By Adriana Ermter
In our monthly column, senior writer and editor Adriana Ermter shares her personal experiences with breast cancer.
I wasn’t feeling the hope. Not this morning. My pre-breakfast state of mind was consumed by a knot in my stomach, a persistent sense of anxiety and frustration, and the crappy reality that I really and truly don’t know what I’m doing with my life or what my future holds.
None of this has to do with an immediate trauma around or about dealing with breast cancer. My tumour is gone; cut out of my body. Daily treatment is in the rear-view mirror. My last bottle of Tamoxifen dumped in the garbage. I’m cancer-free. After my most recent checkup, complete with a mammogram and ultrasound, my doctor gave me the green light to live large until I’m screened again in another six months.
So, what’s my problem?!
Isn’t that the million-dollar question.
My stuck state of mind
Instead of being flooded with happiness that I continue to be cancer free, I feel stuck. My mind frozen. My body trapped (I blame the Tamoxifen weight). Even my bank account’s dollar signs, my Hinge profile’s number of “likes,” and my inbox’s lack of correspondence suggest that I’m bogged down beneath something. I’m stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck, stuck. And you know what rhymes with stuck…
To be clear, I’m not throwing a pity party nor am I passive-aggressively asking someone, anyone, to save me. I’m just stating the facts about where I’ve been hanging out emotionally these days. Not all day every day, but enough to make me crave hope. I hate feeling like this. It’s terrible. Plus, it means I’m going to have to do a lot of really heavy lifting to get myself unstuck and into a better-feeling place. Which requires effort and, if I’m perfectly honest, I don’t want to do it. I hate being stuck, but I’m comfortable here.
My hiding place
Sitting on the couch in my sweatpants with my two fluffy purring cats, watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey scream at each other is where I’m at. It's waaay easier to reside here. I can wallow. I can hide. If I was still eating packets of Pillsbury Birthday Cake cookie dough (they’re sooo good) while shaking my head at TV Teressa’s insane self-absorption and TV Jackie’s sad kiss-assery, there would be no debate about what to do. I wouldn’t even bother with the hope thing. This would be it. But I’ve recently cut out sugar, and the apple slices I’m eating as a replacement have ruined sloth mode. I need real endorphins now.
The bitter-Betty living deep down inside of me wants to sneer and say: “Screw it. It’s not worth it. Go get more cookie dough.” (Betty’s bossy and used to getting her way.) Except that it is worth it. I’ve been fighting my non-hope feelings for months now, and despite wanting to cave under them, something has snapped- or maybe clicked- and I can’t do it anymore. It’s why I have hopeless feeling moments like this morning. Yet, the second I admitted on paper and wrote in this column how grumpy I was feeling, my spirits lifted. Not sky high, but just enough.
My morning routine
Barfing out my gross feelings for everyone here (and for no-one in my journal) to read is liberating. It relieves my internal pressure. So, on mornings like today, when I’m extra resistant about living life, I pull out my Dollar Store notebook and get those feelings out.
This early morning routine was a habit long before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s not glamorous, but it works and includes guzzling three glasses of water, reading a few pages or a chapter of a memoir, fulfilling the day’s pages from a self-help book, meditating (honestly, this is just breathing in and out with my eyes closed for as long as I can before the day’s to-do list takes over my mind) and free-style journaling. It’s my lifeline, like breathing. I have to do it, and when I skip a day, it literally gives me the same uncomfortable jitters as leaving the house without my cell phone.
My need for more
Lately though, like for the last three months, my routine hasn’t been enough. My stress levels around a possible recurrence, combined with the realization that I have kept myself in a scared holding pattern have intensified. And this discomfort has been shining holes through my life.
When I was lying on the couch for months on end during and after breast cancer treatment, I promised myself that I would fulfil my dreams once I was healthy and had the energy again. I’ve crossed some things off this list, but for the most part, I haven’t achieved my big-ticket items. I feel this void, like I’m not living my best life. I’ve let fear and worry rule me, and now I feel hopeless about my work, my appearance, and my mindset. Because I’ve been too busy hiding.
This has been super hard for me to admit and begin to face head on. I took my sweet time acknowledging and dealing with it too. Attending weekly therapy sessions and listening to motivational podcasts have helped. But to be perfectly honest, the knowledge that a former friend who had a similar background to mine (minus the cancer part) is now super successful in their career and possibly a millionaire was the straw that broke my back. Yup, it’s petty, but thank God. Because now, I’m jacking things up.
My path to hope
My new approach doesn’t have a fireworks-and-explosions kind of way to get things moving. I wish. No, my path is more of a slow and steady way to push myself to be more productive with my writing, with exercise, with my love life, and with releasing the ever-present fear of a recurrence.
Swimming laps twice a week at the community pool has been a huge catalyst. Hard earned too. Because my lump was in my armpit and the side of my right breast, I had a big ice-cream scoop of flesh, along with a whole pile of lymph nodes, removed, so getting back into shape is still one of slow recovery. It took me months to get my swimming routine down too. Initially, I had to seek support from a 16-year-old instructor to relearn my strokes, as my right shoulder and arm muscles had been compromised. Considering I’m a national level artistic swimming (formerly known as synchro) coach who works with high performance athletes part time, the irony here is real. So was the humility and humbling, but I did it, and now all I want to do is be in the water. This regular movement (albeit turtle-slow) is clearing the cobwebs from my mind, making space for more hope to seep in.
Applying motivational speaker Mel Robbins’ 5 Second Rule, which is literally like a rocket ship’s blast off countdown—in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—has also enabled me to turn off the TV and get off the couch more. This is having a domino effect, encouraging me to open my laptop and write my own work more regularly, not just for the work I do for others. Even when I only type one word or reread previously written paragraphs of my personal work, I feel lighter and better about myself. I don’t know why this countdown is more effective than talking myself out of doing what needs to be done (which I am fantastic at), but it is, and I am appreciative and so grateful for women like Mel, who share their wisdom authentically and publicly so that I can learn from them. Which leads me to my third step towards hope: gratitude.
When I journal, I take a few minutes to think about and write down what I am grateful for. My cats Murphy and Olive always make the list. Sometimes I write about the velvet green chair I bought online eight years ago after stalking it for six months until it went on sale. Other times I write about the artwork I painted, framed and hung on the walls of my condo. I’m always grateful for my condo; I love the teeny-tiny home I bought with my own money.
Last week, I wrote about my gratitude for the small, red-breasted house finch who visited me on my balcony. I’d never seen one before, and since I live in a high-rise building downtown, his appearance was special. I knew his visit wasn’t random and that he was there to share a message with me. (I know. I sound a little nutty but I’m serious so stay with me.) So, I looked him up online. Then I cried. I discovered that these birds are a symbol of joy, freedom and love, and are a sign of powerful spiritual growth and transformation. They’re associated with energy, luck, and prosperity. They are adaptable, resilient, and thrive, and when they visit, they bring a message of joy and hope, and the belief of being on and that I am on the right path.
Adriana Ermter is a multi-award-winning writer and editor. Her work can be read in Sotheby’s Insight, Living Luxe and IN Magazine, as well as online at 29Secrets.com, RethinkBreastCancer.ca and AmongMen.com. The former Beauty Director for FASHION and former Editor-in-Chief for Salon Magazine, Childview and Figure Skater Fitness magazines lives in Toronto with her two very spoiled rescue cats, Murphy and Olive. You can follow Adriana on Instagram @AdrianaErmter.
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