How Zanne Is Doing (As Told By Zanne)

 I went back to work today. My first day back since all of this started. I inevitably, I got the question “how are you doing?”  Well, that depends on what you are asking. How am I functioning, how am I back at work?  How do I feel? How am I holding up?

Actually, it doesn’t matter the question, because my answer would have been the same: I don’t know.  I just am. I’m not ok.  I’m not not-ok. I’m not thinking or feeling at the moment, that’s been put to the side for now.  

When Greg first told me about his diagnosis, I was sitting on the couch in the living room on my laptop.  I didn’t hear him come down the stairs and looked up to see him crying.  

“Honey?!?! What? What is it? Are you ok?”

“The doctor called when you were gone earlier…it’s cancer.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “It will be fine. We got this.” I think Greg was surprised that I didn’t also burst into tears. My immediate reaction was that everything was ok… because it had to be.

At one point, I cried in the shower. Alone, quietly, unable to tell the difference from the water streaming down my face, body shaking from the cold despite the steaming hot water.

Alright, so, this isn’t my first rodeo with cancer. Or my second. Our third.  I know what’s coming.  I was a bone marrow donor for my 21 year old brother and then buried him 6 weeks later. I heard my mom’s voice for the last time before they removed part of her tongue, her larynx, her thyroid and replaced it with the “Steven Hawking” box.  I watched as my Godmother/Aunt went from a diagnosis in her breast going to her brain and she was gone in a matter of weeks.  Then losing my dad because he lost his sister, his son and my mom, and he just couldn’t handle it. Having my one on one weekly meeting with my boss as she was getting chemo. I knew the drill.

Knowing the drill is what we call in the world of HR and skills as “grit”.  The ability to get shit done, no matter what the obstacles, no matter how many times you get beaten down.  Shit still had to get done. I also call it “scar tissue.” So I posted on Facebook and sent my team at work the following note:

“Greg was diagnosed with stage 4 esopsgheal cancer. I am not ok. I do not know what will happen next, I only know that I will need time, and I will need space.  As much as I appreciate you grid wishes, I ask that you please do not ask me how I am. If you want me to know you are thinking of me, send me a stupid joke, a meme, a text…but please do not expect me to respond. Even a “thumbs up” emoji takes extra energy I do not have right now.”

The Couch

And one day, we went shopping for a new couch for the “living room” (takes on a whole new meaning now).  I found a small dual reclining couch, tried it out-good enough. I was done. 

Greg persuaded me to go look at the other sofas, pit groups, sectionals.  He loved this huge sofa set. It could probably seat about 10 people. He could tell I wasn’t in love with it. He kept looking and began getting frustrated with me because I became more and more withdrawn.

As we were sitting on one of the couches, he told me he wanted something where our kids and their significant other’s could all fit together. Anya was flying home next week to see us, and wouldn’t it be nice to have something intimate we could all cuddle up on together? Then he said, “I want to make sure you have something nice after I’m gone.”

And I LOST it. Right there in the furniture store. Tears poured down my face as I explained “all I can think about is sitting on that giant white couch all by myself…Anya is gone, Katie will be gone soon, and it will just be me, on this giant couch by myself, all alone.”

I don’t want to think about how I am doing today. Not today, or how I will be doing 5 minutes, 5 weeks, 5 months and 5 years from now.  

And that’s it.  That is how I am doing.  

⸻

If you want to understand how all of this began, Greg shared the start of our journey in his post It Started Small.

If you’re a spouse or partner supporting someone with cancer, you’re not alone—and there’s no one right way to “do it right.” Whether you’re feeling numb, overwhelmed, angry, or all of the above, your experience matters too. For resources and support, the American Cancer Society has a helpful guide specifically for partners and caregivers of cancer patients.