Two cancers for the price of one

My head’s reeling.  I’ll keep it short.  My dad’s brain cancer isn’t just brain cancer.  Or, rather, my dad has an entirely separate additional cancer.  How does that happen?

Glioblastoma multiforme diagnosed in September; adenocarcinoma of the intestines diagnosed today.

Not sure where I’m going with this, other than marking it.  Waving the white flag.  Settling onto those words “palliative” and “hospice.”  Waiting for the end.

Finding me

How many times have I made promises to write more?  To return to the blogosphere?  To reinvigorate my Twitter presence?  Too many.  Far too many if you count the silent thoughts that went unrecorded.  So, this is definitely not me making more promises I won’t keep…

But, I had a realization yesterday.  As I sat with my therapist and reviewed dad’s health (re-hospitalized, poor, and fading), N’s sleeping (non-existent), my marriage (strained), my career (overwhelming), and my health (rocky and ignored), she said something that surprised me.  As much as I’ve come to respect and embrace my need for our sessions, I’ve still always subconsciously conceptualized therapy as a highly narcissistic thing.  What could be more self-centered than an hour exploring the self?  So it felt out of left field when she observed that I seem the happiest when I’m helping others.  Was this just a compliment to help walk me back from the edge that’s become my life?  Had I really fooled her into thinking of me as this give give giver?

But, then, I really mulled it over.  Who am I now?  Who am I beyond a grieving daughter and proud mother?  What makes me me?  What makes me happy?

It’s then that I realized that, where others have hobbies, I have the cause of infertility.  The drive to help the young and chronically ill.  To walk others through the minefield that is an undifferentiated autoimmune diagnosis.  And, I miss that part of me.

Infertility can never be “cured,” but it can recede into the shadows.  It absolutely has for me, especially since the tumult of September.  And, a large part of what makes me me went with it.

I miss my RESOLVE support group.  I miss who I was when I was sitting in the front of that often very crowded hospital conference room.  I miss discussion forums and surprise questions from Facebook acquaintances and teary phone calls from women’s whose menstrual cycles I knew as well as my own.  Being an infertility advocate was my club sport, my crafting, my recreational time.  It’s left an odd void.

Yet, my relationship with infertility is still forever changed thanks to my son.  I can’t go back and feel those feelings as deeply, as wholly, and as painfully as I once did.  They, too, are shadows of what they once were.  And that makes me feel like an intruder in my own identity.  A fraud.

I need to rediscover my role in this community.  Because, yes, my therapist is right.  No past time makes me smile brighter or cry harder than advocating for the rights and opportunities of young women facing infertility and autoimmune disease.

In a wonderful stroke of coincidence, this realization has dawned just as announcements of RESOLVE’s Advocacy Day 2015 hit the airwaves.  I can’t fully commit to attending just yet – my life is a whirl of unanswered questions thanks to cancer – but I pledge now to try and make it this year.  Won’t some of you join me?