Anticipatory Grief

 I think about being in a storm, not quite sure where you are or what's the correct direction; what, in fact, to do.

I think about the advice, told in so many ways and by so many people, not to focus on the past or worry about the future, but simply to focus on the present moment.

I remind myself that control is an illusion and that life will play out regardless of my input. I can control all sorts of little outcomes but the big outcomes, other people's decisions, for example, are well beyond my control.

I think the tough part for me is not knowing, are we going backwards or forwards?

For the vast majority of people with cancer, there is a team who supports. The person may not take all the advice offered by them, but overall, there's a strategy in place, often a cocktail of strategies, and thus there is a plan. 

My husband has tended towards being a lone ranger in so many capacities and his cancer journey is no different. He doesn't want me at the appointments with the oncologist - says the guy is too dark and there is no upside in me hearing what he has to say - and thus I don't have the opportunity to hear what he has to offer.

I find myself listening for the bits and pieces of information offered to me, trying to make sense of them, sort of attempting to put them together to see if I can make a tapestry. 

I cannot honestly say if I know or even think, if he is going forwards or backwards because the information I have is too disparate and even contradictory.

I have noticed that I am feeling numb about it all, perhaps I am not sitting with any story that could or would ground me. I mentioned this to AI and the response was that numbness is to be expected, a way of coping. I suppose it is. If you don't have the data what else is there to do?

I think when it 'all falls apart' there's a solace and a strength that comes from a return to meditation and to the sense of equanimity in meditation. When I was guiding meditation groups, I almost always used the imagery of taking two steps back from the mind so you could observe it more clearly. This immediately puts one in the seat of the witness and in that seat the mind quite naturally starts to slow a bit. You can see the thought(s), almost like picking something up in your hand. 

In fact, it occurred to me just now, it's a companionable thing to do too. There's you, the compassionate observer, and there's the mind, dancing not too graciously.

When I was in Bali last year, the love meditation my husband and I did in a group had a very lasting impression on me. If I need comfort I go back to that room in my mind. We were invited to feel into the deepest love we had for another person and then, with the most divine music playing, to take that love and give it to ourselves. This was a magical moment for me and so I repeat it alone as required. I pour the love inside myself, like taking a jug of healing water and pouring it over my body.

It's a strange walk, the cancer experience, both for the person with cancer and the person accompanying the person with cancer. AI called it 'anticipatory grief' and encouraged me to reach out to a group of people going through a similar experience. I will think about it.