Chapter 24: Lost emotions

Chapter 24: lost emotions

              There were other emotional changes that accompanied my cancer recurrence that were wholly unexpected. As I discussed earlier, following my initial brain cancer diagnosis I had a desire to find and form a strong and potentially long-term relationship in order to experience that utterly human experience of bonding and growing together. Alas this never happened. However, in the whirlwind of recurrence, something strange happened. Maybe it was due to the sea of anxiety and dread and loss and other emotions that I swam in which prevented me from these other sensations. Within a few weeks of recurrence diagnosis and looking for new treatment, I completely lost all libido and sexual desire. Sure, I could appreciate that people were attractive, but there was no desire, no passion. Corollary to that I lost all romantic interests whatsoever. I no longer had the desire to find someone, or anyone. I thought about people in my past, how if they flew to me and suddenly confessed love—that before I would say yes in a moment—but now I knew that I would decline. It was an emptying feeling. It felt like I had lost an enormous part of the human experience, and even part of my spirit. I began to wonder if I were somehow broken. How could such a core human element be missing from me? I noticed it most one night when we went out dancing as a group of friends. There was a beautiful and kind woman who wanted to dance with me; however, I just couldn’t do it. She thought that she were being kind. But the more she asked and the more she tried to get to know me, the more uncomfortable I became. I was so confused. In another time I would have relished this, but now all I wanted to do was run away. I found some of my other friends off the dance floor and asked them to help me and that I was feeling uncomfortable. They were kind and kept me feeling safe for the rest of the evening. The night finished up. The whole thing left a bitter taste in my mouth. I felt like a broken person. I was worried that maybe I would never be able to feel those strong emotions and desires again. It was such a core part of being human, whatever could I replace them with? A few days later I began taking Prozac again—an anti-depressant and anxiolytic. I wondered if maybe underlying anxiety and depression could be causing these things. I had taken Prozac before and it helped wonderfully. Then I talked to some of my good friends about what was going on, a sort of pseudo-counseling.  Two weeks later I haven’t noticed any difference, but I remain hopeful that something will change. Prozac can take time to work. I hope that it’ll all hit me one night like a lightening bolt.

              The last new emotion was panic. I was terribly frightened that everything would actually work out and that I would get through this with some amount of stable remission. I was terrified because I did not know if I could ever be my old self again. Had I forgotten too much of medical school at this point to even return as a doctor? After becoming unstable once before, would I even be allowed back? Even if my life were safe, did I really have anything that resembled a future? Would I be able to return to learning Japanese and playing music? Would I be able to lead anything that resembled a normal life, even without an expiration date? They were the panic kept me up several nights. I was thankful to have lorazepam (Ativan) to silence these thoughts and get to sleep. This whole time I was hoping desperately that things would all work out, and now it seemed my brain was betraying me again, forcing me to think that even with a good health outcome the results would be tragic.

              Finally, I have touched on this briefly, but I was surprised to find that I felt completely disconnected from my own past. My life and sense of self now was so incredibly different from anything in the past, it made it difficult to connect with my own memories. I tried to remember some of the happier times, especially my time in college, and the things I hoped for and wanted to do then. But it felt as though I were looking at a stranger’s memory—like, with everything going on now, how could I have ever thought those things? I wanted to escape back. I wanted to dive into those memories and relive them, when things were less complicated and less tragic. But they were walled off by a strange new sense of self. It’s a strange sensation to be alienated from one’s self. I learned that I could combat this by talking to old friends about our time together, and they could ground me in the reality of the past. This was incredibly comforting. I’m profoundly grateful for all the friends who have stayed up late with me to talk several nights to ease my spirit so that I can sleep peacefully. Thank you. Thinking about memories and future, I recall the scene from my favorite movie “Arrival,” where after the main character learns that she can see the entirety of the past and future at once, she asks her future partner, “if you could see your whole life from front to back, would you change anything?” The partner answers, “I don’t know, I guess I would say how I feel more often.” I find this incredibly poignant, because as I go through this experience, I think that had I known this would happen all along, I would likely change nothing about my life direction, but I would certainly share how I feel more often. Now, I am doing it more often, and I wish that I had done it more often when I was younger. So those are some of the unexpected emotional journeys of cancer. I hope that if you are reading this and have other loved ones who are going through a similar experience, this may help you better understand what they may be feeling. Thank you for reading.