It's Been A While...And Here's Why.
I haven't written on my blog in three months. I don't know why exactly. I have thought about sitting down and writing about a number of topics dozens of different times. But I never did. I promised some brilliant revelations. I might have a had a few along the way, but I don't know if they are really that brilliant.
The truth is, I needed a break to figure out who I am again. I am not the same person who was diagnosed with cancer 8 months ago. It was incredibly disconcerting to deal with the knowledge that my body, which I had trained to run marathons and compete athletically, had suddenly, and inexplicably, rebelled against me. It was difficult to suddenly realize that mortality isn't some far-off concept for me; I am actually going to die, and may have just gotten a glimpse at what my killer looks like.
After going through a season in which I waged a private health battle in a VERY public way, I turned my back on it for a while. During treatment, I was able to focus on fighting the enemy. I was single-minded in my desire. The adrenaline was pumping. Since the camera was rolling, and folks were actually reading my thoughts here (many of whom took those thoughts to heart using words like "inspiring" to describe it), I felt an obligation to keep feeding the monster I had created. Once treatment ended, and I destroyed that radiation mask, things changed.
I didn't have to feed the monster anymore. I lost the focus that I had while in the midst of the fight. My purpose suddenly wasn't clear. It was obvious to me that the process had changed me, but I couldn't decifer exactly how. It was like I had just walked into my warm house, after trudging miles through a violent storm, and realized that it's not my house. It was disorienting. So I retreated. I stopped writing, and for a time, I just stopped participating in life. I "checked out". Catherine allowed me to have "bad days" during treatment, in which I would just lay on the couch and let the world pass me by. After treatment, and a clean bill of health, she hasn't been quite so forgiving. It's not that I'm skirting responsibility. It's not laziness. That's not it. I have, however, built up a sort of resentment toward responsibility. Sometimes, it's just easier to curl up in a cocoon, and pretend it's not there.
I just won the battle for my life. Nothing else seems quite as important. I tried to explain to Catherine that "something" is going on with me right now. I can't quite explain it. It's led to some arguments. My son Will said, "You guys never argued until just a few weeks ago." It's true. We never argued in front of the kids, and we've never argued quite as angrily as we have. My love and respect for her has never wavered. She was my rock, my coach, and my trainer during treatment. She wants me to be more "present". I understand her frustration. I'm frustrated with myself, too. I have wondered, "Am I depressed?" I might be. I recently read a quarter of patients suffer depression after treatment, and it's very possible that's what's happening to me.
I made a conscious decision a few weeks ago, that I need to refocus my energy in another direction. I'm trying to snap out of it. So, I have poured myself into work. I have taken on some huge projects, including a series of stories on the upcoming Vancouver Olympics. I just returned from a brief trip to Haiti. I dedicated some long hours to the trip. The stories I filed, detailing the horrific situation there following the earthquake, launched a new passion in me. It has been good for my soul to focus on trying to raise awareness and get help for others once again (My Haiti trip will be a topic for a future blog post). I've been working hard. And so, far, it's good.
I spoke at the 2010 Hutch Awards luncheon today at Safeco Field. It was quite an honor to be asked to speak at the event, which supports the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. White Sox outfielder Mark Teahen was honored for his great work on and off the field. Former Major Leaguer Dave Dravecky, who lost his pitching arm to cancer, was the keynote speaker.
During my speech, I talked about the shock of the initial diagnosis, and how I dealt with treatment. I didn't tell them that I am still working through the mental part of it. In talking with other cancer survivors there, I learned that what I'm experiencing is pretty normal. Several of them told me that it took them years to understand what cancer really did to them mentally and emotionally. It really is a curse, and a blessing at the same time. I definitely feel that way. I'm just barely beginning to grasp what all of it means.
It's a work in progress.
The truth is, I needed a break to figure out who I am again. I am not the same person who was diagnosed with cancer 8 months ago. It was incredibly disconcerting to deal with the knowledge that my body, which I had trained to run marathons and compete athletically, had suddenly, and inexplicably, rebelled against me. It was difficult to suddenly realize that mortality isn't some far-off concept for me; I am actually going to die, and may have just gotten a glimpse at what my killer looks like.
After going through a season in which I waged a private health battle in a VERY public way, I turned my back on it for a while. During treatment, I was able to focus on fighting the enemy. I was single-minded in my desire. The adrenaline was pumping. Since the camera was rolling, and folks were actually reading my thoughts here (many of whom took those thoughts to heart using words like "inspiring" to describe it), I felt an obligation to keep feeding the monster I had created. Once treatment ended, and I destroyed that radiation mask, things changed.
I didn't have to feed the monster anymore. I lost the focus that I had while in the midst of the fight. My purpose suddenly wasn't clear. It was obvious to me that the process had changed me, but I couldn't decifer exactly how. It was like I had just walked into my warm house, after trudging miles through a violent storm, and realized that it's not my house. It was disorienting. So I retreated. I stopped writing, and for a time, I just stopped participating in life. I "checked out". Catherine allowed me to have "bad days" during treatment, in which I would just lay on the couch and let the world pass me by. After treatment, and a clean bill of health, she hasn't been quite so forgiving. It's not that I'm skirting responsibility. It's not laziness. That's not it. I have, however, built up a sort of resentment toward responsibility. Sometimes, it's just easier to curl up in a cocoon, and pretend it's not there.
I just won the battle for my life. Nothing else seems quite as important. I tried to explain to Catherine that "something" is going on with me right now. I can't quite explain it. It's led to some arguments. My son Will said, "You guys never argued until just a few weeks ago." It's true. We never argued in front of the kids, and we've never argued quite as angrily as we have. My love and respect for her has never wavered. She was my rock, my coach, and my trainer during treatment. She wants me to be more "present". I understand her frustration. I'm frustrated with myself, too. I have wondered, "Am I depressed?" I might be. I recently read a quarter of patients suffer depression after treatment, and it's very possible that's what's happening to me.
I made a conscious decision a few weeks ago, that I need to refocus my energy in another direction. I'm trying to snap out of it. So, I have poured myself into work. I have taken on some huge projects, including a series of stories on the upcoming Vancouver Olympics. I just returned from a brief trip to Haiti. I dedicated some long hours to the trip. The stories I filed, detailing the horrific situation there following the earthquake, launched a new passion in me. It has been good for my soul to focus on trying to raise awareness and get help for others once again (My Haiti trip will be a topic for a future blog post). I've been working hard. And so, far, it's good.
I spoke at the 2010 Hutch Awards luncheon today at Safeco Field. It was quite an honor to be asked to speak at the event, which supports the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. White Sox outfielder Mark Teahen was honored for his great work on and off the field. Former Major Leaguer Dave Dravecky, who lost his pitching arm to cancer, was the keynote speaker.
During my speech, I talked about the shock of the initial diagnosis, and how I dealt with treatment. I didn't tell them that I am still working through the mental part of it. In talking with other cancer survivors there, I learned that what I'm experiencing is pretty normal. Several of them told me that it took them years to understand what cancer really did to them mentally and emotionally. It really is a curse, and a blessing at the same time. I definitely feel that way. I'm just barely beginning to grasp what all of it means.
It's a work in progress.
Posted by Bill Wixey at 1/27/2010 2:58 PM 
Categories: haiti, fred hutchinson cancer research center, cancer, bill wixey, hutch award
Tags: haiti fred hutchinson cancer research center bill wixey cancer hutch award
Categories: haiti, fred hutchinson cancer research center, cancer, bill wixey, hutch award
Tags: haiti fred hutchinson cancer research center bill wixey cancer hutch award
I hope it helps knowing you have ton of fans and people like myself rooting for you every step of the way, regardless of what twisted and unexpected directions life may take. Stay happy and healthy!
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Hi Bill...just read your blog from today. Yes...the not knowing is pretty normal...and you went thru a lot more than I did...You rock, Bill...and I know that you and Kathleen will work things out eventually...you are both very smart and very passionate about family. Just remember not to shut her out. When you getting to feeling "weird"...write it down and kinda keep a log as you go...for a bit...then you may be able to pin it down.
I am glad that you got man of the year...i just saw that today as well. You are a very worthy of it!
Take care and keep smiling.
Dianna
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Oh Bill. Cancer is such a headf**k! Hate to use such a word, but it's true. I lost someone to brain cancer and I can relate to everything you are talking about. But I can't imagine actually going through it myself. You are so strong, and yes, it is going to take awhile to process everything. You are allowed to be angry, withdrawn and such. You are healing. I think sometimes when we are trying to deal with something so traumatic that our natural defense is to just "cope" - and sometimes coping is burying all those scary feelings for a later time. Later we look back and think, How did I ever get through that? Because we "coped". Sometimes the real battle comes after. It's a long journey, as is life. I wish you nothing but the best. Know that MANY people LOVE you. No matter where you go from here, you have a lot of support. You are lucky to have a wife who is there for you as well. It's so easy for us to take things out on our spouses sometimes when life makes us angry. Just know that she loves you. We all do. -xo
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Keep plugging along Bill. You have really come farther than you think by acknowledging your emotions. Take care of your marriage and family too...as you know life is short and time flies by so damn quickly.Take some time to just BE with your family and wife. I'm sure that there are a lot of emotions for your family to sort through as well...they almost lost their pillar! I can't imagine! Lastly, thank you for sharing your thoughts with us for it reminds us that we are all human and all on a crazy ride called life! Take Care!
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Hang in there Bill! What you're going through is so normal for cancer survivors. The exact same thing happened with me after surviving Hodgkin's in 2001. I was great during treatment; very upbeat and positive, ready for the battle every step of the way. Then I fell apart during remission. I think a common thought is that everything is OK when they tell you that you beat it. Not to mention that's what your support system is thinking - time to move on. But you are just now processing what just happened to you. Don't be afraid to address the depression. Meds & therapy have since been my best friend. Even now after almost 9 years since my cancer, I sill face it every day. You will never be the same person you were, but that's OK. You'll just have to define your new sense of normal and it takes time. About a year after treatment, I came across a book, "After Cancer" by Wendy Schlessel Harpham that helped me immensely. It told me that all these things I was going through was normal and that helped me to breathe easier. Because I couldn't figure out why I felt terrible, when I was cured and got to live the rest of my life and be mom to my then 3 year old son. I believe there is a bit of post-traumatic stress that cancer survivors have. Our lives may not be directly or violently threatened like with soldiers in a war, but we had to face the possibility of death nonetheless. I also forgot to include my husband in my recovery. He didn't go through it like me, but was traumatic for him in a totally different way. And, one last thing, the fatigue from chemo & rad stays with you for a long time. I read it can sometimes take years. (I think I still have it!) As I'm sure you already know, the fatigue makes everything else seem 10x greater.
I will continue to pray for you and your family. My warmest wishes,
Christine Woodward
christine@boopboop.org
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Bill, it's the effects of post-traumatic stress. You rise to the occasion to be brave, functional, fight and get through it; and the real, true, feelings don't come until afterward. It sounds good to throw yourself into meaningful things, but talking to a psychologist might be the best and most effective way to get back on-track and, in particular, ease your family tension. Been there, done that, have the badge
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Bill, we are here to take in and support as much or as little as you want to share - Thanks for explaining what happened to Bill's Blog - I was wondering why I had not seen Bill on Twitter and his blog in my email anymore, but, thankfully see you on Twitter again and here is the new blog! We are here to support you in what is best for you! Thanks for the words, and the personal nature of what you have shared with people. We are here for you STILL!!! I am sure you will work things out and do what is right for you and your family! Take care, Sean @LTLV613!
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Prayers have continued even in your silence. Those of us who have been there before you understand. It's a terrifying and intense adjustment, and what you're going through is normal. Embrace it. Learn from it. God is still there with you, guiding you, as you synthesize the massive experience you and your family have been through.
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Bill, hang in there as you move further from cancer and become more healthy. I am a current T-cell Lymphoblastic Leukemia patient (since October) and clearly understand your feelings and struggles. If you ever want to graft some of that hair my way, I will gladly take it. I have a blog too, it has been very helpful. We have a team doing the Big Climb on March 21, "I Got A Fever" is the team, you are welcome to join us! Go to bogclimb.org and search for our team.
Greg
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Hi Bill,
Thanks for your post. I'm sure the responses have been heartfelt. That's because at one time or another, all cancer survivors have been where you are. Just check out www.voicesofsurvivors.com. There's nearly a hundred survivors on video speaking on this same subject. (I'm in there too -- # 57 or so I think.)
This is how I explain it to people to folk who haven't had cancer. Almost everyone has been in a near miss car accident or an actual car accident at some time or another. During the crisis, as the car is veering out of control, the adrenylin boost takes over and the need to survive kicks in. We do all we can to preserve ourselves from becoming a mangled mess inside a car-turned-paperweight. When it's over, and we're safe, we look back at the damaged vehicle smoking on the side of the road and shriek, "Whoa! Did you SEE that? I almost got killed!!" It's the shock after the trauma. I think it's that way for many cancer patients as well. They are exceedingly driven to survive through their therapy but when therapy is over its like "Whoa! Did you SEE that craziness? I almost got killed!"
I think it would be helpful if cancer institutes would formulate an "exit strategy" like I think the military does for veterans returning home. Some sort of a program that would act as a segway between the end of treatment and the new beginnings of life. Because you are right. The perspective has changed.
Don't be afraid to reach out for therapy. The best of us have tried it and it is often helpful.
This will improve Bill. Just the fact that you're willing to talk about it means you want to fix it. And if I know nothing else about you, I know this: When you set your mind to something, dang it, it gets done!
Best wishes to you and Catherine and the children.
Donna : )
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A very personal and meaningful post that goes past the "I'm gonna fight this," to dig deeper into what a battle like this does not only for the body but the mind. It shows the soul and not just the surface. As a friend told me a while back, "In our society the only appropriate emotion to show in struggle is to laugh it off." We all know that's not always possible. I can understand that this stage isn't easy, because it's filled with uncertainty and wonder. Been there, not on this level but I've experienced the same stage.
You may have heard "The Desert Song." The message is this: While this empty time may give you doubts and curiosity about what the future holds, the truth is there's a plan that includes the very thing that you are doing right now. In short, trust in the path; the harvest hasn't come yet. The luncheon speech helped share a human side of the battle so many Americans fight. The trip to Haiti is a two-fold win, both for viewers who saw you head straight into the fray and for you to have seen the devastation first-hand. I think you're on the right road, even if it isn't paved yet.
You've come off a hard fight I commend you for taking that uncertain energy and pointing it towards serving others. There is nothing wrong with that. Period.
KDC
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