I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – the mental side of this cancer thing is so much harder than the physical (and the physical is pretty freakin’ bad).

I’ve officially completed round five of six of this first set of chemotherapy (FOLFOX) and when they say the effects are cumulative, they’re not lying. Nausea has continued to be kept at bay with meds, but my disinterest in food continues and the fatigue is next-level. 

Many people ask me what the fatigue feels like. It doesn’t feel like sleepiness—in fact oftentimes I can’t nap. It feels more like lead. Everything is heavy. It’s difficult to move. My brain won’t really fire. Things like that.

Other symptoms that are progressing are things like tingling and numbness with cold exposure, continued hair thinning, mild mucositis, and I’m sure I’m forgetting others (like brain fog?).

Let’s dig in to some of the harder stuff:

Mental Health

One carry-over from the Beforetimes that I think is making this cancer thing particularly hard is that I’m lacking some foundational things that support mental health—namely, a “why.” A purpose.

Many people describe their why in relation to their kids, their families, their work. I have no kids, no family of my own, and no career, which leaves a pretty massive void in the “why” department.

So I’m left with two options:
Get used to the void.
Or try to find another “why” in the middle of all this.

The irony is not lost on me that one of the first books I read this time last year after moving into the townhouse where I now live was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. The premise can largely be summed up by the Nietzsche quote Frankl popularized: “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

Frankl applied that philosophy to surviving the concentration camps during World War II.

And, full disclosure, I had to stop reading the book halfway through because it was too heavy for my mind to handle at the time—since the move was my first post-separation. 

Feels a little ironic to revisit now in the midst of two cancers.

Long story short: heading into this dual-cancer diagnosis, I did not have a why. And my mental health was already crap.

Now that the survival stakes are higher, I very truly believe the lack of a why has become straight-up dangerous for me. I experience it as a threat to my survival.

All of this is to say: when I met with Dr. Cannon, my colorectal oncologist, before last week’s infusion, I told him I’m depressed, my mental health is tanking, and I need something to look forward to. I need, for my mental health, to be able to plan things.

Unlike our last meeting, this time I pushed a little harder for clarity around next steps and possible timelines so I could at least begin crafting a short-term vision for my future.

The good news is that the second I said the word “depressed,” he locked in.

Solid eye contact for the rest of the meeting. Questions like, “Would it stress you out too much to think about X?” Giving me a little homework assignment of side-effects for surgery and now possible radiation to research so that when we have more data about the efficacy of the chemo, I can make informed decisions quickly.

And best of all: his language.

Or maybe more accurately, the language game we started playing together.

Which leads me to:

Mindset

Gurl. The mindset behind this thing is wild.

If you’ve been reading for a while, you know there’s no question in my mind that I’m beating this thing.

Both of these things.

Here are a few snippets of how that mindset showed up on infusion day last week:

Dr. Cannon: “If the MRI comes back and the tumor is small or nearly gone—”
Me, with dead-on eye contact: “—which it will be—”
Dr. Cannon: “—we could do radiation instead.”

Dr. Cannon: “If the results come back and are A+—”
Me: “—and they will be—”
Dr. Cannon: “—then we can…”

And then my personal favorite:

Dr. Cannon: “They’re building a new cancer center in Landmark. You and I will meet there when you’re in remission.”

Language matters, you guys.
A lot.
A hell of a lot.

Dr. Cannon also asked how icing has been going.

(If you haven’t been following along, this refers to the ice gloves and booties I wear for two hours during chemo while the Oxaliplatin drug is being administered. The icing is meant to reduce the risk of neuropathy.)

I told him it’s been going well. That I actually like it.

It reminds me of cold plunging.

Leading up to all of this, I had been cold plunging regularly—several times a week for about five months.

He asked why I liked it.

I told him: because it reminds me I can do hard things.

I told him I’ve developed a little ritual during this part of the infusion.

When they start the Oxaliplatin, I slide on my gloves and booties, pull a blanket over my core, put in my AirPods, and turn on a playlist one of my O2X coworkers made for me.

Then, for an hour, I lay back, listen to the music, and think about how grateful I am.

I am grateful I get to participate in modern medicine.
I am grateful to receive something helping me beat cancer.
I am grateful for this playlist and the person who made it for me.
I am grateful for my entire O2X crew—a whole slew of people who helped teach me the importance of the exact things that helped get me strong enough, in body and mind, to beat this.

Gratitude is the antidote to most negative thinking.

And I’m not talking about toxic positivity—there is no room for that in my life.

I mean genuine gratitude that exists alongside the suck.

I also think about my O2X crew.

The people who helped pull me through after my divorce.

The rooms I got to be in more often—alongside some of the best and strongest people I know—talking about what it takes to survive, to live, to thrive.

People who literally went to combat over and over again and walked out the other side.

And who now reach out to make sure I’m still going. To make sure I’m ok.

The people who inspired me to cold plunge in the first place.

And little did any of us know what I would end up training for.

I also tell myself the same things I’d tell myself while cold plunging:

—Your body knows exactly what to do. Let it.
—You are safe here.
—Feel the sensation, don’t resist it.
—Tap into an area of your body where there is warmth.
—This is temporary.
—Feel the sensation of your breath.

Then we swap the gloves and booties after an hour, and I either chat with my mom or repeat the above.

And then two hours is up.

And another hard thing has been done—another rep is in the books.

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To listen to an audio version of this on Spotify, click here. To listen on Apple Podcasts, click here.

The previous diagnosis and treatment update post can be found in the archives here.

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