I’ve got a new list for you.
I’m sure you’ve heard of the Seven Stages of Grief; shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, reconstruction (working through things), acceptance, and ultimately, hope. Sorry for the spoiler, but this list is not that. You’ll see.
In case you need context: it’s been a year of cancer diagnosis and chemo and surgeries and Bell’s palsy and recurrence scares and neuro scans.
But that’s mostly in the rear view mirror- I’m in remission- and so I pop back up, because it’s what we do! We power through! We soldier on! (Note: I once said a version of this to my kids and husband- as in, “we’re Hitchcocks, we don’t stop trying until we succeed!”- and after a moment of kind but confused stares, my youngest said, “mom, i think that’s the Farrell side.” To which Matt corroborated, “yeah, Hitchcocks are cool with ‘good enough.’”)
Regardless, part of my self-commitment to stay on top of remission (besides lifestyle changes and ongoing meds) includes doing additional quarterly bloodwork. In doing so, I discovered an entirely new issue- unrelated to cancer or Bell’s palsy. Despite [what the summary report called] my “otherwise excellent metabolic health,” I fall into the severe risk category for heart disease based upon a genetic marker (Lipoprotein A). There are nuances here and ways I can mitigate this, and I know I’m lucky in so many ways. And nothing has happened … but my point is not that- it’s the near-grief one goes through at a time like this, when you’re hit with continued big, bad news.
So here are my Seven Stages of Not-Quite-Grief (perhaps yours are similar? Different?)
1.Overwhelm & Brain Box
“Are you #%+#! kidding me? This is ridiculous.” I literally just got through a year from hell. (I would have categorized myself as “very healthy” before cancer and “super freaking healthy” now so it feels unbelievable that I may have to change more aspects of my life). I start googling things but I just don’t have brain space to think about it- so I put it in a box in my brain and tell myself I’ll deal with it later.
2. Sadness
Booo! I’m rarely a sad person, but yesterday I cried. I want to be externally focused in the world again. I’m tired of thinking of my health. But here it is again.
3. Injustice
The hits just keep on coming, I told myself. (I am now a petulant toddler. An articulate one, though.)
4. Cynicism
I told my sister that I should probably stop saying I was “dying with laughter.” And I told my friend that she should find herself a back-up bestie. Dark, I know. But I’m keeping it real, people. That’s where I went. I kept thinking about my maternal grandfather who had a heart attack at 55. Luckily my people know me and can handle all of me, even the cynical parts.
5. Sarcasm
I think this is where I landed yesterday evening. Still making jokes but slightly less awfully dark. My sister reminded me that the “severe risk” category is from a population health perspective, and that my healthy cholesterol and fitness levels make me less likely to experience a problem. And that population health doesn’t translate to individual health; something I learned already during chemo. Seems like I needed a reminder.
6. Benign Humor
I can feel myself entering this zone. This is where I embrace reality but keep it light. This is the place where I can talk to others outside my inner circle. (I think that’s why I’m writing this, actually). I can make fun of myself and call out the ridiculousness. Like- I thought I was done with this, but apparently I still need to be at the center of all food conversations in my family. Such a drama queen.
7. Action & Gratitude
I’m not solidly here yet. (In fact, over thanksgiving I was feeling frustrated about not feeling grateful.) But I’m close- I can feel myself thinking about my options. My questions. My alternatives.
And I am entertaining this idea: what if everything I went through this past year brought me here? I never would have taken this additional bloodwork panel if I weren’t trying to stay on top of my remission. So maybe this all had to happen for me to find the thing I never would have seen coming… maybe. I do believe things happen for a reason.
So I’ll be solidly in this zone, likely by tomorrow morning at 5:15 am. In front of the fireplace, snuggled up with my health journal. I plan to make my lists- what do I know? What don’t I know? What do I think are the levers I can pull? What am I thinking is out of my control, and is it? Who do I need to talk to? And more.
Ultimately, I know I’ll figure this out. I always do. After all, I’m a Farrell. And it’ll be good enough, because I’m a Hitchcock, too.
Packing in the zone 2 cardio at the Independent Health Family YMCA in Buffalo, NY.