“You’re okay. Everything is fine. It’s okay.”
I say that to myself every morning as I grudgingly leave the warm covers of my bed at 7am to pop my morning handful of pills. Some mornings I just want to chuck those pills against the wall. Others, I gladly gulp the suckers down. So, to be completely honest, that mantra I repeat every morning… is a lie.
I lie to myself.
Physically, I’ve been healing as well as my doctors have expected. My team of doctors have been amazing thus far. During chemotherapy, any complaint was dealt with and handled immediately, no questions. Recently, however, I’ve felt the physician’s assistants disbelieve me whenever I explain any recurring aches or other ailments.
Mentally, I wouldn’t describe my state of mind as anywhere near stellar. It’s a hard thing to admit publicly, and I’ll probably regret writing this later, but for now I do think I need to get this out. A few weeks before my mastectomy, I had begun to have inexplicable panic attacks. I’d cry, tremble, yell, etc. At first it was to myself but later down the road it began occurring around those around me. I went to my oncologist.
After having a breakdown in their office, I was given the email of an oncology therapist to talk to. I was also prescribed Xanax. It took a while for me to open up to my therapist but once I did I began to understand my panic attacks and my depression a bit more. As for the medication, it helped calm me down whenever I was hit with an attack. I was extremely grateful for both.
Lately, I’d been getting worse. Knowing I didn’t want to go further down this miserable path, I went to my oncologist’s office to ask for a referral to a psychiatrist. I needed help. I expected to be given a card with a number and to be on my way. Instead I found myself, sat in a room, talking to my oncologist’s assistant.
As I began to relate my issues to her, I started to have a panic attack. I knew she couldn’t relate to anything I was saying so I told her I’d just contact my oncology therapist. She began to tell me they were going to take me off Xanax, one of my only two remedies, which immediately made my panic attack worsen.
Don’t misunderstand, I’d never expected to be on it for the rest of the life, but during my time of need, yes, I had expected to be allowed the medication. I again enquired about obtaining a referral to a psychiatrist because even under her own admission, the oncologist’s assistant was not necessarily qualified enough to make the decision on whether or not to I should be off the Xanax. She did explain to me that they didn’t have to prescribe me anymore fills.
…Wonderful.
And about the psychiatrist, she doesn’t take any insurance but was very interested in my case.
…Fantastic.
As it stands, I’m two months away from my cancerversary. Each day, I freak out inside just a little bit more. I don’t take the Xanax anymore. I’m keeping whatever I have left in preparation for the day I hit rock bottom. God… did I just type that?
Every morning, I grudgingly leave the warm covers of my bed at 7am to pop my morning handful of pills and I tell myself, “You’re okay. Everything is fine. It’s okay.”
I lie to myself.
