4.22.2017

But Today Is Not That Day


 

It's Wednesday, April 12th and I am sitting on the couch, watching my husband play FIFA on the X-Box and Mavvy is snuggled up on the couch. We're probably going to have pizza for dinner. If you were Jeff, you would probably look up and see your wife with a full (albeit short) head of hair, eyes on the computer (are those lashes?), some colour on her face and a smile that might even seem genuine (maybe even a little mischevious, because little does he know, my online shopping cart is full...).

Tonight we're probably going to watch Homeland, and I'll fall asleep listening to Outlander as an audiobook (someone convince me that these 32 hours of my life will be worth it).

One day, I'm going to die.

However, today is not that day.

I realize I left my last post on a bit of a somber note. I remember dreaming of the day I would get to write this post. 

The days in January and February are a blur to me, each one bleeding into the other. This is what stands out:

- Jeff coming home from work one day at 5:30 PM and I was still in bed. All of the lights were off, I cried all day. 
- Going to my parents house, opening the closet door and seeing my old baby blanket. Picking it up, holding it to my face, falling to my knees and sobbing for hours.
- Googling "blogs on depression", "how to overcome depression", "teaching yourself mindfulness", "how to cope with terminal cancer" etc - praying that the internet would heal me.
- Taking the bus to the Ottawa Integrative Cancer Center to go to yoga therapy. Feeling VERY proud I was doing something good for myself. Getting lost. Getting off in the middle of nowhere. The Center calling and telling me "not to bother coming". More crying. 
- Sitting on the couch and trying to watch Jane the Virgin. Thinking I was having a heart attack. Realizing I was having a panic attack. Cry. 
- Sitting on the floor of the cottage, where I vomit for about 25 minutes. I don't have the energy to pull myself up again. Wondering all the why's.

I wasn't able to relax. Ever. My mind never let me have a moment of peace. The only times I felt I could escape was when I was sleeping.

I never thought anything could actually be worse then the physical side effects that I had from cancer. That, however, was before I had been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety.

Here are a few things I learned firsthand while going through this.

1) People don't understand mental health.

2) Mental health is not recognized with the same severity as any other illness.

I remember talking to my mom on the phone one day, through muffled sobs, saying over and over: "W-w-w-w-hy doesn't a-a-a-nyone want to h-h-h-elp meeeeee!!".

I had called the phycho-social department of the Queensway hospital. I called the Ottawa Integrative Cancer Center. Friends gave me the names of this therapist and that therapist, try this person, try that person. I called them all. I e-mailed them in follow up. I didn't get any answers.

The benefit of the hospital is that it is free, but the wait times to see a phychiatrist at the Queensway was about 8 weeks. Even then, she can't see you regularly. 

The OICC didn't have any availability. Their therapists were fully booked.

I never heard back from the General, or the multiple other practitioners I tried to reach.

At this point, I was getting desperate. I didn't know what to do. I called the Queensway and told them I URGENTLY needed care. No, I wasn't physically ill, I answered. I need to talk to someone. I'm desperate.

They called me and I spoke to the social worker (not sure that is the right term for her - maybe she was just a counsellor?) that they have readily available. I poured my heart and guts out in that room. At the end, she looks at me and says: I'm SO sorry for you *patronizing voice*. Dr Wilson is fairly busy. She has about a 6 week waiting period. I can book you in for a consultation with her in about a month and a half?

After telling this woman my story - darkest thoughts, raw emotions - I knew I reeked of desperation and I needed urgent care. I wasn't in a good head space. With her response, I cried and became VERY upset. I said - I can't wait 6 weeks. I need help. I need help now.

She looked at me again and said - "Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was quite so bad."

I'll never forget someone looking me in the eye.  

Not. So. Bad.

Not.
So.
Bad.


I didn't realize it was quite so bad.  

I mean. Not to feel sorry for myself, but if you heard my story would you think it was NOT. SO. BAD? 

It was here I not only started to feel sorry for myself, but for anyone that has tried to reach out desperately for help with their mental health.

If I, a terminal stage IV cancer patient, can't find the resources to have someone help me. I don't know who can. 

I left that appointment feeling defeated. When you're so stuck in your own thoughts, it really seems as if it is never going to get any better. I remember vomiting one morning and texting a friend saying, I hope this thing takes me soon. I was serious.

The OICC called me a few days later and said: our phychologist has agreed to take you on at her private practice.

I wasn't sure what that meant but all I said is "when" and "where". 

I spoke with Jennifer soon after and was able to meet her at her Glebe practice. Unlike the social worker at the hospital, she started off by speaking to me. This was a relationship, I slowly learned. A conversation. She asked me questions. She made meaningful remarks. She validated all of my feelings. Then, at the end, she hugged me.

I left that appointment and felt like I saw the sun for the first time. There is something to be said about dumping your baggage on someone else's porch. Someone who doesn't know you. Someone whom you don't feel burdened speaking to. Someone who won't judge those thoughts in the somber corners of your mind. One session doesn't fix everything, but I think that this was the start of healing for me.

I made an appointment to see my family doctor at her recommendation. While I have incredible, brilliant oncologists, they were not cutting it when it came to my mental health. I had suffered for far too long, and my mental health was not a priority to them. 

Dr. D has been the doctor in my family since my sister and I were children. When I was diagnosed with Stage IV, we had a misunderstanding, and in turn, I stopped going to see her. This time, though, I needed someone who knew me and my history. I needed someone to prescribe me some drugs. 

When I asked her for them, she actually said "I'm surprised it took this long". 

About 4 weeks later, I was able to see the psychiatrist at the Queensway. Seeing a phychiatrist as well as a psychologist was important to me, because a phychiatrist is able to evaluate and prescribe medication. As I nervously read a pamphlet on "How To Treat Nausea", a petite woman with a small frame and glasses comes out to get me. I'm always so blown away by unassuming women that hold magical superpowers up their sleeves. My phychiatrist not only listened to my story and took notes the entire time (even if all she was writing was blahblahblah, it made what I said feel important), she stopped me every time I talked about any physical ailment I had. Nausea, insomnia, acid reflux. All things that everyone else had left me to deal with on my own, all things that every one of my other doctors brushed off to the side as a "cancer side effect". She wanted to know why, when, how often all these things occurred. I left her office with some medication to try and a brighter overall outlook on life. I felt like someone had actually listened to me.

 

I started taking half of this seemingly tiny and worthless pill. She told me I may benefit from it due to its side effects; increased appetite and decreased nausea. Three days later, my nausea had disappeared. After throwing up every single day for over 5 months, I woke up and felt...normal. With the nausea gone, I was able to start to eat again. I was even hungry! By eating, I had more energy! I could stay awake for a day without having a nap, I could watch TV past 9 o'clock! Since I wasn't napping during the day, I was able to fall asleep at a normal time!

And with that, the cycle was broken. I started feeling like a functioning human being again. I started having desires to leave my apartment, regained interest in hobbies and activities I used to enjoy, and had energy to follow through with social activities. 

After my last set of scans came back inconclusive ("well it looks like it could be worse, but we're not sure" is basically what I heard), I started thinking about how this is the most normal I have felt since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I looked at Jeff and said - we need to go on a fucking vacation.

So, a week later we found ourselves on a plane to Mexico. I didn't tell any of my doctors, I don't have any travel insurance - all of that was a future Sam problem. I was going to go to Mexico with my husband and take a well-deserved honeymoon.

One day, I am going to die.

Thankfully, it was not that day.


I've started thinking long-term again. Planning things. Having something to look forward to has been my key to moving forward. I used to feel like I couldn't - shouldn't - plan anything, in fear that I may not be well enough to attend. 

I can't attribute everything to my phychologist and phychiatrist, because naturally, the medication likely altered those brain chemicals and started sending me happy vibes. Yet, talking to someone - someone not in my inner circle - someone that was unbiased, didn't know me, someone I didn't feel like I was burdening with my sharing: that made the difference. Realizing I have a reason to be sad; my suffering is justifiable. I have a reason to be mad; my loss is indescribable. I can continue to be these things, but I have to make peace with them. I need to make peace with my cancer. I am trying so hard. 

Since returning home I guess I could say I have a renewed outlook on life. I don't like the way that sounds very cliche, but I feel it so strongly, this shift in my attitude. In the words of Shonda Rhimes, I'm living my year of Yes. In the words of Sheryl Sandberg, "I'm living as if I only have one year. Who can argue with that?". I want to redecorate and redesign my apartment, I bought tickets to two music festivals this summer, went to Montreal for a girls weekend and saw John Mayer. I've even allowed myself to dream about being able to see my best friends baby walk and talk for the first time. I want to see all the movies, listen to all the music, see all the people.

I know that this all sounds really positive, and I really wanted to share and emphasize that part of my recovery. I'm so lucky to have been granted this feeling of normalcy. I don't know how long it will last but I plan to enjoy it. 

That being said, it isn't to say that I don't feel sad anymore. In fact, I think I have been exploring all these complicated thoughts about life and mortality on such a deep level, that I feel more then I ever have. The feeling of loss and grief is so deep inside me now that it doesn't always make me cry anymore. It's just a dull ache, a reminder that this life was not what I had planned. 

When I feel it bubbling to the top, I try to confront it and not force it back down. I try to accept that this is normal and these intense feelings do not last. Sometimes, though, it does mean having a good cry. 

So, when I have one of these spells, I try and remember my new mantra 

One day I'm going to die, and I am so happy that today (or tomorrow, or likely the next) is not that day. 

 

xx

Sam

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