My Brain

On Trauma

Photo by Milad Fakurian on Unsplash

On November 4, I felt myself slipping.

I could see the damn, rotten banana peel in the middle of my pathway, yet I could not stop. I was pulled forward closer and closer to stepping directly on it - a rotten, slippery, brown peel that I eventually smashed beneath my heel,

and I fell

hard.

Yea.

That is how November began, and it continued as a series of slips, crashes, burns, pick-me-ups and brush-myself-offs

over

and over

and over again.

I lost hope, and then I regained it.

Living with cancer is complicated.

November consumed me with an all-too-common-trauma-induced cycle of fear that was ignited by the understanding that my current treatment was once-again failing. Living within the transition period of one treatment failing, and the hope of finding another to begin, is crippling.

I live with the fear of finding out there is nothing more that can be offered. I live with the fear of my complete lack of control. I live with the fear of the side effects of a new treatment being far worse than what I have already experienced. I live with the fear of pain and suffering. I live with the fear of loss. I live with the fear of missing out. I live with the fear of dying. Each and every time my current treatment expires, I am swallowed by so much.

I have lived with cancer for 9 years, and I have experienced many, many chemotherapies and many, many treatments, and each time one shows evidence of failing, I become terrified that cancer will gain the upper hand, and I will finally be taken out. I am not becoming more resilent, gritty, or stronger. I am not becoming braver, more fearless or more adaptable. Living with cancer is not getting easier. Time has not built my confidence, rather my confidence is eroding. I have never gained the courage to ask my oncologist how many treatments I have left. Never. I don’t want that number to embed itself in the folds of my already swollen amyglada. My stomach drops thinking about a definitive answer.

So, I don’t ask.

I live not knowing.

Yet, I keep a tidy list filed away of all the chemotherapies I have experienced:

the ones that I know will never work for me again. The list is long, and I worry about it ending.

While I cannot bear asking my oncologist whether or not are my options are nearing an end, my brain entertains a fictious conversation with her that loops over and over and over again. A conversation that repeatedly ends with two options: the first option ends with me learning that remaining treatment options are unbearable. The side effects will scorch me from the inside out, and I will end up merely being rather than living. The second option ends with her stating, and with me knowing, I have been through all my options and there is nothing more that can be tried. Time to get my affairs in order. Those are the dark, wee cold hours of the night when it is just me and my brain and my heart sitting in sadness.

I don’t want to be. I desperately want to live.

I have come to understand that cancer has severely impacted my brain. No matter how strong I may appear, my brain has been stretched and bruised and beaten. My heart has as well. Sometimes I even forget how fragile I am until I go through all of this cycle again - the end of a treatment’s efficacy is hard. It is when I am slapped across the face with a sign, a piece of evidence, a remembrance that cancer lives inside of me, that it is always there, that stings and tears at the rational, more calm side of my brain. The side that is logical and looks at life as a curiosity. The side that spins a tale of confidence and rationality. The side that recognizes my successes and uses those to bolster my trust that my oncologist will figure it out. I am told to trust in the process while knowing that the cancer that is silently slumbering, has begun to feel restless and is slowly coming awake once again.

This is when I become an unreliable narrator. My brain spins fantastical tales that place me in the pathway of impending doom and harm. It screams there is nothing more she can do. Nothing more. Nothing left.

When my tumor marker begins trending up, and I know deep in my bones that another treatment is failing, the emotional and psychological responses I experience, lead me down dark, lonely, isolated places. My body fills with cortisol and adrenaline. It becomes inflammed and aches all over. I experience waves of panic, fists-up-and-ready-to-fight, ready to figure it out, ready to say yes to all the most difficult things, which then is then quickly followed by times where I ball up, cold and shivering. I succumb to paralysis and bury-myself-beneath-my-blankets-and-hide, cancer nestled comfortably beneath the covers right beside me.

“Hello again,” it whispers.

On November 25, my labs showed evidence of success (and this is how the cycle goes). I have completed two rounds of Trodelvy and my tumor marker has dropped 10 points (the side effects that come with this treatment will be left for another post). Ten points! My brain allowed me to take a deep, cleansing breath recognizing that for the entire month of November I have been holding it, bracing myself for the next scary thing. This is evidence that this new treatment is working, progress is being made in the right direction once again.

Yes,

I am speaking to a therapist.

Yes,

I am attending support groups.

Yes,

I am reading and participating in book studies about trauma and the brain, about healing and the biology of beliefs.

I am doing the things. I am trying.

And somedays ARE far easier than others.

There is no doubt about it,

November HAS been a lot for me and my brain. Right now I am/we are working on affirmations and gratitude and remembering to breath.

I have been told that it is all as it is supposed to be, that I am not alone, and that I need to trust in the process … sometimes my brain has a hard time believing this to be true. I understand that if my brain does not believe it then how is the rest of me to?

For if not that, then what?

I don’t know. I really don’t know.

What I do know is November has been taxing. It started with a crash, proceeded on a pathway of entanglement, and now seems to be straightening out once again.

In through the nose, hold at the top, and out through the mouth.

Stay present. Know what I know right now. It is working.

Yes, the treatment is working.

It IS working, and right now, right now, I AM okay.