If denial about an illness is like being in outer space --
silent, surreal, with the unfathomable beyond, and the gorgeous, glowing Earth still in
sight -- then disclosure about said illness is like a rocket re-entering the
atmosphere -- high velocity, noise, flames, then a parachute and a jarring yet
successful water landing. While in the "re-entry" phase I clutched to
an initial coping machine that consisted of four channels: Science, Grief,
Exhaustion, and Game Face.
In Science there was to be found test results, conversations
with doctors, medical articles, clinical trial descriptions, data, statistics,
cycles, patient education material and a gradual realization I would not find
that much specifically pertinent to my case, nor would I find much good news.
But still the pull of the literature can be repeatedly seductive.
Grief was a technicolor mix of morbid indulgence, pity
party, fantasy, tragedy, howling, sadness. Compulsively wallowed in but not for
any length of time.
Exhaustion was a quiet, in-between no-man's land of a
channel, white noise really, and rest.
And Game Face, well that one was on most of the time, it
must be said. You get up in the
morning, get the kids to school, drive to work singing "Cabaret" in
the best voice you can muster, answer emails, have lunch, talk to people, drive
home singing Cabaret again, make dinner, talk to people, shepherd kids through
homework/reading/toothbrushing/bed, do chores, and if you're lucky spend a few
moments one on one with your wife.
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