“Don’t Curse the Darkness, Light a Candle”

“Don’t Curse the Darkness, Light a Candle” photo by JParadisi

The election results are in. For many, they’re not what we hoped.  I’m a breast cancer survivor, so using cancer as a metaphor feels familiar whenever life presents me with outcomes different from what I hoped. Today I’m continuing with the metaphor.

The biopsy results are in, and “We have a cancer,” are the words my surgeon used to tell me. While these election results are not a life threatening disease, for many people in our society, they are a threat to their rights and personhood. 

The first thing not to do is to invalidate the hurt, fear and anger people are feeling. Saying, “It’s just four years,” or some other phrase to cajole people experiencing the threat of losing personal freedom is about as comforting and supportive as telling a person about to start chemotherapy, “Just think how much money you’re going to save on shampoo and conditioner.” Trust me when I say that’s not going to go over very well. 

Validating the feelings of someone you care about begins with, “I can only imagine the [pain, fear, anxiety] you must be suffering right now.” It’s okay to ask what can you do to help and support them, but be aware the shock of what’s happened might temporarily short circuit their ability to know what they need. Sometimes a hug is all you can do in the moment, then follow up with a phone call or text a little later.

Although I shared my cancer experience with my patients, I haven’t really discussed it much on this blog. 

When I was first diagnosed with ER negative, HER2 positive breast cancer, surgery and chemotherapy was prescribed. There was no Herceptin back then. The shock of my diagnosis led to fatalistic thinking. I spent the first week after diagnosis contemplating not doing any treatment at all, and just let the cancer take me. Although this sounds extreme, at the time I was a forty year-old pediatric intensive care nurse. It was my experience  that some children only get hours, days or a few years of life. At forty, I felt lucky in comparison to many of my patients. This is an example of catastrophic thinking. I do not endorse it. I am grateful to the family members who urged me towards treatment.

Here’s the first thing I learned: In the face of great fear and dread, it’s okay to lay in bed in fetal position with the blankets pulled over your head for three consecutive days. After the third day, however, you have to call for help: a family member or friend, and for sure, a licensed counselor.

What I’m trying to say is, after a foundational blow to your sense of safety and security, it’s important to find a way to move forward. For some of us this will be through volunteerism, deciding to be the change we want to see by running for political office on the local or state level, or perhaps simply making art expressing how we feel.

Today is not the day to figure it all out. Today, feel the feels, allow the grief in, cry. But after whatever constitutes your metaphorical three days, get out of bed, make a plan for treatment, and move forward. If you’re lucky, like I was, you might be surprised to find you survived.