I’m struggling. Drowning a bit, really.
A few months ago, a close family friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the same thing that killed my mother. It’s a quick, ugly trip once treatment options are exhausted, and though researchers are trying, it is fairly resistant to treatments like chemotherapy. The best course is surgery, but the patient has to be in good enough physical shape to survive the attempt. Often doctors use chemo to shrink the tumor to increase the likelihood of success, which doesn’t help improve that physical shape.
It's one of the most aggressive cancers there is.
Even after over 20 years, that year was one of the most traumatic periods of my life, and, in some ways, I am still not over it. A mirror situation was bound to both trigger and re-traumatize me.
My friend was diagnosed in August. There was a plan. Doctors were optimistic.
Until chemo. It really threw my friend for a loop and prompted discussions about quality of life. And the effects made them ineligible for surgery. All of a sudden, the prognosis was a matter of weeks. Maybe just two. Every step wais a mirror of my previous experience.
Sitting at home, reading that update, my chest tightened until I was at the very edge of a panic attack. I knew what was coming. This person was a surrogate parent, and I had spent time with their family every summer growing up. And it wasn’t just me. My friend had been part of my dad’s life since 1956. I was going to have to watch a replay of what was literally the worst day of my life. My parent would have to say goodbye to their best friend for the last time. My mom said goodbye to her brother for the last time on my 24th birthday because there was no predicting the date of her death and he had to go back to work on another continent. She lived for nine more days.
Echoes of my experience with this nightmare swamped me. It didn’t help that my memories of that time with my mother are crystal clear. The only thing I could do was everything I could do. I have been through similar situations many times, and I have learned that self-preservation can only come after-the-fact for me. I am compelled to throw myself into care and support of those who have cared and supported me. Helping them helps me. It’s the only way for me to pass the look-yourself-in-the-mirror test.
But it’s hard. I have support from everywhere I look. I even had a moment at the gym this week, and my trainer let me drop the situation on him. It helps, but for the hardest parts I will be alone in my head. I will lose sleep and bury myself in the utter unreality of fantasy stories. Lack of recognizable reality is the only way to blot out the awareness of what is happening and ease the emotional weight.
When it’s done, I will need to make self-care my priority. Twenty years ago, I ran away to Texas, which is not an option this time around. But I’ll find something. Just not sure what. I don’t have the capacity to think about that yet.
But whatever impact this situation has on me, that’s not the point. I have 40-year-old memories of my friend carrying me when I was paralyzed – no easy feat since I was tall-ish and straight-legged due to the paralysis; them at my mom’s funeral; all the times they fostered my interest in history and politics; and giving me a break from my parents (and giving them a break from me) in the summer.
I need to show up. For them and for me.
NOTE: My friend has an incredibly involved and loving family, including chosen family. I am not focusing on the impacts on them because those are not my stories to tell.