Stage Five

There are a few very specific bits of information you become intimately familiar with when someone you love receives the unfortunate diagnosis of cancer.  How to make milkshakes chock full o' nutrition when they lose their appetite during chemo treatments.  What amount of fever sustained in the midst of treatment should make you jump up and head to the emergency room.  Who to consult about the true meaning of "5-year survival statistics".  And, last but not least, how the cancer is staged.  In summary:

Stage 0 = carcinoma in situ (keep checking in with your doc, but happy you've dodged a bullet.)
Stage 1 = localized cancer to one part of body (damn you are lucky, it's local!  Celebrate with a toast.)
Stage 2 = locally advanced cancer (We can get it all out and you get to keep your body parts!)
Stage 3 = more intense local advancement (Houston, we have a problem.  Bring out the big guns.)
Stage 4 = metastasized (All hell has broken loose. Docs play Russian Roulette for as long as they can.)
Stage 5 = The aftermath (Recovery from cancer staging, PICC lines, Resource Breeze and blood gas tests.)

Ok, so you probably know that Stage 5 does not really exist.  At least, not in the clinical reference manuals of your local oncologist's office.  But Stage 5 seems very fitting for the after-effects of surviving the loss of a loved one to cancer.  There is just SO MUCH going on when you are in the midst of a cancer fighting crisis.  Stage 5 is YOUR recovery, the work to be done once the fighting and the crisis are over.

The extensive work of a very dedicated psychiatrist named Elizabeth Kubler-Ross yielded her book On Death and Dying in 1969.  In this writing, she proposed the now infamous Five Stages of Grief, which are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  More recent studies have explored her stages and some affirm them, though other studies have not determined that there is ever a clear end to grieving.  I am here to tell you that once stage 4 is over, life does not magically go back to normal and coping with loss is not a well-scripted act that you can quickly read through.  Nope.  Instead of the patient doing the work of fighting, the ball has now rolled into your court and its your turn to do the hard work.  Experts in the field call this psychological process of coping with significant loss "grief work", and I can tell you from personal experience not to ignore it.  Neither the passage of time, nor the softening of painful memory heal you after your loved one's death.

After my mom's death, I failed to complete the grieving process for an extended time.  Losing her fragmented my existence, my reality, my hopes and dreams.  There were so many thoughts running through my brain - altogether different and yet simultaneous - wishing she were still here, denying the permanency of her absence, hoping to deal with the terrible feelings and also wishing to avoid all emotions of pain...  The thing was, and still sometimes is, I am terrified of letting go.  Instead of talking about it or dealing with my sadness, I leaned on my Type-A personality to keep full steam ahead, letting the busyness minimize my suffering as much as possible.  But when the raw, agonizing pain finally took hold of my heart, and created night after night of insomnia, I knew I needed to face it.  And very slowly, I did, one tiny step at a time.  Some days I could do nothing and other days the loss did not even cross my mind.  And that's okay.  There is no "right" way to feel or to be.  The most important thing is to acknowledge however you are feeling.  Even two years after her death, and after a healthy dose of acceptance, I still experience moments of frustration, being overwhelmed, and not being able to voice my thoughts clearly.  I no longer sleep lightly, waiting for her to call out in need, but I still suffer from occasional insomnia.  Sometimes in worship, a line from a song will suck every ounce of emotion out of me through tears, and daily I miss her insightful ways and her ability to laugh at herself.  On the other hand, I vividly recall her suffering, and am relieved that though I cannot see, nor hear nor imagine what God has prepared for her, I am confident that she suffers no more.



"If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.  But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you." - Winnie the Pooh