Cancer And Grief Make A Match Made In Heaven

Cancer And Grief Make A Match Made In Heaven

by | Aug 30, 2020 | Cancer

How To Process Through The Grief That Cancer Brings

In my experience, people naturally link grief with cancer after someone they know has died. In actual fact, the patient experiences a form of internal death as part of their diagnosis.

We all have an expectation of how we will live our lives, and, have dreams about how long that will be for. In that moment a cancer diagnosis kills that dream. Sometimes the death is only temporary, and other times it’s very permanent in the literal sense.

Grief is the emotional response to a perceived loss. It’s natural and a part of life. It’s just not something you expect to apply to yourself. You tend to associate grief as something you feel when someone you love dies or leaves your life.

Beyond Blue discusses that grief can be expressed in a variety of ways because we are all gorgeously unique. Grief can be a rollercoaster of too many feelings that will affect not just your emotional stability, but can impact your physicality — from how you sleep, how well you respond to stress, and even your general energy levels. Many people say that grieving takes up more energy than they ever expected.

Grief has the ability to potentially affect every part of your life including “emotions, thoughts and behaviour, beliefs, physical health, your sense of self and identity, and your relationships with others. Grief can leave you feeling sad, angry, anxious, shocked, regretful, relieved, overwhelmed, isolated, irritable or numb.” — Beyond Blue

Grief has no set pattern and we all do it in our own individual way. Some people may grieve for weeks and months, while others may experience grief which lasts years. The duration is often linked with the depth of our emotional connection that has been severed.

There is an upside to grief, weird I know. You get the chance to process your stuff through this perceived loss. You get to choose to look at life differently. As you shed the layers of emotions, your available energy opens to choosing to create new experiences and habits for life moving forward.

As a patient migrating through the breast cancer chapter I can attest to the depth of grief I experienced at the loss of a breast, then a nipple, and so much more.

Grief is a natural process

Grief is a normal and expected component of the breast cancer chapter and forms an important step in the healing process. You have to be able to connect with all the emotional feels in order to release them.

Loss of Independence

I grieved my loss of independence after surgery, especially in the weeks and months having to rebuild my physical stamina. I have grieved the loss of a carefree life, a life without the worry of potential metastatic return. This residual fear returns with each new test or scan, and wondering whether everything will be all clear.

This fear arises because you have experienced the initial diagnosis and never ever want to have to feel that dread mixed with sadness ever again.

After surgery, I was extremely limited physically in undertaking basic things like food preparation and showering. It was very difficult to stand and took me weeks to relearn how to walk with a correct gait. I couldn’t lift a full kettle for months. I’m grateful for the coffee maker with buttons!

I supported myself through this process by cutting myself some slack. I asked for help (had no choice really). I drastically limited my daily goals to small milestones. I allowed myself to rest and regenerate. I allowed myself to feel all the emotional feels and purge them into my journal.

Loss of financial independence

I grieved the loss of financial independence from not working for nearly a year. Migration to a single income household was interesting and we adopted the ‘caravan lifestyle’.

Make do with what food is in the fridge, freezer and cupboard. Plan all meals ahead of time, and shop for only those items on the budget.

The caravan concept mandates only live life with what you can fit in your caravan. I can say that I’ve worked through all the gifted hand creams, bath bombs and other scented toiletries gifted to me over the years that had accumulated in my bathroom cupboard.

This perception that I’d lost my financial independence was a gem, and jam-packed with a myriad of beliefs that you need to work hard for your money and then deserve the fruits of your labour. Those beliefs didn’t include accepting support from others, and there is a sense of your independence dying. It was very liberating and humbling to finally be able to reach out to my support group and be flooded with offers of assistance when I asked.

Child’s loss

I grieved my daughter’s loss of her childhood innocence that her mother will live forever. I grieved for her sorrow upon my initial diagnosis and her subsequent sadness. Our daughter and I have always been close. Since diagnosis, we talk more about the feelings, the dreams and desires. Together we explore the why of life. We focus on joy seeking in the moment or on the day.

Partner’s Loss

I grieved the loss of my partner, who felt helpless and lost, not knowing how to support me. I grieved having a supportive partner. My husband hasn’t known what to do with himself, so he stepped back and gave me space. He withdrew and never stepped forward again.

Conversely, my husband perceives he lost his wife who has been replaced by a hormonal hot mess. The relationship loss is felt on both sides of the spectrum.

The loss of intimate support meant that I have strengthened relationships with beautiful friends and with myself. I know now I can do absolutely anything that life gifts me to learn. I now simply choose to do the lessons with ease and grace. I know the point now where instead of struggling I can seek assistance.

Loss of my breast

I prepared diligently the week before my mastectomy. I disconnected from everyone and everything and began quite the purge into my journal. Here’s an excerpt.

“It’s a little over a week since my diagnosis and my head is spinning from so many things. Funnily enough, the diagnosis is the easiest thing to accept. The outpouring of love from clients, family, friends, and even strangers has been overwhelming, and incredibly difficult to digest. Their words clarify my reality and I am terrified. Life as I know it will never be the same.”

For as long as I can remember having breasts, they have been large and cumbersome, much like a full fruit bowl. At times a source of sexual gratification, but mostly a source of embarrassment and shame. I had no ability to hide their enormity, or ability to attract unwanted negative attention.

Now that I’ve chosen to cut one off in order to rid myself of cancer, and attempt to reduce metastatic return, I feel even more shame. I am guilty that I didn’t nurture myself enough to deserve them in the first place. Why was I given the ability to nurture and mother, when others get nothing but fried eggs?

I am grateful that my breasts nurtured my baby for almost a year. Nursing her was magical moments and I grieve the loss of that part of my body that provided that nurture.

I grieve the love I should have given self all these years I have worked and worked hard. I regret the self-loathing that is left behind.

I grieve open communication with friends, who have since withdrawn since my diagnosis or piled on the sympathy because they are scared. I grieve the normality of my relationships and hate being the conversation spotlight. I hate that cancer dictates my every interaction. I am still me!

The Breastie’s Loss

I vividly recall my best friend, (now nicknamed my Breastie) who dropped me to the hospital for my first of many surgeries. She sat with me the entire time in the holding bay until I was wheeled into theatre. For the most part, we laughed and perved on cute orderlies, we engaged in our normal banter and behaviour — until the surgeon arrived with her texta.

As my wonderful doctor and I chatted about the finer details of the surgery and she marked my body, my breastie sat silently in the chair. Tears streaming down her face. Just thinking of that moment brings an intensity of love for her rising to my surface. It was intense and still brings us both to tears. She looked so damn sad and helpless.

We’ve spoken about that moment many times. The conversation has been healing for both of us. I experienced feelings of guilt for my breastie’s grief. She experienced feelings of grief and sadness because she was scared she couldn’t do anything to help me. She could only sit and hold space whilst I experienced my experience.

Grief is a process, taking time and energy

Grief is a mighty powerful mix of emotions that uses both your mental and physical energy to experience, sustain and process. Is it any wonder it can leave you feeling exhausted. Self-care during any grief is vital.

Where possible, I utilise the beauty of a nature walk to gift myself regular sanity checks. A walk in nature reminded of the things I am in control of and letting go of the junk that I am not. That walk completed the relaxation needed to get through another day. The walk provides a mental escape and distraction to the overactive mind.

I am consistent in my approach to stress management, working with my GP, psychologist and oncology teams have enabled me to focus on maintaining normalcy with my personal relationships.

When I talk to my friends about how I’m feeling, I ensure that we go around the table. I’m not the only one who shares, vents or rants. We all get a turn. This way I don’t feel like I’m burdening anyone or the centre of attention. I feel normal when we all take a turn and validate each other.

Final Words

Remember we all have days where our buttons are pushed. We all have stuff in our lives that can induce feel and feelings of loss. It’s evidence that we are alive and engaged in that life, invested. It’s ok to feel all the feels sometimes, it’s what makes you human. You’re allowed. The trick is don’t get swallowed by the feelings, do something with them.

What makes life great is how successfully you pick yourself and go chase another sunrise.

There is strength in connecting with your emotions and allowing them to flow. Never stifle how you’re feeling. That negativity resides in your tissues and clogs your pores, your connective tissue and your soul.

Allow your grief to arise so you can nurture yourself deeply. Allow the grief to arise so that you can learn the depth of the lessons and move forward in your life, healing easily, loving exceptionally. Acknowledge there’s no need to do grief alone and where necessary seek the support you need to move forward in your life.

Karen Humphries, Change Chick, Change Facilitator, Kinesiology, Wellness Coach, Australian Bush Flower Essences, LEAP Facilitator, Trauma, Public Speaker, Cancer Ambassador, Blooming From Within, Traralgon, Victoria, Gippsland

About Karen

Change Facilitator

Karen Humphries is a Mental Health Counselor, Hypnotherapist (incl psychotherapy), Resource Therapist, Kinesiology Practitioner, Wellbeing Coach, LEAP, NES + TBM Practitioner, Intuitive Meditation Facilitator, and published author.

Karen is a self-confessed laughaholic who loves being of service to the world with her humorous and positive approach to life, encouraging people to ‘choose to change and bloom from within.’ 

Karen sees the value in bringing her tribe together for all to flourish.

Healing Emotions Hurt More Than The Physical Wounds

Healing Emotions Hurt More Than The Physical Wounds

by | Aug 24, 2020 | Cancer

How to come to terms with the emotions of cancer

There are several reasons that cancer is associated with strong emotions. Cancer is an evocative word, which has traditionally referenced a deadly disease. Yet this doesn’t change the fact it is much harder to heal the emotions of cancer, more often than the physical wounds.

What I know to be true, is that upon diagnosis, there is an overwhelming sense of uncertainty thrown in your face. Your mortality is slapped down in front of you. There is an immediate fear of the future, fear of the unknown and fear of losing control.

I still vividly remember the Saturday morning my breast surgeon delivered the news of my pathology results. I had been able to get myself out of my hospital bed unassisted. It physically hurt like hell, but once I got comfy in the upright chair I was able to settle. The bed was for sick people, I didn’t perceive myself sick then. I was simply recovering from mammoth surgery.

When my surgeon sat at the end of my hospital bed, her face was serious and I knew something was wrong. You know that dread you feel watching a suspense movie? You experience that sensation when you know instinctively something is coming and can’t prepare for it?

She informed me that the results were significantly scarier, from what the original scanning and biopsy had shown. That was one of several days the floor disappeared and I felt like Alice falling down the hole.

I allowed myself to sit in the vulnerable

Hysterical tears don’t even come close to describing everything I felt and experienced that day. Hot mess doesn’t either. But I did both of those things and everything in between. Panic. Terror. Overthinking. Sadness. Worry. Anxiety. I experienced all of it, smothered by it in fact.

There was little resilience left after surgery earlier that week to do anything but cry. At that moment I felt completed defeated. In those conversation moments, my physical pain didn’t even rate. But I was gutted emotionally.

I can now reflect on that horrible day, understanding the true power of the fear of the unknown. It’s crippling and leaves you feeling nothing but raw, extremely vulnerable and very isolated.

The healing I’ve done on myself since has shown me that with patience and the loving support of friends and family, I have turned that raw into MY ROAR!

Even now, as broken as you may feel, you are still so strong. There’s something to be said for how you hold yourself together and keep moving, even though you feel like shattering. Don’t stop! This is your healing. It doesn’t have to be pretty or graceful. You just have to keep going. — Unknown

It did, in fact, take the promised eight weeks to recover from that mammoth reconstructive surgery. In hindsight that was the easy part. The hardest part was dealing with the resultant PTSD emotions that arose from a traumatic biopsy experience.

I had buried myself inside the physical recovery from surgery with very little time to deal with the magnitude of why I had surgery and my diagnosis in the first place.

The subsequent emotional feels that are incorporated deeply with diagnosis, and were often expressed as feelings like dismal failure and depression. Feelings of perpetual entrapment ensued, both physically and mentally.

 

Identifying dark places

That was a dark hole, which took some intense therapy to work through. With hindsight, I can see exposing the darkness of those negative emotions with external assistance, allowed me to openly explore all the feelings as the gift it was. Healing those emotions was so much more intense and way more challenging than healing from breast cancer surgery.

The talking therapy was the trick. I didn’t avoid it, I couldn’t, for that messy bitch of emotions slapped me every day. I didn’t process having cancer at the time of diagnosis. I was too busy being shuffled between appointments, having surgery and learning to walk again.

The emotional bastard bit me as I started chemo. The feels oozed out with my energy as the magic medicine flooded into my body. This was the time that my strong facade faded. And once again I was back to feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable.

 

The talking therapist supported me to gently explore the maze within and find myself again. The talking granted permission to the floodgates to open, which had been bolted tight. Those gates had held everything inside. It was everything inside that robbed me of my energy to recover physically. 

 

As soon as I wrote in my journal or purged with my therapist the cascading avalanche of all my stuff spilled out. There was a release. It was those moments of releasing the emotional that granted permission for the physical to relax and heal.

A friend shared the following quote with me during these darker days. The message was received. Be kind to self. Put self first. Do what it takes to heal. So I did.

I know you are hurting — really bad. I will not tell you to love yourself or smile, but to keep surviving, to get through this day, to eat whatever you want and not feel guilt. I will not tell you to stay in bed for a week, a month or a year if that is what your soul needs. I will remind you that you are still beautiful, even when you are dressed in all the grief. — Rune Lazuli

The emotional roller coaster of cancer is expected and very normal. It’s our human response to a stressful situation. The various things we feel are simply exaggerated because there is a societal perception that we are fighting for our lives.

 

I worked with a therapist

With the support of my therapist, I dug deeper into the abyss of the connective tissue within the wounds I now wore. Initially, those new lines caused much shame and embarrassment.

 

I openly explored my old wounds

I openly explored what my breasts had meant to me as an individual, a woman, a girl, an infant, and mother. I healed more mother wounds, and in doing so in poured an immense and deeply felt gratitude for my feminine.

 

I worked through the physical loss

I worked through what it meant to have nipples, and the grief I felt when I lost one. I was forced to process the new bumps to my milky white chest landscape.

 

I worked through the tears

I worked through months of crying every time I looked at my new chest landscape. The red scarring, the skin graft, the puckered skin and the limited range of motion made the emotions raw. It was this rawness that slowed the physical recovery. I was looking too closely at physical wounds, spending all my energy literally trying to fix them. Trying to control the uncontrollable.

From every wound, there is a scar, and every scar tells a story. A story that says “I survived” — Ft Craig Scott’’

What I’ve learnt is the depth that connective tissue stores emotional trauma. It stores a negative outlook. The tissue stores the false expectations we think we need. The stretch of the tissue holds onto the need to control and keeps you in a state of physical stuck and emotional disbelief. This equates to non-acceptance and inability to flow physically and mentally.

Now that I am embracing my role as a patient it’s getting easier to see those new landscape lines. I’ve researched tattoo designs, and the meaning of the symbol I’ve learnt that the ancient Amazon Warrior amputated her right breast in order to shoot her arrow strong and true.

The lesson learnt and accepted is that I now point true north — metaphorically, mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. 

Final words

 

If you find yourself, a friend or relative, on the cancer rollercoaster, and the likelihood is that someone in your life will be affected at some time, I offer you this. We are gifted challenges, not to endure but to experience. These challenges which arise enable us to explore more of self. These challenges gift us the chance to choose a mindset to focus on what is in our control and surrender to that which is not.

The more we can soften our emotional and mental perspective, the faster and more at peace our physical vessel will respond.

 

Karen Humphries, Change Chick, Change Facilitator, Kinesiology, Wellness Coach, Australian Bush Flower Essences, LEAP Facilitator, Trauma, Public Speaker, Cancer Ambassador, Blooming From Within, Traralgon, Victoria, Gippsland

Karen Humphries is a Kinesiology Practitioner, Health & Business Coach, self-confessed laughaholic, and now Wellness Advocate residing in Gippsland Victoria Australia. She loves being of service to the world with her humorous and positive approach to life, encouraging people to ‘choose to change and bloom from within.’ 

A Date With An Oncologist

A Date With An Oncologist

by | Jun 23, 2020 | Cancer

Embracing the dreaded Big C and getting on with life

I recall the first official appointment with my oncologist. That was one of the more significant and stand out days for me in this cancer chapter. That was the day when I really lost my shit and could no longer stuff the overwhelming emotions inside. 

Up until this point, I had been brave, courageous and overwhelmingly positive. I had a kick-arse attitude which prompted me through surgical recovery. But I had a lingering fear of that impending oncology appointment.

If I am, to be honest, I was shit scared. I don’t admit that much, mostly because I’ve got a set of hairy balls and nothing much generally phases me. This appointment certainly did.

The oncology waiting room was filled with beautiful women … who were all bald or had their noggings covered in peach fuzz. I remember as clear as day, bright lipstick, colourful clothes, laughter and bald heads.

Here I sat with a head full of luscious thick hair listening to them banter and laugh amongst each other with sunshine reflecting off their shiny scalps. Feeling totally out of place and terrified of the unknown and unexpected. My need for control lurching full steam ahead.

I don’t often feel left out but I did that day. This wasn’t a group I wanted to join. I had made a surgical decision to avoid adjunct therapy, and yet pathology results forced the decision and this impending and subsequent appointment. 

What had originally been estimated to be only ductal carcinoma, revealed a high-grade hormone receptive invasive tumour amongst the tissue. Hidden from both mammogram and MRI, I am grateful to have made the surgical decision of mastectomy in hindsight. 

 

Spirit had spoken loudly and guided. I listened intently.

 

My feelings must have been all over my face sitting in that rambunctious waiting room. Several of those gorgeous women gave me winks or a reassuring smile. I just wanted to crawl up my own backside and hide from the reality of being there in the first place.

That was the day my cancer diagnosis had become very real. Even though I’d had significant life saving (and altering) surgery, that was one of the days I reaffirmed what strength really is. It’s so much more than a brave face or being humorous or positive.

That was a day to make a choice to bloom from within or wallow and throw a pity party for one. That was a day to embrace the moment and dig deep into the warrior woman amazon archives.

Cancer forced me to show my belly. I had no choice but to allow myself to be vulnerable. Needless to say, I cried as soon as I entered the oncology liaison nurse’s room, for I could no longer contain the burbling volcanic emotions. Honestly? I completely and utterly lost my shit and sobbed.

That appointment permitted me to allow myself to connect to the cesspool of emotions, and then word vomit out all my feelings when the oncology liaison nurse asked: “so how are you really going?”.

Through the streaming tears, that oncology nurse somehow made sense of my babble. She checked my post-surgical wounds, even though that’s not her job. She quickly ascertained that I’m a bit of a control freak, and required information to improve my failing self-management of the anxiety that afternoon.

What felt like half a tissue box later and a discussion of my allergies (and there’s a list) I met with the oncologist. He listened. He smiled. He reassured. We talked biochemistry of the cancer pathology results. I got the sense that not many patients enter his rooms and can talk shop like a colleague.

We conducted a tour of the oncology ward so I could familiarise myself with staff, the protocols and the process. I had chosen the ‘cap cooling option’ during my chemotherapy treatment. 

Imagine a cap with flowing water, connected to a refrigerant machine and your head freezing. Literally your scalp and wet hair are taken down to minus two degrees. To tolerate this you’re given a couple of pain relievers and a ‘relaxant’ and smothered in pre-warmed blankets. 

Create a picture in your mind of a goofy dog emerging out of anaesthesia, doped to the hilt, snuggled in a blankie, arm cannulated, with drool dripping down my chin. Glamourous, nowhere close. Life-saving, yes. Well that was what I became once treatment started!

You think chemotherapy and your automatic response is bald, vomiting hot mess. Right? I am grateful that my treatment and side effects were different.

Fatigued? Of course but this wasn’t all the time. My treatment hit me three days after administration and I’d be down for two or three days then bounce back.

Neuropathy? (That’s pins and needles, numbness, even burning sensations in the extremities of fingers, hands, toes and feet). Still experiencing those symptoms four months down the track. WHilst I have exceptionally good pain medications, they leave me with a hangover. So I feel very grateful that my naturopath had some goodies in her toolbox to combat this.

Chemo brain? Say what? Of course. Delighted to report the IQ and memory recall are returning. So if you know me and see me down the street, tell me your name cause that filing cabinet is still a little jammed and my recall of face to the name is a bit wonky!

Proprioception? I know I can already hear you squealing “what does that mean?”. It is simply a fancy word which references our perception or awareness of the position and movement of the body. When you receive chemotherapy treatment the neural pathways can be affected. 

You can walk like a drunk, trip over a piece of paper and slur your words a little. You may have trouble with balance or even holding things like a cup or phone.

Digestion? The discussion of monkey bum is always an entertaining one. No one wants to be asked how their bowel movements are! Gosh, I feel for the nurses! Since the adjuvant treatment does affect epithelial cell lining (mucosal membranes so everywhere from mouth to butt hole – charming isn’t it??!!) patients can experience symptoms of constipation and or diarrhoea. Either way, your butt gets red like the baboon at the zoo — hence the reference to monkey bum was born!

The extreme of this is swelling and splitting of other sensitive areas like inside the mouth, nose, vagina or anus. I used powdered glutamine in my daily smoothie to keep my pink bits happy. You can grab it over the counter at any chemist or bodybuilding shop as it’s marketed as a post-exercise supplement. Chemo definitely gives you a workout!

Hair? Society has this misperception that chemotherapy will automatically mean your hair falls out. And it does, in hand fulls. However, with the aid of scalp cooling, I kept a lot of hair on my head. That said, it’s still sparse (for me) and my head is cold so I wear turbans and caps to keep myself warm!

My eyebrows and eyelashes thinned out drastically but I never lost them completely. The peach fuzz hair on my face disappeared, as did the hair on my forearms and patches on my legs. 

But guess which hairs returned first? The witchy poo rogue hair on my chinny chin chin was the first to return after the chemo rave party, and brought seventeen mates with him! Bastards! It’s like I’m growing a pubescent boys beard!!

It’s nuts how the body responds to being bombarded with poison!

Due to hair loss, because they are the most fragile and easily replaced cells of the body, you get nose bleeds and sniffly nose. This is the body’s natural response to flushing the exposed cells where hair normally captures foreign bodies.

Nails? Yep if you’re lucky you keep them as they tear easily. Others experience their nails lifting off, an extremely painful experience. Some experience fungal infections as the nail bed becomes exposed and their immune system is working overtime.

Pain? Chemotherapy targets white bone marrow so you can experience deeply seated bone pain. I found topical magnesium massaged into my legs enabled me to continue walking. On the bad days, I would also resort to low dose pain medication to take the edge off. On the really bad days, I befriended the couch and Netflix and tried to sleep it off knowing it would pass.

It’s vital to be able to listen to what your body is saying. Receiving chemo, or magic medicine as I now refer to it, doesn’t discriminate and affects everyone a little differently.

Fingerprints? I know how weird is this, but the fingerprint lines disappear during chemo. I definitely struggled turning pages of books, picking up objects and getting good grip on the steering wheel. 

Sleep? Luckily, chemo pushes the hormonal balance out and you commence menopause symptoms. It’s a barrel of laughs being hot and sweaty one minute, then freezing cold the next. Interference with sleep due to such power surges and or pain is common. Reduction in sleep can lower one’s tolerance for being able to cope and reduce your resilience.

Mindset? When you combine pain, sleep deprivation, and fluctuating hormones, your emotional mindset is significantly challenged. Even the most positive Percy’s can be easily reduced to tears on a bad day. There are moments you can cry rivers, and the next nearly wet your pants laughing.

Sanity? For me, it was healthy to maintain daily walks and meditation. I journaled a lot.

Support? My support network was jam-packed with inspiring positive people who lift me up. They recognised the days when I was low and gave me lots of space to rest. These were the people that didn’t treat me differently. They just hugged and kissed me, sometimes laid on the bed with me. Others walked beside me. Some even helped me shower or brush my hair.

There was a common theme amongst my support posse. I maintained a private messenger group where I could update my gang once. I didn’t have to continue repeating news — good or bad. There was often dialogue. There were celebrations for the small wins, and expletives issued when the news was bad. Links were shared when the technical stuff got too difficult or tiring to explain.

 

In this space, there was only ever love expressed and received, and for that, I will be eternally grateful to this group.

 

This group of wonderful people never asked for the updates, for me that was the worst thing you could do. Why would you want me to relive and re-experience all the crap all over again?

The key thing I have been routinely asked is “how are you?”. There are times this drives me crazy because I am sick to death of repeating the same cancer story. I am sick to death of talking or even thinking about it. Why? Because I’m the one living and growing from this experience.

So next time you see a mate who’s undergoing chemotherapy, simply ask them “is today a good day?” and adjust your conversation and action accordingly. Ask them if it’s ok to hug them. Ask if they’d like a hand or foot massage. Book an exercise date with them. Ask how their skin is holding up and offer them some moo goo cream or liquid silica!

Do some research on their disease and treatment so that when you are talking you will understand and not ask unnecessary questions that force them to repeat difficult to digest news or information.

Ask your mate whether they would like to be accompanied to an appointment. Having a fresh face rather than your partner is a lovely distraction. It gives your family a break and some downtime and it gives the patient a new person to talk to.

Ask what sort of meal they want to be cooked. Don’t simply make the offer of a meal because most people will reject that. When I offer meals, I provide the recipient with a choice of meal A or B, because I know the value of sitting down to a meal without having wasted my precious energy to prepare it. 

I take myself to and from oncology appointments, and the last thing I want to do after travelling a couple of hours each way is to cook a meal when I get home. So when someone offers to cook I thank the angels and say “yes please, that would be fabulous and such a big help”!

 

 

These days, I waltz into the oncology ward. I know everyone by name. The staff are like a second family. Some of the patients have become ‘magic juice’ mates. There is laughter amongst the shiny heads. I’m part of that banter now.

I see beyond the bald scalp. I see the beauty within those undergoing treatment. I see the compassion within the staff. I see life as a gift from my own eyes, and cancer has changed me. It’s changed me into a different person. One who values every second as a gift.

I have come to accept that the adjuvant treatments are life-saving on so many levels, they are my magic juice! The key to shifting my mindset was to confront my fears about the treatment itself and to hug the gift of cancer.

I talk openly about this chapter of my life because there is so much stigma associated with someone doing battle with the drug regime. Acceptance of the actual disease is a whole new story!

Karen Humphries, Change Chick, Change Facilitator, Kinesiology, Wellness Coach, Australian Bush Flower Essences, LEAP Facilitator, Trauma, Public Speaker, Cancer Ambassador, Blooming From Within, Traralgon, Victoria, Gippsland

About Karen

Change Facilitator

Karen Humphries is a Kinesiology Practitioner, Health & Business Coach, self-confessed laughaholic, and now Breast Cancer Advocate residing in Gippsland Victoria Australia. She loves being of service to the world with her humorous and positive approach to life, encouraging people to ‘choose to change and bloom from within.’ 

A Blissful Return To An Old Friend In New Times

A Blissful Return To An Old Friend In New Times

by | May 28, 2020 | Cancer

My first post COVID massage

My body has been tired lately. I have been working it hard in preparation for an upcoming surgery. I desperately needed to iron out the kinks, so I was delighted to receive notification from my massage therapist of a cancellation.

 

Before COVID to ensure my body performed well, I had a regular fortnightly massage. I work my best when my body is relaxed. My clarity is at its peak when I am limber.

I pretty much stand in a static position when I work. This can be taxing on my postural spinal muscles and places undue stress on my neck and shoulders. 

A massage literally rubs all my cares away. It shifts the kinks. It is one of my zen zones. But it is so much more.

As a massage therapist myself, I can attest to the fact that my regular clients don’t just come for a rub. They share more than parts of their naked skin. 

You see there seems to be an unwritten thing when you are partially naked and allowing someone to touch you. Undressing is like providing consent to that vulnerable part of you to let go of anything emotional that has been brewing. You lie down on the table covering yourself with a towel and instantly begin to chill out.

 

 

Today that’s what I did. I have been setting my intention to surrender to ordinary thinking. With that intention comes significant unpacking of old, unwanted and heavy emotions which had grown stale, and no longer serving my higher purpose.

 In true letting go style, I felt hot tears dripping down my cheeks as I drove to my appointment. This was the first normal routine appointment that I used to do before I was diagnosed with cancer. 

Every single appointment I’ve had since November 19, other than the hairdresser washing my hair after surgery because I couldn’t do it myself, has been oncology related. I’ve exposed my body in a whole new way, and one I still can’t get used to. Get a ‘cat’ scan here, go for an MRI over there. Consult two surgeons. Visit the oncologist and physiotherapists.

So the thought of visiting my massage therapist to rub out the kinks was bloody fantastic. It felt cathartic and strangely different all at once. My body wasn’t the same anymore and I’m still getting used to that, let alone getting myself into a headspace to allow others to touch me.

I’ve known my own massage therapist for nearly two decades. When you find a good one who makes you feel like putty you never change or seek another.

We go way back. So I felt comfortable discussing and showing her my scars. We discussed the technical aspects of what I needed in this session. We chatted therapist to therapist and talked shop for a bit.

I warned her there would be tears. We both knew they were coming. She was ok with that, smiled that familiar smile and I felt the relaxation begin.

I was in a safe place and I could trust this person. This hasn’t always been the case in this cancer chapter.

My therapist is beautiful and she began with slow strokes and hot rocks. I melted into the table. I felt my defences lower immediately. 

It was then my story flowed, as did the tears. I can’t begin to describe how a simple massage reinstated my ability to trust. Firstly that I could trust someone to touch me without causing trauma. Secondly, I can trust that life will resume some sense of normalcy after experiencing cancer. Thirdly, that I can trust that I am moving forward bit by bit, meaningful life will, I won’t be trapped in this trauma vortex forever.

PTSD is no walk in the park. The flashbacks and anxiety are now are getting easier to manage because I understand them better. I’m learning to embrace and accept myself more and what the patterns are. The surrender to the release gets easier and easier.

I told her about my shitty experience. As I found my words she simply held a silent space and continued with the therapeutic strokes. The more words I found and expressed, and the longer she stroked, I felt lighter and more relaxed.

Our rhythm had returned. The tension held in my body subsided and it was delightful to have some normal back in my life. Up until that point, I hadn’t realised how much I had been craving normal. Thanks to COVID, many of the things before cancer had been taken for granted and I’ve been either housebound or attending oncology appointments for months.

We barely spoke of the cancer chapter, because she knows I am so much more than that. We talked about my evolution what I do with my days. Mostly we laughed about boobs. It was a delightful way to spend an hour nurturing both my physical body and my heart space.

 

 

What I learnt from this experience is this … there are some things that will change drastically after COVID, much like the extensive cleaning process my therapist now has to do between each patient.

Some things blissfully don’t change, like the services continuing to be offered within our local communities. They continue to be genuinely heartfelt and sincerely and best of all nurturing to our spirit. Use each and every one of them. Grab a cuppa to go. Click and collect locally. 

 

Do what it takes to support your local business and possible future employer of your teenage kids.

 

I am excited about the opportunity for life to return to a new normal. One whereby nurturing ourselves with amazing practitioners is our highest priority.

I am excited to return to a world filled with positivity. Whilst the external world may be filled with worry and doubt, I can assure you mine is filled with hope and a wish list. Once the restrictions are lifted don’t get in my way, I’ve got shit to do! I have love to give and laughter to share and there’s an evolving list of recipients who have put up their hand to partake!

I am finally excited to feel hope towards the possibility of one day returning to my own clinic. There was a time recently I felt too broken at just the thought. I look forward to when I am strong enough to hold space for another once again. 

For now, I focus on practising holding space for myself. Once I get better at that I’ll share it cautiously with the world!

My Therapist Says There Is No Justice In This World, Only Lessons

My Therapist Says There Is No Justice In This World, Only Lessons

by | May 8, 2020 | Cancer

How to Reframe a shitty experience into Resilience Superpowers

 

This is a challenging story for me to share with you. One of which I am still working through. But on the suggestion by my therapist, I’m breaking down the various anger aspects where I feel stuck.

By minimising each aspect of the larger problem faced, I am increasing my opportunity to reframe and find solutions. Reframing enables me to feel like I can take back my control and power and return to being resilient once again.

After I finish sharing my perception of this experience you may just agree it was pretty ‘sh*tty’. But here’s the thing, I can choose to remain stuck in the sh*t, or I can choose to reframe various aspects to enable my healing.

If I hadn’t I may have ended up a dribbling mess huddled in the corner of the room, sucking on my thumb — you might call this a hot mess.

The Sh*it That Hits

 

You would think a breast cancer diagnosis would be traumatic. And it is, believe me. I likened the diagnosis phase to the ‘’ and you didn’t see it coming. It’s much like when you’ve been travelling and get Bali belly.

Your guts grumble with stress, in terms of digesting the fact you have cancer. Your body goes into flight or fight, and to be able to run away from the perceived sabre-toothed tiger, your body wants to eliminate all of the faecal matter inside you. This means that every time you even think about sneezing, it could result in something far worse. So you’re on tenterhooks the entire time.

, I reframed using breath meditation. I journaled out all the fear-based emotions. I researched a lot and asked a tonne of questions with my medical teams. I empowered myself with what the diagnosis meant, and then drafted a treatment plan moving forward.

But in my cancer chapter that wasn’t the worst or shittiest part.

The ‘Shit a Brick’

 

If you think a mastectomy would be shitty you would be spot on. I liken this to the .

You know it’s coming. It’s building up over time and there’s nothing you can do to avoid what’s coming. It’s painful and difficult to pass. It requires slow deep breathing and concentration. And takes time to recover. Afterwards, you feel like there’s a piece of you missing.

and prepare for surgery, I reframed by visualising all the negative emotions I was experiencing into the breast tissue to be removed.

I held a ceremony for myself and thanked my breast for all its gifts I had received until now. I celebrated that I fed my child. I celebrated my big Boosie had lived a magnificent (and larger than life) experience and now it was time for retirement and downsizing to a motorboat worthy booby.

But it still wasn’t the shittiest part of the experience.

The Shitty Splinter

 

The shittiest part of the experience I likened to the splinter in the arse. It’s completely unexpected and pokes you hard. Just like using an old toilet and remembering how uncomfortable it used to be, having a shitty experience like this digs up all your old trauma — that you thought you’d dealt with.

Any experience that you liken to so to speak, means that there is no buffer from the odour of the shit. This means the emotions are right there in your face, much like flashbacks, panic attacks and anxiety which can’t be avoided. Neither can the smell of shit.

You see when I had my ‘routine’ mammogram, the biopsy driver machine malfunctioned, with the needle still inside my breast — and I was trapped for more than 45 minutes.

My immediate issue was that my shit couldn’t be repaired with a simple reboot of my hard drive like the machine.

I’ve needed to clean the toilet bowl, bathroom and frankly take stock of the entire house and rid it of the stench left behind.

Let me go vomit as my PTSD relives that all over again, and gift you time to let that ‘’ sink in. Trapped inside any machine, laying in a single static position with a body part sandwiched ready for imaging is what I would define a shitty experience. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s right up there with the shittiest.

The leftover shit from this entrapment experience is painful and often runs deep like a festering wound. It often requires external assistance to remove the splinter and deal with the festering mess left behind (pardon the pun).

Removing the shitty splinter has been confrontational, and something that I am working through with my therapist, my doctor and loving support from my friends.

Therefore  I sought help when I wasn’t coping. I reach out and ask for support when I’m having a bad day so that I don’t spiral down any further. I allow others to nurture me. I allow myself to be vulnerable so that I can continue to heal.

The ‘Shit Sandwich’

 

I was told the biopsy ‘could’ be uncomfortable. I wasn’t told it would be sadistically excruciating. That was a  to swallow.

The procedure commenced with the administration of the first local anaesthetic. The breast was clamped and the biopsy needle commenced its repeated penetration.

I. FELT. EVERYTHING.

 

I jumped from the pain and moved positions. The machine was halted and the staff re-administered more local. They expressed their frustration at having to disrupt their testing process.

The additional and unwanted mouthful of the shit sandwich arrived when desperate staff repeatedly administered local anaesthetic on more than five occasions to manage my pain and stop me squirming.

The reflection with my therapist, of this procedure, identified I had disassociated from my body and gone into survival mode with this shit, especially when the machine continued to jam with me still confined within.

Believe me when I say that when I was finally able to roll over and sit up, on the procedure table, I told the staff in no uncertain terms what I thought of their briefing before we had started. That was after I had stopped shaking and crying hysterically.

There was no one in the room who hadn’t taken a bite of that shitty sandwich and enjoyed that experience. None. We were all traumatised.

I was and still am infuriated. So there’s more shit to work through. I’ve had to break it down bit by bit, just to get to this point.

I continue to utilise a visualisation technique when I meditate. I grant permission to my subconscious to get creative and show me where I’ve stored the unwanted frustration, anger and rage. I allow myself to experience what this emotion feels like and I then visualise flushing that shit down the toilet.

 So I’ve banged a foam bat onto a pillow and screamed as I tapped into and released some of that rage. I nearly threw my back out a couple of times, but the release was so worth it.

The Simple Shitty Shit

 

Prior to undergoing the follow-up invasive testing, I expressed my concerns about excess mammogram screening and my preference for manual biopsy. That was dismissed, and twelve radiation images later they still couldn’t get the film they wanted. So they switched machines to enable the biopsy to be taken. We know how that shit went down.

Lying on your side with your breast compressed as flat as the machine can take it (which equates to bloody painful) and your free arm draped over your chest is probably the most uncomfortable position I have ever laid.

It’s taken more than 4 months of PTSD flashbacks just to be able to lie on my left side again without perceiving that trapped sensation. Ultimate shit.

To deal with flashbacks, I attempt to visualise flushing that shit by acknowledging the vision isn’t real right now. I remind myself it is just a connection to a point in time. I use breathing exercises to calm myself which often leads to reiki induced meditation. There’s always crying after one of these episodes so I’m usually purging out emotions into a tissue or my journal or a combination of the two!

The Stinky Shit

 

Prior to commencing this experience, I had reiterated to each staff member that I had issues with being naked in front of strangers. You see I wasn’t covered with even a gown or blanket when I was in the cold metallic machine. I’ve talked with my therapist about how I felt vulnerable and exposed, not to mention cold!

It stank that since this incident, I’ve had issues being touched, or even people being in my personal space without experiencing panic and anxiety.

Since this shitty incident, I’ve had multiple surgeries for breast cancer and have commenced treatment. Needless to say, I had a lot of shit to deal with. Working with my medical teams and support network, my resilience is returning. It’s a slow process and one that is forcing me to re-evaluate everything in my life.

As a former law enforcement officer and hospital recertification auditor, I’ve confronted organisation in question in writing, which probably for them will be the shittiest complaint they’ve ever had to deal with. I am pleased to report that they are making some significant changes to their statewide systems and staff training.

It took me more than a month to deal with my emotions enough to write that piece. I had to confront and address my emotions bit by bit. On the other side of lodging that complaint, I see that working through my emotions was an absolute gift for healing, on so many levels.

This piece has formulated just a snippet of my therapist’s homework for me to deal with what I’m calling a shitty experience. My hope and wish for you are that you can take away some of the tools I’ve used to overcome the challenges I have experienced.

Remember we all have shit occur in our lives. How we migrate our healing journey is a choice you too can make to take ownership of your outcomes. You can choose to change and bloom from within.

How To Be Brave And Ask For The Lemons

How To Be Brave And Ask For The Lemons

by | Apr 18, 2020 | Cancer

Allow Social Distancing to Gift you Back Your Voice

The precancer and lockdown version Karen was very independent. Some might say stubborn as a mule. Ok, I admit it, I am fierce when it comes to proving to the world I can do it. But lockdown has gifted me something very unexpected — a whole new reality that revolves around me.

Why don’t we ask for help when we need it?

 

I’ve paused and pondered why we don’t ask for help when we need it and my thoughts are often taken back to movies of power women in the eighties with their puffy-sleeved outfits and huge teased and lacquered hairdo’s who did everything for themselves! Oh dear god, now I”m humming that Pointer Sister’s song “Sisteeeeeerrrs are doing IT for themSELVES!” (hahaha if you’re singing along too- I’m a giver like that!).

I blame society and social media and this false and externally perceived expectation that you need to be IT. What the fuck is ‘IT’ anyway? Who gets to define what ‘IT’ is?

It is literally not possible to be and do everything, so why do we think we can be ‘IT’?

Getting back to asking for help.

If we perceive that there’s an expectation to be everything, then there will be an unconscious stress, block, red flag (call it whatever you want) when you hit a crossroad space. I like to think of this as a ‘choice point’.

Reaching the destination of the choice point means that you have reached a space in time, whereby you don’t have all the answers. And that’s ok by the way.

Your brain, when it reaches this space, will naturally and unconsciously dig for the answers. The stress only arises when you perceive you don’t know how to solve the challenge at hand. This is the point where your brain can take you in one of two directions. You can reach outwards or remain inside yourself.

I’m a child of the 80s and grew up on British Britannica Encyclopedias. My mother had a 14-inch think dictionary for shit’s sake! There was no limit to accessing documented scientific facts by simply picking up a book.

If you didn’t know the answer, I didn’t bother my busy working mum, I looked the answer up myself! She would have told me to do that anyway. I would find the solution myself, and would often store that context in my cortex for another fact riveting period of time.

Nowadays the younger fluff of society simply says “I’ll google it”. And if a quick google search doesn’t render the answer you’re looking for, you phone a friend. They go external to seek the solution and share the load. Problem solved. But is it?

Either problem-solving option is perfectly reasonable. Both have their limitations and benefits.

For the option whereby you go external to seek solutions from others, are you ever responsible for doing it yourself? Or do you rely on others to prop you up?

If however, you’re an internal processor you run the risk of putting on Negative Nancy pants. When you can’t find the answer and don’t feel comfortable asking for help you can then generate dialogue that runs laps inside your head.

And here ladies and gentlemen is where the overthinking begins. Unless you reign that shit in, it’s like a formula one race to the shit city and you end up at subliminal fear town.

Do I deserve this? Am I good enough? Will I look pathetic if I ask when I should be able to do it myself? I’d rather go without than have someone see me as weak.

Does this dialogue sound familiar to you?

 

Let me give you the tip, at one point in time we’ve all experienced this type of shit inner monologue.

It would be safe to say, the aha I have gained is that my ‘boss girl’ would have perceived that if I asked for help it would diminish my power in some way.

I considered this small act of seeking support would make me weak.

The new and upgraded version of myself calls bullshit on the boss girl. Frankly, instead of giving her a talking to, I have learned to simply surrender to her and gift her with an internal hug. This reassures her (that part of my psyche where the boss girl resides) that as long as we are grounded and anchored to our intuition we’re gonna be ok.

The lesson here is to be kind to yourself – always.

 

More importantly by loving all over myself on a conscious level with meditation and reiki, gifts me a Kintsugi like healing experience, whereby I get to meld together all my broken pieces and still shine my light brightly.

Kintsugi is a Japanese art form in which breaks and repairs are treated as part of the object’s ceramic history, are carefully mended by artisans with a lacquer resin mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum. The repairs are visible — yet somehow beautiful. Kintsugi means “golden joinery” in Japanese.”  — Source Mother Nature Network.

So with my boss girl receiving a hug, I put a call out for anyone in my local social media circle have an abundant lemon tree and could spare a bag. Part of my chemotherapy recovery as well as boosting the immune system involves daily lemon squeezes – just like a liquid hug!!! See the reference, more liquid gold!

I am sharing this simple story of asking for help because these are unprecedented times. We have stepped away from the art of sticking our head over the neighbour’s fence and saying “hey mate is everything ok?“

So if you’re not travelling ok emotionally with lockdown (and believe me after 4.5 months I get it) I want to remind you that it is ok to struggle with your choice point moments. In these moments reach out to see support in finding your solutions, even if only lemons.

Allow the abundance gifts to flow towards you rather than pushing them away. Remain open to the possibilities that the universe can gift you. This can be as simple as being mindful of whether your inner dialogue is positive. If it’s a little on the negative scale, choose to reframe the phrase immediately.

No punishment of self in this process is required. Just be gentle with yourself as you have this gorgeous quiet time to explore the self.

Don’t sit around the house with your frown upside down. Your home is your sacred space and you have to de-clutter the negativity in order to feel more comfortable. These interesting times are calling upon us to sort out the feelings of our internal bossy mean girls selves and learn to give them a voice, rather than bringing them out when feeling cranky.
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So do what it takes today to seek your bag of lemons to nurture you!!