out of the storm and into...?

So last night, Jon and I sat down to have a writing date together - because we both had things we wanted to get out - and he wrote his post "we made it!" and I wrote, well, this one... As we read each others posts, I laughed (and cried) a little at our different ways of writing and processing - his ability to always see good, and my willingness to deal with the shadows - and then proclaimed that I couldn't post mine, because it would make Team Douthit seem a bit bipolar. He reassured me that despite their differences, they're both true and accurate for both of us - his is true for me, I'm celebrating being done with this phase and into a more spacious place, and mine is true for him, although with different emphases which maybe he'll expand on at a different point in time. So I'm sharing it anyhow - we're not on different pages, this isn't my story versus his, nor is one of us healthy and the other avoiding processing nor wallowing in processing. We're writing the same story, just painting different details, in our own unique ways.

--

I watched an episode of a medical-drama TV show (which shall remain unnamed, oh the shame...) today where a young woman presented in the ER following a serious car accident, with catastrophic injuries. But when she came in, her adrenaline was so high that it kept her from being in pain or her body really feeling the impact of her injuries. Only when her body finally relaxed and calmed down, only then was the full impact of her injuries known.

I have no idea whether this is medically accurate or not - Seattle Grace is never my standard for medical accuracy - but I do know that, emotionally, this is true for me. As long as I'm running on adrenaline - as long as I don't stop moving - I don't feel the full extent of my wounds.

We finished the final round of chemo on January 31st. Last week, we came through (hopefully) our final round of neutropenia and all it's worries, risks, and fears. Hallelujah! And as of this past Monday, Jon is back to work (in the office!) full time again.

For a few short weeks, our lives return to "normal" as we wait for the final PET scan on March 8 (results on March 9), to see if we're "done done" or if we go back into the ring for more treatment. But we're learning to celebrate the moments of victory, even in the grey. Done done is relative of course, because when are you ever fully free from the fear that the cancer will return? And when are you ever fully in irreversible remission? But for the time being, that is our marker. So, now we're in this weird waiting, holding, celebrating, processing, new "normal" pattern.

Honestly? It's been a lot rougher than I want to admit. This week has been emotional - up and down and all over the map. Celebrating, grieving, relief, exhaustion. I've felt more fear, anxiety, and panic than I have in months. And yet life is back to normal, right? The risk of Jon ending up in the ER, the stresses on our children, the heavy-hitting chemicals being pumped into my husband's body, the sleepless nights - they've all gone away or greatly diminished. And we're slowing down, returning to normal.

And all of a sudden, all of the metaphorical junk that we haven't processed or dealt with in 5-6 months - all of a sudden, it's hitting me square in the face. My adrenaline isn't pumping - I'm not in survival mode - and now I'm feeling all the longings and aches and anger and wounds and just.how.much we went through that I haven't felt in the need to just survive and make it through. Now, I'm feeling... the whole breadth of emotions. [Insert cute kid pic to make sure you know that this includes happy emotions too...]

When you're in the midst of it all, you don't really think about whether or not your spouse will live or die. You just think about what symptoms you need to mention when the doctors next round. You think about which antibiotics he needs to remember to take, and what his core body temperature normally is. You don't think about buying a house or moving or jobs or life goals and how far into the future you can or can't plan - you don't think about how scary this all is, you don't think about dreams - you just think about making it through each day, sometimes just each hour.

And then when you're not in survival mode any more - those bigger picture questions, fears, anxieties, memories, longings, and feelings come back.

This is like PTSD, in a form. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - with all it's flashbacks, anger, emotional numbness, hopelessness, panic/anxiety/fear, the overwhelming/debilitating reliving of a major traumatic life event or situation. It's real, and affects you both physically and emotionally, and is worth processing with a professional and sharing with your community (both of which we're doing, don't worry).

But it is also grace, in a very weird way. When you're in the midst of a trauma - your body, your soul, your heart, they can only handle so much. To emotionally process all that you're going through, while you're going through it - it's too much. So grace gives you adrenaline - gives you survival mode - until life slows down enough that you have space to breathe and process. This onslaught of emotions, is a sign that we're actually moving into more spacious places, places with margins and air, and rest enough to feel everything - good, bad, beautiful, ugly, and angry included - again.

So when people ask me how we're doing this week - I don't really know how to answer.

I've cried more times this past week than I have in months.

I've felt like a powder keg ready to explode.

It's been hard, when it's felt like it *shouldn't* be.

I'm feeling all the feels.

But at the same time, I know that this is part of the process of decelerating - of moving from the race-track-head-down-just-make-it-through-the-hour of survival mode, into the more spacious places. It is the process of lifting up my head again - choosing to see myself fully, choosing to see my family fully, and choosing to see and to celebrate and to grieve all that has happened to us and in us these past few months - choosing to see the future, unknown as it is. To begin to shift through the rubble.

There's space to feel again.

And now, we have a choice to make - we can

(a) jump back into the "normal" flow of life and just ignore all that has transpired in the past 5-6 months, both good and hard - this is perhaps the assumption of what most people think should happen after cancer/chemo finishes. It has its own challenges, but it allows us to pick up the pace again, and find other sources of adrenaline rather than deal with the ugly that comes from facing the tide.

(b) dwell in the onslaught of emotions and let the anxiety/fear/stress/past/present consume us - this is perhaps the temptation, and the assumption of what many people think happens to those who have gone through cancer/chemo. It honors the depths, but doesn't allow hope or light or life to enlarge it - and too often, it drowns you in the fears.

(c) figure out some way of unpacking and processing and celebrating and grieving and allowing that to shape us into more whole people. This is the hard road, that has no road map, and can easily derail into either A or B - depending on your personality - but if successful, it is richer and deeper and more complex and makes us into more peaceful and whole human beings because it integrates all parts of who we are and heals wounds rather than buries them or allows them to fester.

So. How are we?

We're slowing down. We're feeling all the feels - highs and lows. There is no such thing as normal, even as we are returning to normal. We're just beginning the healing process, and that means we're kind of a mess right now, even as that is part of healing. Even as we're still waiting on bated breath for results that tells us just how far out of (or still in) the storm we really are.

I don't really know how to end this, because it's very much still in process - so maybe just ... keep walking with us? And thank you so much for walking with us thus far.

-KD