Permanent Bruises

Everyone deals with pain differently.

I once heard someone say something along the lines of: you may be in a full body cast and look over to see someone who’s lucky enough to be in an arm cast, but the pain is the same. 

I don’t hate that idea. I think it’s beautiful and empathetic and intrinsically enveloping and friendly. But ultimately the person in the body cast can be as graceful as graceful gets, but at some point in their pain, they are going to look over at the person in the arm cast complaining or begging for a dose of morphine—the same morphine that doesn’t put a dent in their own pain, by the way—and say something far more explicit than, “you don’t know the half of it, buddy.”

We live in a very suppressive culture. People see keeping things to yourself and not airing out your various grievances with the Lord Almighty in public as graceful or brave. They view unbridled optimism as inspirational. And they are shocked by kindness from someone in the midst of immense grief, so they call it impressive.

Many people have told me that I have been graceful. I think that’s only because they don’t have a key to my apartment. The full-fledged moments of panic, grief and anger. The rage and fear that drives an inherently cynical, stubborn person like me to my knees more than once is inexplicable. I don’t recall a single time before we found out that the cancer had metastasized to Mom’s liver that I had ever gotten on my knees on the floor of my bedroom and wept, begging God out loud just to hear me. You’re tempted to bargain with God. You’re tempted to tell Him how wrong he is, and sometimes maybe I even did. I don’t think he so much as blinked though. Sometimes (often) I pray very similar to the way that I write—without a filter knowing I’ll have to ask God to forgive the various expletives later. After all, it doesn’t matter how much I backspace,  He still knew what I was going to type whether it made it to black and white or not.

I don’t know that I can fairly or eloquently express my opinion on unbridled optimism, but I certainly don’t see it as having a place in my journey alongside cancer or in grief. I will say that terms like “fighting cancer,” “cancer battle,” “cancer journey,” “you can beat this,” “warrior,” “won/lost her battle” and many others make me sick. Cancer is a disease. You don’t exactly choose to engage it. Those who die with cancer still in their body didn’t lose any metaphorical battle. They lost their life; and most likely, people lost them. 

And while we’re on the topic, if you want to use a stupid metaphor to make yourself more comfortable, I submit to you some more proper terminology: WAR. Battles are instances that occur within a bigger conflict. The idea of labeling cancer as a battle when half the time it lasts longer than the War of 1812 just doesn’t cut it. Diagnosis is a battle. Chemo is a battle. Losing your hair and your vanity is a battle. Surgery is a battle. Recovery is a battle. Getting used to your new body is a battle. Radiation is a battle. Burns are a battle. Tissue loss and damage is a battle. Scans are a battle. Depression is a battle. The health care system is a battle. The hospital stays are battles. The waiting is a battle. So I can’t help but burn the pink ribbon purely because of the attitude behind it. Cancer isn’t a battle, it’s as good as a fully declared war. 

But if you insist on using your inaccurate analogy, I’m still going to have to correct you if you imply my mom is a loser by saying she “lost her battle.” 

That sounds harsh, and I truly have never felt that anyone who engages with that very well known metaphor was anything other than well-intended and kind. It’s really not the people who say it to you. They’re fine; they just care about you. They want to ask how it’s going. They want to invest in you. It’s not their fault. It’s the pervasiveness of the message within media and culture when the truth is that a lot of those words can become pretty hurtful. A lot of those cliches become grating. The cancer commercials with the beautiful women living their best lives because of miracle drugs or whatever else became infuriating to the point Mom would groan, roll her eyes and begin talking back to the TV. 

People fight for their lives. Mom had so many plans. The way that she talked about what she was going through was not about fighting cancer. It was always about fighting for her family. Fighting for the years she had left. Fighting for her kids, grandkids and even her dogs. It wasn’t about cancer. It was about being able to see the rest of her plans through, becoming more intentional with her life, crocheting more blankets, making it to my wedding, and just being at the table at Christmas again.

As far as being kind—anyone can do it. It’s a choice.

As far as being brave—anyone can do it, but you’re lucky if you get to choose it. For the most part, you have to be brave when you’re called to it. It’s a mindset of doing it anyway, faking it till you make it and figuring out how you’re going to handle it on the fly.

I think a lot about talking to her. I think that’s what I miss the most. 

You would think it was mostly on bad days or in the moments that I just can’t take the grief anymore. And it is. But it’s also the good things that she would’ve been the first to know. I really want to ask her what they heck she would do about the allergy symptoms my dog has. I want to know what she’d do differently than my Benadryl routine and if she’d use the itchy spray I bought at Target on her face or if that’s a bad idea. I really want to tell her things about my job or people I know. I want to complain about the A/C in my apartment going out at random. I want to show her the clothes I bought and watch stupid TV with her. I mean, I would probably get hit by a bus for a 30 minute episode of Jeopardy or putting her through the misery of listening to my commentary on local news stories that shouldn’t be making headlines because they’re literally not important at all because “holding the powerful accountable” does not mean busting meter maids overdoing their ticketing. Also, why do female meteorologists always get it wrong and wear a patterned dress? Girl, you blend right into that map. Your left hip is a cold front in Florida. Get it together.

Pain is as individualized as it is universal. It’s the reason that men can’t handle a head cold and women can work through it. It’s the reason that some people enjoy Crossfit and others know that it’s a form of torture created by the same people that started the rumor that running could give you a high. We’re all different, therefore our pains are different. 

I’m reminded of this exchange from Nurse Jackie:

Zoey:   Do you think there's a finite amount of pain in the world? Like if I take a thorn out of someone's hand, does that pain have to go somewhere else?

Jackie:   Yes, that's why there's drugs.

It is worth mentioning that not only is Jackie a nurse, but she’s also an addict, which makes that statement a bit of a double entendre. But it still bears repeating.

One time I bruised a bone in my foot. I was working retail, and I dropped a super heavy metal display arm on the top of my foot. After weeks of not being able to wear anything but my trusty Uggs, I finally went to a walk-in clinic. I swore I was going to have a fracture of some sort, but it was just a bruise on the bone.

For months after my most dangerous klutz moment of that particular year, I was still icing my foot and trying to elevate it after work. At the time, I was working 50-60 hour weeks, being on my feet quite a bit. Every time I thought it was starting to heal, it would sneak back up on me. 

In the same vein, one of my favorite songs by my favorite bands is called “Sometimes I Still Feel the Bruise.” It’s about a break up in which the writer compares the pain of loss to a bruise that never really heals. You think you’re feeling better until the thought of them crosses your mind. And then, there it is again—you feel the wound just as deeply as you once did.

Grief is a lot like dropping a really heavy stupid thing on your foot. You keep thinking you’re better, but you wear a certain pair of shoes, you stumble into a whirlwind of thoughts, sadness or memories, and suddenly you’re limping again. Sometimes it can happen in as short and benign of a time as my seven or eight minute drive to work. Sometimes I admittedly work myself into it and can’t seem to untangle myself from the nostalgia that resounds within the deep ache that pops up so easily in my every day life.

People keep saying it’ll get better.

I guess it might.

But in all reality, God treated us pretty kind. He allowed us to grieve her while she still had breath, and he took her home just after it had become completely and totally unbearable.

I guess it might get better. But in all reality, it won’t change. 

We will change over time. We will evolve and grow and do new things and meet new people and have new experiences. But the world will never really get better because the world won’t have her in it ever again, but maybe we can get better because we know she’s still in us through memories, love and remembrance. Maybe there aren’t just remnants around us, but instead we ourselves are remnants too.