TEN DAYS AGO, I
had my fifth chemo treatment. For those who keep score, that means I have one
more to go. August 7, 2020 is highlighted on my phone calendar as my final
chemo. Plans are being made for the end of that month with a few friends to
celebrate the end of this chapter of my cancer journey. And then will begin the next chapter called
radiation – although I try not to think too much about the details of that.
On any journey, when we see an end in sight, I
think most people feel a sense of relief or satisfaction. There is a point we all
strive to reach and it is finally within our grasp. So this past week has been
a bit unsettling for me.
Chemo knocks me down as I move further in this
process. I am fortunate not to have lost my appetite or feel too nauseated.
However, the undeniable loss of energy is taxing. It is a physically draining
treatment – but more than that, it is emotionally and mentally
incapacitating.
I try to remain positive. People tell me all
the time how admirable my attitude is. I hear how great I look and numerous
other compliments about bravery, woman power and such. And I truly do believe
all the things I post on Facebook and Instagram. I’m no phony. What you see is
what you get. So why am I suddenly so sad?
When you find out you have cancer, there are so
many unknowns. The range of emotions is endless and the early diagnosis needs
to be broken down by so many factors. You are overloaded with books to read, papers
to sign, and names and phone numbers to remember and prioritize. The medical
tests and assessments keep you busy and your focus is on determining the stage
you are and what will be your treatment plan. Then you focus on the treatment
itself and getting through it. You worry about the physical effects of the
disease and how you will deal with it. Your attention is directed so much on
the physical that the mental aspect is pushed aside.
From the beginning, every surgeon and
specialist I have seen has asked me at every appointment, how I was feeling.
And they weren’t talking about the dizziness, upset stomach, diarrhea,
constipation, dry mouth, headache, exhaustion, restless legs, bone aches, loss
of feeling in my arm, drain issues, scar tissue, acid reflux and insomnia. They
were asking about my mental health. And every time, I have smiled and said “I’m
fine”.
At some point in these last few days, I
realized I don’t feel fine. I am depressed.
Depression sneaks up on you. After giving birth
to our third child in March 2002, I developed mastitis and became physically
ill. I lost a few days to sleep and sweated off a lot of baby weight with a 103
degree fever. After a week and being on antibiotics, I started to feel better
physically but still found it difficult to eat or find joy in the things around
me. We were living in Ottawa and we had three beautiful daughters, a big house
in a nice neighbourhood and our health to be thankful for. To anyone on the
outside looking in, we were living the good life. Brad had a well paying job so
I could stay home with the girls. The kids had friends and play dates and took
gymnastics, dance and soccer. My friends and family who saw me all told me how
great I looked. I was thin and trying to run and looked better than I ever
have. But inside, I was crying.
Postpartum depression was difficult. Medication
did not help me. Gratitude journals did not help. Drinking did not help.
Nothing really helped. And I was too embarrassed to ask for help. Somehow, I
managed to come out of this depression on my own. I can’t really explain how
but I am grateful that by Christmas that year, my mental health was back on
track. I had somehow dug myself out of a dark hole without counselling or
medication.
But I know what depression feels like. And it
is once again has been tugging at me. The feeling that staying in bed all day
is just easier than trying to make an effort to clean or cook or do laundry is
overwhelming. And I get away with it on a daily basis. After all, those who
love me want to help in any way they can so I get a free pass to being lazy. And
because of Covid-19, I have a reason not to socialize. I don’t have to bother
to make any effort to be with neighbours, family or friends because it would
put my immune compromised state of health at high risk. I have been given an
okay on every level to do absolutely nothing.
If this doesn’t sound like depression to you, I
have to include the state of my personal hygiene. I don’t remember when I took
my last shower. I wear the same clothes to bed that I wear the rest of the day.
I’m not sure if I changed the bed sheets recently. Things have piled up in
various corners of my room and dining room that I just don’t care to clean up.
And there is also the issue of impulsive
behaviour to fulfil the need for an instant high. Because I don’t like to go
out, my internet purchasing has increased to the point where I will need to go
back to work sooner than expected just to pay for unnecessary purchases. My
daughter came into my room last week and asked if I had a beach bag and towel
she could borrow. I didn’t so the most
natural thing to do was to go directly to Amazon and buy both items – delivered
36 hours later. When they came to the house, I had forgotten I had bought them.
This is a problem.
Depression will feed on so many things related
to cancer. And in my experience, the saddest thing of all in dealing with cancer
is loneliness. No matter how many people are in your corner, cheering you on
and providing words of love and encouragement, the reality is that you need to
fight it on your own. And in the age of Covid-19, this is even truer.
I was filled with anxiety when my first chemo
day arrived. I put on a smile but had to kiss Brad goodbye in the car when he
dropped me off at the cancer centre. He couldn’t come with me. No family member
or friend could come with me. I wandered around the eerily empty pandemic era
hospital, masked and freshly hand sanitized, trying to find the elevators to
the 11th floor. I signed in and was given a number and waited. And
from there, every nurse I met would all look the same. Draped in PPE – masks making
them indistinguishable from each other.
I pictured it quite differently – other chemo
patients smiling at me and offering some encouragement. A special nurse
assigned only to me so I would form a special bond. Pink ribbon coloured paint
adorning the walls. Flowers to add a bit of cheerfulness to a depressing
situation. Music playing to alleviate the stress we would all be feeling. But I
obviously had watched far too many Hallmark movies and soap operas.
I was in a room with two other people – an elderly
lady who already knew the drill and a deaf older man who was also there for his
initial visit. The man struggled to understand what was going on while his
nurse hollered over the speaker phone to his wife who sat dutifully in her car
outside. I had about five nurses who
periodically checked in on me and shared duties of pushing four separate poisons
slowly through my IVs. Due to pandemic restrictions, no volunteers would visit us during our
treatments. So for the four hours I was there, I browsed my phone and updated
social media of my whereabouts. Then I watched YouTube videos and TikToks until
my phone was left hanging on to 3% power. Putting it away so I would be able to
use it to call Brad to pick me up, I spent the last 30 minutes staring around a
sterile chemo room. And it was hard not to cry.
Admitting that I am struggling with depression is
the first step to overcoming it. It makes others aware that I’m not always able
to sail through things on my own. My
legs feel like lead the first week after treatment and my desire to sleep all
day is at an all time high, but that one person in my life that can push me to
get outside and breathe in the fresh air is helping me more than they
know. Whether that person is Brad or one
of my daughters, my sister Dee, or a friend ... they all play an important role
in helping me keep my mind in a healing state. That cup of coffee on the deck
or facetime call are all part of beating cancer.
So please remember, if you really want to help
me or anyone else who is trying to beat cancer – don’t wait to be asked to help.
Show up with the coffee and muffins. Take the time to pop by and go for a drive.
Come by to weed the garden or plant some flowers. Share some of your favourite books. Bring the
popcorn and watch a movie. I’ll open my door everytime.
Loneliness is difficult and being a friend is
the very best cure.
