I Can’t Tell You That Everything’s Going to be Okay

And if I did, you probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway

When you finish cancer treatment and make it through to the survivor’s club, there’s a bigly question that hangs over your head like a helium balloon anchored by worry.

And unlike those cheapie balloons that pop and bring tears to the eyes of a toddler, this balloon is well, just there.

Floating. Reminding you. Sometimes a blast of wind jerks it around and will not leave you alone. Every tug begs the question:

Will everything be okay?

And like a Russian nesting doll, this is only the beginning of what’s deeper inside.

Will the cancer return? How long will I live? What about my children? What if I lose my insurance coverage?

A little spark of fear triggered by a news report of yet another celebrity taken out by cancer can turn the smoldering pile of questions into a rip-roaring bonfire. Only there’s no marshmallows and well, bloody hell, we all know sugar feeds cancer anyway, right?

The other thing? When you’ve had “The Big C,” your medical records now bear the equivalent of the scarlet letter. Which means EVERY symptom is now subject to the cancer lens. Have a cough? Let’s do an x-ray just to “make sure everything is okay.” Mole? “You really should get that checked.”

My experience has been then when I am in the midst of emotional melt down, helpful reminders of “everything’s going to be okay” only rattle me further. I want to take the shoulders of the bearer of hopeful messages, shake them, and insist on PROOF, dammit!

I want to smack them for being so Pollyanna. I mean, do they really get what I’ve been through?

Tell me the imaging results are going to be good. Tell me I won’t end up on the streets because I can’t work because of health issues. Assure me my future is happy and pain free. Look into your crystal ball and let me know that the medication won’t have horrible side effects. And while you’re at it, I’m worried about my kids, so speak to that too, please.

Oh, the scared mind is unreasonable. As in, you can’t reason with it.

If you tell me the imaging results are statistically speaking, probably okay, I’m going to remind you of the 4% chance of cancer being in both breasts like I had.

Assure me of the increasing survival rates for cancer, and I remember the story of the woman who croaked last month. And she had the same stage and tumor type I had. (Never mind, she was 86 and actually died of a stroke.)

Go on! Tell me everything’s going to be okay when I’m amped up with fear.

I’ll try to believe but it’s tough. It’s more likely my frightened ego is going to engage by arguing the “but here’s the exception…” dialog.

And this is why when I am working with breast cancer survivors as a coach, I am careful using the words “everything will be okay.”

Why? Because I don’t fully understand what “okay” means to them. But I know that as a cancer survivor “okay” often means “tell me the cancer won’t return.”

Oh dear, beloved, frightened one… no one can tell you that. Even the smartest oncologist or the most astounding faith healer.

A universal truth: we are all going to buy the farm one day.

Having dealt with cancer reminds you of this fact. We get a sneak preview of our mortality.

Now this is the part where we’re supposed to realize how short and wonderful this life is and now, we’re going to live life like we’ve never lived before.

I’m going to go skydiving! Start a business that cures societal ills. Become a motivational speaker and inspire profound change in people. My god, man! I’m never going to allow fear holding me back! I’m going to tell my loved ones every day how much I love them.

I beat cancer and became a better person because of it!

Holy shit. That’s a load and a half. Especially with fatigue inducing hormone blockers.

And in the early stages of survivorship, it’s important to feel all the feels. To give yourself ample time to rest and heal. To cry and laugh.

It’s okay to not feel like you’ve become a better person.

Going through cancer treatment is a big fucking deal and we must honor the struggle first. So please ditch any guilt over not being a poster child for (toxic) positivity.

Not dissing those who take the bitter lemons of cancer and turn it into lemonade. We NEED those who’ve been in the belly of the beast to come back and inspire us.

I need to know happiness, fresh starts, and a new lease on life is possible. So, tell me your story of overcoming adversity. Show me how you manage life with a limb missing. Or in my case, with your boobs amputated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Can I tell you everything’s going to be okay?

No. Sorry, I wish I could. Even though I have two tee-shirts that I wear that both proclaim, “Every little thing gonna be alright.” Those are my reminders for my good days. When I’m feeling overwhelmed by anxiety, those tee-shirts stay folded in my drawer. Yeah, yeah. I see the irony. Sometimes, I actually would like to take a pair of scissors to them for feeling like they are taunting me with false hope!

But this is what I can tell you right now with 100% conviction.

Right now… in this present moment… YOU ARE OKAY.

YOU ARE OKAY.

Take a deep breath. Hand over heart. And repeat after me,

I AM OKAY.

Feel the air filling your lungs. Wiggle your fingers. Feel your butt in the chair. Or your feet in your shoes.

Take another deep breath. Blow it out slowly.

Right now, you really are okay. If you are breathing right now, there is more right with you than wrong.

Yeah, I know, it’s not an impressive intervention, is it? But it’s something that all the mystics and wise people tell us and that is to be in the present moment.

The naked now, as Richard Rohr puts it.

Anxiety is always about things in the future than may or may not happen.

And this includes grasping for certainty with the “tell me everything will be okay” assurance.

I find it more helpful to remind them of the adversity they’ve already been through. That they have survived their worst fears are have lived to talk about it.

And I tell them they are not alone. That no matter what shitstorm seems to gather on the horizon, they are not alone.

Burdens can be made bearable when you have help. And help is a question away. Or a statement spoken to a safe person: I need help.

These are the things that I am learning. If I stay in the present moment, I can lovingly and compassionately address the worries when they float by. I don’t need to jump on fear’s bandwagon. The need to cogitate softens.

I can look at that balloon floating over my head and not get carried away by it.

As my healing path continues, I look forward to popping that damn balloon. But for right now, I will accept it. After all, it’s not trying to taunt or torment me. After what I’ve been through, it’s trying to warn me.

But I do not wish to live under a constant threat. It’s true, happiness is a choice. That power to choose lies right next to our foibles and fear tendencies.

It’s a process to reconcile these feelings. Perhaps instead of popping the balloon, I’ll just replace the text with something like, “Need coffee” or “Warning: Contents under pressure” or some witty, smart ass comment. (That feels better!)

In the meanwhile, if you see me out and about, say hello. I’m easy to spot. I’m the one with the balloon floating over my head and a “don’t worry” tee-shirt on my ironing-board flat chest.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.