Post 107: Turmoil in my Mind.
Sometimes the people around you won’t understand your journey. They don’t need to; it’s not for them.
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I saw that thought-provoking quote yesterday and stole it, because it’s a real-life condition that I live with. Telling others isn’t easy for me—nor something I choose to do often.
This is my nightmare. And why should I inflict it on you?
Crass hypocrisy, I hear you cry—you’re always telling us!
But the difference here is that Mr U is an anonymous soul you only know about because of the therapy his wrangler is doing by writing about him.
Yes, he’s real, has cancer, worries too much, and drives his poor wife round the bend—but he’s one big step away from existence, hiding behind the blog.
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The quote got me thinking about the people I’ve told about my cancer for the first time this week—and how I feel about it.
The three valuers each got to hear the reasons for our need for a new forever-home for My Darling, away from the current forever-home we have. It only makes sense if you explain the reasoning behind this future-proofing.
So while I explained to these strangers the consequences of life on the rough and tumble of the oncology route, I had to sit there and force my mind’s reluctance to open up—even though it made perfect sense to let it all out.
I felt horrible with stranger one and ran from the room to seek sanctuary from the emotion that surged from my eyes without warning. The second one I managed to stay with throughout their chat and sales routine, but the third eventually got me running and hiding again. It made me wonder why?
Tomorrow, I’m intersecting the homeward-bound journey of a pal I haven’t seen for ages. He’s cycling home after his Friday half-day at work, and I’m meeting him in a pub 40 minutes from here in the back-of-beyond—for a sandwich and a catch-up chat.
Daz was a work colleague who, until recently, used to meet up with me for drinks every six months or so for a moan and a laugh, ever since I left the company where we worked side by side.
At that company, we built and repaired ancient and classic racing cars in an engineering factory steeped in the mists of time. It’s modernising now with the second generation of owners, and I can’t wait to hear about all the changes and challenges.
But, because I have just opened up about the cancer to Daz about, this will be hard—on me, and on him too.
You’d think that after three years since my diagnosis, I’d have told everyone by now. But that’s not the case. Some great friends are still blissfully unaware.
My mind was set early on: only tell who I have to, who really ought to know—people I trust to keep it to themselves for the protection of me and My Darling.
Maybe that’s not right, not fair—but I don’t care. That’s the way I felt at the time. And I still feel that way.
But because of the three strangers and Daz, I’ve forced myself into the unenviable position of opening up a bit more this week.
But it’s my journey (ugh—I still have trouble using that horrible word)… journey?
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Since that third chemo now a week ago, I’ve been so tired.
Not like the first chemo, with the nine-week wait before the second.
Nor the second, which felt like a breeze.
This third one has knocked me off my stride.
The little bit of weeding nearly killed me, and every afternoon since I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.
My bowel transits are slow, and I just feel like I’m convalescing without improvement.
I’m not too bothered—it’s only the first week—but I’m gagging to feel normal and get out and about.
I must improve next week and do something each day to spark a bit of life.
I’m really looking forward to meeting Daz—this is what I call fun stuff, even with the elephant in the room.
But if this week’s taught me anything, it’s that I’m not as well as I was, and I need to summon energy from somewhere to re-engage with the outside world.
“This journey is not for others - It’s for me.”
I’m tired of being tired.
I don’t want to waste time sleepwalking through this treatment.
I know I’m not suffering like many of my friends and fellow netizens.
I’m lucky—and well-ish.
I don’t control my mind; my mind controls me.
I’m the sum of my parts, not just a guy with cancer.
I struggle every day because I overthink everything.
I have too much time on my hands.
I wish I could get back to work.
All in good time, Mr U. All in good time.
But I feel like I need to use my time better—like some of you on the forum who are stronger than me and more confident to carry on regardless.
I want that. And next week, I will get right to it.
The mental side of living with a life-changing medical issue is a huge challenge. I try to help myself by blogging-to-be-better. It works—but not always.
I wish I were cleverer, more insightful to the forum members and friends who, like me, are here because of fate.
I do empathise and worry about you, even while I whine away about my own struggles and fears.
I sincerely hope I’m not becoming a bore.
———
I will be stronger soon.
I’m staying positive, while this Bus just trundles along.
The cricket is going okay, and the tough sudoku aren’t too tough.
The world turns—and I’m still here. Things are not so bad.
My Darling is sweetly sleeping beside me—and so should I.
Annyeong
(bye for now)
