Monday, March 29, 2010

What Springs to Mind

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
Rainer Maria Rilke


I marked the return of spring and warmer weather in an unusual manner recently. I decided to feel sorry for myself. Until just the other day, the world outside the window where I receive chemotherapy was rather cold and gray. That felt about right. Then, suddenly, the sun crashed through the window like a brick with a note tied to it that read, "What the hell are you doing in there? Get outside! It's spring!"

Thus began my first chemo-related pity party. While it's true that misery loves company, pity is not afraid to go it alone. Hand it a bucket of worries and you're ready for an all-nighter. To my credit, I did not let this go on into the wee hours. Still, there it was in all of its non-glory pushing me closer to the edge of "I can't do this anymore." While this was happening, however, there was a part of me that was able to observe where this was leading me and ask, ever so quietly, "Do you really want to head down this path?" "Yes," cried the chunk of brain that was still in control of most of my senses, "you do want to go down this path. Look at it outside, this is fishing weather; you could be on the boat hauling in a trophy-size bass!"

I decided to break this inner dialogue by mentioning it to my nurse, who had already shared with me that she had gone through her own cancer treatment. Quietly and with clear understanding, she said, "You're gonna feel that way, just take it one day at time." I didn't share with her that I was way past "one day" and was knee-deep in one minute at time. However, her words clearly came from that deep place inside her that had squared off with the same demons I was wrestling with now, and that helped pull me out of my thoughts. My mindless wandering interrupted; I was able to return to the practice of mindful breathing.

In this state, I reminded myself that one need not corral the runaway mind and, in fact, attempting to corner and trap it only makes it more dangerous. Through meditation and other present moment experiences, one learns to simply let thoughts be as they are. No longer fed by endless attention, thoughts move on into their own silent void. As the Tao Te Ching says, "No fight, no blame."

I would be stretching things a bit to suggest that the next warm, sunny day I'm in the chemo recliner or on the radiation table, I will be one with the universe. I will, however, use my mindfulness techniques to keep from going into my mind and into the empty caverns of "poor me." This way, I can save the pity party for a true spring ritual; having a monster bass jump off my line before I get him in the boat.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Firewalker

In the depth of winter,
I finally learned that there was within me
an invincible summer.

Albert Camus



“You’re going to walk through the fire, and you’re going to be ok.” These are words that I will never forget. They were spoken by a coworker who had learned that my CT scan had confirmed that there was a mass nestled under my sternum that was clearly not supposed to be there. Then she pointed to a scar on her right cheek and said, “I got this for my 39th birthday, cancer of the mouth.” She hugged me with the kind of the hug that says, “You’re one of us now.”

I was humbled by her openness and compassion but I was also confused, in my denial. What fire? There was no fire, simply some blob of something that would turn out to be a mere smudge from the radiologist’s finger. Or, perhaps there would just be a low burning ember, like “Well, Mr. Verano, it’s not supposed to be there but it’s not going to hurt anything to leave it alone.”

Not only were my coworker’s words prophetic, as I was, in fact, about to join the club of people diagnosed with cancer, they also pointed to a profound truth. This truth is that life after a major medical diagnosis is never the same and the challenges ahead are initiation rites of the highest order. Only one who had crossed that blazing bed of charcoal briquettes can possibly look someone in the eye and, without a hint of uncertainty, say “I’ll see you on the other side.”

There are many ways that illnesses get interpreted. From the lofty heights of “God’s will” to the street level “shit happens,“ not only are we given a health crisis we are faced with giving it meaning. A central message passed down through ages is that while our joys make life sweeter, it is our sufferings that define who we are. Despite appearing hardwired for good times, it seems profoundly true that it is our pain, not our pleasure, that make us grow. This is surely why the great teachers from both the East and West spent so much time talking about facing our suffering. It’s not that they were kill-joys looking to rain on everybody’s parade, they were pointing directly at the fertile ground that lies within our very souls. Ground that so often looks like a deep pit, a road to nowhere or even a path of pure fire.

This is why so few take the trip willingly. A push of some sort is usually required to break the “I like things just the way they are“ mentality. When it comes to this nudge toward a new path, cancer is like the big bully who waits at the public pool for some poor unsuspecting soul who is trying to get up the nerve to enter one toe at a time when all the sudden, SPLASH! Now it’s sink or swim time.

The first few days after my surgery I often found myself repeating my coworker’s words over and over like a mantra. Especially the “you’re going to be ok,” part. It had an immediately calming effect, the source of which was much deeper than mere positive thinking. When I would say these words, it was as if I was in contact with the very spirit in her that had already sorted out all the fears, questions, uncertainties and disjointed thoughts that were rattling around in my head. Bless her for having done all of that work for me ahead of time.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Time That Wasn't Lost

So many wings flew around
The mountains of sorrow
And so many wheels beat
The highway of our destiny,
We had nothing left to lose.
And our weeping ended.

Pablo Neruda

Too often, when illness strikes or we encounter some unexpected form of suffering, it is as if life is put on hold. We even talk about having lost time while sick or recovering from a traumatic life event. The notion is that our lives move in certain trajectories and that ill health is a deviation from that course.

This sense of time wasted, of a life that has jumped the track and is now stuck on the sidelines, adds an extra burden to our psyches. We watch as healthy and vibrant people move care free with seemingly orchestrated ease. If we really want to push our grief deeper, we envy them and their nonchalant approach to their days. Secretly, in the deepest recesses of our hearts, lingers the unanswerable “Why me, why now, why this?”

But what if these moments do not represent a pause in life? What if they are not detours but a direct path? Less traveled surely, but no less valuable than the well mapped out roads more desired? Is it possible that we were meant to live our illnesses with the same curiosity and willingness normally reserved for “the good life?” Perhaps the ancient teachings of the Buddha, Lao Tzu and Jesus, that called us to find peace amidst suffering, were practical, not metaphorical.

My experience since being diagnosed with a rare form of thymic cancer and undergoing thoracic surgery to remove the tumor, coupled with four years of studying mindfulness techniques, has convinced me that the great masters were correct. They saw no distinction between up and down, yes or no, health or illness. They saw only manifestations of a singular loving source that calls to us to wake up and live life in the present moment. Their message is as simple as it is profound; the peace we seek is no further away than our next breath and the path we seek is no further away than our next step.

In the end, there is no such thing as lost time. Illness does not take us out of the game; it pushes us deeply into the heart of the matter. Whether or not we experience gain or loss depends on whether our pain brings openings or shuts us off from being able to live life fully. Personally, I found that the door of awareness rests on loose hinges. At times, it swings easily into the realm of depression and “what ifs.” However, with the same ease, it opens on the vast experience of life in the now.

Sharing my experience helps me make sense of what I have been through, not by reliving it, but by living through it with others. If this experience has taught me anything it is that none of us goes it alone. I whole-heartedly believe that the path to my recovery is paved by the thoughts, prayers and healing energy of others. My hope is that by sharing this episode in my life I might repay some of the overwhelming kindness shown to me. My health felt like a very personal thing, my illness is a social event that has reframed my notion of wellness.