CATHARINE MARTINET
...Isolation is the gift that keeps on taking. It is there to protect us all, but it can be so very lonely.
Facing Depression and Dealing With It–Autumn 2003
BY CATHARINE MARTINET
There really was no getting around the problem any longer. I had been fighting a feeling of depression and anxiety since my last hospital stay. I kept sweeping it under the rug of my cheerfulness, every time it seemed ready to surface. I do not like to indulge in depression while in the hospital. It just makes the whole experience seem worse and the days seem to drag on longer. I like to be upbeat while I am in the hospital and prefer to process negative feelings when I am in the privacy of my home.
The question is, what happens if the negative stuff never gets processed? Because I spent so much of my young-adult years depressed, I am reluctant to address the feeling, even when I am at home. I already did my time with what some people call “the noonday demon” and I do not want to invite it into my life again. The thought of delving into the cause of my depression leaves me cold. This kind of thinking makes me more inclined to remain on the bright side of life. I like to think about all of the ways that my life is good instead of addressing my down moods. This is true, even though I advised against this strategy in another issue of CF Roundtable (Winter 1999).
So, as I sat in the exam room at clinic one day, I was overtaken by a wave of depression that I’d been trying to avoid. There had been lots of changes in the clinic and hospital staff recently and I was feeling anxious and sad. I missed the people who left, even though I thought the new people were doing a great job. In fact, one reason I had been reluctant to address the issue was simply because the new people were so good. I like to be seen as a team player, and did not want to seem like I was complaining. Sitting there, I had to make a decision. Would I say something or would I continue to let my pride get in the way of healing?
My greatest temptation was to sweep it under the rug again, get through my appointment and run off to catch that lighthearted movie my friend and I planned to see. Deep inside, I knew I was running away from my problem instead of addressing it. In her book The Places That Scare You, Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron states that it is necessary for us to become familiar with the ways that we habitually shut down or run away from our fears. By learning to dive into the fear instead of resisting it, we cultivate an openness that allows us to harness the underlying energy generated by such emotions. Thus, we might move towards constructive change.
In the situation above, I opted to tell the new doctor about my concerns and risk hurting his feelings and embarrassing myself. It all turned out well, of course (or I probably wouldn’t be writing about the experience). After talking to him, as well as the clinic social worker, I came up with a strategy to deal with my feelings in a positive way. Once I did that, the sadness and anxiety evaporated.
Sometimes, even though I take action, the sad feelings are only mitigated. In those cases, I must remember to keep addressing the feelings as they arise. One example was when my sputum cultures forced me to be put on isolation. After the initial shock of the first experience of isolation wore off, I tried to get on with my life. I told myself that plenty of other people have had to get used to this way of life. But isolation is the gift that keeps on taking. It is there to protect us all, but it can be so very lonely. It is the one change that seems to get worse over time. The problem presents itself in different ways: some people will choose not to be anywhere near me, even if I wear a mask; it can mean that clinical people are less likely to come into my hospital room; I cannot attend events where cross infection is an issue; worse still is the fear that I will fade out of the social network over time. It would be easy to fall into despair. Again, there are choices to be made.
According to Chodron, one must identify the problem and separate it from the story we tell ourselves about it. The cross-infection protection protocol causes me to feel left out. In turn, this brings feelings of fear and sadness. If I can stay with that thought instead of running away from it, I can see that the negativity comes from my need to feel connected to other people. But in that need there is an underlying energy. If I can grasp that energy and separate it from the story about how unfair it feels to be left out, I can forge connections of my own.
By taking measures to keep involved, I perform pain management for my psyche. The pain of being excluded doesn’t subside completely. However, it is alleviated each time I take action. I make sure to get out of my hospital room regularly, so I won’t feel as isolated. I combat the problem in an ongoing fashion by keeping up my correspondence and having occasional phone conversations. In this way, when the feelings of sadness arise, I can recognize them for what they are – a need to feel connected to other people. Instead of falling into the web of depression, I acknowledge the loss and move on. Then I remind myself of all the ways I am still involved in the CF community.
Learning to live with cystic fibrosis is a never-ending process. Sometimes I address my concerns right away. Other times, negative emotions seem to spring out of nowhere, because I’ve been ignoring them. My hope is that next time – and surely there will be one – I’ll be more proactive.