As if I have many other kinds, lately. I hate saying that, I hate this “woe is me shit” that seems to have consumed my life lately. I’m at this stage now, if you can call it that, where it’s how I feel. Last week the therapist mentioned again that people generally don’t progress linearly through the stages of grief / trauma, and I feel like I’m all over the place.
Back towards the end of the first week of my chemotherapy, presumably due to taking Levaquin for that fever, Dr. F. started me on Prilosec OTC when I started having abdominal pain. That’s a 14-day pill regimen which according to the box you aren’t supposed to redo for 4 months without a doctor’s approval. Unfortunately after cycling off it last week my stomach started bothering me again this weekend and I ended up calling Dr. F., who told me to get back on it and follow up with my GI guy (who said the same thing and said disregard the box instructions and just stay on it).
So yay, another fucking pill I get to take forever. Took yesterday off to not have to deal with the stomach pain at work and to give myself a mental break.
On a not brighter note, while talking to my GI doctor I tried to schedule the colonoscopy the Mayo Clinic had ordered since I now have a month of chemotherapy under my belt (there was concern about doing too much too soon and drug interaction with results). Unfortunately I had one last November, and my doctor’s assistant felt that this needed to be handled delicately because there was a good chance my insurance would not pay for a second one within a year’s time. This even though something showed up on that CAT scan I had prior to hitting the Mayo Clinic.
Because really, I needed something else to be anxious over. I had hoped to just get this dealt with and have one less thing to worry about, but it sounds like that’s questionable now.
Last week the therapist also mentioned (can’t remember if I wrote about this) that I might want to consider going on anti-depressants. I have staunchly opposed those for my entire adult life on the basis that sometimes life is depressing and you grow emotionally by working through things. But this isn’t a partner cheating on me or a divorce or something else depressing to “work through.” I have cancer. It is certainly within the realm of high probability, unless they magically cure this before it chews me up or something beats it to the punch, that I’m going to die from this. As such I feel stuck in this groove on the record where it feels like the weight of having this is just dragging me down the fucking toilet. No matter how I frame it, no matter how I spin it, I keep coming back to “I have cancer.”
I hate that, I hate that I feel like I need to now chemically alter my brain just to cope with all of this. What the fuck happened to me, to my life? And why?
Amy went down to the Springs with Ariana for a night and to do a much needed and deserved spa day. While she was gone I worked on cleaning up the spare bedroom upstairs, which has become a repository for all of Ariana’s old clothing and stuff that we need to either donate, put on consignment or garage sale away. That’s the only good thing about my chemotherapy, the steroids have me organizing the house on a daily basis. Anyhow I’m laying out stacks of my daughter’s clothing and I just fucking broke down, totally. I feel like I squandered her first year of life adjusting to being a parent instead of being a better one, feel like I could have done and been so much more for her — and now I’m facing the very real possibility that I won’t get to make that time up. I realized, looking through all of those tiny dresses and infant hats, exactly how much I’d give to have a chance to do that over — but I won’t get that.
I know I’m being hard on myself and that I’ve done the best I can do. I know I work harder every day to be her hero and to be a better father. I just can’t get out of this mental place right now — it’s just all bad, everywhere I look.