This week has been a fairly rough one for this normally optimistic person. I had an attack of the ‘what ifs’ (generally a sign of imminent over thinking, in my case).
I was having a typical grief reaction (which have become common enough in my life in the past few years, for me to recognise the process) but strangely enough, I wasn’t grieving for the future loss of my faculties, due to my recent MS diagnosis…I was grieving for the future I had expected to have…up until that fateful day, just before Christmas.
Now, as most regular readers are aware, I identify very strongly as an active scientific researcher. And my grief reaction was triggered when I started to consider the current ‘fight’ I’ve been engaged in as an EMCR for the past few years (common to many of my peers, like the wonderful Nikola Bowden ) and whether I could continue, in light of my recent diagnosis.
As outlined in the previous post ‘Know your enemy’, many people have extolled me to keep up the ‘fight’. Some are referring to my health ‘battles’ but some are referring to my current EMCR struggle. I also get the standard advice (sometimes from the same people) that I ‘need to look after yourself as a priority’.
Now, I was already juggling a young family (including a disabled son), heavy teaching/service requirements as well as trying to eek out a semblance of a research career, in the absence of big grants that would allow me to employ staff (even part time) to help me wrangle my growing gaggle of PhD students.
As I think of these students, I now find myself making decisions that could be construed as ‘leaning out’ (in the Sandberg sense) as the result of my diagnosis. I have started making alternative ‘plan B’ for their future supervision, in case I find myself unable to stomach the continuing ‘fight’.
Now, engaging in this process led me to the slippery ‘what if’ slope of calculating the amount of resources allocated to me, to conduct research. Expensive labs (including the shiny new one I helped design…under construction as I type) and small (but cumulative) amounts of money for consumables for my students.
I began to realise the seeming futility of it all and the waste of research resources I would represent, currently…as an EMCR dabbler and most certainly in the future, if I did what is best (for my health) and I should extricate myself from the research component of my tenure. This dawning horror was almost too awful for me to contemplate…but I was considering it…even though the very thought, was causing a lump in my throat (I am welling up as I type…and I am not one prone to such histrionics, normally).
On the way home from work that day, I was able to blink back the tears long enough to reach a deserted beach. As I walked towards the water’s edge, the dam of grief broke and waves of sobs poured out of me, to be heard only by the hooded plovers (who’ve got their own problems).
I must have stood on the beach, body wracked with grief spasms, for a full 20 mins. Then my habit of reflection started to break through my visceral reaction. I began to ask myself: What are you grieving exactly? Are you grieving for your lost future self, snatched away by the shock of the MS diagnosis? Or are you grieving the loss of your expected future, which contained some delusion of a glittering research career?
Then I realised, that for me…these two things fairly much equate to the same thing. Almost immediately, I acknowledged that this is not a healthy mentality and perhaps has hallmarks of the mindset of an addict, or someone co-dependent on the validation given by an abusive relationship.
I arrived home later that evening, with eyes still raw from crying, though dry enough to pass muster from both husband and kids. As I sank onto the couch…my husband asked me what drink I wanted. ‘Gin’ was my one word reply. He was perplexed (as I am currently on Febfast and not supposed to fall off the wagon….particularly to use alcohol as an emotional crutch) so asked he again. My reply was ‘Gin’ once more.