Room for Grief

I am nervous.

Nervous to attempt to dip into blogging again, after such a long time away. Nervous to write and have no audience. And yet, who do I write for, really? I cannot ignore my humanness, and my need for connection and validation. Though truth be told, over the last year or two I have built close relationships where my messiness is welcomed, my vulnerability celebrated, my hardship honored. Relationships where connection and validation bloom. So it’s not that I am lacking these things, although I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a bit of it here on this platform.

But the reason I’ve picked up the metaphorical pen again, is actually to connect with myself again. To let myself travel my inner terrain and acknowledge the complexity that exists within. To salute the dark and scary parts, to soothe scared parts, to celebrate the resilient parts.

There have been a number of ideas that have visited me over the last few months, ideas I thought I would dance with and write about. And I may still. But there is something more pressing on my mind. Something that is begging for exploration, expression.

I am nervous to blog about this because, although it feels big and scary to me, I recognize that others have it worse. That my drama would be a dream to someone else. But as I have counseled many others before, I remind myself as I write this, that my hardship is valid just as it is. That it need not be compared to the hardship of others. That naming my hardship may give permission to others to honor their own hardship. And in the middle of this hardship, recognizing my privilege within it, although vulnerable, also validates the disadvantages of others.

This story starts in the summer of 2022, during my travels in beautiful British Columbia. Those 7 months of solo travel were filled with adventure, and lots of time outdoors. I don’t quite remember when or where, but at some point I was preparing for an activity, applying sunscreen to my upper back, using a mirror to help me see the area, when I noticed a dark spot on a mole I had had for a long time. Hmm, I remember thinking, not good. I told myself I’d keep an eye on it, and would bring it up to my family doctor when I was back in my home province.

Over the following months, I’d peak at my back every once in a while, that little dark spot still there, until eventually I thought I could see it growing a bit in size.

It wasn’t until a routine medical visit in January 2023 that I brought it up to my family doctor. She agreed it looked suspicious, and referred me to a dermatologist nearby. During the few weeks of waiting, I casually talked about it with my partner and family, half-joking when I would say “can you imagine if this was melanoma?”

I saw the dermatologist in February, only a few short weeks after my family doctor referred me. She agreed it looked suspicious too, telling me it was likely a displastic mole, meaning an irregular mole, but not something to be concerned with. She performed a quick shave biopsy (it’s as gross as it sounds) and told me she’d call with the result. All good, I told myself. That day was valentine’s day, my partner and I’s first year anniversary, so my main concern was whether I’d be fit for some celebratory sex later that evening.

It took two months for the result to come back. My dermatologist called me twice during that period, assuring me the result would be in, but that the pathology lab had some delays. I remember thinking she was a bit of an anxious type, to be calling me to reassure me, when I wasn’t too worried about it.

Her third call was on a Thursday, I just happened to be out for a walk on my lunch break, listening to a podcast, when the audio paused and the ringing came through my ear buds. I took my phone out of my bag, recognizing the clinic ID, and pleasantly answered.

My dermatologist introduced herself and said she had the results. Yes, I said, I was expecting your call. She then asked me where I was, and I immediately felt my world come to a stop.

My vision narrowed. My heart seemed to pause as did my breath. I felt my chest squeeze, my stomach freeze. In that moment, I knew I had cancer.

I told her I was out for a walk. She asked if I was alone, if I had a place to sit down, or if maybe I want to go home and call her back when I was somewhere calm. No, I told her, I already know what you are going to tell me, so you may as well go ahead and say it.

She went on to say that the mole had indeed been identified as melanoma.

She explained that it was graded as type 1b, meaning that we had caught it early. She told me this would likely be a once in a lifetime thing, that it would just be this one cancerous mole, and that it would be unlikely to have any long term repercussions on my life. But as she talked, I struggled to breathe, gasping, crying, struggling to make sense of all the information.

She continued and explained the next steps. Telling me I would have to go back to see her soon, for a full body exam to see if there were any more suspicious moles. She told me I would need further excision, as well as a sentinel lymph node biopsy, to ensure that cancer had not spread to my lymphatic system. We booked an appointment for the following Monday, and she asked if I was okay.

Through my sobs, I told her I understood, and that I’d be okay. She asked if I was home yet, but I told her I had decided to keep walking, since it was helping me stay present and process everything. We hung up, and there I was, wandering the streets of centertown, processing the fact that I had cancer.

I have always wondered how it would feel, to learn that one has cancer. I had thought about it many times before, but I suppose we never really expect it to happen to us. To be honest, even though it’s been almost 3 months since the diagnosis, it often still does not feel real, as if it is happening to someone else, rather than to me.

Granted, I am a “lucky” one. A few people (my family doctor included) minimized the seriousness of it by telling me they knew of people who had survived melanoma, downplaying it to a minor inconvenience, nothing to worry about. In fact, my family doctor literally told me that it was not “the end of the world”.

I am not stupid. In fact, I hold more medical knowledge than the average person. Rationally, I fully grasp the minimal chances of this becoming a metastatic cancer, and even lower chances of it killing me.

That knowledge and that minimizing just makes it harder to hold and honor my emotional reaction to this experience. It blunts the process of grieving I so desperately need. It does not make room for the complexity of being a human in a fucked world with a scary diagnosis.

Maybe I sound angry. And I suppose I am. Is it that I am in the anger phase of the grieving process? Maybe- then even more reason to let me feel my feels, and avoid minimizing my experience.

I think my anger and my grief about this cancer is actually mixed in with my anger and my grief about the lack of emotional capacity in our culture. The lack of emotional room I have been offered throughout my life for my big sensitive heart. I don’t want to breeze over these things, no matter how insignificant they may seem to some.

Maybe me picking up the metaphorical pen again is my way of claiming the room I need for my emotional process at this time. Blogging in the past, especially in 2019 and 2020, was definitely the best place for me to honor my feelings in the midst of chaos. A way for me to give myself some space.

So how beautiful it is to be back here, just me, myself and I, my thoughts, my feelings, my stories. Oh and of course, you are welcome to join me on this journey, should you so wish!