#465: What We Are Not Now

It's getting to the point where I'm no fun any more. I am sorry.

Yesterday's session with Mike, my  therapist was especially difficult. Tearful. Which probably means that we were on to something. Let me try to wrestle with what I think that might have been.

Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud, "I am lonely,"

The tears are evolving. A few weeks ago, they were tears of shame. Tears of grief. Tears of loss. Now, they are tears of fear. Of loneliness. I cry because I feel like an empty cup where love and laughter once overflowed. Then, I grieved for the loss of people I loved. Now I ache in the empty places where they once lived. The suffering is still real, but it carries a kind of hope along with it. Pain can change, can soften over time.

Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other.

Because we are human, we cannot choose but to remember. When the wounds of loss are fresh, reflecting on the past can sting like alcohol on a skinned knee. The pain of remembering is worse, more intense than the pain of the loss itself. It isn't just the emptiness that hurts. It's knowing that those beautiful times are gone and will never be repeated. No, we cannot choose but to ache at those memories, but what we can choose, and time is our friend in this, we can choose how we respond to them. 

Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now. 

And there it is. Stephen Stills' words have been ringing like his guitar in my mind for the past few days. He wrote Suite: Judy Blue Eyes as an expression of his own grief at the imminent loss of his lover. If you let yourself get caught up in the musical hooks of this great song, it feels like a toe tapping celebration. But I hear something more. I hear a man fighting for his life against an enemy I know well.  Depression is a murderer; he is also a liar. One of his favorite lies is that our past and our future are the same. The things that have gone badly for us, the patterns we discern are doomed to repeat themselves. The good we have lost will never return, and whatever good may come in the future is bound to be lost as well. 

Tearing yourself away from me now, you are free and I am crying,

This does not mean I don't love you, I do

That's forever, yes, and for always.

And there is the first part of the answer. Though the loss is forever, so is the love. Depression wants you to believe that the love leaves with the beloved, but that is not true. Love is the force at the center of the universe. God is love. Love, once given, can never be withdrawn. Even when a relationship comes to a stormy, angry end, the love that was set into motion in that relationship remains, like a child born of a short lived romance. Love lives, even without the company of the lover. Presence can come and go. Love is for always.

Something inside is telling me that I've got your secret,

Are you still listening?

Fear is the lock, and laughter the key to your heart

And I love you.

"Fear is the lock..." And so it is. Fear shuts our hearts up tight. Keeps us safe in our fortress. Fear remembers only the hurt, not the love. Fear has not hope for the future, only dread for a past that is fated to repeat itself. But laughter, true laughter shakes the heart's doors open so it can receive the things only an open heart can know. Compassion. Delight. Serenity. Yes, even pain. Only an open heart can be hurt, but the price of letting fear lock up our hearts is so much greater than pain. Because a closed heart has no way for love to come in. And a heart that holds no love is wasted space.

I am yours, you are mine,
You are what you are,
And you make it hard.

The things and people we lose... they are never really gone. If we loved them with truly open hearts, then they changed us, we changed one another in ways that will never go away. Life happens. Tragedy. Happiness. Celebration. Grief. Each moment, no matter how dark or frightening, is a blessing to be savored for itself. If we let fear fix our gaze on yesterdays gone, terrified of tomorrows that have not yet come, then we let our hearts be locked against the beautiful possibilities that today has to offer.

Did I lose a job once? Yes. I can work in fear of losing this one, or I can work with an open, loving heart, drinking every sweet blessing that today's work has to offer.

Did I lose a friend? Yes. Each of us has our own ship with its own course. We travel together for a time, and then life may part us. If we are wise, we will not waste a second of our journey together travelling in fear of separation. Since I'm preaching from the book of Stills today, I'm reminded of another lesson. "Love the one you're with." God sends us people for a time, and sometimes takes them away again. Let the few precious moments we share be filled with laughter and love, not fear.

Have I lost my mind? Yes, I have lost control of my thoughts and emotions. sometimes for weeks at a time. i can look back and see patterns, but my past does not have to be my destiny. Thoughts can change. The way we cope can change. Mike is helping me to understand how my thinking produces the episodes I experience. Is my depression partly orgainic? Yes, probably. But it can be fed and thrive if I keep my heart locked up and fearful. Bad brain chemistry can give me a bad day or two. Bad thinking can send me into the shadows for months. Healthy thinking, loving mindful living can help me to live each moment as it comes, grateful for the blessings of the past without being fearful of the possibilities the future holds. I can learn. I am learning.

We are learning together.

Peace,
Pennsy

#437: Depression is Emotional Cancer

You need a team. Recovering from a severe depression is a long process.

When they found my cancer, they started by cutting the worst of it out. The surgeon cut away a lot of stuff. But they couldn't be sure they'd gotten it all, so the oncologists went back, first with chemo, then with radiation. If they had stopped after the operating table, I would almost certainly be dead by now.

Depression is emotional cancer, and its cells are the thoughts, the mis-beliefs, the lies that live in your head and try to convince you that you are worthless or evil or stupid or incompetent. That you don't deserve happiness. That you don't deserve to be loved. Your Therapist's job is to help you kill these deadly growths before they take over your mind.

But that's only part of the story. There's also engineering to be done. Plumbing gets blocked. Wires get crossed. The chemistry gets out of whack and somebody has to go in there and troubleshoot all the connections. That's where your Psychiatrist comes in.

His job isn't to shrink your head. It's to bust it open with electric shocks and psych med.s Stuff with scary names like Paxil and Valium and Lamictal and Xanax. I've known people who carried pharmaceutical warehouses in their backpacks - loads of this stuff. It's easy to accumulate, because it's hard to find the right combination. The Psychiatrist's job is almost as much art as science. We try this combo and see if it works. If not, we add a pinch of this, a dose of that, and wait and see. It can take months to get it right. And after a few years, your brain can change on its own, like a virus evolving to overcome a vaccine. Sometimes your meds will just stop working all of a sudden, throwing you into a tailspin that can be as life threatening as any carcinoma.

Brain and Mind. Body and Soul. They are so intimately interwoven that it is absurd to try to describe them separately. How to you describe the difference between what you are and who you are? I have a really good team to help me put myself in order. I'll be visiting them both today. It's going to be a long afternoon.

My Therapist is a sort of Buddhist Evangelical Christian who has amazing listening skills, great compassion, and a deep sense of professionalism. He hears my stories. He gives me homework. He cares. He has talked me down from a few ledges over the years, though never one quite as high or narrow as this one.

I met my Psychiatrist during my stay in the mental hospital, back before I became The Famous Cancer Boy Who Didn't Die. He speaks very softly, and always seems to be seeing just a layer or two deeper than the surface. He also listens to my stories. He asks questions. Then he stares at me quietly, sometimes for an uncomfortable length of time. I once worked with a plumber who would squat down and stare at the empty space where a sink or a water heater or a pool filter was supposed to go. He would stare quietly for a long time, not speaking, not writing anything down. When he was ready, he would walk to his truck and start pulling fittings. Within an hour or so, he could assemble a maze of elbows and joints and valves so complex that I couldn't even follow them with my eye. They fit tight, and they worked. He was just that good.

That's the way my doc looks at me. When he is ready, he pulls out his prescription pad and scribbles something on it. Sometimes he hands it to me. Sometimes he calls it in himself. It's often some stuff that I've never heard of before. And it usually works.

Today, after I see my therapist, I'll be visiting the doc for a tune-up. He hasn't seen me this screwed up in a long time, but working in the hospital, I'm sure he's seen worse. I have two hopes for our meeting today. I hope he doesn't say I have to go back to the nut house. And I hope he can use that x-ray vision of his to find my short circuit on the first try.

You can sometimes just wait out a mild depressive episode. A day under the covers or a walk in the sun can be enough to chase the shadows away and make everything look bright again. But you have to treat the big ones differently. You go into this battle knowing that there won't be a quick solution and the one you do find is liable to hurt like hell. Rigorous honesty can be painful. Once the chemistry is right, you have to start telling yourself the truth, and there aren't many people who can stand that for very long. That's one reason so many people never get better. Sometimes its easier to just live with the pain. That's not a luxury I can afford.

People I love are sick and dying. Every day, it seems. I see their faces when I close my eyes and I feel their prayers when they know I'm hurting. I hear their voices when I run. I have a wife to love. Dogs to feed, Miles to log. Money to raise. Tomorrow, there will be more people diagnosed with cancer. More people in pain. More people afraid. Who need to know there's hope. Who need to share the stories. Who need to live strong.

Last night, I talked to Mrs P about all this. All these people. Especially the fallen ones. I am left alive while good men and women are gone. I feel like I have to justify that somehow. I can't live in a world where such things happen for no reason. I feel as if they purchased my life with their own. I owe it to them to be the best man I can.

And that means I have to get well. I have to take the time to get myself healthy so I can go back to work.

C'mon, doc. Let's reach into this rat's nest get these wires untangled. Please?

Peace,
Pennsy

#325: When Cancer Hits the Re-set Button

The University of Kentucky
Arboretum

This was a busy day. I saw my therapist, my throat surgeon, and had a good, short run at the Arboretum. Now we're sitting in the steamy wake of what felt like our first summer storm. It's a beautiful night in the Bluegrass.

Today's run was a strong one. I did two miles in 24:26. One of my goals is to break a 12:00 mile, and I'm slowly sneaking up on that one. My Nike+ sportband says I've already broken that, but I don't really trust it for such short distances. Run/Walk/Run intervals seem to confuse it. I'll wait until I can run a measured mile someplace. In any case, I know I can run at that pace, and hope to use that confidence to run stronger at longer distances.

I felt good during the run, with only a little stiffness in the tender right knee when I finished my cool down walk and got back in the car. By the time I got home though, I was feeling downright gimpy. I went out on the porch with the dogs and an ice bag. We enjoyed the sunshine as the aching subsided. It's still a little weak, but I expect it will be fine in the morning.

Adidas TR2... Not a bad shoe, but
is it the wrong shoe for Pennsy?

I'm really starting to wonder if my Adidas shoes are the problem. The two times my knee has felt really bad after a run, I was wearing them. I bought them from a department store, without the counsel of the geniuses at John's Run/Walk Shop, so I may have just picked up a pair that don't suit me. I'll try the Nikes for Thursday's run, and see if there's any improvement. If so, the Adidas just might turn into my registration for the Running 4 the Sole 5K on the 22nd. They'll make some big-footed trail runner very happy.


Today's visit with Dr. Colin, my ENT surgeon was terrific. My weight is down, My body fat percentage is down, my blood pressure is down, and the endoscope revealed nothing even a little interesting in my nose or throat. Dr Colin was in an unusually talkative mood today. We chatted about my play, (he had seen a picture in the newspaper about the heroic cancer boy.) We discussed my running and my plans for the 10K in July. "It's something I had often thought about doing," I said, "and now I've added it to the list of things I'm not going to put off any more." He smiled talked about how cancer changes your perspective. It is as if the experience hits the re-set button in your life. Cancer unplugged all my circuits and we are in the process of re-booting me. I told him I felt like a cliche, running on about how much I've learned to appreciate live since surviving cancer. He said not to worry about it. There's a little bit of truth in every cliche. That's how they get to be cliches.

We scheduled my 1-year PET/CT scans for next week, with a followup the week after. I think that will be the day where my status will officially switch from "in remission" to "cancer-free." Good old NED. "No Evidence of Disease." I'd say I've got my fingers crossed, but frankly, the possibility of the thing still being there hasn't even occurred to me. We'll see if I can stave off the "scan-ziety" for the days between the tests and the appointment where the Doc reads my radioactive tea-leaves.

The appointment with my therapist, (now a monthly, not a weekly affair,) was a very enlightening one. I realized that I am starting to turn my attention outward. When I was sick, all roads lead to Pennsy. I didn't think about anybody else. I didn't have the energy. All I could think about was getting through the next hour of sleeping or crying or laughing or puking or whatever life had in store for me during those sixty minutes. As my body started to heal, I had to turn my attention to my soul. It had taken a beating during treatment, but was pushed to the back burner while my survival was an open question. Getting back into therapy, back to church, and back to a daily routine were essential parts of healing my soul. Getting back to the theatre was just the prescription for healing my spirit. Now I've done three plays since treatment finished, and I feel like I'm right on track, doing the work God made me to do in this world.

Echo and Narcissus, John William Waterhouse

Which leads me to this morning's epiphany at the head-shrinker. (Mrs P has stopped protesting my use of this term since one of her teen clients referred to her as his "Nut Doctor." That makes "shrink" the official lesser of two evils.) I realized that I've started asking myself what Mrs P needs. The shrink and I talked about the ways I have left her out of the equation of my decisions in the past, and how I might change that behavior going forward. I was so excited that I called her from the parking lot and left a voice mail asking for an "appointment" with her so we could talk some of these things over. We're making plans for the final big push to get moved out of our house, and the project just might turn out to be an opportunity to strengthen our marriage, rather than being a trial by fire. That would be a welcome switch.

Something tells me that the shrink is moving up on Mrs P's Christmas card list.

Peace,
Pennsy

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