stress mess

"Stress is nothing more than a socially acceptable form of mental illness."

Richard Carlson

I had an appointment to see Dr. Ingrey today, to get results of my CT Scan last Friday, but I cancelled. Today is not a good day. I've got the killer headache and fatigue that's been with me for over a month now, I'm queasy, lightheaded, dizzy and my ears are ringing. Perhaps not wise to head out to hurtle down the highway at 80 kph, wondering if I'm going to pass out before reaching my destination and maybe driving a bit faster so I don't before I do.

Dr. Ingrey phoned to say that no brain tumours showed up on the scan (dizzy or not, I did a little happy dance in my head over this news). He explained that the headache is likely caused by stress from having cancer and anticipation of my next surgery. My headache is all in my head.

This is good news, but puzzling. I've had my share of stressful jobs, relationships and situations, but I thrive on stress and always have. I embrace it and glory in it, love the challenge and excitement of it. In fact, I can remember times when I probably went looking for it.

As publisher and editor of the Harbour Spiel for 15 years, I was regularly faced with deadlines and responsibility for material that might get me sued, or at least result in half the people in town pissed at me. I get a thrill out of taking risks. I've never had headaches, unless self-inflicted by lack of sleep along with excessive sauvignon blanc, cigarettes and joints the night before.

There is no reason for headaches today. Several years ago I sold the Spiel and toned down my consumption of unhealthy substances to the occasional glass of fine wine with dinner. I'm not stressed by work because I have almost none, just making minor updates to information and uploading the occasional banner ad for Pender Harbour Online.

I've had a comfortable, stable relationship with the same man for nearly 20 years, and he will stay with me after surgery until I tell him to go back to his apartment in Port Coquitlam, back to work at the shipyard. No stress there.

Fraser, my old cat, disappeared last month and I think he became a meal for a litter of coyote cubs, as has been the fate of so many cats in the area. I worried how he would make out while I was in hospital for a couple of weeks with only a friend stopping by once a day to fill his dishes on the kitchen floor. I miss him terribly, but now I don't worry about him. Even less stress in my life.

Maybe I'm stressed out because I don't have any stress? Oh, wait. The cancer. Almost forgot about that. And the upper left lung lobectomy on Tuesday morning. Hmmmm. Being sick and tired of being sick and tired for well over a year now. Still not having a clear diagnosis of the cancer in my bone marrow, spleen and lymph nodes. Still not knowing the stage of my lung cancer. Well, maybe.

Okay, I'm stressed out.

I'm stressed out because I have cancer and my expectations of the Cancer Agency have crashed. I don't know if this surgery on Tuesday is the right decision, and I never will. So, let's look at it rationally. What's the worst thing that could happen? I'll die. And why is that a bad thing?

It will be sad for the people who care for me, but it won't be a bad thing for me. It will likely be a good thing, because that will be the end of any "discomfort" as the doctors like to say, and diminished quality of life.

Oh, and the stress will certainly be relieved. I'll be dead, so I won't need anything, want anything, miss anything, regret anything or ever again get annoyed at a telephone solicitor. Happily I'm an atheist, so I won't be faced with eternity burning in hell for my sins. It's all good.

But, I'm still stressed. I suppose I'm a tad anxious about the "discomfort" of having my ribs pulled apart to rip out most of the rest of my lung, that ghastly drainage tube and a lifetime of lessened breathing capacity and physical activity. But, I'm psyched to have it done.

After all, I thrive on stress.