Moving Through the Stages

Dear Readers,

Last night, I found myself repeatedly stabbing a box with a pen. I took great satisfaction in the dents and holes made by the pen tip. STAB, STAB, STAB! Pleasing were the smashing and crunching noises as the cardboard gave way to the plastic and metal. BANG, BANG, BANG! I made swiss cheese out of the top of the box and was having a jolly good time at it, too ... until Scott reminded me that we had sleeping children.

And then he took the pen away.

Why? Why with the holes and the pen and the impaling? I was mad. Not mad enough to take him up on his offer to use him as a punching bag, but mad.

I didn't know what was wrong with me. Then, this morning, a wise woman at work cleared it all up for me. (Thank you, Patty.) She told me that I'm going through the stages of grief. I'm on number two. I'm angry.

Yes, yes. That sounds reasonable. Plus, I googled it. It's in wikipedia, so it must be true. Here's what I learned. In 1969, Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote a book called On Death and Dying. She was a brilliant woman; she published more than two dozen books, received twenty honorary degrees and effectively created the hospice movement from the ground up. She was also a woman whose life was filled with misfortune. Becoming pregnant at the wrong time in her career caused her to lose her place in her pediatric residency program. Then, she had several miscarriages. Eventually, she had two children, but then she got divorced. Later, her house burned down, supposedly from arsonists because she was such an active proponent of care for patients dying from AIDS. Yuck. I'm glad I just had cancer.

Anyway, in this very famous book (whose title I recognize, but which I have never read) she presents the grief process as having stages. First, denial. Then, anger followed by bargaining, depression and acceptance. I admit that I may have dabbled in bargaining. It's possible that I promised God that he could have my hair and all my non-essential internal organs if I could live to see my children grow up to be adults. But, this is kind of embarrassing. It's like begging, right? Lame.

So, anger. This is new to me. I'm familiar with stage number one, denial. I think that I resided there for some time, because everything happened so fast. There wasn't time to process this new warped version of reality. Information was flying at me like golf ball-sized hail. The decisions about which kind of treatment I "wanted" had to be made before I had a moment to catch my breath. Then, I laughed a little. And then, I had surgery and it hurt to breathe.

On to stage four: depression.

I don't know how many of you know this, but I was on antidepressants before my diagnosis. Have I said this, before? Maybe. Who can keep track? (And, no, Nick. I haven't taken my Ambien, yet, tonight.) Anyway, I was having some severe emotional problems/hormonal imbalances at the end of last year. I started seeing a therapist in December. She put me on a heavy dose of vitamin D and told me to stop holding myself accountable to such high expectation levels. She claims that not everyone is as worrisome as I. Who cares if the dishes aren't washed before we leave the house in the morning? Who cares if the kids watch a little t.v., now and then? I'll tell you who ... almost nobody ... and I'm the almost. Apparently, I put a lot of pressure on myself. I'm working on it.

Besides the vitamin D and the therapy, I also started taking a little happy pill. It's awesome. And you'll never guess what my doctor said when she prescribed it. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait.

No, that's wrong.

She said: "I've seen people become depressed for no obvious reason and then two months later, their husband dies or they lose their job. Sometimes, the body knows something that we don't. But, there's nothing wrong with you. Your hormone levels look good. Your thyroid is fine. You're in perfect shape. Yours is not a body riddled with cancer. Believe me, you couldn't be, with labs like these."

Two months later, I was diagnosed with cancer.

And, now, I'm angry. I'm mad that I've gained weight and that I need new pants and that I have scars and that I'm still finding undissolved stitches on my bleeding breasts and that my hair is falling out and that I can't dig a hole in the garden for the new hydrangea that I bought. Plus, I'm unreasonably angry at things that should make me happy. If I hear one more time about the Cites 97 live broadcast to raise money for breast cancer, I swear that I'm going to smash my radio with my enormous accordion file of medical records. Why? Shouldn't I be pleased that the entire world, seemingly, is rallying to keep other women from going through this? Well, I'm not. I'm furious. I'm seething with rage. I hate everyone who has small problems like what dress to wear for graduation or which playgroup is right for their little athlete of a toddler. I think I might even be angry at the Breast Cancer 3-day people for being able to walk sixty miles when I still need to take a nap most afternoons. That's so ridiculous. I should be grateful. I should be honored.

I'm not. I'm bitter and jealous and resentful. Maybe I should take up Tae Kwon Do, again. I feel like hitting someone.

Still think I'm inspiring and amazing?

Love,

Crabby Liz