Into the Wilderness; A Lesson in Grace

Sara Zuboff is a certified Yoga instructor, massage therapist and thyroid cancer survivor. Along with Sharon Holly, she teaches a monthly, 2-hour, yoga-based workshop at the Cancer Support Community-Benjamin Center entitled 'Revive & Thrive' in which cancer survivors create mind/body shifts to overcome overwhelm, stress and struggle. For information on this and other free-of-charge CSC programs, please call 310-314-2555 or visit CSC's website at www.cancersupportcommunitybenjamincenter.org

I sometimes think back about my cancer journey like it was a movie. Rather than a plucky rom-com like The Proposal, it’s tougher and grittier like The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

The Good: I am a cancer survivor. I had a treatable cancer with a relatively easy surgery and short treatment plan. That I was diagnosed was a miracle born of coincidences for which I am eternally grateful and humbled by.

The Bad: I had to have surgery and treatment where I had allergic reactions, side effects and irreparable damage to my salivary glands. I also must be on medication and follow-up for the rest of my life.

The Ugly: I have a scar on my neck; though small and well-done still noticeable enough that people ask me about it.

In the context of my movie metaphor, I am tough and gritty Clint Eastwood kicking cancer’s butt and taking names. This vision makes me happy and lights me up when I think back to that dark time of diagnosis and treatment. Because the truth is the experience was terrifying and I wasn’t some courageous, tough-as-nails, cowboy-warrior. I was a young, new mom vulnerable and frightened beyond belief. In the midst of it, I felt like I was stuck in the wilderness at night, without a map, supplies or a flashlight. And while I was surrounded by friends and family who loved me, had access to excellent medical care, the psychological terror that comes with a cancer diagnosis was at times suffocating and each night while I waited for that first body scan that would tell me my cancer was gone, the wilderness would come.

And out of necessity, I began to get to know my own terror. I found comfort in a poem by Rumi:

     The Guest House

     This being human is a guest house.
     Every morning a new arrival.

     A joy, a depression, a meanness,
     some momentary awareness comes
     As an unexpected visitor.

     Welcome and entertain them all!
     Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
     who violently sweep your house
     empty of its furniture,
     still, treat each guest honorably.
     He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

     The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
     meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

     Be grateful for whoever comes,
     because each has been sent
     as a guide from beyond.
   
     -- Jelaluddin Rumi,
      translation by Coleman Barks

I invited that panic in and asked it to dinner. I would feel the terror and I would practice an exercise I learned from Shinzen Young where I began labeling the feelings as they arose, learning to notice them without reacting to them. Until I began to notice the darkness receding. Until I noticed my fear of impending nightfall and the wilderness it would bring lessening. Until I noticed a small voice in the back of my heart murmuring, “You’ve got this”.

We all know it is darkest before the dawn. And if you are in the midst of your own wilderness, please hear me now, “you’ve got this”. Even if it is dark, you can’t see and you’re scared: get quiet and listen, “you've got this". This part of the journey is so hard. You are fighting for your life and facing an uncertain future. And sometimes the most you can hope for is a little grace to find you in the dark.

There are moments of transcendence in this journey and you may not find them in the good, but rather in the bad or the ugly. I was reminded of this just today when my son was lying in my lap. He pointed to my neck and said, “Mommy’s neck boo-boo”. I replied and said, “Yes, that’s mommy’s boo-boo.” And he said, “I’ll kiss it and make it better”. And you know what? He totally did.

LEARNING TO LIVE OUTSIDE THE BOX

Sketch by Victoria Moore

Victoria Moore is a writer and CSC member.

I've been in a strange mood lately that's led me to push myself in directions previously off-limits thanks to chemo side-effects I'm still struggling with, namely anemia, fatigue and chemo brain or chemo fog. Previously, to deal with them, I've had to learn how to take frequent naps, limit my activities on a daily basis, write a lot of notes and stay in touch with my doctors to keep them updated on how I was feeling at all times. If that doesn't sound like fun, believe me it wasn't, especially when I was used to working full-time, going to school, having an active social life and keeping up with my hobbies (i.e., reading, tap dancing, going to movies, etc.,). Anyway back to my strange mood which came out of a deep depression where I saw my life become smaller and smaller, darker and darker. How was I going to pull myself out of this hole and become part of the big blue world again?

First I decided to take my mother to see a movie. Personally, I'm more of a "Great Gatsby" fan than a "Star Trek Into Darkness" one, but she love Science Fiction, so one Sunday morning we went to the early show at the Rave theater in the Baldwin Hills Plaza to see it. Even though I wasn't enthusiastic about it initially, one of my favorite actors, Benedict Cumberbatch, was in it so I was looking forward to seeing his performance as the villain. Besides his brilliant portrayal I even found myself equally inspired by the film's futuristic sets, action scenes and modernistic costumes. After this small step outside of the box I'd been confined to I could feel my sadness lifting and my life opening up.

My second step included the physical alteration of my visual eye by taking nature photos around my yard and teaching myself how to draw with a sketching kit my mother gave me for my last birthday. The main thing these creative endeavors do is force me to stop and concentrate on myself for awhile and practice a little self-care. I'm forced to beautify instead of mope about how intrusive cancer's been to my life, even if it's only for five minutes a day. I know my future will include further challenges intellectually, creatively, physically and psychologically as I continue to work through these side-effects, but after taking these two small steps I'm encouraged and hopeful about my progress to continue living outside the box.

THE NEW NORMAL: LIFE LIVED WITH CANCER

 

This post was originally posted in the June 5, 2013 The Huffington Post.  By Judy Silk.  Judy Silk is a stand up comic, freelance writer and blogger at judemablogma.blogspot.com. A California native, she requires little water.

I hardly know where to begin. I usually like to be funny in my writing. Or try. But this isn't really funny. Humor plays a part, but it's not the primary emotion or characteristic. I'd say the main elements are cope and hope.

I don't know what I was thinking when I scheduled my husband's colonoscopy for the night before our first anniversary. Instead of a nice romantic dinner overlooking the ocean, we were home, with him drinking a rather wretched cocktail of, well, let's face it, laxatives, while I snuck a tuna sandwich in another room. We toasted to a better celebration for our second anniversary.

The diagnosis was positive. Odd that in this case positive meant something negative; Dan had Stage III colon cancer. It seemed a good anniversary only in that we thought we had caught it in time. He had surgery and six months of chemotherapy. The chemo took a toll, but at the end of it we thought we'd won the war. Turns out it was just the first battle.

For the next year and a half we lived like we had a new lease on life. This is a second marriage for both of us, so we already feel like we hit the jackpot. Conscious of how lucky we are to have a extra chance at romance, we never take each other for granted. We planned vacations, enjoyed barbeques with family, made some home repairs. The usual.

Flash-forward a year to the night before my birthday; Dan had an episode of fainting and a seriously disgruntled stomach, which he hoped was just the Korean BBQ he'd had for lunch. We went in to the ER. They performed an endoscopy that revealed an ulcer in his stomach. I'd have been happy with an ulcer. But the ulcer was most likely caused by a mass, and the mass was most likely a tumor.

I turned 55 at Kaiser, with tears instead of cake. I kept hoping for less news than we got. I wanted it to be a new, different cancer. It wasn't. It was a metastasis of his original colon cancer. I hoped it had just spread to his stomach. It hadn't. It was in the stomach, the abdominal wall, some lymph nodes and his spleen. I hoped the tumors could be removed. Surgery was ruled out. Back to chemo. Finally, I hoped it would be another six month round, maybe a year, as this was Stage IV. The oncologist said what I hoped I'd never hear. There is no cure. He will be on chemo for the rest of his life.

Crying, hugging, fear, panic, sharing and comfort, his fear of dying and letting us down, my fear of living without him, going on alone. It's not the independence I was afraid of, it was the absence of my soul mate.

A good friend came over to sit and hold my hand. She made an appointment for me to see my Rabbi. The Rabbi said, "Don't think too far ahead. He's here now. Enjoy today." As hard as it was to keep my fearful thoughts from racing, I knew he was right. I had a lot to appreciate in my present tense.

Dan and I tried to get back to the day-to-day. He took six months disability to deal with the treatments, to focus on his wellness. One evening we went to a movie, a comedy. We wanted to get our laugh tracks restarted. Sitting in the semi-darkened theater waiting for the movie to begin, I tucked my right arm through his left and rested the right side of my face on his fleece. He kissed the top of my head. My feet were firmly planted on the sticky floor, but my body wasn't grounded. I kept feeling out of sorts. Besides the obvious, I just couldn't get a good breath, I couldn't relax my brain, I couldn't feel normal. Finally I said to my him, "I just want to feel normal again." Dan, my wise and capable man said, "This is the new normal." When he said that, I agreed. But inside, I rebelled. I couldn't imagine this being normal. I kept thinking I wanted things to go back to how they were. I wanted to feel that unaltered bliss, that faith in our planning a future together. But the reality was, death was looming larger than it otherwise might. Of course everyone faces death as inevitable, but not everyone is told at 53 that it is within sight. The truth was, for us, this was the new normal.

In the weeks that followed, Dan started back to chemo. We adjusted to our new schedule with him being home. Our two oldest daughters were enjoying their first year in college; my youngest was in middle school. I found myself drawn to the incredible Cancer Support Community where I could talk with other caregivers and Dan and I could join others in meditation, Tai Chi, writing, counseling and numerous other options. We told some friends, but didn't broadcast it wide.

I think we're unified in coping, hoping and living in the present. We have each other, we have wonderful family and friends, we have some trips planned, we have plans for the future. We laugh, we're quiet, we even still argue. I guess this is the new normal. And while it sucks to have cancer, we have each other, and that's never bad. In that we are always lucky.

To view original document go to: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/judy-silk/life-with-cancer_b_1082971.html