The grief that’s been holding me for five months begins to crack. I see more light pushing through where the substance gives way. Grieving takes time. A shrouding. A breaking. A healing. New growth finds purchase within me, reaching into the illuminated places. Learning how to laugh and dance and sing and read again, with joy now. Growing into these lightened spaces where cancer doesn’t hang like a black cloud.
I still think about cancer a lot. There’s always an appointment on the horizon and side effects from treatment reminding me of my condition. It’s a long, persistent presence. There’s the uncertainty of what the coming months will bring. I wonder if it will always be this way—if the grieving will someday fade to an hour a day or a week. I wonder how joy will show up tomorrow or in a month. Settling into uncertainty is challenging but something many of us are learning. Treasuring the present. Dreaming a tomorrow. Taking small steps.
It’s been said many times, but the holidays are challenging for people moving through grief. There are many ways it manifests. For me, the absence of the usual joy that giving brings me and the burden it places on my scattered chemo-brain has been a struggle. Missing holiday gatherings that are too risky for my immune system sucks (not that these are happening with Covid, to be honest). I desperately want to spend time in the warm lakes of companionship. All of this is on top of navigating ever-colder weather that I’m painfully sensitive to because of chemo.
While laughter touches more of my days, I broke down last week. Thursday evening was set aside for card writing and present wrapping. My heart was heavy, and the usual joy these activities bring was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t concentrate, and even the simple task of signing my name felt overwhelming. I hadn’t planned carefully, and I sensed cards were in short supply. It was too much. I found myself shaking and crying. Thank goodness for my excellent partner. Even though it was late, he and I decided to go to the mall before it closed and see Christmas lights. The first display we saw was the twinkling moose standing at least twelve feet high. We marvelled and enjoyed it. After leaving the mall, we drove through the community, catching glimpses of decorated houses and inflatable figurines propped up on lawns and balconies. It was an act so small, but it broke me out of the doldrums this time. I’ve since been to two more malls for holiday decor admiration. It’s silly, but it’s helping. I’m surprised at what aids me to move forward. I hold a compassionate space for myself to explore these salves.
Today, I’m doing good. Despite the lengthening nights of winter, the light is coming through the cracks. I am connecting with friends, dancing, and singing most days. I’m finding more balance. Not every day is this way, but I’ll take it when it comes and enjoy the rays as they come through.
Kat Dornian 