OffKilter

So, I've finally made it back to work.  I'm lucky enough to work with amazing, kind, brilliant and dedicated people.  But their brightness and quickness makes me blink like I'm staring into the noon sun sometimes.  Friends say that I seem like I always was.  Able to speak my mind, see the big picture.  But this return to work has been hard.  You see, a cog slipped, the cd got a scratch, a gear got stuck, and so things that I took for granted are shockingly, ridiculously hard.

Reading and writing is hard.  Writing is the worst, instead of being cathartic, instead of being able to just 'fall into' it, and let the words and thoughts flow, they get lost.  They swirl and twirl around me and as I chase one down, the follow-up, the next line is lost.  This damned post is like pouring cold molasses in a freezer.  It's there, but it won't flow.  At work, I  flew out of my office in frustration trying to capture some thoughts in a simple email.  An email that took me literally hours to write, instead of minutes.

And, then there is the reading.  I can read, I can analyze, but the stuff I read seems to keep getting filed in the wastebasket in my brain.  And, get dumped before I can go and fetch it.  So, my viewpoint is there, but what I've read is not.  

I've known for months that all was not the same.  That I wasn't the same as I was, pre-radiation, with a couple of scars to show for it.  And so I dragged my feet and dreaded returning to work.  I've spoken to my doctors, over and over again, and there is no magic potion to make this all better.  The Radiation Oncologist, when I finally saw him and told him that something wasn't right, was pretty direct.  And, quick to point out that it couldn't be the radiation.  When he turned to me and said "well, your brains aren't in your mouth", I felt like a ballon pricked by a needle.  My GP is less sure of the cause, and I know what I know about how I feel and when.  But the cause matters not. The impact is the same.  I find a bit of comfort in my kind colleague who has fought her own Big C battles and relates to this feeling of being less than before.  And, of course, I'm just supremely lucky to be working with friends... people who I trust and whose support means the world to me.

And, so I do all the things that I'm told to do and some that just help.  I see my acupuncturist, I do yoga classes with an amazingly talented and soothing instructor, I practice mindfulness, I see a psychologist.  I have a little pit crew assembled to put me back on the road.  But, I dunno.  For you see, gentle reader, I'm writing this with tears streaming down my face, and a headache pounding in the back of my skull.  It's so crazy hard to do this, you see.  I'm writing, rewriting, getting lost, rereading and getting lost again in my own muddied thoughts.  

I wasn't going to broadcast this, who wants folks to know that there's a slipped gear?  But I've got to practice this stupidly, ridiculously hard, thing.  And, this is what is top of mind to blog about... so there you have it.  Here's to hoping that this blogging practice is like a yoga practice.  It may look like crap, but I'm just going to breathe through it, and keep trying.  

It's been months and months since I finished my cancer treatment.  I've been off work for almost a year now and I ended my radiation torture months and months ago.  How naive I was thinking that I'd be back to work in November.  Or January.  Even though I couldn't eat or drink, I wanted to get back to Normal so badly and figured that if it could get that bad that fast it could get better just as quick. 

Now I wonder and worry if Normal is slipping away from me.  The physical scars are fading, the abuse heaped on those poor mouth and throat tissues is pretty well healed and I'm adjusted to my new normal.  Coca Cola still taste like sewage, I'd just as soon drink battery acid as have a glass of orange juice, but I'm pretty much put back together again.  Except this little Humpty Dumpty seems to have lost her head.  

It's so hard to explain, even to myself, what it's like to lose that edge that you had, that glimmer of brightness or quickness in your thinking.  Ideas would link for me, I'd see connections and I took my mind for granted.  I'd write, just for me, I loved to pour my heart out through my fingertips... and the words came easily.  The grammar, not so  much, but the words would just flow.  

Now...  now each word is stuck in molasses.  Thoughts don't run together, they slowly seep through a fog and get lost and swirled with other thoughts.  Reading has become a chore.  Instead of losing myself in a book, I labour through.  

I so remember that tired working mommy feeling, that overwhelmed feeling of being ON, tired, on edge and ON all the time.  Having that rolodex in my head of every appointment, every schedule, every deadline, every colleague that needed a push, every relationship to nurture.  I'd love to have the capacity, the endurance, the brain power to feel that again.  What I feel now is different, so very different.  It's a heaviness in my head and a tired that won't go.  A tired that makes you slow and stupid ... that pounds at the back of your head and sits in your bones.  I don't know where my synapses went, and what's worse, I worry that they are gone for good.  The Doctors say vaguely reassuring words, but they don't know why this happens to some people or what causes it.

For me, because I'm a complicated girl, and nothing can be simple, it's even less clear because there are three pieces to my confusion puzzle.  Is it from the radiation treatment?  Or is it that plus stress from my husband moving out due to his struggles with the ugly black dog in his head?  Or, just to kick a girl when she is down, is it the conveniently timed menopause?  

So I try and build around the edges of this foggy, grey puzzle.  Right now, this blog post is one piece of this puzzle.  If I can just put together one little corner of the puzzle, just a few pieces that would click together then maybe I'll start to believe that I can get myself put back together again... 

Back in the day, I used to do aerobics.  It was a very 80's thing to do, and I was an 80's girl.  I remember being in the class with the uber fit little sprite of a girl leading the charge and saying, 3 more, 2 more, 1 more NOW 5 more!  That's very much how I felt after I slogged through 6 weeks of hell - well, really about 3 weeks of treatment hell.  Only to have my Doctor turn to me and say that the 2 weeks after radiation ended would be worse.  And, that I would only see the light at the end of the tunnel in about 6 weeks.  Oh, and some of the side effects MAY be permanent.  

And, then, gotta love this guy.  He looked me in the eye and said, you look kinda down.  Really?  Is that much of a surprise?  But at least it was over and I could stop my mind from running around in circles wondering if I should have ever consented to this treatment.  The decision  to put my life on hold because my Doctors told me that I had a better chance of not having a reoccurrence if I did was far easier when the costs were thereotical.  Before I knew what the side effects would really feel like.  Even though they warned me, repeatedly and somewhat eagerly, about how unwell I would feel.  Give us six months of your life, they said, and we will work to prevent a recurrence of a cancer that is not 'salvageable' if it comes back.  

When the cost was low, it was easy to comply with what they asked of me.  The trouble for me comes when people start telling me what I 'have' to do.  I really, really hate being told what to do.  Is that because I am the youngest?  Just the way I was made?  Who knows, but it's been something I've struggled with my whole life.  

To make matters worse, I didn't fit nicely into their protocol, so they would tell me what I 'had' to take and when I did it would cause more problems than solve.  They have a little path you take, your mouth erupts into a million sores making it feel like there are razor blades lining your throat every time you swallow.  The pain of a sip of water would cause tears.  So, they prescribe some hydromorphine for you.  And, some anti-nauseau medication.  And, give you samples of liquid sustenance - ensure, boost, resource.  Sugar laden, high calorie stuff.  Suggesting anything out of the protocol - holistic options for managing the mouth sores for example, was met with more resistance than I could counter. 

The problem for me was that I couldn't get my protein shakes down, and the other stuff would make me throw up.  And, convincing them of that was an uphill battle.  Frankly, spending hours throwing up with a throat lined with razor blades feels as good as it sounds.  And, of course, the narcotics would also make me throw up.  It seemed endless until I found a balance of a lot of anti-nausea medication and a little narcotic to take the edge of the pain.  And, through it all I counted the days until it was all done.  Luckily for me, I had miscalculated when my end date was so finding out that it was three days earlier than I thought gave me the lift I needed to push to the end. 

So after I rang that lovely bell and was done with my last radiation treatment, I really hoped to be able to beat the statistics and heal a bit faster than predicted.  I went straight away to my friendly acupuncturist, a lovely fellow who was able to abate the razor blade pain and get the nausea under control in one treatment.  But just like the outside of my neck was horribly burned, the inside of my throat and mouth was burned and started to 'peel'.  Creating oodles of thick, smelly, disgusting, revolting mucus.  That I would cough up all day and all night.  One entire weekend I spent on the couch with a bucket, watching the entire Walking Dead series, and wondering how to get a medically induced coma.  

But  s l o w l y  it started to get better.  Far more slowly than I would like, and not better every day.  But the razor blades are gone, yesterday was the first day that I went to bed and wasn't hungry, and my mouth and throat are just moderately sore.  I still don't speak very clearly, and it hurts to speak which I find inordinately frustrating.  I'm still coughing and spitting up phlegm and blood from my poor healing throat and have started antibiotics in case the swelling is related to an infection, but am moving steadily towards a healed mouth and throat.  And, will wait and hope that the most limiting side effects don't stick around forever.  

It'll be interesting to see how I feel in a month or two.  Right now, if I could be teleported back in time to April and asked if I wanted to go ahead with this treatment, I would say "HELL NO!  Absolutely not.  Not a chance".  Hopefully this will all have been worth it, and my Doctor is right.  By his way of thinking, the law of averages means that some good luck should be coming my way soon enough.  

And, I do have more blessings, more kind and generous friends who have supported me with their words and actions, than I could have ever hoped to have.  

Website of Lovely Acupuncturist  -  http://www.brucecawdron.com/

Like the nerf ball I am, every time I think about my upcoming radiation treatments, I end up with the Spiderman theme song stuck in my head.  Not the new Spiderman, the 21st century fancy computer generated special effects Spiderman, but the dorky cartoon Spiderman from the 1960s.  A little radioactive blood and Peter Parker was using his spidey senses and spinning webs across the City - I wouldn't mind a spidey sense or two! 

I'm been thinking about Spidey since it has been almost eight weeks since the surgery, and now that I'm starting to feel well, it's time to start the radiation treatment.  

I've got my mouth guard and my freaky little radiation mask.  It is a wee bit like a Spidey mask - not nearly as cool though.  Getting it was sort of an adventure.  There were two very sweet young guys explaining the process, the machine and then outfitting me in my new friend -  mouth propped open, mouth guards in place and this mesh stuff molded to my face.  The mask will be snapped into place each and every appointment to make sure that they get the same spots each time I get zapped.  

A real highlight of the appointment was the piece of wax that will protect my scar.  They carefully placed the warm wax on my scar, the scar on my NECK and then I had multiple hands pushing down firmly. And, by firmly, I mean enough to make me think that I watch too much Criminal Minds, and start to wonder if they've ever accidentally choked someone.  It was a relief to be out of there, and tomorrow I'll see the results of their handiwork.  

Tomorrow is number one of 33 treatments that will stretch until July 4th.  I'm hoping that it won't be as bad as billed, and that I'll be able to have a bit of a life in the next month.  I'm planning on heading to Toronto on the weekend for the last cheer competition of the year, the Wonderland competition, where the girls really just get to have some fun and strut their stuff.  Oh, and maybe do a bit of shopping.  From the amount of times the subject has popped up in the last week or two, I'd say they probably have detailed plans already laid out of what stores they have to make it to in our two days in Toronto!  

Last year I went to Wonderland with my girls for a cheerleading competition and I rode a huge, scary Roller coaster, aptly named the Behemoth.  This most ridiculous of steel monstrosities drags you to the top of the world and then lets you plunge down, too scared to even scream, in a type of free fall torture where you spend three minutes of your life in terror until you finally reach the end and let out what remains of your shaky, panicky breath.  

On that slow creep up to the tippity top, while my blood pounding through my veins, I remember thinking - I want to go back in time - I will not choose to go on this ride.  I just need to go back 4 minutes.  Okay 3 minutes will do.  The anticipation of the plunge down, the build up of fear, that is the hardest part.  The plunge down, that is when you make your peace with God, and figure you will either survive or be one of those splatted safety statistics.  

That is what having cancer is like.  You get some news, then you wait - to find out more, to have surgery booked, to have treatments booked.  This last little bit, this lead up to radiation, the wondering about whether the recent biopsy would yield negative news, these weeks have felt like a slow, jerky creep up to the top of that Behemoth.  I'm hoping that my anticipation of what radiation will have in store for me will be worse than the reality.  My little medical village, the doctors, nurses, naturpath, nutritionist - all tell me how sensitive the tissues of the mouth are.  How difficult this radiation is.  Each and every time I'm told about how bad it will be, it feels like another creaky jolt upwards, just another foot higher.  I don't even know when this roller coaster will start going down.  Nothing has been set yet, so I continue to build up the anticipation, on hold, and pondering the bad things promised once I reach the top.  

I can take solace that lately I have been getting good news lately rather than bad.  I went today to get my biopsy results.  Only to find out that my appointment was cancelled, and the Doctor was supposed to call me to tell me that she wouldn't need to see me until September.  My biopsy was fine.  I'll take that any day over the recent weekly appointments to check the little spots on my tongue that don't look quite right.  And, late last week I heard that I won't need chemotherapy, that my cancer isn't advanced enough for me to be eligible for the clinical trial.  More good news.  

Those bits of good news, of progress in the right direction, I'm hoping that they will foreshadow a radiation marathon that is less unpleasant than promised.  Until then I continue my creaky ascent - and try hard not to pack a backpack and run away to Mexico or Costa Rico.  

Dear select readers, how many of you related to that first image?  Hands up ladies!  Knowing my friends who might read this, I'm betting many of you.  Now, this image is a pitch for some supplements, but I found it because I've been reading a book at the recommendation of my newly found cancer naturpath, "When the body says NO" by Gabor Mate.  It's been a really hard slog for me to get through.  Not because it's isn't well written or interesting, rather because I read a few pages and stutter.  And reflect.  And put the book down to think a little about why it keeps making me react.  I'm reacting more to this book that even the Sheryl Sandberg leadership manifesto that made my blood boil.  

I'm not through the book yet and I keep seeing myself in it, over and over again.  The author is a palliative care doctor, and he writes from his own experiences with patients with diseases such as MS, Crohns, cancer and the like.  The book explains some of the research done in an area called Psychoneuroimmunology.  It is an area of study that focuses on the connection between the mind and the nervous and immune systems of the human body.  When I think of the mind-body connection, I always think of my mother, who would always, always, get a horrible cold  or some ailment whenever there was a funeral that she was supposed to attend.  It was never a feigned illness.  She hated going to the funerals and her body, without fail, was happy to find a reason to make it impossible for her to attend. 

This book, while careful not to blame the patient, pulls on the connecting threads between chronic stress, repression of emotions and these life altering, life reducing or life ending illnesses.  It begins to explain the connections between our complicated immune system and  our psychological state.  Much of the book focuses on the childhood experiences and stresses of the patients.  Some is rubbing me the wrong way as I've never met a perfect parent, perfect family or perfect child.  I've always felt that we are all the victims and benefactors of our upbringing, and we all have the choice to benefit from the good and learn from the bad. 

But if you start to think this through, if chronic stress or rather an inability to cope with chronic stress causes not just your run of the mill, depressed immune system, cold/flu, your hypertension or migraines, but also diseases like cancer or MS, what do we do with that?   For someone like me, where I have a disease that from a statistical point of view, I shouldn't have, it seems logical to blame stress.  

It's a pretty easy leap, really more of a hop, to say that the unremitting stress of last year and the feeling of being totally out of control in my life was a catalyst for an immune system that was not up to the job of catching the growing cancer cells.  But if how we are built makes us sick, what do we do?  If your life is built on loyalty, family and love, what do you do?  Unmake ourselves?  Be people that we aren't?   

I think often about something that a former colleague used to say to me ALL the time.  Whether talking about work or home, just about every day, he would say "Yes, it's a problem, but it's not YOUR problem".  I've always wanted to solve problems, jump in and carve a path forward.  Push for a resolution, a decision, a direction.  But in reflecting on this connection and the few studies that have shown personality types being associated with diseases, I am starting to ask myself some uncomfortable questions.

I've spent a lifetime trying to live up to my expectations for myself, and trying to drive down my expectations of others.  Maybe I need to find a new balance.  

More later as I continue reading and reflecting!  

Back to the land of the cancer updates.  Like I ever really left, eh!  

After last week's appointment with the surgeon, where she explained the pathology reports and expressed concern that the little devil cancer cells might already growing back on my poor abused tongue, I met with a bunch of other folks.  And, this got me thinking about the little health care village that I have around me.  Much like the village that Hillary Clinton talked about to raise a child, this village is apparently needed to drive out a cancer.

My village has three separate little communities.  My regular health care community, the GP and dentist that I feel fortunate to have.  I was so touched that my GP reached out to me not just once but twice to express her sadness at my diagnosis and to ask me to let her know if there was anything she could do.  Then, my dentist, who first sounded the alarm at the innocuous white spot, and then gave me a hug and very reassuring words when I went to pick them up uber detailed package of records she had prepared for the new 'cancer' dentist to review.  

Next community, is the BIG C community or my slash and burn group, as I like to call them.  They wield the scalpels, they plan the radiation treatments, they run the chemo trials.  They include the surgeon who sliced open my tongue and scooped out the cancer (the cancer that is hopefully not already making an encore performance - more on that later!  Or hopefully, nothing to tell about that later!!).  Her very sweet administrative assistant who makes sure that the forms are filled out, and that appointments are remade even when the other arm of the hospital messes them up.  My new radiation oncologist, who I hope knows what he is doing and recommended 6.5 weeks of radiation, all the while being VERY frank about the risks and side effects.  Although I did wish for a bit of sugar coating here and there.  We can add in the nurse assigned to my case, the chemo clinical trial nurse and the physiotherapist, who I have yet to met but hope to meet with sooner rather than later.  I would eventually like to be able to wash my hair with two hands!!  And, we can't forget the hospital dentist, she who isn't much of a believer in my unhappy, doesn't like to open, already abused before the 5 hour surgery, jaw.  Her job is to fix my teeth up so that they are as ready as they can be for the assault of radiation.  Although it's hard to ask a dentist to sugar coat information, the little tidbit that sometimes jaw bones can break if there are issues with your teeth after radiation, GULP, was yet another eyes wide, mouth shut moment in this journey. 

My last little community is a more holistic little group that I stumbled upon and am very happy to have found.  The Ottawa Integrative Cancer Centre (http://www.oicc.ca/en) are a group that consists of naturpaths, nutritionists, psychologists, massage therapists, acupuncturists and more, who assess the whole person, and look beyond the cancer to try and help the person coping with cancer to rebalance their bodies and their lives.  Oh, and of course, manage the cancer ordeal to have the best possible outcome.  From the young and kind naturpath who made me eliminate coca cola, that sugary, tasty bubbly staple of my mid-mornings, to the Australian nutritionist who seemed to instantly see the stress that I have been trying to cope with, and discussed its affects on me as a whole, their calm and kind approach has been inspiring.  Teaching me about my beleaguered adrenal system, and instead of making me feel guilty about all the things that I haven't been doing for myself, they are nudging me towards taking better care of myself.  

These little steps, making better protein shakes, taking some little capsules of vitamins that are proven to aid in the prevention of cancer, or that help manage the side effects of radiation, makes me feel like I'm being proactive, that I am part of my own treatment.  While I would infinitely prefer to not need this village, to never need to visit the Cancer Centre, to have never heard of the OICC, I'm glad that they are there to help me through.  

Special Note:  I just found the video above on the OICC site, I have to say the last half is too much of an advert for my taste, but the start of the video, that hits home.

The one thing that I should have learned by now is that things never happen as you predict, no matter how many times you run it through your mind.  

I wasn't really obsessed about today's appointment, except for last night when sleep eluded me and there was enough silly family drama to distract.  I arrived promptly at 1:15pm for my pre-arranged post-operative appointment.  Those who know me know that I have two options for arriving at appointments or meetings, on time or on 'Lisa time'.  Early happens just a few times a year, and only really to daze and confuse those who've come to expect my 'just on time' approach.  So, today like all others, I was running a smidge late, and to make it there exactly at 1:15pm, I had to leave hubby to park the car and dash up to my appointment.  

Once there, I found myself surrounded by... what looked like a group of very well seasoned, very old boozers.  Seriously old and seriously rummy looking crowd.  Suddenly I felt... youthful.  Good Lord, between the watery eyes, faint whiff of beer and canes and crutches, I felt kinda healthy. While I'm waiting, an old fellow just saunters right into the line in front of me.  Eyes big, I figure that even though my shoulder is aching and I did just have surgery - meh, he's probably not super steady on his feet, so have at it, take my space in the line.  After what seemed like hours, finally the nurse tells me that I was supposed to meet the Doctor at 9:15am.  This is now the 'liver' doctors time.  Oops, thanks to the hospital that gave me the wrong time.  But, at least, this crowd in this waiting room makes more sense!   

Luckily, they were able to squeeze me in to the cancer clinic and down there I waited, expecting the worst and hoping for the best. I had mentally prepared myself for the news that the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes and that I would need radiation. I also prepped questions in case I heard that we were all clear, it was all good.  But, best laid plans were out the window and yet again I ended up in a world of unexpected events when first I heard that they were worried that the cancer was already coming back because of the small red spot on the underside of my tongue.  Huh?  Of course, I still can't see it but then the overall grossness of the whitish yellowish 'tissue' and sutures might be blinding me when I look into my mouth.  Next, and for a final kick in the shins is the detailed explanation (only partially retained) about margins around the tumour on my tongue, pre-cancerous tissue, percentages of recurrence, and their recommendation for radiation.  Oh, and we'd also recommend that you do a clinical trial of chemo.  

My radiation doctor seems very kind - says that the first strike against cancer is most often the most successful.  Your choice, he says. Radiation of the mouth is very difficult, he says.  Towards the end you'll think I'm trying to kill you, he says.  And, words that I've feared since I first read about oral cancer, do you have good teeth, he asks?  

WTF? Again, I'm kinda stunned.  Again, I'm trying to shake some meaning into any of this.  But perhaps there is no meaning and that's what I'm supposed to get.  People get cancer, heart disease, strokes and die of tragic accidents all the time.  Superman falls off his horse and is paralyzed, tricks of fate are as plentiful as the stars in the sky. 

So if shit happens, we just need to get on.  Maybe forcing yourself to eat a side effect laden apple will make the good apples taste all the better.  

My guess is that there is no real recipe for strength, for courage or for life other than to say that we will choose to move forward, live, or die trying.  

I haven't had much stamina for writing or sometimes even thinking this past week, there is something that I need to write now. 

It was how wrong I was.  You see, when you go to a 'Cancer Doctor', amid the various forms that you fill in that list all of your ailments, you also fill out some forms on your mental and psychological state.  These questions help the doctors and social workers determine if you will need social services or extra  help.  And, one of the questions asked "Do you have someone to support you when you are ill?".  This question was about number 7 of 20 and all the other questions were easy to answer. But not this one.

This one dropped a lead boot in my gut.  And, so I skipped it.  And, then when I went back to it.  I pondered it.  And, then left it blank.

I knew that my hubby would be there to drive me to and from appointments, and if he wasn't able to, then I could get someone else to.  But 'support me?".  Well, that's a tricky one.  I've been doing the support in my relationship for some time now (see previous blog post - ), and my nickname is the 'rock'.  Sometimes I feel like I am a rock on quicksand, and I hate that label, but it was given to me because when others can no longer cope and need to walk away, I'll always take up the slack.  

It's not that I can't ask people to do something for me, I'm great at that.  But if they can't - well, it usually means I'll think long and hard about asking for anything again, ever.  No matter how unreasonable my request or how reasonable their reason not to do me the favour.  It's a longstanding flaw - I hate needing anyone and I hate hearing "No".  So, I avoid both at all costs.

The week before surgery, friends were trying to support me and I was trying to accept that support.  But from the first time I awoke to find my old neighbour (a nurse at the Hospital) holding my hand, I've felt support.  I could write a lot of names down now.  

My husband - who just sat at the hospital so I could sleep.  Who swept all the gifts and flowers out of the incredibly tiny room when we all realized, that Lisa truly is claustrophobic and then stayed (maybe to make sure I didn't make good on my prison break promise though!).  

My sisters - who cleaned my house and corralled my kids, who brought books, scarves and told me that it was going to be fine, and who made sure I had the quickest delivery of the prettiest of flowers.

My dad - who came to the hospital to just sit.  To just be there with me.  

My daughters - the oldest who tried to step up into the "Mom" role and my little one, who kept those beautiful brown eyes steady when she first saw me at the hospital and said "Aw sweetie".... words straight from my Mother's spirit through my daughter's lips. 

My friends - barn friends who sent flowers, food, drove the rider to the barn.  Work friends who sent quilts and flowers and notes of concern.  Dear friends who just want to ask if there was anything they could to help.  Facebook friends, some of whom are old friends, dear friends that I use FB to connect with, and some are truly online 'friends'.  But, when I decided that I should let people see the scary incision in advance so that maybe there would be less shock, fewer tears, in person, my FB friends sent encouraging note after encouraging note.  

I promise I do have a funny story or two to tell about my hospital stay - but for now, I just want to let you know that I appreciate you all.   

Pre-cancer my little family was in the midst of a completely different type of health crisis.  We were on a long and uphill road.  You see, a little over a year ago, my husband found that life - kids, work, marriage was getting too hard.  And, he started to head off the rails a little bit.  Then more than a little bit.  Then little things became huge things and worry became his whole, entire life.  

We learned a valuable lesson about the little pink pills that Doctors prescribe for folks who start to struggle.  For 95% of folks, those little pink or blue pills help, take the edge off, reset some of that muddled brain chemistry.  And, then there is the 5%.  And, who knows if you are in the majority until you start to pop those little pills.  And, if you aren't - well, it's really hard for friends, family and physicians to know if it's the pills fault, or if you need a stronger pill. 

We ended up losing about a year to this process.  And, as I watched my husband completely and totally lose his way, and become someone I didn't like and didn't want to even know, I also saw into the hearts of those who were around us.  Sometimes egotistical, partially educated and grossly overconfident people can be extraordinarily dangerous.  When you feel like you are drowning, you will grab onto the nearest hunk of floating debris.  And, cling to it, especially if the promise is health, happiness, or, the possibility of "self-actualization".  

Lucky for us, we had people who stood, like the old growth trees in B.C., just stood there and said the same thing hundreds and thousands of times.  Finally, with an old, brusque Doctor's help, we started to break free from the tangled and stinking forest we were in, and the further he got away from the toxically opinionated, those who pushed him towards a path that fit their world view and their stunted understanding of human nature, psychology, and love, the better he felt.

But we were just on the path out, he was still not my guy.  He wasn't the person I married.  He wasn't my solid landing place as I was the rest of my family's "rock", the guy who was the 'super dad' of our neighbourhood, this kindest of men.  

Then I got sick.  And, he seems to have woken up.  Is it guilt?  Is it a sense that he has no choice?  Have the stars simply aligned at the right time?  I truly don't know, but can say that having him back is a godsend. 

I can't trust that he'll stay as he is.  And, the memory of all that has happened rests very close to the surface, dangerously close more often then not.  People say - he was sick, or "they" were just trying to help - but words and actions carry with them real costs and real consequences.  No matter what the slogans say.  

But at least he seems to be himself, for now.  And, so it seems that the best cure for anxiety turned out to be a good healthy dose of cancer.  It's probably not a recommended treatment - but hey, it seems to work!