Stage IV

Day before yesterday, I was feeling sad, so I sat down at my computer to write about it. Writing is how I work through things, whether they be emotions or ideas. Right away, I started to cry. And as I wrote, I realized that I have not grieved the losses. Cancer has stolen so much, completely upending my life. Instead of grieving, I went straight to adjusting, adapting, and coping (with plenty of prayer thrown in the mix). Words and tears poured out that day, the type of heavy weeping you do when someone you love dies.

 Here are the hard parts:             Life goes on while mine stands still.

                                                                                                The treatments never end unless I do.

                                                                                                Fatigue drains physical ability and brain power.

                                                                                                Side effects knock out what I want to do.

Stark? Yes. True? Yes.

Some days my positive attitude goes down the drain.

Today I am finally crying. I’ve lost so much to cancer.

It’s another day alone in my home.

I was lucky enough to be able to put away the clean dishes from the dishwasher without getting dizzy.

It’s too hot to chance going outside.

What was it like to be able to work?

Or pick up my grandsons from school?

Or take a walk?

I miss my life.

I don’t remember the last time I cried.

Somehow, I put off grieving without realizing it.

I embraced acceptance right away, knowing Jesus would see me through.

And he has. And he is.

But still, this life is hard.

Bear witness to my tears.

After my first round of cancer, I had eight years cancer-free. I rarely even thought about the possibility of recurrence, which must have been a God-given grace. When the cancer reappeared in July 2024, it was considered curable. And it was, though about half of my energy disappeared with the cure.  I knew that there was a high risk of another recurrence, but I didn’t waste time worrying about it. What I did not expect was that it would return so soon, in less than a year. This time it was not curable but treatable, which makes a huge difference.

When cancer is considered curable, you count your treatments, aiming for the time you will be done. That helps a lot. Someday, you know, you will ring the bell. But with palliative care, which can be just as difficult as curative care, there is no timeline. There is the blessing of longer life but with restrictions that are usually referred to as side effects. Some people breeze through treatment, but not I. My side effects (mostly fatigue) rule my life. “Pushing through” makes me sicker instead of stronger. So, I pay attention to my body and rest a lot.

Being a productive person becomes a thing of the past. The fatigue goes far beyond anything that is cured by rest, though if I don’t rest, the fatigue gets worse. Much of the time the fatigue is not just limited to my body; my brain is tired, too. Sometimes I cannot focus to read at all. If I have enough energy to write, I do that. And then go rest again. This morning, I went on a short errand to a local downtown market, something I’ve wanted to do for a week. I was gone (driving time included) for less than thirty minutes and then spent much of the day in my recliner. I’ve done several five-minute tasks around the house and took a nap. But the tears are gone.