Hope vs. Fear

I've often wondered if it's hope or fear that has propelled me through my cancer treatments. Every time someone tells me I'm brave and courageous, I don't really understand why they think that. They must not know me very well. I don't feel brave. And I haven't felt courageous on any level throughout this ordeal. 

Unless you count the moments I have walked into a hospital for surgery. I hesitated at the door each time. My hands were shaking and I struggled not to cry. I didn't want to walk through the door. I dreaded and feared what was about to happen to me. The fear of dying from cancer is what made me walk through that door. Not courage.

The same thing happened when I first went to the cancer center after my initial diagnosis. For long minutes, I couldn't get out of the car to go in for my appointment. All I could do was stare at the sign on the building, hyper-focusing on the word CANCER thinking "how did I get here"?

What I have felt is a lot of fear. I am no stranger to fear. When my husband left years ago, fear set in and I don't believe it ever really left me. Fear of managing on my own. Of parenting on my own. Of making life altering decisions on my own.

In reality, I haven't done so badly. I sold a house, moved to a new city, bought a new house, educated my child, got a new job after a layoff in the midst of the worst recession ever, and learned to navigate the world by myself. Then, I got cancer.

You hear a lot about hope when you have cancer. All the overdone sayings like "Fight like a girl". Maybe I'm missing something, but I haven't really felt much of the fighting spirit the last 6 months. I've done what I needed to do. But not out of a sense of not letting cancer "win". 

It's all been out of a sense of FEAR. It's been out of a feeling that if I don't have the surgery, I will die an awful death from cancer. If I don't do the chemo, my cancer will spread to my brain or my spine or my liver, and I'll die a terrible death. It's not that I don't want to die. I just don't want a long painful protracted death. I want to die in my sleep. Don't we all, eh?

I've thought a lot about my son. I don't want him to have to take care of me. A senior in college, he is about to start his life for real. The last thing I want him doing at age 23 is taking care of a dying mother.

Going into the next phase of my treatment, the mastectomy and reconstruction, I am already feeling the dread. Dread of a difficult surgery and recovery. Really....it probably won't be that bad. But somehow I can't seem to replace the fear with hope and courage.

There must be some trick to that....