Dealing with delayed grief
I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon recently, and it felt like I was approaching this huge milestone in ‘the year that was’. It had been about 8 months since my surgeries, and I turned up, having nearly finished my cancer treatment regime, feeling on the verge of heroic. But sitting in the waiting room, I was confronted by six women, one after the other, standing at the counter booking in their pre-admission clinics and surgeries. I was like seeing myself six times over, walking in and out of a revolving door. Each of them wearing their own stage of shock on their faces; their bodies covered in the C-bomb [cancer] residue.
It was like I was experiencing it all fully for the first time again, on repeat. That day when I was standing at that same counter mechanically going through the motions of writing down my own pre-admission times and tests and follow up appointments. I don’t remember crying that day, although I’m sure I did. Many times. But I cried instead when I got to my car after leaving the doctor’s clinic. I grieved for each of those women, and I extended my heart to each of their families standing by their side, witnessing their loved one’s life forever changing before their eyes.
It’s the start of a long meandering grieving process, regardless of the diagnosis and prognosis. And by the end, it will become an acknowledgement that there are certain things that will never, and should never, be the same.
Like the way we overly complicate what happiness means.
Like the way we love, without the protections of our armour, that allows us to suffocate in the embrace of hope and joy.
Like the way we take for granted the smell of frangipani flowers. Or fresh coffee. Or babies. Or an open fire. Or rain.
Like the way we grant permission to change our choices, decisions, purpose, perspectives, that honours our self and others.
It sometimes feels like I’m carrying a new burden of hope and possibilities – that I’ve been gifted a second chance in Life’s Lottery. When I think about the beautiful souls of people that I’ve met this year that are instead planning their funerals rather than a New York holiday, I stop to catch my breath. It’s a funny expression, ‘catching one’s breath’, but it’s the most obvious reason to exercise gratitude. It’s almost like a perverse survivor’s guilt syndrome because I’m taking on a renewed responsibility to live my best life, and in doing so, am living for those that will never get the privilege.
My ultimate promise to myself and others is now to embrace change and uncertainty; to embrace the courage to be imperfect and vulnerable; and to embrace a new me.
