Be kind to people and don’t judge, for you do not know what monsters they carry and what battles they are fighting. ― Vashti Quiroz-Vega
In the first few months after his diagnosis, waves of grief would visit me several times a day. The blackness from within felt overpowering and made it hard to breathe. I would lay in bed and stare off in space, trying to adjust to this new feeling of doom. I would lie like this for an hour and get up from bed exhausted. The simple act of grieving was hard and tiring work.
I remember getting up one morning and going into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself. The person staring back at me looked like a much older and haggard version of the woman that I had been a few months before. My eyes had sunken into my face and my gaze was empty.
My appearance and personality had changed so dramatically in such a short time, I can only explain it as if some sort of parasite had taken up residence in my body. In my lungs to be more precise.
With each breath, I could feel ‘it’ expanding and contracting. A black, unwelcome visitor that could wreak havoc with my emotions, turn the dial up on my grief at will, and keep me guessing as to how I would ever recover from these lows.
I called it my grief monster. It felt like the only name that fit the little creature living inside my chest and causing me pain. No other explanation made sense as to why my chest hurt so much and I looked and felt like hell. In fact, I had lost interest in my appearance the day he said the word “cancer”.
Without thinking, I made my way down the basement stairs to the TV room. It was a place to hide from the family and try to think. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, aware that the frightening blackness would come. I didn’t even bother to turn the light on, just plopped down on the couch and wrapped myself in a blanket.
My mind started drifting back to the time before he said the word “cancer”. I was a happy person. Life was an adventure, and the future was bright. I was deeply committed to my work as an obstetrician-gynecologist and my medical research program. I enjoyed gardening in the backyard, planting vegetables, and watering the garden beds in the summer. I even found time to lead a small troop of Girl Scouts.
I had been fortunate, I reminded myself. Fortunate to be a mother, a wife, a physician, a scientist, and a friend. It probably wasn’t fair that I had been so fortunate. Could one be too fortunate? Maybe this was the problem.
Shrugging off these thoughts, I tried to focus on something, anything to pass the time. Why couldn’t I put together a coherent thought these days? Because I am pathetic and need to pull myself together. The disconnect between how I wanted to respond to his health crisis and how my brain and body were performing began to wash over me.
I needed to do better, be better, and actually be a support to him. Today. I needed to be a better support to him, today.
Disgusted with myself, I took an extra big breath to feel the tightness and discomfort in my chest for a moment. It was a reminder of my grief and the tiny little monster holding the blackness and pain in my chest.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I had been staring at the same framed print on the wall. It was a photo of Maachu Picchu in the Peruvian mountains that I had taken in my youth while under the spell of the historical site. My eyes focused on the clouds at the top of the photo and then on the agricultural terraces built into the site.
Pull yourself together and get off this couch, I practically screamed. I had to go to work if for no other reason than to get off this couch. There were lots of things that I loved about work, but in this moment, work was an escape. A reprieve from the misery of dealing with the idea of his cancer.
Work wasn’t solely an escape because well-intentioned co-workers would often ask how my husband was doing. Or how I was holding up. No sooner had the question left their mouth, than the tears began to find their way into my eyes. The room would become blurry. And my beautiful escape from reality would come crashing down.
It was always a conundrum as to how I should respond to kind questions about how his treatments were going or how the family was holding up. If I weren’t such a dumpster fire of emotion, the question would be no problem.
Imagine if I said something like, “Thank you so much for asking. We are thinking positively and putting one foot in front of the other.” This would be appropriate, in my opinion. A positive reply with a thank you for the kind thought. The person would leave feeling good about their show of care and we could go on with our day.
Ha! I was never good at bluffing. The result of these types of interactions were usually tears. My tears and their tears. What a mess!
I had to start getting ready for work, but sitting in the dark held a strange kind of comfort. It felt strangely authentic, like I should sit in this black void and meditate on the pain. At least the pain was real. Maachu Picchu and I could silently commune about life’s miseries and agonies together.
No, ma’am. I could not sit here and feel sorry for myself any longer. People were counting on me at work and at home.
I climbed the stairs and quickly checked my face in the bathroom mirror. There she was again. That pale, ghost-like stranger with downcast eyes. At least my eyes weren’t red from crying. Just cold and empty. I honestly didn’t recognize this person staring back at me.
I really like this chapter….I think you’ve got it 💕
Trust your Editor. I like the change.