More than two months ago, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. Since then, the questions I get asked most often are “How do you feel?” or “How are you doing?” I’ve come to the conclusion that these are the dumbest questions ever.

How am I supposed to feel? I feel like I have cancer. There are a lot of feelings with that.

Physical Feelings

Physically, I have never actually felt the cancer. A 4.1 centimeter (over 1.5 inches) tumor in my left lung, and I never felt a thing – no pain, no lump or bump, no shortness of breath, nothing.

What I do physically feel are all the after effects of the surgery, the lobectomy I had on September 5 that removed most of my left lung. Now, almost one month later, I continue to have significant pain in my left ribcage – numbness, tingling, aching, tightness. If I overreach or overdo, there may be sharp stabs. Just going up stairs can make me short of breath, and sometimes there is wheezing or some minor roughness in my lungs, though it does tend to resolve as I slow down. The five different incisions can ache and feel tight, are sometimes tender, and have a lot of skin sensitivity on the left side.

Pain is enervating, and I wear out much more easily. While I’m getting stronger and don’t need naps quite so often, some days there are still times when I just have to rest, I don’t get a choice. Bedtime is earlier than it used to be, and honestly, I look forward to it as a break from the frantic thoughts and constant feels.

Mornings are easiest, physically, as my body is the most rested. Aches are still present, but the area of sensitivity seems smaller. It still hurts, but at least I can be more productive in the mornings.

As expected then, late evenings are the worst. The medication has worn off more, and pain is increased to the point where a comforting hug can make me flinch. Hot pads help, but I count down to when I can take my next pain medication (gabapentin) for relief.

I haven’t slept in a bed in over a month, and while sleeping in a recliner does help control discomfort, it also isn’t the most restful sleep in the world. But, it is the best we can do at the moment, and it really is the best we’ve figured out. It’s a puffy, cozy recliner, still in the master bedroom so I have what normalcy I can for a bedtime routine.

Mental Feelings

Mental feelings continue to be a struggle. When I can’t reach into a lower cabinet to get my slow cooker or reach above the refrigerator to get the bread machine, it’s frustrating and angry-making. I can’t carry the laundry basket. I can’t lift all the groceries. I can’t lift the mattress to make the bed. I can’t exert pressure for cutting a batch of brownies. I can’t bend down in a normal fashion. When pain stops you from daily tasks, it’s more than just physically painful.

I can’t yet relax in a bath, can’t take longer (or really even shorter) walks, can’t stay focused on work as well as I ought to be. Cancer is ever-present in the mind, always there. Every day there are more appointments to set, tests and scans to plan, treatments to anticipate, fear of what is yet to come. Each one requires more organization and mental juggling, more mental effort.

Then there are the snags and bumps in the road – the phone tag when calls don’t get answered, the medical bills that don’t get processed appropriately and need to be rearranged, the prescription refills that take too long as medications run out. Each one requires more organization and mental work to get around.

And then the mental effort of work. I’m eternally grateful that my work clients are flexible and gracious, but my career isn’t one that can be put on hold or wait for sick days or else the income vanishes. I continue to write 2-3 articles per day, every single day – weekends included. Some days I do more, some less, but that is the average. I don’t know if I can hold that level of mental proclivity, and it’s distressing to see parts of my career slow or pause at this time, when I’ve worked so hard for more than 20 years to build my career into what it is today.

Emotional Feelings

Emotional feelings are the biggest roller coaster of all. Some days, particularly in the mornings when the physical feelings are best, I can feel confident, eager, and strong – ready to take on the day and make it a good one.

Then the mental convolutions start, or the physical pain sets in, and the doubt creeps in with it. Anxiety, fear, and despair. Why me? Why did this have to happen? How will this evolve in the years to come? How much more do I have to take?

I’m scared of medication and treatment side effects, of how this will impact my life moving forward. I’ve learned, rapidly, that cancer is never a one-off, a one-and-done now you’re cured and your life can go back to normal. No matter what happens in the weeks and months to come, my life will never be back to that normal again.

And that makes me so, so angry. Angry at life, angry at cancer, angry at the “why me” aspect when I know so many people who aren’t what they seem, who aren’t the polished pristine images they offer to the world, yet they aren’t dealing with something this all-encompassing. They don’t have cancer.

I do.

And it makes me sad, frustrated, angry, hopeless, despondent, upset, and so much more. I try to breathe (that can physically hurt), and just let the emotions be. You’d think this would be something one could get used to over time, but no. Every time, cancer is a shock. Every appointment, every treatment, every stray thought across the brain. It stops you cold, and your life just… stops.

But I Felt Fine

I keep going back to the idea that before this all began, I felt fine. Coughing the tiniest, smallest, most insignificant, most miniscule amount of blood, which never hurt, never felt like anything at all.

But I still had cancer.

And now I feel so much more. Physically, mentally, emotionally, everything has grown just as quickly and out of control as that 4.1 centimeter tumor in my left lung.

The Biggest Feeling of All

Most of all, I’ve discovered a new feeling, one that’s even more foreign to me than all the feelings associated with cancer. I feel so much gratitude, so grateful for the support and kindness I’ve received from so many people, many of whom I’ve never met in person.

Shortly after my diagnosis, a good friend suggested I create a gift registry on Amazon of books and other possible distractions through appointments and treatments, and I’ve been truly overwhelmed by the response. Indeed, getting packages has chirked up my days, the books have comforted my nights, and the other products – a pill caddy, warm blankets, water bottle, crafts, games – have been very useful to help me organize and stay distracted when the cancer life becomes just too much.

I have tried to keep up with thank you notes and expressing my appreciation, but truly, a few words on a piece of cardstock topped with a stamp don’t even come close. Each gesture, no matter how small, is so much appreciated – to know that someone out there is thinking of me in any tiny way, that I’m not alone in this every moment. That means so very, very much.

I’m even more grateful to my husband, who has stepped up to care for his wife and his family more than he ever ought to do on his own, but there are just times when all I can do is be cared for, and not do the caring myself. Every day, he is even more of the amazing man than I thought when I first married him nearly 26 years ago.

I will never be the same person again. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad at this point, all I know is that it’s happening, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. All I can do is feel.

And one day, fly. It may not be today, but one day.