I am Tired.

[when cancer gets you down]

I am tired. So this may not be an inspirational post. But it will be an honest one. Sometimes, like right now, I’m just really fucking tired. And as I type this post, all I can think is that no one wants to listen to someone else whine about their troubles. Most people have their own to worry about. Many with worse woes than mine. I’m alive. I still have all of my body parts. I have a very supportive husband, family and social circle. I have great doctors and pretty good insurance (finally).

I am not unaware of the good fortune I’ve experienced in my life and with cancer. And most days, that’s what’s on my mind. Most days, I am overwhelmingly grateful. But some days…some days I’m just exhausted by this whole cancer thing.

I’m a couple of years into remission from stage IV cancer at this point. I’m past the high drama of nearly dying and I’m into the less exciting phase of just living. Or rather living with the tiresome side effects of cancer treatment. I think it’s actually me who has become tiresome to others because of my side effects. “We get it, your joints ache, you wish your bald spots would grow in, you have damaged hearing, you have fatigue, blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine, at least you’re alive, move on.”

Or at least that’s what I imagine people thinking. I’m not used to constantly dealing with ailments. I was rarely sick growing up and always had a “suck it up” philosophy when it came physical troubles. My only real physical challenge was that my knees would dislocate easily. People in my life knew this about me, but I tried to deal with it somewhat privately or at least not make a big deal about it. When I was young, I wanted to seem tougher than I was. Once I dislocated my knee, out and back in pretty quickly, but still painful. I was with a group of people at a park when it happened and I just walked it off in the adjacent woods. With no one near me, I released my emotions, my pain and frustration. I walked back out of the woods like nothing happened.

I didn’t want to put anyone out or force them to stop having fun to comfort me. I didn’t want to be the person that ruined everyone’s good time. I didn’t want to be a nuisance.

About a decade ago, I went on a backpacking trip with some friends. About five hundred feet in, one girl in our group twisted her ankle, then passed out nearly falling down the steep hillside. We had to turn back and share the weight of her and her pack between us. Backpacking turned into camping and we had a blast even with the change of plans. No one resented or pitied her for getting injured. It was a reminder to me that it’s okay when bad things happen, and that maybe I should trust the people in my life to be there for me when it does.

It’s still hard for me to do, though. I still feel like I’m a nuisance. I still feel like I’m pushing my luck and that people’s sympathies will run out any day now. When people ask me how I am, I have to decide whether to make things easy on everyone and say, “I’m doing pretty well, thanks!” Or morph into their ninety-year-old grandparent and go into a diatribe about my ailments, “I have a disc bulge, I get ocular migraines, I’m tired, my joints ache, ehhh.”

In a way, I’m lucky. It’s not my friends or family, really, that make me feel that way. I know that I put that on myself. I mean, maybe they do feel that way, but they don’t show it. I do know that part of why it’s easy to assume those feelings is because it does happen. Some spouses do lose patience or don’t want to (or know how to) talk about cancer. Some friends get more distant. Some colleagues start treating you differently. Some family members try their best, but only come up with trite well-wishes. It can be really lonely.

I didn’t realize how much I held back from the people in my life until I started friendships with other survivors. (I’m guessing people that know me are thinking, “wait this has been you holding back?”). There’s an openness that you can have with people who understand what you’ve been through and what you’re going through in a way that other people in your life can’t — even with the best intentions. I’m an open person by nature. There’s not really a topic that I mind talking about. I mean, I’ve discussed my vagina onstage to a room full of people. More than once. (maybe too much?). But there are these moments where I’m alone and I let myself sulk and grieve and be tired. It’s those weak, emotional moments that are harder to share. And harder for people to understand unless they’ve been there.

There are just some things that well-meaning people in our lives might not be able to help us with. Sometimes we need support from new places like other survivors or counselors. I know this isn’t breaking news, but I’m (awkwardly) moving into a wrap-up. The Full-House, Danny Tanner moment at the end of the episode. And sometimes the simplest, most obvious thing is the thing that helps. I write to work through my feelings. What I write often starts in one place and ends in another. I started writing this to get it out of my head. Being tired and lonely, feeling constantly betrayed by my own body. Wrapping it up, I realize I’m back to feeling grateful. Grateful for fellow survivors who understand and those in my life who try to.

I’m still fucking tired. But feeling just a little less lonely.