Good Grief

Throughout this ordeal I have been exhorted to think positively. Since Sunday, the only thing I can be positive about, that is certain of, is that I have cancer. On Sunday, Sigal’s call could have returned me to my life; instead, she gave me information that made it impossible to do so. In the course of four days, I received devastating news that changed my life, was injected with foreign substances and had glands that performed a significant bodily function removed from by body. A tube dangles from my armpit culminating in a bulb where excess bodily fluids collect and my upper arm is numb and painful to move. I am overcome with sadness by who I am now and I fully intend to allow myself to grieve for the person I was.

I grieve for no longer being the woman of robust health I prided myself on being. I grieve for the loss of confidence that allowed me to plan a week or six months ahead in the knowledge that nothing more serious than a cold or stomach virus would deter me; I grieve for having to acknowledge the illusion that the choices I make control my life and exempt me from the fate of my siblings. I grieve because I am now tarnished by cancer, that damaged cells multiplied in my body, uninvited by and unbeknown to me, and even though I have a very good chance of surviving it, nothing can undo what that cancer has already done to my body, to my mind, or to my self-image.

That week I gave myself over entirely to self-indulgence, to succumbing to whatever dark thoughts my mind conjured up, to crying, raging or giving in to fear and despondency. I allowed myself to wallow in despair.