Overcoming Anxiety: Rediscovering My True Self and Conquering Dreadful Thinking

I can't seem to shake this feeling of dread. Though I am familiar with dread, it's been a while since it came for me. The important thing about dread is that it comes fast and furious, somehow snaking its way through every body part. It's now firmly anchored itself into my stomach, but it started this morning when it entered my eyes and made my vision all blurry.

Today was supposed to be celebrated, as it marks the end of six grueling months of seeing Ty endure aggressive chemo treatment. Since late August, he has been undergoing chemotherapy infusions every three weeks and our life seemed to be dictated by this timeline. Everything we'd plan, which wasn't really much since we spent most of our time hunkering down in the safety of our own home, was always through the lens of this three-week cycle.

We became used to saying things like, "Oh, we can't have friends come visit that week because you'll be feeling like crap!" and "Oh good, you start a new round of chemo the day after Halloween so you'll be able to enjoy trick-or-treating with the kids!" We carefully planned our Christmas celebrations around chemo treatment, determined to get the most holiday magic out of the days when Ty would feel well enough to enjoy them.

We knew that Week One would leave Ty feeling very unwell and he could do nothing but try his best to sleep off the awful effects of the chemotherapy. The best way to describe this, Ty says, is to imagine getting the worst flu but right when you start to feel better, the flu comes back again. This was his life for six months, feeling like crap eight different times in 3-week intervals.

I'd find myself missing him most during Week One, as it always felt like he was a mere shadow of himself. He was physically there, but mentally and emotionally somewhere else. Seeing my strong and brilliant husband retreat so far into himself has honestly been the hardest part for me. As I sit on my couch, letting tiny sips of bourbon melt on my tongue and calm my racing thoughts, I realize how little I have to write about watching my husband go through cancer these past few years.

When I search my mind for words, I can only find a jumble of memories that are so intertwined with emotions that I can't even begin to make sense of them, let alone write them out!

Ty and I met another couple who is also facing a cancer diagnosis for drinks at The Leta Hotel, best known as The Goodland Bar. In their case, the wife has thyroid cancer, and we found ourselves all having moments of pure laughter and deep conversations that struck straight to the heart of the matter. It felt good to sit across from a couple who actually understands what we are going through. Not that I'd wish for ANY of my friends to join our sad club, but it somehow gave us a sense of camaraderie where our true loneliness could not hide.

The husband of this beautiful warrior I sat across from, said something really profound that resonated deeply with me. He said as the partner seeing his wife go through cancer, his life feels like an out of body experience.

"Kind of like I'm living in a Matrix or something." He explained.

That is exactly what this has felt like to me. As though my body is disconnected from my mind.

This jumble of emotions came to a bursting head as I was driving by myself to go pick up our sick kitten from the vet. Tears streamed down my face as my overburdened mind just could not keep it all in tact anymore. I needed to talk-it-out so my brain could sort through all the information it was getting, so I pressed record on the Notes section of my phone and started talking.

Here is a section of what came out:

I can barely think straight or process what is happening and it almost feels like an out of body experience where my body is just completely disconnected from my mind. Like, I'm driving a car right now and because of muscle memory, I know when to put the brakes on and when to accelerate, and I even know how to get to the vets office. But my mind is completely somewhere else, and I honestly can't remember the last time my mind and body were fully connected to each other. This is life with a cancer diagnosis. Life is happening to me and I am alive, but this is most certainly not the life I planned for. I feel so weak minded, and so fragile, but for some reason life keeps forcing me into situations where I have to be strong and I have to be brave and I have to be everything to everyone.

So, back to why today was full of dread instead of joy. Ty left for Ridley Tree Cancer Center at 10am and since our youngest doesn't go to preschool on Tuesdays, I did not go with him to the appointment. To be honest though, I have only gone a couple of times to be with Ty as he sits in the chemo chair, as he prefers to have this time to himself. As an introvert myself, I can absolutely respect that!

Instead, my daughter and I coaxed our 6 month old kitten, Poppy, into a cat carrier so we could take her to the vet. Poppy has been acting sickly and strange for a couple weeks now, and though she was seeming to improve, her left eye began drooping and her head would twitch like a spasm. After she spent several hours being monitored and getting tests done, I got a call from our very sweet vet who had very bad news. She explained that Poppy was given a diagnosis of something called Feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). I once again felt myself disassociating from the dreadful news and that out-of-body floaty sensation began again.

"This has a 95% fatality rate." I heard the vet say. "I am so sorry, you did nothing wrong, this is quite rare and basically just really bad luck that it has happened to Poppy."

Really bad luck.

Really. Bad. Luck.

Call it bad luck, call it fate, call it whatever you want, but this sweet veterinarian could not have spoken more truth if she tried.

Are we the Bad Luck Family? Are we cursed somehow? In our house, we serve the Lord, which I know doesn't mean you'll never face hardships, but geez, can my family just catch a break for once?

I think Ty and I do a damn good job of keeping a positive outlook on life, but days like today make me want to curl up in bed and never get out.

It's like our life is all yin and yang and must remain perfectly balanced at all times, so if something good happens, life must throw a wrench in somewhere to keep the Yin and Yang flowing equally.

Luckily, this is not the end of my story!

That same afternoon, the pastor from our church, Oceanhills Covenant, called to check in on me. Call it fate, call it divine intervention, call it whatever you want, but to me, this call felt like a lifeline.

"Hey Erin, I know it's Ty's last chemo infusion and I also heard you really want to go on the Oceanhills Women's Retreat that leaves tomorrow for the mountains." Jono's voice was kind and gentle.

I held back tears as Jono said that our church community wants to do what they can to support our family this week so that I could go on the snow retreat without worry or guilt. The sincerity of this offer filled me with gratitude and hope, cutting through the dreadful feelings that still occupied my insides.

You see, I said yes to this women's retreat months ago, not knowing the dates would coincide with the chemotherapy schedule and subsequently make it nearly impossible for me to getaway for some self-care time.

The timing could not have been worse for me to leave my family, and if it were not for the perfectly timed phone call from Jono, I likely would have cancelled and allowed dread to continue ruling my life.

So, with the flood of tangible support coming to help my family in the form of meals delivered and even childcare, I packed my bags and dug out my old beloved snowboard from the depths of the garage.

I'll be honest and say that I drove away from my house reluctantly and with a stomach full of dreadful anxiety, but luckily my body was propelling me forwards even though my mind was very much not wanting to budge.

We arrived at midnight with icy roads and snow falling in gentle flakes. The instant I inhaled that fresh mountain air, I could feel my mind beginning to relax.

Over the next few days, I overcame altitude sickness with hours upon hours of deep sleep. The kind of restorative sleep you get when you aren't awakened by tiny bodies climbing into your bed each night for a reassuring mama snuggle.

I was overcome by pure exhaustion and my dear friends noticed right away so they showered me with prayer, nurturing food, and soul-filled conversation. I felt frustrated at myself, that I was finally able to getaway and now I felt really unwell.

Then I realized I was crying again, and it dawned on me that it was as though a cork was popped and a years-worth of emotional trauma and stress was being released. And sticking with the champagne analogy, once I popped that cork, there was no stopping the flow of raw emotion from bubbling out of me. In short, I had cognitive overload and my nervous system completely shutdown.

Despite feeling exhausted with a bad headache, I was not willing to give up a rare chance to shred down the slopes of Mammoth Mountain, so I willed myself to get up and get outside. I put in my Airpods, turned on music, and started slowly making my way to the lifts. It wasn't until I was sitting on that chairlift, my board dangling beneath me and the crystals of snow hitting gently on my face, that I started to feel my body reconnecting with my mind again.

You see, snowboarding and skiing was how I spent so much of my time as a kid, and I even spent a winter in college teaching snowboard lessons in Lake Tahoe simply because I loved being on the mountain so much (well, and because I got a free season pass out of it). I'll have to tell this story another time, but I'm lucky I even survived that winter of 2004! It was one of those epic snowfall winters where I'd dig out my trusty Xterra and drive it through blizzards as if I was invincible, teach snowboard lessons all day, then meet at the lodge with dozens of other young adventurers I worked with where we'd sip beers while deciding who had a cabin we could sleep in that night. Then we'd wake up and do it all over again, without another care in the world.

Snowboarding was life back then, and following the next snowfall was of utmost importance, so we'd go poor and hungry so long as we could shred the fresh powder! I was a twenty-something waiting to find out whether I'd been admitted to the UCSB Teacher Education Program, and decided that if I was declined, I'd just move to Tahoe and find a way to become a teacher there instead.

Easy peasy, que sera, sera. Whatever would be, would be.

So this may give you a clearer lens into why going snowboarding this past month was such a powerful and healing experience for me. The very act of putting on my snow gear, the same exact gear I had received as a gift when I was just a teenager, awaked that childlike hope I once had. Strapping my boots into my board ignited that trust I once had for myself because I knew the only way I wouldn't fall was if my brain and body were perfectly in sync to guide me down that big mountain.

In short, muscle memory kicked in and traveled straight to my brain, putting me back in touch with my old self. The person I was before cancer, before kids, and even before I met Ty. Before I knew it, I was gliding peacefully and gracefully back and forth, letting the dread-filled feelings go with each carve and curve I made. It was just me and my board, back on the mountain without anywhere else to be, just like it was almost two decades ago.

I came back from that trip clear headed and calm. The tears released, being surrounded by dear friends, and reconnecting with my true self was therapeutic.

Harvard Medical School states that "Crying is an important safety valve, largely because keeping difficult feelings inside-what psychologists call repressive coping-can be bad for your health. Crying has also been shown to increase attachment behavior, encouraging closeness, empathy, and support from friends and family. Researchers have established that crying releases oxytocin and endogenous opioids, also known as endorphins. These feel-good chemicals help ease both physical and emotional pain."

After several years of living in survival mode, we are finally beginning the journey of healing. This will be a slow process, and we also understand that life will never go back to how it was B.C. (Before Cancer) because we are not the same people we once were. As our overburdened minds settle back into our bodies again, we will get to know ourselves and each other again, too.

Lake Tahoe, December 2007: The day before this picture was taken, Ty got down on one knee and proposed to me. It was snowing outside, so he led me down a candlelit stairway where dozens of candles were shaped in a heart on the ground. he got down one knee and we sealed it with a kiss. In Sickness and in health, I'd say yes all over again.