Fighting For Your Life: A Reflection on Illness

Marigold Peer Voices

Anonymity is essential to the Marigold Health community so that every member has a place to be their true self; to comfortably speak openly and honestly. While our peers are not anonymous in the Marigold Health app, we still encourage them to use their own voices when they communicate, without feeling like they need to edit for an audience. In that spirit, this piece of content has not been filtered, polished, or run through the marketing machine. We hope you enjoy this sample of Marigold peer voices, and that it inspires you to join the conversation.

“I think I’m having a heart attack”, I had said to the paramedic. He eyed my backpack, my disheveled clothes. I could tell he knew I was homeless, and he didn’t strike me as being all that sympathetic to the struggle. He dismissed me, saying, “well you don’t look like you’re having a heart attack”. The pain in my chest had been present for weeks, it was true. I’d been taking increasing amounts of Tylenol, brushing it off as muscle strain. But that day it was just too much. The pain in my chest was a sharp, tight ball, so intense I could hardly breathe. I was scared. Scared enough to call an ambulance.??

My breath caught in my throat when the doctor came in. Not because of what he said, but because he didn’t say anything. They had run some scans and tests on me, checking my chest and heart. The doctor sat on the stool in front of me, and drew his hands together. He leveled with me: “You have a tumor”.??

To say I was angry at the universe would be an understatement. It was cancer. Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which had formed a large mass near my heart. The doctors said “stage 3B”, “chemotherapy”, “treatable”. And inside, I raged. How could my body betray me like this? Was it not enough that I had to battle my own mind, but my very cellular structure would now turn against me, as well? I balked at the audacity of any higher power to play such a cruel joke. When I had finally, ultimately, promised myself that I would live, after years of feeling like my only option was to die.????

I came home and began the long, arduous task of battling cancer. What else was there to do? Chemotherapy every week, usually an 8-hour long infusion that would leave me feeling wrong, bloated, over-medicated. And the usual cancer-stuff: my hair fell out, my immune system dissipated, my mind always in a fog. There were some minor surgeries, infections, and hospital stays. I would live like this for over a year, and come to know intimately, the life of a very sick person.??

Except I already knew that life. As it turns out, living with cancer wasn’t so different from living with mental illness. From the exhaustion of maintaining everyday life, to the invasiveness and discomfort of the treatments and medications prescribed. This revelation rocked me. Because for all the similarities between the experiences of both health issues, there were some key differences, particularly in how those around me responded to my illness.??

When I was unable to manage my mental health symptoms, it was evident I was unwell. Many of my family and friends were both concerned and disturbed. It can be traumatic to see someone you love suffer from illness, and mental illness is no different. Sometimes people were angry at me for being unwell, sometimes they would tell me they didn’t know what to do or how to help me. More than once I was told to get it together, or that they didn’t have time for this. More often, they didn’t talk about it at all.??

?People are funny about cancer. Knowing someone has it or has had it can evoke immediate concern, sympathy, and empathy. If someone was angry at me for having cancer, or didn’t know how to help me, I never knew it. Throughout living with that illness and the treatments for it, I felt continuously held, uplifted, supported. No one ever told me they didn’t have time for me. No one asked me to stop being sick, or made me feel like I wasn’t doing all I could to get well.??

I used to have panic attacks any time I went out in public. I couldn’t get through the doors of the grocery store without crying and feeling like I would die. I have a vivid memory of people watching me run out of a store, hyperventilating, in tears, panicked. I was clearly having a rough time, and not a single person tried to ask if I was ok, or if I needed help. I almost felt invisible. When I had cancer and was looking obviously sick (think bald, pale and puffy from steroids), people would let me ahead of them in line at the store; I even had a stranger offer to pay for my groceries once.??

I dedicated myself to my treatment while I had cancer. I didn’t do anything else except try to take care of myself and feel better however I could. No one questioned this, and in fact, I was encouraged to do what I felt I needed to do to feel happy, enjoy life as much as possible, and get through my treatment. Most people understood that my sickness was life-threatening and offered support however they could. I managed to earn the title “cancer free” after a little over a year of chemotherapy and a stem cell transplant. I had struggled with my mental health for a decade and beat cancer in about a year. Sometimes I wonder if my road to mental health recovery would have been less rocky if given that same grace, attention, understanding and support.?

The differences in how I was treated when I was physically ill vs mentally ill bothered me. Could people not see that I was fighting for my life either way? That the amount of energy it took, the trauma of it, the sense of wanting more than anything to be ok, to be well, that was all the same? I wondered where the disconnect was. What does it mean that most people will commend you for your strength in overcoming cancer, but that mental health recovery does not receive the same reverence? I think it means we have work to do.??

Today I am in recovery and in remission. My mental health is well managed by a myriad of supports, and I’ve been cancer free for six years now. I haven’t had a hospital stay in years either. I’m lucky. My friends and family ask how my oncology appointments go and tell me they’re proud of me for caring for my mental health. I can sense their relief that I am well when these things come up. I don’t blame them. I’m relieved too. And grateful. I don’t think I will ever take my health and well-being for granted in the future. Indeed, many of us live with and manage sickness and chronic conditions that may never resolve. That doesn’t mean those experiences don’t deserve all the empathy, reverence, grace, and support that is found for cancer patients. There are many ways to fight for your life. And in recognizing that, we can do better to value and uplift those who are fighting now.??

-Ara