How to cope with the isolation of metastatic breast cancer treatment
This article details Aileen’s experience navigating metastatic breast cancer treatment during healthcare lockdowns, exploring the heavy emotional toll of medical isolation and what it truly means to thrive rather than just survive.
Takeaways:
Undergoing medical procedures without physically present support systems drastically increases anxiety and feelings of cold isolation.
Being immunocompromised requires strict precautions that can compound psychological fatigue during medical visits.
Cancer survival is about more than just physical endurance; it requires emotional fulfillment and human connection.
Processing pre-operation stress requires honoring your vulnerability, even if you are normally a "tough chick."
Normally, I am a pretty tough chick. I have been told (& I kind of agree) that I can hang with the rough and tumble and can gussy up with the best of them. I can present myself as if I have lived a gilded life without any strife whatsoever.
But today... today, I feel anxious. I feel scared. I feel alone. I feel uneasy.
Why does facing medical procedures bring back past trauma?
Today, I am reminded of my past. I have been through hell and back, physically and emotionally. I have lived through and survived aggressive breast cancer, only to have it come back again like a bad stomach flu that refuses to succumb to meds.
I have felt tremendous emotional turmoil. I have lived through personal trauma. And I have survived. But I get reminded often times of the scars—both physical and emotional. But I continue to push through. I am no sissy. Like I said, I am a pretty tough chick.
But today, I feel not OK. Today, I am going through the process of all things pre-operation. Again. UGH. And I didn’t want to do it. I just didn’t.
I have been isolating pretty much since the Governor ordered all Californians to Shelter in Place, which feels like an eternity. What was initially a heroic effort to flatten the curve for our neighbors, has mutated into a situation that many of our friends, colleagues and countrymen have become divided upon. So much so that how we operate in these pandemic times makes a statement about who we are politically, socially and personally.
I write not at all to chime in on my political beliefs... I am totally not that girl. Rather, I write to share my feelings about how terrifying it is to deal with treating metastatic breast cancer in this scary time.
I too, like many I am sure, had no issue isolating and quarantining. I felt like I was doing something for the greater good. Then it got old. I missed my friends. I missed my normal routine. I missed seeing my colleagues and missed the excitement that often happens in my office. But still, I felt like I was doing my part. Then we opened up just a tad. And here we are, about to have to lock down again. And I am sitting in a hospital waiting room (trying to remain socially distant) waiting for my name to be called for all things pre-op related.
Why does medical isolation feel so different from past treatments?
And I feel uneasy. Not just because I am in this familiar hospital waiting room but also because this time it feels off. I mean really off.
Last time I was here, I felt supported even though it was my first go-around with cancer treatment:
I had my support system with me at nearly every appointment.
There was hustle and bustle in the care areas.
Almost like a weird solace in being part of that cancer group where complete strangers and I were thrown together into this battle.
I hate to say it, but in all things, there is a silver lining. And that was my silver lining—at least I am not going at it alone.
This time, it is so different. This time, there is COVID-19. Regardless of your views on whether or not it is a real crisis or some sort of government conspiracy, the reality for me and many like me is that it doesn’t matter. I was and am immunocompromised. I have to behave differently.
And the world is behaving differently than last time. So, I had a freak-out of sorts when I had to get out of my bubble to do all things pre-op. At a hospital. That has 99% capacity in the ICU.
As I walked in, thankfully, everything was masks, social distancing, and hand sanitizer. But everything that I felt the first time around—that feeling of being taken care of, having warm, supportive, and loving faces there to ensure me that everything was going to be ok—was not there.
Today was a weird, anxious, and almost apocalyptic scene:
No hustle. No bustle. No warm people.
People seated at least 6 feet apart.
People shrinking into their bodies just to maintain social distancing.
People who were clearly patients (like me) without their loved ones.
And me. Just me.
And here we all are. Alone but together. Not because the hospital wouldn’t allow it. Not because people wouldn’t have tagged along. This time, it is because I (like so many others it seemed) wasn’t going to take that chance. No one in my circle, my support system, or anyone else for that matter should be potentially exposed.
And I was just uneasy. I felt like this weird sense that nothing seemed normal. Everything felt cold.
What does it truly mean to thrive after cancer?
Then I realized today is the end of June—Cancer Survivor’s month. And here I am, fighting to survive again in this cold, uneasy apocalyptic place.
And although I remain grateful for medical care, tremendous advances in cancer treatment, and everything else God has bestowed upon me both the good and the bad, I felt like surviving still misses the mark.
Isn’t the point not to “just” survive? Shouldn’t there be more? Especially after trials. Especially after trauma. Especially after cancer. Shouldn’t there be a month for that? Please.
xo Aileen
If you are currently processing the heavy emotional strain of recovery, learn how fellow survivors navigate relearning self-love and body image after surgery.
You don't have to navigate this alone.
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