed that accepting help meant I was really sick. And I couldn't admit that. Yet it was true. I was sick. I needed help.
