I don't always think about it, but sometimes I do. I was diagnosed with cancer three years ago. I passed that ominous anniversary date last July 2, 2015. My check ups with the doctors are becoming less frequent and everything looks great. Once I hit the 10 year mark, I should be able to say I have been cured.
When I hear of other people struggling with cancer and I actually know some of what they are going through, I get a pit in my stomach. The doctor visits, the new procedures, the waiting for results, the struggle through chemotherapy, the daily grind of radiation, the feeling of perpetual illness, the fatigue, the look of sympathy on the faces of others, the loss of appetite, facing the unknown, struggling to stay positive and hopeful, seeing the concern on the faces of loved ones who want so much to help, the prayers and pleading to God, seeing my body change and not be my own body anymore, facing complete and total body hair loss, facing the possibility of a painful death.
But I also saw great love and support, great faith and hope and so many kindnesses from people that buoyed me up and made the journey bearable. People made the difference. They usually do. I also felt the love of God in my life and witnesses his goodness. Regardless of the outcome, I knew he was there and that he loved me. My trust in Him never wavered.
I recently read the most interesting book called
Not Fade Away about a man named Peter Barton who, at the pinnacle of his career and family life, got stomach cancer. His observations were very insightful. I marked about 15 pages of some of what he said in the book. I laughed, I cried and I could relate. Not only for my own experience, but for the experiences I've seen my dear loved ones endure who have gone through a similar experience. Here are some of my favorite thoughts:
- Mortality doesn't limit us in time. It limits us, as well, in what we can ever hope to understand.
- Once my unproductive anger about this lousy break started to subside, I began thinking less about what cancer was doing to me and more about what it was doing for me. I realized something sort of wonderful. Cancer was giving me the opportunity to live more attentively, more wholly in the moment. It was letting me be as free and as focused on the present as I'd ever been in my life.
- Luckily for me, I had, by then, done most of the hard work of separating my spirit from my physical self. I could almost accept the notion of my body as a beat-up old car that simply wasn't worth repairing anymore. I say almost, because readiness isn't something that appears all at once. It's something you earn by increments, at the cost of much anxiety, and rage, and sadness.
- Well, one of the things I've learned from having cancer is that it's always worth it to continue. Death will come when it's ready to; the bad stuff will end. You can count on that- and I don't think it's morbid to consider it a comfort. But in the meantime there continues to be good stuff, too. Small pleasures loom large.
- Gradually, I had to stop thinking of my illness as a fight that I would either win or lose, and begin to understand it as a mysterious process that was bound to run its course. My disease and I were not opponents, we were more like unwilling roommates forced to live in the same tight quarter of my body. I had to accept the annoying truth that I was no longer in sole control. My death would bring the death of my cancer. It couldn't live on without me. Ultimately, I would be the victor. It would kill me and I would kill it.
- Ultimately, though, all the wishes and all the rambling prayers come down to one unchanging plea for the health and safety and happiness of my family. What else matters next to that?
- The thought of saying good-bye to my wife and children, however, is agony. It's the one thing I just can't seem to get reconciled to. I'm sorry to say this, but I think it's a sadness without an antidote.
- We cut the cord at the start of each life. In a different way, we cut the cord at the end. We have to say good-bye.
- And now my story is almost over. Its two strands - the story of my life , the story of my illness- have nearly come together. I've wanted to believe, I guess, that they'd keep running parallel forever, stretching like a pair of tracks toward a wide horizon that could never be reached. But that isn't how it works in life. In life, all story lines eventually converge. Death is the completion. Death is where the horizon finally stops receding. Not a separate thing from life, but life's last resounding cord.
- There's just one final thing I want to say. It's simply this: I really tried. I did my best.
So on I go. I'm still trying to do my best. For whatever reason, I was granted the gift of recovery. My wide horizon stretches before me because of modern medicine, trust, faith and prayer. In my case, the treatments worked, but that isn't always the result. I wasn't appointed unto death. Not yet anyway. I came through it. I feel great. I've been able to do some things with my body that has recovered from breast cancer and from a total knee replacement. There were many times I didn't think it would happen, but it did. I'm grateful, so very grateful and I do value the extra time I have been given. Life is a marvelous gift and I appreciate the fact that I am still here to live my life and to try and help those around me to see the good in the world and all the marvelous possibilities that life affords.
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| Great cave, my first time exploring it |
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| Hiking buddies John, Ann, Rick and Grant |
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| 800 plus stairs going up and down in the cave - no problem |
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| 500 foot climb, three miles round trip - no problem (thanks to Rick) |
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Beautiful Arches National Park, happy to be here
and experience the beauties of the world! |
