OP, I’m not surprised at all that you’re angry. I was angry when I got my diagnosis and it’s been a while now. I’m going downhill, but it’s slow and painful. And some days I’m still angry. However, the huge difference between us is that I don’t have children, which before now was the biggest regret of my life and now seems like… not exactly a “blessing in disguise,” because it’s still not, BUT I can’t imagine the added pain of going through this illness with very young children or children at all. I’m sure it’s gut wrenching. Maybe others think all dying is equal, and in some ways, yes, of course it is, as every life is important, but I think dying with young children is also uniquely difficult. After all, only fear is for myself and a few friends who rely on me. But I understand your fears, and therefore your anger, are multiplied by how many children are in your heart.
The anger didn’t surprise me at all as, a long while before I got sick, I worked in spiritual advising at a not for profit hospice. When people signed up, they would be asked if they wanted spiritual advising, and if they said yes but didn’t choose any particular denomination, I’d be sent. Many of them didn’t want prayer or the Bible or hymns. They wanted to talk. A common theme was how angry they felt. At life. At God. At what they would miss when they were gone. At how unfair it was. My job was just to listen and tell them that nothing they were feeling was wrong. If there was something they were particularly angry about (like leaving children behind), we might try to help channel it into doing everything possible so at least when the end came, they felt that they had done everything they could (letters, videos, family photos if the person still felt comfortable with them, memory bears, as many recordings of mum or dad’s voice as possible - I remember we had a checklist of things parents might want to leave advice for their children on, i.e. when you feel really alone, when you fall in love, when you move out of the house, when you have a big fight with [surviving parent] and I’m not there, when everyone else seems to have a mum/dad and you don’t, etc.) Sometimes physically tackling the thing you’re angriest about can help. But admittedly, it’s hard not to also just be angry at the unfairness, and it’s difficult to do anything about that.
Acceptance may not be what you think it is. It’s not what I thought it was. I have accepted that I’m going to die. All my rage will not change it. But does that mean I don’t still get angry sometimes? Course it doesn’t; I still scream into my pillow and cry angry tears and think of the things I would like to have done. You might too. A terminal disease doesn’t turn you into a Zen master, and that’s okay. But that feeling of incandescent, blinding rage has lessened for me as the fatigue and pain have increased. I sleep a lot more now than I did a year ago. And I cry a lot less.
I understand with metastatic cancer, you may be on a much shorter timeline, so it may all be happening at once - screaming into your pillow from rage, and then falling asleep from fatigue. I wish I had wonderful advice about how to magically find peace in 24 hours. I don’t. All I can say is that I believe there is hope, in the greatest darkness. I know it will not keep either of us alive; it is not that kind of hope. But it is the kind that means I believe that you WILL see your children again, just like I will be reunited with my parents.
I wish you the very best, OP, and please PM me if you ever need to talk.