What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Hi, hello. How are you, friends?

Things are adequately satisfactory in the Coleman household. We’ve made it through another Buffalo winter (almost, right?!?)

Ingrid is sporting a new ‘do with self-styled bangs (yes, I finally hid all of the scissors), and I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of ordering cheap trinkets from Wish.com (coping at its finest).

As far as my health, I'm feeling mostly good, physically. Also:

• Had a clear MRI in December.
• I see my oncologist every other month.
• Get a monthly Zoladex injection. In. ma. belly! 
• Doing the Tamoxifen thang. 

It’s taken some tweaking, but I think I’ve finally arrived at a healthy combination of meds, counseling, and a go-with-the-flow attitude that has led me to where I am now: mostly peaceful/groovy/happy, with periodic smackdowns with grief (who is a muscly and mean jerk, and I am neither of those things, so you can guess who usually wins).

So, 10 Months Out. What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Grief looks like going days at a time without so much as a single tear. And then one day: all the tears.

Grief looks like guilt. Guilt for accepting a boy’s number at a bar. Guilt for not being sad all the time. Guilt for cooking all the foods Paul hated and watching all the girly shows he couldn’t stomach, and being super happy about it.

Grief looks like spending Valentine’s Day eating questionable amounts of cheese while weepily watching Little Women (Why Beth, why???)

Grief looks like family fun days at Bounce Magic or the Science Museum. It looks like everyday family stuff: forgetting to pay bills, complaining about winter, discovering new nail polish “art” on the wall.

Grief looks like exhaustion. Mixed with joy. Mixed with hope. Tastefully seasoned with a spoonful of "frig the world, I do what I want." 

Grief looks like inventing new family holiday traditions. Inventing a whole new life, actually. One that makes sense for Ingrid and me.

Grief looks like a lot of coffee. And a fair amount of gin.

When I'm not trying to wrestle grief to the ground, I find pleasure in watching Ingrid write her name in squiggly handwriting or answering her profound life questions (“Mom, when they bury you, do you get dirt up your nostrils?”)

She talks about death possibly more than most 4-year-olds. Good or bad thing? I don’t know.

I watch her grow and my heart is exploding and sometimes I feel so badly that Paul didn’t get to see this. He was taken too soon, and sometimes this makes my grief look like anger. Or more like...this overwhelming heartache, a sort of sickly-sour-guilty-feeling that I’m here, watching the sun set over the ocean, and he isn’t.

And, no. I don’t live by the ocean. Ingrid, my sister, and I took a trip to Florida in February, and it was DA BOMB.

Love, Liz

A Cancerversary Post, Because.

“Without the dark there isn’t light. Without the pain there is no relief. And I remind myself that I’m lucky to be able to feel such great sorrow, and also such great happiness. I can grab on to each moment of joy and live in those moments because I have seen the bright contrast from dark to light and back again. I am privileged to be able to recognize that the sound of laughter is a blessing and a song, and to realize that the bright hours spent with my family and friends are extraordinary treasures to be saved, because those same moments are a medicine, a balm. Those moments are a promise that life is worth fighting for, and that promise is what pulls me through when depression distorts reality and tries to convince me otherwise.”  

- Jenny Lawson: author, blogger, mental illness advocate, lovable oddball

***

A year ago today I got probably the least fun phone call ever from my Ob/Gyn.

I knew what was coming, and I thought I was prepared to hear it. But like who’s ok with hearing they have cancer? 

As a rule, I don’t get too caught up in dates or anniversaries (“cancerversary,” some would call it). But when I think about how much my life has changed in the last 365 days, I’m still stunned. I still can’t believe I have (had? Is past tense allowed yet?) CANCER. It doesn’t compute. It can't be real. Until I look down at my chest and I’m like “Oh, right. THAT happened.”

Getting diagnosed with cancer was lousy.

The two weeks following my diagnosis were lousy X A BILLION.

Because everything in my world was a big fat question mark. “What stage am I?” “Did it spread?” “Am I going to go bankrupt?” “What if my skull has a weird shape?”

I remember asking my brand-new surgical oncologist if he could give me something to calm my nerves. “My brain won’t turn off. I sleep for 1 hour at night. GIVE ME DRUGS PLEASE I NEED THEM OR MY BRAIN AND HEART WILL EXPLODE FROM ALL OF THESE WORST-CASE SCENARIOS PLAYING OUT IN MY HEAD.”

The last year has looked something like this: 

• 16 rounds of chemo. 
• 1 ER visit, following a freak reaction to my meds (in hindsight, an almost funny story) 
• 2 mastectomy operations (because one is never enough) 
• 2 implants in. 1 implant out. 
• Physical therapy 
• 36 rounds of radiation 
• Daily tamoxifen pills 
• Monthly Zoladex injections. IN MY BELLY.
• Scars, burns, weight loss, hair loss, fatigue, nausea, anxiety, consolatory hot fudge sundaes. (lots of those)

And that was just me. Add Paul’s stuff to the list and you’ve got a full-blown dissertation on your hands.

People tell me things like I’m a tough little cookie all the time. A lot of cancer patients have issues with compliments like this, and I totally get it. Because anyone in their situation would do the same thing, and are we really that brave for just doing what it takes to stay alive?

Buuuut also: 2017 was a total stinker. And maybe I don’t give myself enough credit for kind of keeping it together and sort of carrying on in less-than-favorable circumstances. Maybe I AM strong, and whatever—I like when people tell me I am. SO SUE ME.

And anyway, if we’re handing out Tough Cookie Awards, Paul is so clearly top contender.

I know in my last post I said he wasn’t optimistic about future treatments. But now he’s considering giving chemo another shot. This time, at a lower and less frequent dose.

In the meantime, we’re enjoying the heck out of life and each other.

Like last week we took Ingrid to Disney on Ice. We voluntarily spent two hours dodging rogue glow sticks and listening to toddlers howl. Because that’s what families do. 

It was the best.

Love and Happiness,Liz

5 Problems With Pinktober—and What We Can Do About It

If the massive Pink Ribbon flags hanging from the street lamps up and down Main Street didn’t clue you in: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

I'll be honest. Towards the end of September, I began to dread the arrival of “Pinktober.” And this is why—I find everything about it incredibly polarizing. There are your tutu-clad marathon fanatics who welcome the onslaught of everything pink with eager enthusiasm. And then there’s the vexed anti-pinkers who find the current theme of Breast Cancer Awareness Month to be both alienating and misdirected.

So where do I stand in this Sea Of Pink? Where do I fit into this equation as a young breast cancer patient still undergoing treatment? And what more can I possibly offer to the dialogue already being had on other (much more lucid and far-reaching) cancer-related blogs?

First, I’d rather not piss and moan about things. Negativity like kills my vibes. But still. I think this frenzied pink rigmarole is worth addressing.

Last month, I wrote about Mesothelioma Awareness Day and the very real and very present danger of asbestos. Spreading awareness about Meso made sense to me. Because people are not aware.

But breast cancer? By all means, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems that most people are already aware of breast cancer’s existence and general lousiness. At least, the people who seem to be the target of this rah-rah-go-pink! cacophony are already aware. 

And yet, every October the Pink Ribbon Campaign continues to clamor its message of “awareness” from the rooftops of the world. Also, on yogurt lids and bubblegum machines.

Why do I (and plenty of other cancer advocates) have a problem with this? Pull up a chair.

1. The Sexualization of Breast Cancer Awareness Month

One of the biggest beefs I have with Breast Cancer Awareness Month is its use of overtly sexualized slogans that are slapped onto every thinkable surface: bumper stickers, flyers, posters, social media posts. The Keep A Breast Foundation, for instance, hawks merch with the tagline "I Love Boobies." Seriously. 

There’s also: “Save the Ta Tas,” “Save the Hooters” “Save Second Base,” “Cop a Feel” “I Stare Because I Care”  etc. etc. etc. Some ads feature young, bare-chested models in provocative poses with the call to action “Save a Life, Grope Your Wife.” 

I get it—adopting a playful, lighthearted tone isn't a bad marketing strategy. When you're selling, oh I dunno, designer bakeware or slippers. But distributing lewd t-shirts to spread "awareness" about a disease that KILLS people and destroys lives? Barf.

Sheesh—lighten up, Liz. They're just words. Funny words! At least they’re raising awareness and some righteous dollar bills.

Eep. I mean: there's gotta be a better way to fund cancer research than reducing women to a pair of knockers.

First, these campaigns suggest that the real problem with breast cancer is the current rate of breast casualties. Not, um, all the deaths it causes. Which: guys?!  We need to focus on saving lives. Not just boobies. A fact that my surgeons made quite clear from the beginning—they were, above all else, in the business of removing cancer. They wanted to save my life, not just my breasts (though, they'd swing for both.)

Also, as a 31-year-old woman who had to relinquish both of her breasts to survive, I find these crude slogans to be a real slap in the face. A cruel reminder that my body is more than a little bit wonky. That is a hard enough concept to confront, without all the help from tweets about going braless to support breast cancer research. The last thing I want to see flooding my social network feeds are cutesy selfies featuring healthy, perky, non-cancerous breasts. Not helping.

2. The Commodification of Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Cause-related marketing can be a swell PR move for companies looking to schmooze the public while generating revenue. In theory, it sounds like a slam-dunk: Company X gives your cause visibility, Company X makes money, everybody’s happy. It’s a win-win.

But what if Company X is manufacturing products with known carcinogens? (KFC’s “Buckets for the Cure” campaign comes to mind.)  And how much of their profits will actually go to useful breast cancer charities? (as in charities that fund research and/or use funds to directly help people with breast cancer pay for things like transportation or treatment or groceries.) Will Company X cap donations at a certain dollar amount without alerting consumers to this fact and pocketing all subsequent profits once this limit has been met? 

This is where things get sleazy.

I won’t belabor the issue, but just be cognizant of the bookoo bucks corporations are raking in all in the name of “raising awareness.”

Think Before You Pink is a useful project developed by the group Breast Cancer Action. They’ve laid out  4 questions you can ask yourself before making a pink-related purchase. I’ve found the information on their sites enlightening, so maybe take a gander. 

3. What About the Menz?

Before one of my last chemo infusions, a nurse distractedly took my vitals, fumbling with my mediport. The lines on her forehead suggested worry, and she looked visibly ill when her phone rang in her pocket.

“It’s about my son,” she said. “He just had a biopsy this week. They highly suspect he has breast cancer. He’s 24.”

That’s right. A 24-year-old MALE with breast cancer. 

News flash—men get breast cancer, too. So why all the pink?? I can’t know exactly what it would feel like, emotionally, to be diagnosed with breast cancer as a man. But I’m inclined to think all this pinkwashing adds insult to injury. Breast cancer is presented as a woman’s disease (it isn’t) so all this pink shite everywhere has to be mortifying for some men with breast cancer. It's gotta be.

There’s also the terribly misguided mantra that rallies breast cancer patients to “Fight Like a Girl!” Oh. No. Stuff like that truly embarrasses me. Stuff like that needs to STOP.

Breast cancer isn’t a cutesy girls’ slumber party where we play Dream Phone and paint each other's toenails pink. 

It’s a crap disease that takes lives—men and women both.

4. What About the Metastatic Peeps?

Breast Cancer Awareness tends to put the spotlight on cheerful survivor stories, largely failing to discuss metastatic breast cancer (breast cancer that has spread to other parts of the body).

While everyone is busy painting the town pink for the whole month of October, metastatic breast cancer patients are officially recognized on ONE measly day. October 13th. A day that is (horrifyingly) shared with No Bra Day (grossssss). This is not enough. 

These “metsers” often feel marginalized during Pinktober because their stories don’t fit alongside the stereotypical rosey fairytales of “conquering cancer.” Breast Cancer Awareness Month also posits the false idea that this disease is completely preventable and curable, which only further stigmatizes those with stage IV breast cancer. Like it’s their own fault for not catching things sooner. 

And all of that money being raised for breast cancer research during the month of October? A paltry 2-5% of it will be allocated for the study of metastatic disease. Again, this is not enough.

5. Fueling Misconceptions and Perpetuating Stigmas

My final contention with Pinktober is the number of misconceptions about breast cancer it continues to feed the public. The crux of the Breast Cancer Awareness movement lies in its push for “prevention” and “early detection.” Which is great. Who doesn’t want to prevent cancer? 

However, their battle cry that “early detection saves lives!” is misleading at best. Pink Ribbon madness has perpetuated the narrative that if you identify breast cancer early enough, you are guaranteed survival. But studies show that this is not the case. Some tumors are going to return, and many will be fatal regardless of how early they were detected. 

The Pink Ribbon Movement generally fails to show the reality of breast cancer. By denying a voice to the metastatic population, and drowning our sensibilities with sunshiney platitudes, most awareness campaigns are missing the mark completely.

They also tend to promote the phony idea that optimism and positivity are all you need to “beat” cancer. Smiling will not cure my cancer. Do I really need to keep spelling that out? 

I hate to admit it, but prior to my own diagnosis, I was equally swept up in the saccharine, cotton candy image of breast cancer. I, too, considered it an easily treated, curable disease.

I remember sitting next to my husband at an October NFL game a few years ago, the field swathed in pink. 

“What is their deal? How much attention do they need for crying out loud?! At least they have a treatable cancer.”

These snarky asides were likely the products of two major forces clouding my perception: (1) The largely dressed-up, pink-ified version of breast cancer I had been spoon-fed for years, and (2) the fact that my husband had been duking it out with a relentless and incurable cancer for years. Where were HIS blue mesothelioma cheerleaders?? The whole thing put a bad taste in my mouth. 

That is a problem. When your cry for awareness ends up distracting people from the reality of what you’re trying to achieve—which, let’s remind ourselves, is fewer deaths—then yeah, I’d say we’ve got a problem on our hands.

The numbers don’t lie—we have very little to show for the decades of Pink Ribbon madness. Breast cancer will continue to claim the lives of over 40,000 people this year. What started as a noble (and necessary!) idea has morphed into a strange, commodified, mutant strain of nonsense.

What Can I Do About It?

So, Breast Cancer Awareness Month isn't perfect. So what? What does that have to do with me? What can I do about it?

For one thing, you can shop mindfully. Remember: Think Before You Pink! Or better yet, donate directly to a reputable breast cancer charity that is meaningful to you. (Here's a couple of options from Popular Science.)

You can also use social media to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. Please don’t promote sexually-charged posts that masquerade as advocating for breast cancer awareness. Try to consider how these phrases and images can actually do more harm than good. If you want to support a friend who is fighting breast cancer, educate yourself and share useful, factual information about the disease.

I'll admit, I was apprehensive about addressing some of the flaws I see with Pinktober because I don’t want to alienate people who actually find support in the Pink Ribbon’s message. I don’t want to sound bitter or cynical or angry. I’m a total Hufflepuff if you must know. You won't find me running through the aisles of Walmart in a frothy rage, knocking over displays of pink-bejeweled teddy bears. I’m massively grateful for what are mostly people's good intentions. Pink ribbons and all.

To witness a positive shift in the currently watered-down goals of Pinktober, I think we need to refocus the message. To showcase the reality of breast cancer, instead of trivializing it. To provide science-backed info on prevention and risk.

All of which I will continue to do. And I’ll do it with my non-pink mastectomy bra on, thankyouverymuch.

How do YOU feel about "Pinktober"?

Are you a fan of the Pink Ribbon Campaign? Do you find comfort and support in its positivity?

Or are you weary of the pinkwashing and everything it entails?

Appearance ≠ Health (so be nice to humans!)

sidenote: I originally wrote this piece a couple of months back, while recovering from my first mastectomy. Then I got crummy news about my cancer, and this post seemed totally irrelevant so I never published it. I've been saving it for the right time. Which is now because the writer-y part of my brain is kaput, and I am overwhelmingly TIRED. 

"Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about."

Yes, I did just open this post with an authorless quote that sounds like it was swiped from the Pinterest board of a delusionally optimistic sorority girl.

And yet. Read it again. Because it's actually kind of important.

When people see me in a bandana trying to wrangle a Hershey bar out of my toddler's death grip, they already know my battle. It's visibly obvious I've been through chemo. Either that or my fashion sense is tragically rubbish. But most people (I hope) assume the former.

This does have its benefits. Strangers are ever so nice to you when they can see you have cancer.

Case in point: the girl who shooed away my dollar bills while serving me gelato.

Also, the couple who let me and my sister temporarily take their front-place spot at The Shins concert. 

Also, the lady who immediately ran to my aid after I dropped a carton of eggs in the checkout line at Wegmans. 

Also, that other lady who ran to my aid after I dropped a glass terrarium at Michael's a week later (Yes, this is my life. These things happen to me.)

I'd like to say people choose kindness regardless of the recipient's headwear. The truth is, though, I noticed a significant increase in kind actions on my behalf after I started chemo.

Which I so appreciate. It reminds me of how accommodating people were when I was very obviously pregnant. Perfect strangers treat you like royalty when you're visibly expecting—pulling out chairs and helping you bag groceries at Aldi. (how's that for nice?!)

This is all good and lovely, people helping chemo patients and chubby pregnant ladies. But what about the women who are in their first trimester of pregnancy? You'd never know it by looking at them, but they're the ones with their heads in the toilet while the rest of us 3rd trimesters stuff our faces with pizza pockets. It seems so unfair.

Which brings me to Paul. To the unsuspecting stranger, he appears perfectly "normal" (if you ignore the beige support stockings and typically unmatching getup.) He doesn't look sick. He doesn't look like he has terminal cancer. Outwardly, he appears fine, so people treat him as such.

"As such" means: impatiently. Rude, even. This makes my head & heart hurt. I may sound like a defensive mother whose child is being bullied on the playground, but when people get ruffled because my husband is not walking quickly enough for them in the airport terminal, well, I just want to punch their throats.

He may look like your average spry 32-year-old, but he can barely make it up a flight of stairs without getting winded.

He may look totally healthy, but sometimes he coughs so hard he throws up.

Cancer isn't the only "invisible disability", of course. There's also MS, Epilepsy, Cystic Fibrosis, depression, people with chronic pain, and on and on and on.

The takeaway here is simple: Be kind, be kind, be kind. It's so easy, and it goes such a long way. 

Love, 

Liz

Some Good News, Huzzah!

This space could use a jolt of happy, wouldn’t you agree?

I had my first post-op appointment with my surgical oncologist yesterday. Remind me to never schedule things in the afternoon. Waiting around turns me into a strung-out lunatic. By the time we were ready to leave, my stress level had surpassed its breaking point—Paul drove. I cried.

Perched on the examining room chair, I fidget with the ties of my pink cover-up. My doctor pokes his head in the door, smiling. Smiling is a good sign. I like smiling.

We talk about how I’m feeling. He takes a look at my incision. He decides it’s time to remove the sutures.

“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to run and grab a suture removal kit, ok?”

Ok. But um, like—do I still have cancer?

As he’s pulling out my stitches: “So the pathology, it all came back negative. The margins are clear.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And you didn't open with that because...?!

But who cares! I am blissed out of my damn mind.

To clarify: when you have a mastectomy, a rim of normal tissue surrounding the tumor is also removed, which is called a "margin." My first mastectomy in July resulted in "dirty" or "positive" margins, which is why I required a second operation.

It turns out there is still one area where the margin is "close," meaning cancer cells were not far from the edge of the removed tissue. This isn't ideal, but my medical team is confident that adjuvant radiation therapy and 10 years of Tamoxifen will be more than enough to make sure this cancer knows it's not welcome and it needs to find another couch to crash on.

I practically skipped down the steps to the parking lot. I was giddy. Like a 50-pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

And then we got into the car and headed to our second appointment of the day: Roswell Park's Assessment and Treatment Center.

It's not an untypical day—ping-ponging from a moment of dizzying rapture back to the unhappy reality of Paul’s worsening symptoms: feverish temps, stomach pain, vomiting.

It was the usual succession of tests—bloodwork, a urine sample, x-rays. Most of our time is spent waiting.

I crawl into the small space Paul had made for me in his hospital bed, avoiding the tubing that was pumping sodium chloride into his depleted body. We watched Chopped on the Food Network, and I pressed my face against his bony shoulder. Everything—the flit of nurses in-and-out, the boring cable TV, the rough hospital linens—it’s all so familiar. How many days have we spent like this?

Nothing particularly stood out with any of Paul's test results, so they sent us home with a short-term antibiotic (just in case) and instructions to call in the morning to schedule another blood transfusion.

Which is how we will be spending our day tomorrow.

Highs and lows, man. Highs and lows.

We Need To Be OK with Not Being OK

Ten ordinary tasks that are flat-out impossible after a mastectomy:

1. getting out of bed 
2. getting into bed
3. getting comfortable enough to sleep in said bed 
4. opening the refrigerator 
5. opening pill bottles 
6. opening anything 
7. staying awake for more than a few hours at a time 
8. putting on t-shirts 
9. sitting on the same couch as a squirmy 3-year-old 
10. updating your blog, apparently

Things went fine on Monday. As fine as these things can go. Zero complications, other than feeling a bit barfy. No skin grafts were necessary for the wound closure. Thrilling news! So pleased.

By Tuesday afternoon, I was home—and I’ve been sleeping ever since. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ingrid equates adulthood with perpetual naps and constant doctors' appointments. Because that is what the adults in her life do: sleep and go to the doctor. She may never want to grow up.

How does this surgery compare to the one I had in July?

Pain level is about the same. Very controllable with meds. This time around, though, it’s like my body is confused about where exactly surgery took place. I have zero pain at my incision site. For the most part, the right half of my torso is entirely numb—scar tissue and all that.

You know where I hurt? My bum. Swear to God. The pain starts at my lower back and radiates down to my derrière and upper thighs. My surgeon anticipated lower back pain because of all the skin-stretching going on, so I’m not concerned. Just sore.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I'm...What Were We Talking About?”

How am I doing emotionally? Eh. The first few days after surgery, your brain can only process things on the most basic survivalist level. You just want to rest, to stop hurting, to be able to stomach a bowl of oatmeal, to heal.

Days pass, and you start to feel better physically. Your brain acquires enough fuel to move beyond “let’s just stay alive today.” This is where the emotional distress creeps in, ever so stealthily. Or maybe it kicks in the door full force, robs you blind, and leaves you for dead.

I’d say, on an emotional level, I'm coping less than perfectly. I mean, I’m not locking myself in the bathroom to cry all day or anything. Most of the time, I’m somewhat getting through my day. When I wake up, I brush my teeth and give my kid cereal. 

But there’s a new heaviness with this second surgery. Partly because I’m anxious about the pathology results. Partly because I’m unhappy with the way I look. Partly because I feel guilty about being unhappy with the way I look. (Emotions are ALL over the map. Tamoxifen isn’t doing me any favors, either.)

In our house, there’s this chorus that plays on loop: “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“I’m tired, but I’m fine.”
“It’s painful, but I’ll live.”
“I’m repulsed by my own skin, but haha, can’t complain!”

I will live. And there’s plenty more reason for me to be happy with my life than to complain about it. BUT...am I really fine? Is that seriously the best adjective I can come up with to describe my current emotional state? Am I really 100% OK with having my chest butchered like a slab of meat? No. I would say, um, I'm very not.

Yesterday was the first time I really looked at my body without clothing. Like really looked at it.

I grossed me out.

I have an 8-inch incision that runs diagonally from my right armpit to just past the middle of my chest. It meets with a curvy 5-inch vertical cut running down the right side of my torso.

The scars are unpretty, but I can live with them. What bothers me, really, is my lopsidedness—there’s still an (ugly) implant where my left breast used to be. I’m all for nixing both implants to achieve some balance, but my doctor didn’t want to add more surgery to what was already a major operation. He preferred to minimize even the smallest risk of complication or infection, and rightly so.

I will be okay. When I am. Until that time, I’m going to be a little bit sad about my uni-boob. I’m going to be mildly (and temporarily) unhinged while I’m waiting for test results.

You don’t need to bury your ugly feelings beneath a layer of rainbows and unicorns

And anyway, I’m more than tired of these sparkly images of women jumping back in the saddle after breast surgery. I’m tired of the trite Pinterest memes about “cancer-thriving” and “feeling strong and beautiful in your skin” after a mastectomy. Hogwash. I feel the opposite of strong and beautiful in my skin. I’m self-conscious and uncomfortable with my asymmetry. 

It takes time—and counseling and drugs and mindfulness—to achieve that kind of peace. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Let’s also let ourselves be sad. And angry. And human. Why are we so quick to squash down signs of pain? Why are we obsessed with being okay with NOT okay things? Why do we try to put a positive spin on every last thing that happens to us?

Because we want our sad stories to come with happy endings. We like our challenges in life to come paired with a cute morality nugget. Pain is more digestible when it's wrapped in a tasteful bow. We like it to be tidy and meaningful. 

Plain old suffering is not the stuff of inspirational Instagram posts. It’s icky, and it makes us uncomfortable, and we just don’t like it!

Poking around an online cancer forum, I found a thread where a woman was struggling with her husband’s recent setback in treatment. She was seeking advice on how to remain optimistic in the face of unhopeful circumstances.

I prickled at one response that read something like: “You just push through it! That’s all you can do—never let him see your doubt. You have to stay optimistic for your husband, all the time.”

Nope. No and no! We all work through things differently, but this is just bad advice.

I’m not advocating indulgent sniveling marathons. I’m not suggesting this woman throw in the towel or that she views life through the murky lens of bitterness.

What I’m suggesting is that she ought to be HUMAN. She’s entitled to feel feelings. Even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones. It would likely benefit her husband to witness them on occasion.

It’s okay to not be okay

I’ve been both a caregiver and a cancer patient, so I feel like I have the authority to say: It was OKAY to see my husband struggle with my diagnosis. It was OKAY to see him cry on my behalf. It was OKAY for him to lose it for ten seconds when I took my bandages off this week.

I mean, it sucked to see him so distraught. It wasn’t pleasant (remind me—what part of cancer is?) But it made me feel loved in a very raw and personal and honest way.

Truthfully, it would have irked the shit out of me if his response to my distress during chemo was a plucky “You’ll get through it, honey—I believe in you!” It would have been uncool of him to smile with fake optimism while my doctor delivered more bad news.

It is perfectly reasonable and healthy to run the gamut of emotions here. Cancer will do that to you. Life will do that to you.

As the lovely writer Nora McInerny puts it:

“The cure for grief is not ‘be not sad’ and the cure for anger isn’t ‘be unangry!’ It’s feeling all of these things, even the uncomfortable ones, without judging yourself for them.”

Right on!

So feel your feelings. The gross, painful ones too. Stop apologizing for them. Work with them and through them.

That’s how we’ll arrive at being okay. Not by pretending things are brilliant when they aren't. Because, really, that just breeds confusion and shame among people struggling with their own ugly feelings. (ie: every single human)

Instead, let's be helpful by being honest. Let's give ourselves permission to be something other than "fine." Let's be okay when we're ready to be okay.