The body keeps score
A real time account of cancerversaries & PTSD
It’s impossible to explain the dark and twisted nature of a cancerversary for someone who hasn’t gone through it. For starters, everyone else’s life has gone on, so not only do they not remember the date, but they certainly prefer not to be reminded. It’s uncomfortable and frustrating for most others to continuously witness our grief- something they have no way to minimize.
I don’t feel comfortable talking about my grief with people who haven’t felt it because most of it is so emotional, not at all logical, and very messy. In fact, I am often met with the reaction that at the very least, a cancerversary should be a celebration of survival- why would we dread that? It doesn’t make sense… to them.
But as we know, cancerversaries can feel like exactly that - dreadful. I wish the grief were limited to a single bad day, but the “milestones” I’ve crossed so far have consumed my joy, energy, attention, and physical comfort for several weeks.
I often wonder why these dates feel so intense. I suspect that when I was in treatment, I felt a lot of anger, fear and anxiety, but the adrenaline of just getting through meant that I didn’t feel much else. I wasn’t able to process the magnitude of my emotions. So maybe these seemingly innocuous “milestones” are opportunities to digest what was, until recently, inaccessible.
February 5th is my birthday. February 7th was my last day of chemo. The combination of both feels so overwhelming that I could sense my body shifting as soon as the one-month countdown in January started. The muscle memory is equal parts impressive and disturbing - there are moments where I swear I feel phantom chemo symptoms. It’s true what they say: our body keeps score.
My sleep quality is the first red flag: I start having vivid nightmares. My jaws and hips lock which creates a pretty constant achiness in my head. I feel like I’m in a semi-permanent state of exhaustion and anxiety. I’m emotionally tapped out, with very little patience left for my kids (and, of course, the guilt of that adds another layer of inner turmoil). The vicious cycle of it makes me feel like I’m drowning, and I’ll never be able to come up for air.
Exercise, rest, and eating well are all huge factors in reducing my anxiety. But with a busy life and two young children, that trifecta is hard to execute. I try to make sure at least two of those three factors are attainable on any given day. And when all else fails, if I really cannot sleep, I get by with a little help from my friends Xanax and cannabis.
On paper, it looks like pretty standard PTSD symptoms, but when you’re in it, it is daunting and crazy-making. I feel like I have almost no control, which is my least favorite feeling. It helps to share with people who understand. I know it will pass, the fog will lift, and life will feel joyful again.
Unfortunately, as with so many things cancer-related, the only way out is through.
Ending with a very powerful quote from Dr. MLK Jr.
“If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all.”
Thanks for being here. And thank you to all who held space for me to share about this on our Wednesday group call.
Yours truly,
Marcella