If the seven stages of grieving are anything like the seven stages of getting spectacularly grim news about your cancer, then I’m right on schedule: I am no longer drowning in despair or frozen in shock, but am awash in the turbulent waters of anger.
This is good because it turns out that the upward climb from the bottom of the abyss is steeper and slipperier than at first it looked, and I was starting to slide back down a bit into the darkness of fear and despair.
But then yesterday I got mad. Figuring out what my next step in fighting this cancer is supposed to be has been incredibly difficult and intimidating and I was feeling frustrated, frightened and unshepherded as I tried to navigate the clinical trial quagmire. And then, just when I was on the verge of crumpling into a heap of hopelessness, my fear and frustration transmogrified into a clear, burning rage. It was like a blinding spotlight aimed squarely at a system that seems ill-equipped to support a person facing this more-desperate-than-average cancer flummox, and at a disease that targets mothers, fathers, best friends, and daughters instead of just taking out monsters like child molesters and corrupt politicians.
To my surprise I found myself smashing my fist down on the kitchen counter. I did this about five times. Then I did it about ten more times. It may have looked a little silly but it sure felt better than collapsing into tears and being overcome with fear and frustration. I suddenly understood why men kick things when they’re mad, especially things they have just stubbed their toes on. The fist-pounding made me feel less vulnerable, somehow stronger. Also a tiny bit cro-magnon. And then it started to hurt, so I considered kicking in some drywall, mentally appraising all the walls in our house for smashibility, and wondering if we had an axe…
Next, I had several very clear premonitions of spending the afternoon with blood-soaked towels tied around my limbs while waiting to get stitched up in emerg. Maybe the axe is not such a good option for me.
That’s when I remembered the “Rage Box” that my friend Karen made me. It is a cardboard box in the garage filled with old chipped cups wrapped in newspaper. The instructions read as follows:
1) Place in area where things that break can be thrown. Preferably somewhere that you won’t have to clean up because who the hell wants to do that?
2) Start to feel the rage… run to box, grab mug, throw against floor, SCREAM!
3) Repeat as often as necessary.
4) Call when you need a refill.
I smashed everything in the box out in our back laneway (but did not scream so as to avoid neighbours calling police.) I smashed some of them twice if they still looked smashable after the first smash. And my god it felt good. I have already requested a refill for the rage box.
Look out cancer, I’ve just discovered rage, and I like it.