I have often been accused of being emotionally challenged, of having no feelings or at least not knowing how to show them. These accusations didn’t exactly miss their mark. I’m not one for excessive enthusiasm or despair, and I don’t like to get carried away. I don’t worry about what’s outside my control. The only time I get nervous is when I speak without good preparation in front of an audience. This is why I asked few questions during scientific talks.
Sometimes I wish I were more in touch with my feelings, more emotionally alert. There can be no doubt that I’ve messed up many interactions and missed out on a few good relationships because of my insensitivity. Some encounters resolved themselves years later to have been much more than I had perceived in them. I’ve often wondered if there was anything I could do to develop emotional skills. What does it take to become less robotic and more empathetic?
This question is now moot. In this Tour de Cancer, the tables seem to have turned. I’m cool when no one expects me to, and that’s a good thing. I think I cope better than average because of how I am. During the initial diagnosis, the medic asked me if I needed emotional support. She wasn’t talking about those docile animals that go viral when they try to board a plane but trained professionals, available to me at any time I might feel fate too heavy and needed to talk. Thank you, I said, but I’m fine.
At the end of the consultation before the surgery, the surgeon asked me if I was nervous. She emphasized that it wasn’t clear what would be done to me nor how my body might react to it. I said no, not at all. Instead of leaving it at this, I should have asked back if the surgeon was nervous. After all, she’d have to perform an operation under conditions of uncertainty. All I had to do was lie on the table, drugged, anesthetized, unable to notice or feel a thing. When I’d wake up it would all be over and I’d know the result with a clarity that my imagination could never provide. Why would I be nervous?
During chemotherapy, the questions and sincere offers will come again, but what’s there to talk about, really? I have cancer. That’s a fact. In this I’m not special. I’m one of millions. A large number of doctors is taking care of me. This reassures me. I know the next months or even years are not going to be easy, and maybe not even successful, but this is no reason to get worked up, worried or freaked out about. I cannot influence the outcome much except, I believe, by a positive outlook and placeboic optimism. Worries have no place in my life.
In many ways, Flucha is the exact opposite of me. She empathizes, sees herself in my situation, worries about what might come, afraid of what might I have to endure. In addition, she has to shoulder most of the weight of taking care of household and children. I haven’t been of much help during the last few weeks. Now that my mom has returned back home, it’s all her, and it shows.
Flucha is frazzled, anxious and tense. She takes care of everything, shopping, cooking, cleaning, feeding the children. At the same time, her mind runs in circles, creating, analyzing and dismissing different worst-case scenarios. She obsesses and frets. I tell her to relax, take it easy, worry about what is (nothing much - surgery was successful, chemo hasn’t started yet) rather than what might be, but it’s of no use. People don’t control their feelings like a machine. It’s time I get better enough to at least help her in the house and give her some moments to herself, for her to find peace. We will need all our strength.
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