Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series
August 6th, 2019
I was told last week about someone (to whom I have no direct tie) who has recently received a diagnosis of lung cancer. Those last two words usually make my heart drop, but she was told that her cancer appears to be localized—that it doesn’t seem to have spread. What good luck wrapped up in her misfortune! She was put on a protocol of chemotherapy that requires only that she take a pill a day, at home, for the rest of her life.
To me, this is the stuff that science-fiction is made of. My understanding is that she was told that her treatment should be sufficient to allow her to live for a long time. This seems like magic. May her medical team be correct!
But then the person telling me this story said that she was having a terrible time. That the daily pill was making her sick, causing nausea and diarrhea. That she was depressed. Scared. Not managing. That she had said to one of her two children: This is the new normal, and I don’t know if I can bear it (or something very close to that).
The trusted person sharing this news with me wanted to know if I had any ideas about how to help her, because, though she lives here, in Montreal, her two grown daughters live out of province—one, thousands of miles away—and this mother of two is also divorced. She is alone a lot of the time, when she’s not at work.
The new normal. Three words that say so much. Three words that every human being who has received any kind of devastating news about their health (or, I would argue, about the health of a precious loved one) learns are both literally true and dismally euphemistic.
What this woman is trying to describe IS different than great upheavals such as being forced to move away from a place one considers home; or traumatic events such as a car accident, or the loss of a job…All of which can require tremendous adjustments and adaptation and cause immeasurable stress. But all of which leave their victims with a sense of still undefined horizons.
But this woman, this cancer patient, is referring to the feeling of having her existence hijacked overnight and waking up to a life in which she must face death every day. She’s lost sight of the horizon. Her goal is stark: to survive. The means to achieve it: to swallow every 24 hours a modern poison so strong, even death shuns it…at least for a while.
1 pill/day = life. This is the equation. These are the terms of survival.
If this is the new normal, then I don’t know if I can bear it.
Of course, at first, upon hearing about her, as far as I was concerned, she’d won the cancer lottery: one pill a day, minimal hospital visits. But the truth is, every time she takes that pill, she thinks of cancer and of death. And, it seems, every time she takes a pill, it makes her feel sick. I imagine, too, that it makes her feel vulnerable, and frightened, and alienated from her own body. And that her sense of the future has begun melting away, leaving in front of her a sparse, barren-looking landscape.
In this way, she reminds me of another cancer patient, a beautiful New Zealander who has lived most of her adult life in Sweden, and who began writing to me when she stumbled upon THIS IS THE MOMENT online. She reached out to me—she chose to make contact. And all I think she really wanted from this, at first, was to hold a virtual hand. To feel less alone but also, to feel kinship. She was so brave to do this. She wrote (and her words have stayed with me—they’re part of me now): “I still don’t know how not to be afraid”. I believe that I loved her from that moment.
I want to tell the woman struggling with the abnormality of her new normal that one branch of medicine that oncology has made huge progress in is the management of side effects, and that there’s no reason for her to be feeling so sick all the time—and that she needs to insist upon finding a specialist who can help her manage these debilitating symptoms of poisoning (and not to discount the therapeutic effects of medical marijuana).
I was told that she is someone who has always taken care of everyone around her. I want to tell her that her new normal will have to include arrows of caring and helping that come from the outside and work their way towards her. That she has to love herself better.
And then, I want her to find a way to plant a garden. It can be filled with plants, flowers and trees. It can be filled with friends, neighbours and family members. It can be filled with acquaintances newly made through activities in her community. It can be vital energy that grows in her workplace and helps her to feel useful and…”normal”. But she needs to grow her life till the daily pill is an afterthought.
It isn’t time to dig a hole and shrink within it.
I’m fortunate. I have people to drag me out of that hole—one that even writing can open up around me. They bring me to my grandchildren, friends, family and they bring the latter to me—and I try to remind myself, afterwards, of the tingling feeling of human connection and love that I surfed on for hours and days afterwards—and remember, too, not to give in to reflex behaviours.