Computers are amazingly consistent. Same input, same output.

I work in the IT world. When investigating computer issues I often ask what has changed. The response I almost always hear is “nothing”. Whether or not the person I am talking to is aware of it,  if something is different, something had to have changed.

Humans aren’t so consistent. Same input, variable outputs. A beautifully challenging reality.

I am fully aware that I sometimes react differently to similar or seemingly identical situations. Sometimes when someone cuts me off on the road or highway, I really don’t notice or care. Other times I care too much and start lighting up the horn and my language, swearing at someone who can’t hear me and who couldn’t care less.

Since being diagnosed with cancer I have been more prone to these inconsistencies. It seems to take more effort to remain optimistic and keep a strong front.

Uncertainty

We all live with a level of uncertainty that we are comfortable with, what we have adapted to. There are some people who live pay-to-pay and don’t mind at all. On the other hand, I am sure there are some affluent people who would be very stressed out if their bank account balance fell under one million dollars.

My level of uncertainty prior to my diagnosis was probably fairly normal – wondering what the future holds for my kids, how long will my car hold up, will the interest rates be low when I renew my mortgage, etc. Most of the time these thoughts would come to mind, I’d consider them, then tuck them away again – while not expending a lot of emotional or mental energy on them. I have noticed that this has changed since the diagnosis.

The prior uncertainties haven’t changed. In fact, they seem to have faded into the background because they haven’t even come to mind. But the uncertainties around cancer dash in and out of my mind with relentless persistence. A bolt of fear and doubt spikes from a bout of uncertainty, triggered from a medical report, a Facebook article, the worried look on someone’s face … or simply from a song. I do my best to clean up the emotional debris left behind by one of these bolts. I then sit down, waiting for the next one. For instance…

Medical Reports and Tests

I am not completely new to working with medical professionals since we have been dealing with them quite regularly since Treva was born. But somehow it seems quite different with this bout of cancer, either because I am the patient now or this is simply the adult health care system. Upon my first visit to the Juravinski Cancer Clinic, the oncologist arranged for me to have a CT scan. I didn’t ask any more questions, because this seemed like a normal procedure. A week and a half later, I was at St. Joe’s preparing to have this scan.

Whenever I meet someone new in the medical arena, I try to create rapport – joking around or asking about them. The nurse I met who did the I.V. for the scan was an amazing lady and we were like old pals within a couple of minutes. She told me what the requisition from the oncologist said and 2 different things triggered flaming flashes of uncertainty. First, she told me the CT Scan was flagged as “urgent”. Urgent! A cloud of questions flooded into my mind upon hearing that word: What the hell do they mean by urgent? Is there more shit going on that they are not telling me that makes this test urgent? Why didn’t they tell me it was urgent? And on and on …

Then this awesome nurse explained to me that they were scanning my chest. Seriously? It was pretty obvious from the still-healing scars on my neck where the area of concern was. Why were they not scanning my neck too – at least? Were they looking for stuff and not telling me? Was this even the right requisition (even though I knew that question was fairly stupid)?

These questions and others that were part of the mental mob just added to the uncertainty.

When I was at that appointment, I saw a poster that advertised a service that allows patients to get scan results and reports from the hospitals. I took down the number and signed up. A week later I read the results of the CT Scan on-line. I read a lot of words like “unremarkable” and “normal”. I enjoy those words. Then I read a part that bothered me: “ a 3.3cm x 2.7 cm mass in the lower left pole of the thyroid, unchanged since prior scan … a complex cyst.” A cyst? Isn’t that what they went in to remove in the first place which caused them to find cancer? Didn’t they remove the cyst along with the collection of lymph nodes? That makes no sense. Wait … this is on the thyroid. That is lower in the neck, whereas the cyst we seemed to be focusing on was just below my jawbone. Is this a different cyst altogether? Why didn’t anyone say anything about this earlier?

Another mountain of questions to fuel the uncertainty. I simply have to wait to see a doctor for some answers. Waiting …

My Guard Drops

When I am in my car or working at my desk, I like listening to music. I have a lot of songs from the 60’s to the 80’s on my music devices, many carefully crafted into playlists waiting to address my desire or mood at the moment. I know most of these songs very well. They can carry me to moments in time or bring into focus faces I haven’t seen for years. Most songs are fairly predictable in how they will hit me at any given moment. But occasionally a song will hit me in a surprising way.

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving back from doing some errands. On came a song I had heard at least 100 times before: “I Will Take Care You” by Amy Sky. But this time was mysteriously different, because tears filled my eyes. This song wonderfully portrays the circle of life through a woman’s eyes, where she sees her mother requiring care after being the caregiver for so many years. It seems that this shift from being a caregiver to being cared for, even if temporary, is a challenging transition for me.

In public I have noticed people staring at me sometimes. Most of the time I couldn’t care less and I barely notice. Sometimes I don a veil of exaggerated confidence and think, smiling to myself, “who else is there better to stare or look at right now in this room!”. Yet there are times when I shun away, internally cowering, externally trying to find a place to hide. It seems I don’t have the strength in those moments to fend off the perceived negativity. Mental and emotional fatigue settle in. Same situations, different reactions.

Sue has been wonderfully supportive throughout this cancer journey. When we are one-on-one, we can be sounding boards for each other, venting to release and then giving each other support when needed. When I am voicing concerns or worries about this journey she will aptly remind me to “think positive”. Most of the time that quick reminder allows my truest, optimistic nature to return and regain internal control. But there are moments when I simply can’t easily think positive. My optimism is simply too tired. The short journey with cancer has been forcing me to more actively keep up my optimism, burning energy in the process. Sometimes it needs to take a much-needed rest, and it sleeps soundly through any emotional commotion. I simply  have to wait until it wakes up from its slumber, more energized and ready to return me to the state of mind that serves me best.

Building Strength

This journey with cancer has created levels of uncertainty that I have to deal more actively. More frequently I have to push back negative thoughts that creep in. This takes mental and emotional energy that I have not needed to use for years. Most of the time I am very successful at tucking those thoughts away before they hit the surface. This allows me to keep the strong face that most people see me wearing. Much of the time the strong, spirited exterior is in sync with what I am actually feeling, but there are times when that exterior is just a mask, hiding the turmoil within.

Using this extra energy takes work. As with any bout of sustained work, I find myself getting tired. It is in these periods of mental fatigue that I am even more prone to waves of uncertainty and fear overwhelming me.

Yet, like all forms of exercise, this cycling, increased use of mental and emotional energy is helping to build internal muscle. For instance, it bothers me less often if I notice someone staring at me. I am sure there will be more surprises on this journey and I will need this extra strength for those moments.

Consistency

As I mentioned in the opening of this blog, humans, unlike computers, are not overly consistent. Even with the same inputs, we can see different reactions within others and ourselves. This can be a source of awe or frustration, but it distinguishes us from the cold calculability of a computer. Circumstances arise which can cause even more inconsistent, unpredictable reactions, such as my current dance with cancer.

Yet through all of this, one thing has been powerfully consistent. The support and encouragement I have received from so many family members, friends and strangers who have become new-found friends. Interwoven through the elevated mental and emotional ups and downs I am experiencing is this amazing level of support to help lift me when I need it. It helps to ensure that my exterior is more often a reflection of what I am really feeling and not simply a mask hiding inner turmoil.

The support people show for each other like many of you have shown for me is beautiful and empowering.

It makes as wonderfully human.