Luckily, my chemo regime is typically relatively routine – infusion from Tuesday through Thursday, followed by a relatively predictable recovery through Sunday. Within that, each day contains its own familiar cycles, including the depression that starts around Wednesday afternoon. It’s dark and it’s irrational. I understand that this depression is part of the whole cycle, but that doesn’t make it easier.
Even though I historically emerged from each depressive event so far, that logic doesn’t help me to see the light at the end of the tunnel. In the midst of each chemo cycle, every single time, I feel like I won’t make it through to a better place. Each time, I think that maybe there is no light or even an end to this tunnel. Maybe this time, I entered a cave that only gets deeper and darker.
When I feel like I can’t do it anymore, usually Wednesday night, I text one of my cousins in some socially acceptable way of saying, “this sucks and I just want to die.” She, thankfully, responds in a variety of ways that says “hang in there.”
“This is the part where I just want to go to sleep and have someone wake me when chemo is over.”
“Ah I’m sure. Hang in there. You are the strongest person I know. It’s helping you…Luv u”
“Not horrible but could be better.”
“At least not horrible. That’s good…Think good thoughts.”
“Less than 24 hours. Counting down.”
“Been thinking about you all day. Hang in there.”
I cling desperately to my connection with her, as if it were a strong rope that links me to the real world and prevents me from spiraling further and further into deeper darkness.
I simultaneously want to close my eyes and not open them again AND jump right back to the place where where joy feels effortless. I can see others being happy. But during that time, a happy place feels far away and unreachable for me.
I’m starting to realize that I can’t just jump from here to there, and I can never predict what will pull me out. This time, it was a series of baby steps that combined serendipity with a bit of grace that allowed me to step into a slightly different emotional space.
First, I prayed for help, not sure that it would come but promising to watch for it. Shortly afterward, I received a text from a friend who is going through her own horrible time. She was scheduled to fly to Florida with her children but felt that she couldn’t do it.
Then I got this message:
“Florida warm sunny and lovely…xo”
She did it! Her strength gave me a little strength, showed me a little bit of light.
Next, I received a blog post from someone who had a hard year but decidedly focused on the good parts, and I felt a little more positive.
Experiencing each of these moments was like Jesus holding my hand and helping me to take a small step forward, showing me: “See, here is a little bit of good that can enter your heart.” Though I was not yet out of the darkness, I could believe that, if I held on and paid attention, I would be led somewhere that was safe.
We traveled to Pittsburgh for Christmas to see the rest of my family. I was still sick and in pain, but slowly feeling better. On Christmas Eve, during the day, I went to see a friend. Even though she was tired, I was thrilled to get to see her and I took on lots of good energy from her. Baby steps.
That night, feeling like I was slowly making my way out of this dark place but annoyed that it was taking so long, I got an abdominal obstruction that caused waves of pain on its own, plus pulled on the tumors to make them hurt too. I lay in our dark bedroom as my husband put the Santa gifts under the tree. I couldn’t participate in anything and I hated that my illness was ruining Christmas for everyone around me and myself. Plus, we planned to travel to the Bahamas the day after Christmas, and I knew we wouldn’t make the trip unless I felt better. I used the mind-body techniques I knew, and they helped, but progress was slow.
I needed to know that I wasn’t alone, that someone was with me. I prayed, “I need some light, something.”
Just then, the bedroom door, which had been closed but not clicked all the way, opened just a crack and a thin stream of light poured into the room and onto me. Even though I was still in pain, I started to feel a little more optimistic.
I laid awake until about 3:00 in the morning, working through the obstruction. I started to feel better and drifted to sleep when, at 3:30 Christmas morning, the light on the bedside table next to my side of the bed turned on. I kid you not. It was not a timer. It just turned on. It was a three-way light and thankfully turned to the dimmest setting. I had to laugh inside. I might still be recovering, but so many things are out of my control. I felt like it was a sign. And if a light could turn on by itself, then maybe anything really is possible.
Christmas day was lovely, and as I write this, we are on a flight to the Bahamas….
Thank you for all the tiny things you do (and the bigger ones too). Each one makes a difference that changes a life, including mine.
Love and light,