Triathlon versus cancer treatment, and the morning of 'the race'

Triathlon versus Cancer Treatment, and the morning of 'the race'

The day before a triathlon, I'm anxious. I handle it with positive visualization, imagining myself going through each leg of the swim-bike-run race and each transition smoothly and confidently. I take deep breaths. I keep myself just busy enough not to be listless but have a loose-enough itinerary to embody going with the flow. My gear is organized so I lower chances of a surprise.  

Leading up to this surgery, I was dealing with a race I didn't sign up for, and doing a crash course in the race ahead. I had 2 1/2 weeks of anxiety that just. kept. building. My attitude was positive, a true belief that this whole thing would turn out OK. But what could I visualize? I found out details piecemeal, adding to my nervousness, and know that everyone responds to treatment differently. 

Do I focus on this leg of the race, the surgery, or do I visualize the whole journey? 

Does success look like me working out, with strength ... without hair? 

Is it with me and a smile on my face as I'm walking strong and looking healthy -- but meaning I'm not performing at my current level? 

Everything so far has happened so fast, with so many unknowns. My feelings and facts weren't in sync. Others' perceptions of where I am in my path were different than my own, so I couldn't lean into them. 

I had too much to keep me busy: wrapping up work (and processing that by itself was a lot!), researching what was happening (and processing that), and getting organized. Building a support team. All without having all the answers. 

I've had I-don't-want-to-do-this feelings before a race in the past, but with triathlon, I always knew I had paid the registration fee, booked the hotel, bought the gear. I did it to myself. But this? I didn't sign up for this. 

A few times at home, alone, for a few seconds I'd cry out loud, "I don't want to do this," and then talk out loud to my dad up above and tell him I wished he were here. And then the moment would be over, and I'd go back to positive self-talk, or try to distract myself. 

The day before surgery, I took similar steps. I checked in with my support crew. I organized my gear. I listened to meditation sleepcasts. And then I added a few things: I burned that sage. I tacked on more prayers. I stood in the shower to cleanse myself, crying, telling myself to shake off the anxious energy that I could not afford to carry with me into surgery. Confused to be in this moment despite feeling so strong.

The morning this "quadrathon" that I'm calling cancer treatment began, however, something magical happened. I felt peace was present. I shifted to "island time," moving slower and more deliberately. Have you ever scrubbed a bathroom without vigor? That was me. (I wanted to come home to a clean bathroom.) I knew I trusted in my support crew, trusted in my path. I would be OK. 

So yes. It's similar to a triathlon. And then some.