How are you really feeling?

People often ask me how I am regarding Advanced Prostate Cancer.

It is a fair question. A kind question, depending on the tone of voice. Often throwaway comments like ‘are you alright?@ are a bit annoying. But regardless, I never quite know how to answer.

 

The strange thing is, I do not really feel what people probably expect me to feel. I am not walking around in floods of emotion. I am not constantly overwhelmed by fear or sadness. I am not sitting all day quietly thinking dramatic thoughts about life and death. A lot of these thoughts and emotions come to mind from time to time, but most of the time I do not really feel much at all.

 

There are so many genuinely sick people in the world. People in dreadful pain. People who are desperately unwell. People who look ill and feel ill every minute of every day. When I compare myself to that, I almost feel like a fraud. I know I have advanced cancer. I know it is serious. I know what it means. But inside my own head, it can all feel oddly unreal.

 

That is the hardest part to explain.

 

Once you are in this cancer bubble, life starts to feel slightly false. The people around you often seem to feel more than you do. You see it in their faces, in the softness of their voices, in the careful way they ask how you are. There is love in that, and concern, and kindness. But it can leave you feeling as though you are not reacting properly, as though you have somehow missed the right emotional cue.

 

I have spoken to others who feel the same, so I know it is not just me.

 

It is not that I do not care. It is not that I do not understand. It is not denial either. I know exactly what the diagnosis is. I know the seriousness of it. I know there are difficult roads ahead. But knowing something and feeling it every minute are not the same thing.

It can be a busy time. There are appointments, blood tests, scans, tablets, treatment, side effects, and worries, of course. But there is also making a cup of coffee or tea, watching television, having a laugh, wondering what is for dinner, and thinking about the next job to do. The extraordinary and the ordinary sit side by side, and somehow dinner still needs to be cooked. The washing up won’t clean itself!

Maybe that is how the mind protects itself. Maybe if we felt the full weight of it every waking minute, we would never get out of the chair. So instead, the truth comes in flashes. A letter arrives. A pain catches you. A conversation reminds you. Then it slips back again into the background, not gone, never gone, but quieter.

So when people ask how I am, I sometimes want to say this:

I am living with it, but not dramatically. I am carrying something serious, but I am carrying it in an ordinary sort of way. I know it matters, but I do not always feel crushed by it. Sometimes I feel more numb than upset. Sometimes I feel almost detached from it. Sometimes it feels more real to the people who love me than it does to me. That does not mean it is not hard.

It does not mean I am not frightened sometimes. It does not mean I have no feelings. It just means the reality of advanced prostate cancer is stranger and quieter than most people imagine. It is not always tears and despair.

Sometimes it is just a man sitting with a cup of tea, knowing something huge has entered his life, but not quite feeling it in the way everyone expects.

 

Written by: Mike Smith Adapted for this website by: Paul Rane

 

Feelings of Isolation

One of the loneliest parts of cancer is how quiet life can get.

People talk a lot about the appointments, the treatment, the scans, and the side effects. But not nearly enough people talk about the isolation. Not just being alone, but the kind of loneliness that settles in when your whole world starts changing, and most people around you do not fully understand it.

Sometimes the isolation is physical. Low counts. Infection risk. Exhaustion. Not feeling safe being out in the world the same way you used to. Sometimes staying home feels safer, but also lonelier.

Sometimes the isolation is emotional. You realize you do not have the energy to explain how you feel. You get tired of saying, “I’m fine” because it is easier than trying to describe the fear, the grief, the pain, the mental load, and the way your mind can spiral when the house gets quiet at night.

And sometimes the isolation is relational. Some people show up beautifully. Some people love you from afar the best they know how. And some people just disappear. That part hurts in a different way. There is something deeply painful about learning that some friendships only fit the version of you that was easy, healthy, available, and low maintenance.

Cancer can make your world smaller in so many ways. Your energy gets smaller. Your circle gets smaller. Your plans get smaller. Even your ability to dream freely can feel smaller for a while.

But if you are in that place right now, I want you to know this: just because your world feels quieter does not mean your life matters less. Just because people do not see the isolation does not mean it is not heavy. And just because this season is lonely does not mean you are the only one living it.

A lot of people are carrying this part in silence.

 

Excerpt taken from: Jessica's healing journey. Adapted for this website by:  Paul Rane

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