I’m not journaling. The pretty notebook I use to share my thoughts and feelings in lies nearby on the floor. I’m only feet away from getting it done, but my avoidant-urge is strong, my counselor’s admonishments about the importance of letting things out notwithstanding.
I’d blame my depression, but using that as an excuse when it’s a chronic condition is as valid as blaming my skin. We have to work with what we have. The point is, I don’t want to always use depression as a crutch.
I’m not writing because I don’t want to let my emotions out. I don’t want to let go, because things are bad. I don’t want to go there. I want to maintain control even though I know control is an illusion.
If I was in control, the blood that started showing up in my mother’s chronic GERD cough (gastric reflux) nearly a month ago would’ve been caused by diabetic lung. That’s a real thing. I came across it when I was doing research into causes I didn’t hate.
People like to complain about the medical system in British Columbia. They complain about waits, overcrowding, and awful doctors. The complaints are often valid, however, when the situation is serious, things move at speed.
Two trips to Emergency in the space of a few days led to a CT, a PET scan, and a scheduled biopsy of the lesion they found near the chest wall of her left lung. Sampling the growth will provide more specific information about type and stage, but also comes with the risk of, to quote the nurse, “bleeding out.” Perhaps a different turn of phrase should be used? That one feels both post-shoot-out and traumatizing.
They’re not uncertain about the diagnosis. Cancer confirmation is no longer part of the process. Her doctors are already planning surgery and chemo-radiation. I’d have the details the people I’ve shared with clamor for, but my parents failed to ask the doctor, and I initially failed to ask them. It’s the shock. You think you’re doing better than you are. Diagnosis consultations should come with neutral advocates and video recordings.
I’m not ready for this. It’s easier when I’m sick . I’m not ready to do cancer with my mom as the victim. But, denial is already off the table, and I’m not sure what bargaining needs to look like.
Anger it is. Weeping into my journal will have to wait.