Nobody really talks about what happens when treatment ends. But here’s what happens: YOU GO CRAZY. Survivors and caregivers, be warned.
Just like I did at the beginning of treatment, I had this ridiculous image of a bald woman with a relaxed smile and pink bandana walking tall out of the hospital on her final day of treatment, totally at peace with her “journey.” I was supposed to be like that: zen, accepting of the challenges that lie ahead, yet fiercely proud of how courageously I had fought. But most of all, I would be determined to start anew…right away.
Bullshit.
I slept my entire last day of chemo, and I didn’t even bother walking to the car – I made my mom walk the quarter mile to the parking garage by herself and bring the car around front for me. I wasn’t proud, I sure as hell wasn’t zen, and I was too tired to start anything anew.
I went from seeing the doctors, nurses, radiation techs, and, yes, even the damn residents every weekday (and sometimes even on the weekend), to suddenly not seeing any healthcare professionals for a few months. A FEW MONTHS. And Mama was gone, too. She had school and work and life, and bunking with a pissed-off cancer patient isn’t exactly a vacation, so I understood. For the next ninety days, it was totally up to me to get up, brush my teeth, and try to function like a normal human being.
And this is when I went a little nuts.
I was still pretty sick, and the previous three months of solitude had “softened” my social skills. I still felt ugly…too ugly to be confident. I was too weak to return to things like hardcore gym training (a popular hobby among my friends) or even playing kickball on the weekends, which usually involved more alcohol than actual sports. And I couldn’t really consume alcohol for fear of abdominal explosions, so weekend bar nights were out of the question. All I could effectively do was sit on my couch and think crazy thoughts. I got in arguments with my dog. I stopped writing, because why the hell would I want to write? I avoided making phone calls. I started compulsively researching bizarre side affects, like fistulas.
I became convinced that “it wasn’t over;” that death-by-cancer was one mis-diagnosis away and that I wouldn’t have the chance to salsa dance or enjoy warm chocolate chip cookies before it happened. I thought “all I want is one more summer where I can splash around in the ocean…one more concert where I can stand in the front row and lose myself in the music…one more chance to discover something new in a foreign country.” I wanted another chance to enjoy burritos and margaritas, sledding and hot chocolate, and yes, I even wanted the chance to fall in love again; but I was stuck in a post-treatment half life. Unmotivated, unhealthy, and unhappy.
After numerous morbid comments to my family about what my funeral should look like, Mama finally staged an intervention.
“Have you considered that you might be depressed?”
Yike. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew it was true: I needed help getting my emotional and mental health back on track. There were no support groups for me in town, and the online forums I found were geared towards the “typical,” older cervical cancer patient. So off to therapy I went!
And I couldn’t have found a better therapist. He laughs at my weird jokes and says “yes” when I ask him if I’m crazy. He calls me out when I make ridiculous excuses, and he’s even helped me find perspective on a whole trunk load of issues I had before the cancer even appeared. In retrospect, they should have thrown me into therapy the moment I was diagnosed. I didn’t have much time to process emotions during treatment, but it may have helped prepare me for the aftermath.
There are always setbacks, but for the most part, therapy has helped me think clearly enough to appreciate that I’ve survived two years past treatment: I’ve splashed in the ocean and eaten more than my share of warm chocolate chip cookies. I’ve played in the snow, and I plan to play in it again. And to drink a lot more hot chocolate. And now I have this precious nephew who fills me with all of this giddy optimism about life. I can’t wait to see him grow up. Sometimes, I actually get teary just thinking about his little baby smiles.
I highly recommend therapy for pretty much anyone, but especially those who have or are currently dealing with a cancer diagnosis. Trust me, my dog tolerates me more when I purge the crazy before coming home, and my family isn’t loathe to sit down at the dinner table with me (at least not for those reasons). My social skills are much improved, although I still tend to over-share details about my cervix at parties. Oops. But most importantly, I don’t dwell on the bad, and I don’t plan on dying of cancer anytime soon.
Tags: bullshit, crazy, post-treatment, Survivorship, therapy
