October 31st, 2018
Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.
In my lifetime, a lot of what I’ve thought about is fabricated within the trap my mind has set for me by keeping me preoccupied with the future. I wonder if I haven’t spent at least a quarter of my life planning for the future, thinking of what would be, what might be… Worrying about what my children’s lives will be like (they are grown men of 27 and 35, for heaven’s sake) what will happen to them, and their children (with climate change and everything going on in the world, it’s hard to zig and zag away from those worries).
Until 2017-2018, there was also what would happen to me in teaching, as the school board went through endless personnel restructuring; how I would manage to hold onto my job and do everything I wanted to do: teach, write, be a loving mother, daughter, wife, friend and grand-maman;, take care of my body and health; how I would fit it all in as I age, in spite of the cumulative fatigue and significant stress…How well I would live that “second life” (a life after life) promised to so many women who are mothers…
Would I be able to keep living with my husband? Would I ever find a way to redress the mistakes of my past that brought me to the place where I was: a mixture of daily passion, joy, love, buried sadness and marital stress…
When would my health begin to fail? (well, it was already failing, wasn’t it?). Would I be afflicted with breast cancer like my mum? Heart disease or lung cancer like my dad? Alzheimer’s? (I honestly never thought about a violent death)
How would I reconcile the different parts of me that pulled in different directions: the teacher, the emerging writer, the mother, the friend, the daughter, the disillusioned spouse, the person as yet undiscovered (because I feel that too—none of us ever stops changing and becoming)?
Would there ever come a time when I got my life exactly right, that is, when I became the best person I could be—the very best version of Michelle, who got all her shit together and arrived at the end of her life having worked through most of the distractions and mistakes and simply become a genuine, good person?
(The worry generator in your own mind undoubtedly produces similar thoughts, like small, irksome movies that eat away at your serenity.)
And then there was my cancer diagnosis, that peeled away everything extraneous, and focused an intense beam. It brought all of my fears right in front of me, reducing my field of vision. What have been my worries since July? Not the big, broad strokes on the canvas. It’s the details of my life that are preoccupying. I have become myopic.
What’s chemo doing to my body? What is this change in the pigmentation of my skin? Is it dangerous? Permanent? Can a person develop melanoma while undergoing immune therapy and chemo? Are these changes to my body—its premature aging—reversible? Will my body recover its strength and musculature? How long will it take for my hair to grow in and for my body to return to its “normal”, familiar appearance?
And what about after chemo? Will there be radiation? Will every lesion in my body be hunted down relentlessly? Will there be surgeries? How many? What if the metastases make a spectacular resurgence? How much time will I have after this first wave of treatment ends before cancer returns? How many years like this year can I endure? How strong am I? What if cancer goes to my brain? How long will I accept to live with that before I choose release? What if it migrates surreptitiously to my bones? To my pancreas? (these are among the worse-case scenarios because they’re the most painful)
What if I can never teach again? Do I want to teach again? What if I run out of money? What if, what if, what if…There seems to be no limit to the apprehension my brain can manufacture.
So many waves of angst that could just keep rolling over me, drowning out everything else. Which they did for a while.
But something has happened. It rose out of my life and almost completely snuffed out the fear that I was stoking and that swirled around me. It emerged out of a thousand threads: from the thoughts, messages, prayers, benevolent intentions and wishes, warmth and LOVE of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of people who have hugged me, messaged me, called me, visited me and rooted for me since my diagnosis; from the impeccable, humane, professional and all-encompassing care I’ve received at the CHUM; from the radical transformation of my life which brought me to this peaceful house in this quiet town that is encircled by nature; from the tranquility I find here, which allows me to simply exist in moment after stressless moment; to the resolution of the sadness and pain of my marriage through separation; to the gift of TIME, which was foist upon me by the exigencies of chemo, and created large spaces of forced idleness that I filled by writing, napping, reading, thinking, listening to music alone, and watching television all curled up in a blanket…I know I’m repeating myself here, but it stills feels unreal to me.
The truth is, I’ve never been so stress-free. Imagine that. It makes no sense, but the fact remains that since I’ve learned that I have metastatic cancer, I’ve moved closer and closer to a place of calm and peace. Maybe that’s because these past three months have not only pulled me out, by the roots, of my previous life and patterns, but have also stripped away all of the weeds and strangling things in my life, placing me squarely before the starkest possible truth: that I am mortal, that I WILL die, that I have NOW, and that my future is unwritten. NO ONE KNOWS what lies before me, except that I will die, as will we all. I don’t want to live for all eternity, so why should I be afraid? Or put another way, why should a fear of pain in the future cause me pain in the present?
On November 13th, I’ll undergo the first CT-Scan since I began chemo. The results could be crushing. They could also indicate that the treatments are working beautifully. They’ll be given to me roughly a week after that. There are indications from my body that there have been positive changes: certain symptoms of my cancer have simply vanished. What should I do with these thoughts in the meantime?
In a lovely, thought-provoking novel by Matt Haig that I’ve just finished, titled How to Stop Time, I found this series of questions. To the question: What am I afraid of? , I would add: Why am I afraid?
And then, I would turn to this list of questions, which is nestled at the end of Haig’s How to Stop Time, and I would delight in the answering:
“And, just as it only takes a moment to die, it only takes a moment to live. You just close your eyes and let every futile fear slip away. And then, in this new state, free from fear, you ask yourself: who am I?
If I could live with doubt, what would I do?
If I could be kind without the fear of being fucked over?
If I could love without fear of being hurt?
If I could taste the sweetness of today without thinking of how I will miss tomorrow?
If I could not fear the passing of time and the people it will steal?
What would I do?
Who would I care for?
What battle would I fight?
Which paths would I step down?
What joys would I allow myself?
What internal mysteries would I allow myself?
How, in short, will I live?”
[This is an excerpt from Matt Haig’s How to Stop Time, Harper Collins, 2018, p.314]