Darkness

My mother in law gave me a book for Thanksgiving.  Well, probably not for Thanksgiving, just at Thanksgiving.  It is called The Human Side of Cancer, Living with Hope, Coping with Uncertainty.  I sat down to start reading it this morning as the sun came up. I didn't make it very far before I stopped and started thinking. This is a quote from the introduction page of the book The Human Side of Cancer,

Dr. Holland, I have these three gremlins in my head.  One of  them is on one side saying, "Jack, you're going to lick this--don't worry." Another is on the other side saying, "Jack, you dope, you know you aren't going to make it." And in the middle is this third little guy who has to make sense of both of them and help me to keep going on with my life day after day.  Sometimes, they get so loud I can't think, but most of the time I keep them locked up, and when I'm busy they don't bother me.

When I was 6 or 7 I thought there were monsters under the bed and in the back corners of my closet.   I perfected this running jump practically from my doorway all the way into my bed because I was sure if I didn't the monsters could grab my ankles and drag me under.  I thought I would never be seen or heard from again.  My monsters are back (or gremlins as Jack calls them).   My monsters are these thoughts that creep into my mind and body creating anxiety.  I get lost in the tug of war of thoughts and I end up somewhere far away. Ken can tell, he tries hard to pull me back, reaching out and squeezing my hand or wrapping me in a hug. 

In the daytime, I can keep busy; dealing with hospital and doctor plans, making pies and plans for Thanksgiving, getting work ready for me to be gone for a while, dealing with meal planning while I am down.  While worrying about food (one of my favorite hobbies) my mother in law said this weekend, "They will manage to eat. Don't worry."  That was one of the moments it clicked for me.  Worrying about that keeps my mind quiet.  It stops the racing "what if" thoughts. It keeps those monsters under the bed.

Dark is the worst. And the worst of the worst is being in the Dark with nothing to do.  I sat in a car for three hours in the dark this weekend.   I was scared.  I worried that even if they get all the cancer during my surgery that I will still worry that the cancer is there. I worried that I will need chemotherapy.  I worry about the side effects of the Tamoxifen.  I worry that I won't be able to bike as well or as far.  I worry about my business.

Then I say all the positive affirmations I can think of.  I will be fine.  I will recover.  Look at C, (and I go down the list of all the survivors I know).  I have trust, faith and hope.  Then I am back to one of my work mantras, "Hope is a poor planning tool."  This is all interesting drama for a woman who has always thought that if I just work hard enough I can make everything turn out all right.

In this case, hope, faith and trust are all I have (along with some great doctors). I will do yoga and meditate today to calm my mind so the monsters can't creep in.  And I will turn on some more lights, to keep away the dark.