Grief Is Not Just for Loss

Grief is not just something you experience after loss.

It shows up any time life changes in a way that cannot be undone.

When you are facing cancer or any devastating disease, you are grieving your health, your certainty, your future, and often the version of yourself you used to be.

Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
Acceptance.

These stages are not a checklist. They do not arrive neatly or in order.

Cancer is a monster. It steals far more than people realize, and grief is one of the things most of us carry quietly.

The first time I battled cancer, I moved through the stages quickly. I reached acceptance and filled myself with determination. This second time has been very different. As I write this, I find myself moving back and forth between depression and acceptance, sometimes within the same moment.

Denial

I lived in denial for months.

I denied the symptoms I was experiencing.
I denied the voice in my head that kept saying, “You know it’s back.”
I denied the worried looks on my husband’s face when we found unexplained bruises.

I denied the hot flashes and night sweats that had me opening windows and turning fans on high when it was ten below zero outside, freezing my husband out of our bedroom.

Denial was not ignorance. It was survival. I was not ready to face the truth yet.

Anger

This stage has been exceptionally brutal this time.

Anger hits fast and hard when things are not going right, and a lot has gone wrong. I have lashed out at friends and family who only wanted to help, even though there was nothing they could actually do.

I know the people in my life care deeply. I know the desire to help comes from love. And at the same time, there is very little anyone can actually do to change what I am experiencing. Even my husband cannot take on the side effects I am living with, no matter how much he wishes he could.

I try to be honest about what helps and what does not. Sometimes that honesty lands. Other times, it does not. There are moments when people choose a way of helping that makes sense to them, even when I have shared something different.

I sat in an infusion chair while dealing with major complications, becoming furious at someone who would not listen when I said I needed to be left alone. I hadn’t even had a chance to process how bad things were getting and all I could express was deep anger. It was anger from fear and it was anger from being overwhelmed from every angle possible. Then I got angry at myself for being angry at someone who was simply trying to show they cared.

I am angry that I did not even get a year being cancer free.
I am angry that treatment is harder this time.
I am angry at the complications and that they are visible on my body. I am angry because this time, I am truly scared.

That anger does not make me ungrateful. It makes me human.

Bargaining

Bargaining has shown up differently for me this time, and it started while I was still deep in denial. When my doctor called and wanted me to have a PET scan immediately, my response was a direct and unwavering no. We ended up negotiating a middle ground, scheduling the scan between my originally planned appointment and the urgent “you need this right now” timeline.

I was trying to hold onto control, even as the reality I was avoiding started closing in. (I’m fairly certain my doctor is still in shock that my immediate answer was no.)

As denial began to crack, bargaining shifted. It stopped being about delaying reality and started becoming about how I could move forward without losing myself in the process.

For me, that looked like motivation mixed with control. I set up my trip tracker. I decided that when I beat this for the second time, I am going to the Bahamas. I am not waiting for the perfect timing or the perfect people to celebrate with me.

Bargaining is not always about making deals. Sometimes it is about reclaiming hope. It is about asking how you want to live, not just how you are willing to survive.

Depression

It is no secret that I have battled anxiety and depression for years. Cancer amplifies both.

This time, the depression has been heavier. I cry more now than I did the first time. Last time, the tears took well over a year to surface. This time, they come without warning.

When people do not hear me the first time, I often go quiet. Not because I do not care, but because I do not have the energy to keep explaining myself. The frustration shows up later, and I find myself sitting with anger that I do not always know where to put. That anger turns inward, and I spiral.

I have written reminders to look for the good and to remember that I am allowed to be happy too. But depression often brings anger right back with it. I struggle with how comfortable people are at making others feel guilty for experiencing joy during hardship.

I am allowed to be happy and miserable at the same time.
I am allowed to love my life and hate what is happening to my body.

Just because I do not talk about something does not mean I am ignoring it. Sometimes I am protecting my peace because my life is already heavy. I am literally fighting to live every day. I do not have the capacity to carry every cause, every expectation, or every demand placed on me.

Acceptance

Acceptance does not arrive all at once.

It took time to accept that my cancer was back.
It took time to accept that I will never return to the life I had before cancer.
It has taken time to accept that people will not always react the way I hope they will.

I am learning that this does not mean anyone is intentionally doing something wrong. It means this season requires a level of listening that is difficult when people want to fix what cannot be fixed. I am also learning that it is okay to feel disappointed when the support I ask for does not arrive in the way I hoped.

This part of the process is lonely. Naming that loneliness has mattered more than I expected.

I am learning to accept that for many people I interact with, my cancer battle is not personal to them, and that is okay. This is my fight. My life. My journey. I have to be at peace with how it unfolds, even when that peace is imperfect.

I wrote this to remind myself, and anyone else who needs it, that grief during illness is ongoing, unpredictable, and deeply personal. There is no right way to move through it. However, you get through it is the right way for you.

I am allowed to stand up for myself, and so are you.
I am allowed to protect my peace, and so are you.
I am allowed to find moments of joy in the middle of the darkest seasons, and so are you.

That is enough for today.