To Make It Better

For most of my life, I was an extremely private person; very few people really "knew" me. I didn't believe it was particularly appropriate (or endearing) to talk about my deepest fears or concerns. I stringently avoided discussing my medical history. I wanted everyone to believe I was strong.

It's ironic then that I've also always been a person that others turn to in times of trouble. I appreciate being able to provide comfort, or at least be an attentive listener. But for me? Well, forget sweating, my motto was "never let them see you cry".

Yet somewhere along this journey, I've finally learned that it's OK to open up. It's OK to let others see your heart, your weaknesses, your doubts. I think in many ways our experiences bringing home Owen, particularly the events that caused the utter gutting of my soul one day and the restoration of it the next, brought me to a place where I could no longer not share. And then of course, blogging, and the wonderful response I've received from you all, has encouraged me further.

Still ... I've debated sharing what follows for almost three months now. You'll see why. I'm pretty darn certain that as soon as I hit "publish post", I will be convinced I never should have. I'll think that somehow you will think less of me, and I may be embarrassed to see you in person.

I'm going to post it anyway, because I am feeling so much more joyful now. I know I made a smart decision. And I'm hoping that if anyone reading this is struggling too, they are encouraged to make it better.


October of last year, Owen and I dancing in sea foam fringe on the wide, smooth beach in Hilton Head, one of my favorite places. We had spent the day in our poolside cabana with Bob, Nana and Pop-Pop; chatting and laughing and playing games. Now in the soft duskiness of late afternoon I held my baby boy tight and twirled around, dizzy with happiness. I was deeply grateful for my life.

And then like a piece of seaweed tangling around my foot, a sadness crept in that I no longer could honestly say most of my days were this happy, that this inner peace was with me always.

Is there anyone out there ...

Last weekend Owen was sick with a stomach bug. He was mostly fine in spirits save for a brief period Sunday morning; in any case he handled it much better than me. I paced, and Googled, and rushed to the grocery store to buy saltines, turkey, bananas and Gatorade. In the parking lot I heard the wail of an ambulance and my mind snapped back to the worst night of my life. Not until I pulled into our driveway did I let go of the fear that they had come for him again.

it's getting harder and harder to breathe.

Tuesday night and Bob is out of town again. I turn off the light to sleep, but my worst fear lurks ... that something will happen to me in the middle of the night and Owen will wake to find me unresponsive. I try to push the thought aside but it's too late now; I can't shake the images of Owen crying, calling out for me with growing panic. I can feel each thump of my heart. I don't sleep that night, and the next day brings random bouts of weeping.

Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breath.

I don't remember being a nervous or anxious kid. When I look back on my childhood it's with warm thoughts. In college it was a bit of a joke among my sorority sisters that I never got stressed out. I was always pretty certain that things would work out just fine, that I'd be okay, and that no harm would come to my loved ones.

In my mind, it started to change when I was diagnosed with cancer. It was a bit like being slapped out of my innocence. Of course in the end I was okay, but a shadow of fear was left behind; doubt smudged on my soul. Now I fight back worries about my health almost daily. It's exhausting. And my anxieties extend to my family, my friends, the world in general.

I detest whining, complaining, self-pity. I loathe that I fear I now fall into that camp. It makes me furious that I cannot control this - that I cannot "just relax" or stop "being ridiculous". I would like nothing better than to snap out of it. I want nothing more than to be able to appreciate my blessings without worrying that I will lose them.

But here's the truth ... the past few months have been a fierce battle against my anxieties. I've read self-help articles and books, taken St. John's Wort and homeopathic calming tablets. I've gone to the gym, spent more time outside, practiced yoga. I've prayed. Finally, on the "crying day", I take a deep breath and call my doctor. I simply say I need help.

Five minutes into our appointment, as I sit with tears running down my face and finally telling someone exactly how I feel, she diagnoses me with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. She tells me that the chemotherapy may have actually triggered the chemical imbalance that causes the affliction. She explains that carbs raise serotonin levels in the brain, which makes me realize why I've been craving cookies and cakes and pasta recently (and thus why I've gained ten pounds in the last two months).

My doctor recommends Lexapro; I don't like the idea of taking a daily medicine. She compares it to a diabetic needing to take insulin. Hearing her say that this is not my fault helps somewhat, yet I'm still furious that I do not have control of this. That I cannot make happen what I want to make happen by myself. I do not like being weak, defective, unworthy.

But I don't like being sad or panicked or distracted either. It's not fair to Owen, Cearra or Bob. Most of all, it's not fair to myself. I beat cancer, I'm going to beat this, I'm going to get my happiness - and my life - back.

I accept the prescription and a big hug from my doctor. She says we are going to get this fixed. That I'm going to be okay. I think I believe her.