When very angry, swear.

I am angry.  It's a deep, simmering anger, that I've been refusing to acknowledge for months.  In fact, it's been brewing since the day 6 months ago when my doctor said, "Your cancer is incurable.  We can still treat it, but the goal is now to make sure that you're comfortable and manage your symptoms."

I thought that I was managing it.  I found things to do, focussed on work, dealt with issues, learned new things... went through radiation treatment, travelled, visited people.  But it keeps popping up.  At 2am when I woke up and the dark hovers over me, my imaginings include accidents, yelling at random strangers... when I went out, I hoped for opportunities to pick fights. 

I thought I was managing it.  I listened to people being awkward with their comments.  "You look fabulous, you must be feeling fine!"  No, actually, I'm not.  "Oh, I'll see you back in the office in 2 weeks!"  I don't think so.  "Have you tried this amazing homeopath?"  Yes, because I've given up on life and want to give my money to a quack.  "You just have to believe that everything will be fine."  Yes, that's all I have to do. "You need to have faith!" What, precisely, do you think got me this far?

I thought I was managing it.  I've smiled through all the advice -- eat this, avoid that, do this.  I've nodded at the people who tell me that I need to have a good attitude.  At the people who tell me that I should not be depressed.  At the ones who tell me to be positive, that nothing will happen, that I shouldn't think of death.  I've listened to, and answered, questions about my health, my treatments, my symptoms -- often past the point of tolerance.  "How big is the tumour?"  "What does it feel like to lose your hair?" "Why don't you go out more?  Do more?"  The cheerleaders who try to boost my spirits with every cheery suggestion to "eat what you want; have more wine; have more cake!"  

I thought I was managing it.  But with every trip back to the Cancer Centre, my ability to pretend that I am getting better and that my diagnosis is not what it is, weakens.  And as my fantasy wavers, my anger wakes up.  The wall that keeps it hidden away is brittle, and the energy needed to restrain it grows.  

I'm not managing it.  I'm angry.  I'm scared.  But I'm not letting you know that.  Because when I try to tell you, you try to make me feel better, and all I want is to vent.  You try to make my uncomfortable feelings go away.  You tell me to eat more, sleep more and take care of myself.  So to protect you, I'll tell you that I'm fine.  That everything is good.  And I'll change the subject, and stay on other things.  Because I'm angry, and I'm scared, and I don't know how to manage it, so I'll change my focus to you.  How are you really?