Life and death and other small issues...

Chemo's effects are cumulative, they say and that's right. Now it's almost over, I'm lots weaker than I was four months ago. But this morning, I feel pretty damned good. Towards the beginning of chemo, day 3 (Saturday) was often pretty good. In fact, we finished our kitchen on those days. I painted, scraped, sanded and cleaned. Then, just before Christmas, I got my first cold virus and the Neulasta injections started to cause more bone pain. Since the, life's been pretty rough. Although I've kept up with coaching my clients by phone, I've been pretty much bedridden. Walking to the kitchen and back was a workout, followed by a grateful collapse onto the couch.

So, what a joy to wake up at 5:30 and feel I can get something done today. In fact, I've been feeling stronger for days. On Tuesday evening, I drove to a client's to help conduct a group interview for hiring (very successful), a big stretch for me. Thursday and Friday were full working days, with another meeting at a client's, coaching and energy in-between to get caught up on much work.

Thursday might have ended better if I hadn't let my excitement at feeling like me again go to my head, however. Instead of going home to rest afterwards, I stopped at rite aid. On the way in, obviously discounting the numbness in my feet, the fact that I was wearing heels, and my overall fatigue, I was moving pretty fast. My heel caught in the hem of my slacks and, after flailing for a long adrenaline-hyped moment, knew I was GOING DOWN. With that shocking violence of an full-grown adult crashing to earth, my hip smashed into the edge of the sidewalk, my purse contents exploded around me, and there I lay, in all my glory. For a second, I thought no one would help, but the only person there, a young woman, rushed up full of concern, helping my collect my belongings as I mustered what dignity remained and limped into the store.

Now, you might think, in theory, that having a BIG problem like cancer, would make it easy to laugh off the small stuff. And, in fact, it does. Right now, I am laughing about it, learning from it, moving on easily. But, in the moment, it makes it worse. My overall fragility got very clear to me. As I sat waiting for my prescription, I fought back tears of frustration and vulnerability. And the unconscious (and utterly one-sided) bargain I'd made in my mind became apparent. The internal voice goes like this..."Wait a freaking second here, don't I already have enough? Aren't I handling all this well enough, do I need more crap? Do you really expect me to take this on, too?".

It's pretty funny when you think about it. As if life were fair. As if my getting cancer is some kind of conscious act by a knowing God or power that cares at all what I think about it. Ha ha. Tell it to the folks in Darfur.

That's not to say I don't think my attitude is important. Despite the American Cancer Society posting an opinion on their website that the research doesn't correlate attitude and treatment outcomes (please don't donate to them on my behalf....ever!) I continue to find it crucial and think the evidence will get stronger as we study it more and understand it better.

I do know that taking ownership of one thing you can, which is how you choose to think about and give meaning to the experience transforms it. It gives you the strength to do the hard things that must be done, and makes the treatment period feel empowering and even joyous at times. But does it make you well? The research is mixed. Between the crazy extremists who tell you to think away your cancer instead of chemo (better the results of that on their heads than mine!), to arrogant bastards who, 50 years after the placebo effect was discovered, insist the mind cannot affect healing, there is a truth the rest of struggle to find and make use of. Visualization, gratitude, meditation, laughter. I think by all help reduce stress and conserve strength for healing, if nothing else. Besides, if this does kill me, I'll have been happier during the time I do have. Hell, why not?

But there is one thing I wonder about. The attitude police would have me avoid all thoughts of an untimely death. In this way of thinking, I should create and maintain in my head only positive thoughts of a cancer-free life and hold to that. And, most of the time, that's what I do. It's easier, less scary and stressful, keeps me feeling sane and strong.

And yet...there is an end to all of this for all of us. None of us gets out alive. And there is a deep sweetness to recognizing just how fragile and precious it is to be here now. There are moments when being in touch with that impermanence feels like a form of healing. A healing deeper, perhaps, than what's going on in my cells at that moment. Last night, I stroked Steve's arm in the dark and felt, truly felt, every smooth, furry, muscled and slack centimeter of it. I found myself weeping, not with pain, but with joy at the perfection of the moment. To be loved, to feel love, to be alive to the input of my fingertips to my brain. To be there.

I have always wanted to be one of those people who bring joy to life. You know the ones I mean, the ones whose natural resting face is a smile. The ones who laugh easily, find the bright side quickly, remind the rest I us, just by their presence, that we're probably worrying and complaining more than we need to. I do think I got some of this at birth. Mom describes me in her journal back then as a "bubble" and have a natural bent toward happiness and a great sense of humor.

But I'm also a worrier. Blessed or cursed with sensitivity to the feelings of others, it's easy for me to slip into letting what others think or feel define me. All that input...the fears, resentments, assumptions of the people around me so apparent, so clear. As if my own baggage weren't more than enough!

Slowly, though, this crazy cancer adventure is helping. More and more, despite, or because of the struggle and fear, I am finding my way to the joy. The kindness of others that it brings out, from the smiles of strangers at my bald head, the cards that arrive weekly, the likes and comments on Facebook and my blog, the emails, the visits, the calls, add sweetness to every day. I am more alone than I have ever been, as we all are in facing this, and yet more connected than ever. It's a great comfort. Knowing I am important to people, that I would be missed...how great is that? Like getting to hear your own eulogy, and then still being around for the lunch afterwards!

So here I am, still enjoying the banquet...savoring it more than ever and being mindful to do so. Without facing the tremendous power of death, that inextricable yang to the yin of being alive, I doubt we can fully experience the journey we are on. So, don't think me morbid or that I'm giving up on fighting this cancer. I've always believed that it's only in coming to terms with death that we can truly live.

I figure it this way. Whether I am here another 50 years, or get hit by a bus tomorrow, what of that time should I waste in not being fully alive? How much if that time should I devote to wishing to change the past, worrying about things that may never happen, or being unhappy about things I simply can't change. I'm going for zero. Why not join me?

Love, Colleen