the five stages of stupid

A cancer diagnosis will, at least, get your attention, not unlike like a smack upside the head with a brick. If you could visualize the feeling, you'd see yourself as one of those cartoon characters who gets run over by a steamroller, flattened to a quarter-inch thick on the blacktop. But, toons have an easier time peeling themselves back up to carry on with the show.

People normally react with denial, bargaining, anger, sadness and, finally, acceptance. These are the classic five stages of grief, coined in 1969 by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in her book, On Death and Dying. They occur in any loss.

You grieve at the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship and the loss of physical possessions, such as having your house destroyed by fire or your Harley Davidson stolen. And, the stages of grief are set in motion with the diagnosis of a potentially fatal disease.

I was lucky, I immediately went into shock and remained that way (with no small amount of help from Ativan and morphine), until I could work through the five stages of grief in a calm and reasonable manner. Here's how it went: 

Denial - Oh, but I can't have cancer, not me. Okay, that's just inane. You have cancer and you know it, so move on to the next stage. 

Bargaining - If I survive this, if I can only get better, I promise I will...
Promise what? Give up eating chocolate? Give up wearing wool socks? Dance around a fire naked while howling at the moon? Don't be silly. Nobody cares. Nobody wants to make a deal. Nobody can make a deal. You have cancer. 

Anger - I'm mad that I have cancer, that it wasn't diagnosed sooner, that I've been unable to work, that I may have to have surgery and chemo, that I may be sick for a long time, that I may die. I'm mad at the medical profession, mad at everyone who doesn't have cancer, mad at myself and mad at the world. I'm mad at cigarettes, mad at the pollution in the mill-town where I grew up, mad at the Vancouver smog that I breathed for ten years and mad at the additives in food. There now, doesn't that feel better? No? Well, sorry, it's one of the stages and you have to go through it. Don't get mad at me, I didn't write the damned book!

Sadness - This is the one that I got stuck at for about two weeks, until I realized that I had absolutely nothing to be sad about. Worst-case scenario, I die. Well, I was going to die anyway, and everyone has to die of something. Would I be happier if I was to be murdered by a crazed psychopath? How 'bout being killed in a horrible car crash, is that cheerier? Struck dead by a piece of falling space debris? There really doesn't seem to be a happy way to die. There's not an app for that.

Acceptance - I have cancer, but cancer isn't the problem. The problem is the realization that I'm not going to live forever, that I may not be here next year, or the year after, or ten years from now. I'm hardly worried about burning in hell after death, or worried about being subjected to harp music and dead relatives for eternity (although some of those dudes in the Philadelphia Cream Cheese commercials are kinda hot). I know that some people will miss me, and that I'll be missing out on life but, really, I'll be dead. I will have no perception of sorrow. I simply won't be here. 

So, let's move on, shall we? I feel reasonably well and there's no reason why I can't get as much pleasure from the things I enjoy as I did a year ago. Later this week, I need to get my truck insured so I can go for coffee at the Java Docks, head out on a sunny day to take pictures and go for lunch with a friend at Garden Bay Pub. Spring is just about here, so I can start planning my garden. My Pender Harbour website needs updating, and I'm itching to go back to work at the Village Vintner-- I seriously need to make some money. 

And, as weird as it sounds, cancer is my new hobby, a damned interesting one. I look forward to spending time on it, learning as much about it as I can.