TuffQuestionsGal

Right, so: I am currently awaiting some test results to clarify whether I just had cancer, and it is a really weird feeling. I went to my doctor a long time ago. I had a mole and I kept accidentally scratching it, so I asked her to remove it. She looked at it and told me that it looked completely benign (which I expected) and sent me to a plastic surgeon to get it removed because she didn’t want to do the procedure herself. Anyway, I called the surgeons office. His secretary was really appalling over the phone (scolding me for not having my address in the system, because it was very inconvenient for her that it wasn’t there) and I actually dreaded going there in case the surgeon was just as bad. A few months later I go to the appointment. The surgeon seems nice. Our conversation went something like this:

Him: Something about a mole? Me: Yeah, small one. Him: So, what if I tell you that it looks fine? Me: Then I’d agree, it looks fine to me – I just keep scratching it, so I assume it’s in the way for me … Him: Alright, let me see it … I show him my mole and he goes: That small one … ? I go: Yeah … Him: You weren’t born with that Me: No Him: How long have you had it? Me: … I don’t know … I discovered it about a year ago because I scratched it … Him: I am pretty sure that it’s a type of skin cancer. Me: Ok? Him: It’s not dangerous, not really, and it NEVER spreads. Let’s just remove it. Me. Ok …

He removed my tiny apparently-not-a-mole and an extra chunk of skin (just in case) and sent it to be tested. So now I wait to find out whether I just had a cancer scare or actual (but in no way dangerous) cancer (which I guess also counts as a cancer scare). It feels like it should have been the other way around. I should have been worried about it and then been told it was harmless. I almost feel cheated of the time to prepare for such a message. I guess I now have one to three weeks to get used to the possibility of it actually having been cancer. But it really shouldn’t matter. If it was cancer, then I have already had proper treatment. And even if I have this type of cancer somewhere else, it can’t kill me. Statistically. I sort of like statistics.

I feel annoyed at myself for reacting to this. And ashamed. I have cried a lot today. I’m not scared of it being cancer, I think I was just startled a lot, and cancer is a scary word or name. It’s like Voldemort from before he was back. Anyway, I told my best friend and she just started crying, so now I will stop telling people about it. At least until I know for sure what it was or wasn’t. I’ve told four people in total. Luckily for me, my friends are mostly very rational people, so they don’t usually panic about things I tell them, and only one person reacted irrationally. It was very nice of her though but I really wish I hadn’t scared her like that about something so benignly malignant. I’m not sure where I am going with this. Nowhere I suppose. There is nowhere to go with it. If it was something, it was over before it began. Hopefully my cognition will soon trump my affect completely and let me get back to the relatively important paper I am writing to complete my bachelor’s degree. That would be nice …

I’m happier now than I have been in years. That is what I tell people. And it is probably true. I’m not depressed or particularly anxious. I’m not really worried about anything. I’m grieving the death of my cat and struggling with my upcoming exams but that is sort of it. I study and I volunteer. My relationship is going well, I have a nice home, and very good friends. Everything is alright with my family, I guess. My best friend moved away and I miss her but she is doing fine. My boyfriend is unemployed but we’ll figure that out. Things are fine. Really. And yet, I picked myself up from the living room floor after lying there crying for about 5 minutes. So what’s up with that? Not just with the whole crying-thing but the telling people that I am happy?

The thing is, that I mostly don’t feel unhappy. Maybe that’s what different. I haven’t had time to feel anything or respond to it for a long time. I have felt things of course, but I made a blog to have somewhere to put it that wasn’t my family or friends or strangers. I gave it a place I could close at the click of a button, and open again if needed. I can’t even remember when I last looked at it, because suddenly, my life was calm. And it still is. I have absolutely nothing to complain about. So am I bored? Am I annoyed? Am I just slowly recovering? Why do I suddenly cry and then suddenly stop. Hormones? Am I not eating enough? Or maybe not correctly, whatever that means. Or maybe the problem is that I have the time for it to become an issue. The crying. Because honestly, I don’t think I am depressed and I mostly don’t feel sad.

I feel like I am getting old though. Not in the osteoporosis sort of way but still. I don’t think I am actually getting old, not yet, but I think this is what it feels like. I am a bit tired. To be honest, I am very tired. My hair is turning grey but I don’t think it’s falling off any more. No more than hair usually does. My skin is … well, I guess I am thankful that it isn’t worse than it is ...

I recently felt I needed to apologise to an entire (small) company whose employees had serviced my mother when she was ill. I had been really, really rude to them, and I didn’t understand it. I remember the situation and what I did but I didn’t see the consequences of my actions. So I apologised seven months after I had rudely scolded a bunch of employees who did their very, very best. I realised then that maybe I had lost myself a bit while trying to save the world. I don’t know if it’s related to my crying. Maybe/maybe not. Maybe I have just realised that I am not a hero in any way. Maybe I mourn that my illusion about me being a good anything shattered many months ago. But at the same time, I feel more free than I did before. Maybe I also grew a little. Hopefully, I didn’t grow into a monster. My friends tell me that I am intimidating and I hate that. Not them telling me – I am thankful for their honesty – but I hate the thought of me intimidating others. I don’t want to be that person. But that raises the question: Who do I want to be? And do I even resemble someone or something I want to be?


These are the sort of thoughts that shouldn’t be clouding my mind when I try to write a paper, so here they are. On my screen, in my blog, in a place I can close at the click of button. So here goes ….

He did it! He accepted tube feeding! I am so relieved! And I think that he is relieved as well ...

He texted me earlier about the tube feeding, so we went to the hospital where he was admitted. He’s just going to be here for a couple of days. I’m happy about it.

I held his hand when he got the tube. It didn’t go great the first time and it ended up coming out through his mouth. I’m still chuckling. It’s not funny, I know. But it is. I’m one of those people and I’m not proud of it. It was so unpleasant for him and it looked ridiculous and I can’t handle that. Clearly.

I’m sitting by his bed, knitting and listening to music (The other patient in the room is snoring. A lot. My music can’t drown it out. I’m a metal head. I would be impressed if I didn’t hate the sound so much). My father is watching a movie on his smartphone. I look at him sometimes, and he looks at me and smiles a little. Not the polite smile or the “grin and bear it”-smile. He looks safe and glad to have company. He tries to hide his smiles sometimes. He does that. I don’t know why he does it but I think it’s sort of cute. These are the good times.

I’ve named the tube “the trunk”, and told him that it was about time he got a trunk to match his memory and thick skin. Luckily, he’s ok with me making a joke of things. He even joins in ... when he can. Not being able to speak makes it difficult for him. Last week I teased him by saying that now was the time for him to learn sign language – “No problem, dad. One day should be plenty of time for you to learn”. He made his signing skills very clear to me, while laughing a little. Well ... I say laughing. Squeaking would be more correct. Still quite funny.

I like these days, where things seem to work out.

A thing happened today. I almost lost my s***. With a parent. One of my parents and not some random parent.

One of my parents has cancer. Which sucks. Of course it does. We're hoping the treatments have helped but it's too early to tell.

He is losing a lot of weight. A lot. The doctors are worried. The nurses are worried. The dieticians are worries. I'm worried. He is worried. We're all worried. ... But he is not worried enough. He is not worried enough to accept tube feeding. The pain is preventing eating and drinking. But losing this amount of weight is apparently better than accepting tube feeding for a week. One week. ... And there is nothing anyone can do about it.

I'm not saying that he should be force fed. He is a grown man. It IS his choice. And I can respect that. Mostly. I do find it difficult sometimes, and this is one of those times. I get to see him wither away – not because of the cancer but because of the side effects of the treatments. Or, to be more precise, because of his pride and fear AND side effects. And I hate that. I don't want to look away to shield myself from his pain. That is my choice. It is, in a weird way, a privilege to be allowed to take part in this part of his life. He doesn't owe me to accept tube feeding. I don't want to be angry or impatient with him. It's not my place to scold him, and I don't have the right to decide anything on his behalf. I want to be present. I want to do all the things I already do, and not take my frustration out on him. To be fair – I'm not the one with cancer ... or the one in pain or fear.

Having two ill parents, I've gotten used to seing them scared and angry. I've seen them cry and shout, and I've been yelled at and blaimed and scolded, and hugged and thanked and kissed, and I am mostly fine with all of it. I have cared for them physically and psychologically and I still do ... but this is one of those times where I just have to accept that it is out of my hands. Where the only thing I can do is to find a way to accept it. I find it very difficult this time because this weightloss problem could be temporarily solved with tube feeding for a short period of time. Medically speaking, this is a small thing compared to chemo and radiation and surgery ect. But to him, it's the worst one. And I'm at a loss when it comes to understanding this. I would ask him, but aside from currently not being able to speak much, he isn't a man who can express such things. Or wants to. He has made it very clear that he doesn't want tube feeding no matter the consequences. He also doesn't want help with transportation which also sucks. He is sufficiently underfed for me to worry about wether it is safe (enough) to let him transport himself to and from the hospital. He could get hurt but he could also hurt someone else ... I don't even know who to ask about this ... But I think I know where to ask, and that counts, I guess.

I've asked him to consider when enough is enough when it comes to the weight loss. I don't think he has thought about it. I think that maybe his fear (and hate and disgust ect.) of the tube has blurred the lines of common sense for him (and maybe also for me). It would make sense. It also makes sense that he doesn't want to be “that ill” or want to accept needing the treatment. I get that I don't understand what it's like to have cancer. I don't understand the depth. I get that it's scary to accept a tube. But that scary? I haven't asked him what he thinks about it. Just to think about it. I guess I have to think about it too ...

I almost lost my s*** with a parent today. One of my parents and not some random parent. Because he isn't doing what I think he should do. And I should know better. I understand that I don't understand. It's my “job” as a relative to make room when he needs it. To accept that I don't understand what is going on and to NOT act like I know better. Even when I think I do. That his body is his and that he is the master of it. That he is the one going through all of this and that I am a bystander. I want to accept that the tube may be a symbol or a turning point for the worse (in his mind) and most impotantly, I want to accept that it's not up to me. Not just understand it but accept it. I think he deserves that ...

In case someone actually reads this:

Hi! Welcome to my ... whatever this is. It’s a blog, right? But it’s not a real blog. Which of course isn’t true either. I don't know what I think this is .. but here I am. And this is my introduction.

I sometimes have a rather chaotic life and my mind occasionally reflects the chaos. I am usually a private person and the thought of changing it terrifies me. However, keeping things to myself is draining. I do have wonderful friends and family, but they live as chaotically as I do. I worry that I will drain them as well. So ...

Also, English isn’t my first language so please bare with me with me (just kidding – I know it’s spelled bair ... Yes, I’m kidding again). Oh, and I think I’m funny. And I am quite sarcastic a lot of the time. I’m not going to pretend that others feel the same about my sense of humour.

Just to be some sort of clear: I will complain. I will whine and be angry. I will be sad and frustrated. I will be all the things I strive not to be in real life. This blog will in a way represent my train of thought and my ambivalence. This means, that I will also doubt myself and debate my point of view. With myself. Please, don’t expect me to be well-reflected. I will also geek out sometimes, and use quotes.

Consider yourself warned.

Cheers