Remember

Memory is a funny thing. When people experience intense emotions, they think that they will remember that exact feeling or the moments associated with them for the rest of their lives. We may, for example, experience a sense of euphoria when we fall in love or meet that special someone; feel a deep sadness, anger, or despair when we are confronted with unfavorable medical news; have a sense of tremendous and inconsolable grief when a close relative or dear friend passes away. Over time, however, our memories of those emotions changes - the feelings fade, or we shape our memories of events to what we wish they had been/the most ideal form. A failed relationship may have us reconsidering if we actually really felt love for a person at all; time and acceptance masks the shock that accompanies a medical diagnosis - a new normal makes it hard to remember life prior to illness; the grieving process makes the loss of a friend or family member bearable and we slowly move on with our lives, giving the deceased a small role in our lives rather than making them the focal point.

With my recent relapse, I have been thrown back into a world of uncertainty and worry, which I talked about in my previous post (My nest). A friend recently asked me if going through the process of seeing doctors when my symptoms reappeared, going for scans and sitting on edge waiting for results, and now waiting for surgery, along with my physical symptoms, felt similar to how all these things felt the previous time. She wanted to know if it was easier to cope this time around since I have already done it all before. I desperately wanted to answer that yes, it is much easier the second time around because I had learned from my experience but the honest answer, however, is that it is not. I had forgotten, to an extent, how I felt the last time I went through this. Time had dulled my experience, made the details hazy, and altered my memory of my feelings and emotions. After all this time, I forgot how much my leg could hurt. Looking back, I remember feeling, more often than not, in control of my situation. Rereading several of my blog posts, however, I know that I felt helpless and unhappy (Blah Blah Blah... I am fed up). I recall being over the moon with joy when my infectious disease specialist declared that the bone infection was gone. Rereading journal notes, however, I notice how afraid I was for months on end that the infection would return - how it was only a year later that I became optimistic that the infection was truly gone. But even then, my thoughts would race back to infection at the first hint of pain in my leg. In many ways, this relapse feels new and different to me - it is like rediscovering something you vaguely remembers, like skimming through a textbook and reading the heading of a chapter, and then being expected to know everything that was written underneath it.

The thing that strikes me the most is how little patience I have anymore. The relapse has left me feeling antsy and unsure of myself, always in a rush, always wanting answers and a firm plan set in stone. I think that I have forgotten how I coped the last time around. Coupled with the uncertainty that relapse brings, I feel like I am treading in unknown waters. In the future, I want to remember how this feels, even if it feels horrible. I want to have a record so that I don't forget and time does not alter my memories. I am, therefore, going to attempt to write down (and post!) one thing that is new to me or sticks out to me about this illness for the next thirty days.