An Interruption.

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Today has been the first day in months and months that I’ve done nothing. NOTHING. I stayed in bed until I physically couldn’t any longer, then I moved to the sofa with my duvet and stayed there. Now I’m back in bed.

My dad told me some very scary health news yesterday. C word health news. And now we wait – for a more detailed diagnosis, and a plan.

This, along with the inevitable Christmas holiday therapy break, and my partner being away and uncontactable… it’s all collapsed in on me. I woke up this morning and for the first time in such a long time I just couldn’t move. That feeling of depression and lack of energy and soul… I used to feel this always. Now it’s knocked me because I don’t ever feel like this.

I’ve eaten nothing, I’ve drunk the bare minimum, I haven’t got changed, I haven’t washed… I’ve laid still, and cut. I cut because I needed to punish myself for so many of my thoughts, and because I needed to let some of this out from inside me. There is nothing I can do on my own that is more soothing to me than watching my blood pool.

I am terrified he is going to die. I am terrified there is going to be a life without him, and that maybe that life will come quicker than I was planning. I am not ready to be an adult – I’m still his little girl. He still fixes my mistakes and he’s my go-to person for any and every issue. I’m scared that he will get ill and I am too far away to care for him. I am scared that he won’t be there to walk me down the aisle. I’m scared my children won’t know him. I’m scared that I’ve not been listening properly to his mountains of (often unwanted!) advice and that when he’s gone I won’t remember. I am scared that my mum won’t cope. I am scared that I will have to grow up. I am scared that he will die and I won’t be the person he hoped I would be. I am scared that this illness is going to take him from me. I am absolutely fucking terrified.

I cannot cope without knowledge. I am always so much better if I know things or have a plan, and for two more weeks there is no plan… We just wait. We wait until we find out.
I’m not religious. Praying would be hypocritical. But I am desperate in my need for him to be okay. Most of that need is selfish and immature but it’s also overwhelming and the first time I’ve ever genuinely considered he might not be around forever. I am a child and he’s my dad, my superhero. I’m not ready for that balance to change so it will just have to be okay. I will make it okay.

Today has been a write off. The harming has instantly calmed me and now it’s time to sleep. I hope this is just an interruption – that our happy peace will resume after he receives the most positive option for his results. It is not allowed to go wrong. For the first time in forever my whole family is happy… and now this. This is not allowed. It cannot happen. This is only an interruption.

xx

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10 responses »

  1. First, I’m sorry for the interruption. You did two things. You cut and you wrote. And (I’m not judging you here) you catastrophized. Three then. No shame in that — nearly all of us do it at some point. Hang in there. The range of possibilities is very wide, at least based on what you’ve said. It’s tough when there is no data and one is a well organized person who makes plans and prepares for a way through. I’m betting that if the diagnosis requires it you will martial your strength and your skills to take it on. So, I imagine, will your father. And, if the diagnosis is a full relief, then you’ll weep tears of happiness. Remember what you’ve been through and what you’ve accomplished. You, and I expect your father, aren’t licked yet.

    • I spoke to a friend who’s mother had cancer a while ago, and she said she thinks that this part is the worst bit. Once you’ve got information, even if it’s bad, you can move onto the next step and the next with that.
      I’m glad I wrote and catastrophised. One thing I know about myself is that I have to play the ‘what’s the worst thing that can happen’ game, so I find all the outer boundaries. I then feel much more secure in those boundaries (even though I’ve had to consider the worst options to find them). Today feels marginally brighter because of it. Thanks for commenting. It soothed me that someone had heard me xx

      • I’m happy to hear you’ve had a bounce. I think your friend is right. You didn’t get where you are without “the right stuff.” Whatever comes now or in the future, you’ve already proven you have some fight in you.

  2. Hi pft – When I had cancer, waiting for test results was basically the absolute worst part. I was lucky, and my results were good, but I remember that fear, and it was brutal. I can understand why this would be a huge setback for you. Especially at Christmas, when many supports are gone. Life can be rough. Hang in there.

    • Thank you. Today has been another tough day but seeing T tomorrow (she’s not meant to be working but she offered anyhow). I hope this is going to be the worst bit. I hope for good news and this all being forgotten about soon enough.

  3. Hi plf,

    I have been totally absorbed in your blog for the past 24 hours. Your writing is beautiful and I am astounded by just how much your ongoing experience of therapy resembles my own. Our thoughts and feelings about ‘T’ seem, at times, almost identical. Do feel free to say no, but is there any way for us to communicate a little more privately? I would love to be in email contact. My address is nancy.tucker@hotmail.co.uk – if you feel able, please do drop me a line, however brief. If not, please know that I will continue to follow your journey and hope that you continue to show the astounding bravery and vulnerability you have shown so far.

    Sending love and warm wishes xx

  4. Hi plf,

    I have been completely absorbed in your blog for the past 24 hours, and astounded by both your incredible writing ability and the similarity of our respective stories. I am currently in long-term therapy with my own wonderful ‘T’ (who is supporting and reparenting my own bruised and battered ‘Little’), and the feelings you describe about this beautiful, terrifying process are all but identical to my own. It is so heartening to come across someone who seems to be sharing this experience which is so unrecognisable to most of those around me.

    I don’t want to intrude at all, but is there any way for us to be in contact more privately? I would love to email. My address is nancy.tucker@hotmail.co.uk – if you feel able, please do drop me a line, however brief. I feel we may have something to offer each other in terms of empathy and support. If you would rather not, please know I will continue to follow your journey and hope that you persevere with the same exquisite bravery and vulnerability you have shown thus far.

    With love and warm wishes,

    xx

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