Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.
Monday, April 15th 2019
Spring has sprung a leak here, in Hudson, but no one’s complaining because winter has been chased away. The ground around the house is covered in a thin, tired old layer of dirty, disintegrating snow covered in old leaves and small twigs and branches from the trees (I suppose this is what pine detritus looks like—maples just wallop everything around them with large, heavy old branches that break free as they succumb to age and the damage done).
After a beautiful sunny and warm Sunday, Monday has brought rain. But I have Christian here for the day—for the next three days, in fact—and that brightens everything. And I need some of that light and lightness of heart.
I cried myself to sleep last night, or tried to, but wore out my eyes with all the tears and made the astonishing discovery that the rivulets of tears were so full of healthy materials that when I stopped and picked up a book, I could see everything clearly. EVERYTHING. Eight and a half months of chemo’s ophthalmic side effects washed away (they have, of course, returned this morning, and my vision is as goopy and inadequate as usual).
I had the blues. A somewhat mild but pervasive case of them. Their sadness has been niggling me for days. It’s been more than nine months since we moved in here, and the same amount of time since I’ve been living with the knowledge of my cancer. I’m now seasoned in the dynamics of such a life.
We’ve all heard of “two steps forward and one step back”, and while this semi-optimistic description of hard-won, slow progress resonates, it doesn’t capture life with cancer, or, to be more precise, the mind’s meandering assimilation of the reality of it.
I’ve come to see my efforts to live with cancer as a self-erasing pattern of advance and retreat, and it’s getting to me. I want to try to describe it to you. It’s of such importance, this thing I’m trying to figure out.
In the first place, in my mind, cancer is OF ME, but it’s also NOT ME. It’s separate from the person I am, the one who lives inside this skull and body. I AM NOT MY CANCER; and if this is so, then my task is to learn to co-exist with it. To be with it, as serenely as possible, to know it’s there, but also, to move away from it, in a constant, repeated ebb and flow, a forward and backing away movement, that allows my conscious mind to distance myself from it, so that I can live outside the uncertainty that it has splashed all over my life: so that I can find respite from the sadness and pain of imminent loss that darkens everything if I let it; so that sometimes, I can think and feel beyond the aches, pains, and alterations of my body that complicate my days and mess with my morale, isolating me from the joy of life and of being with others.
Cancer pulls and repels me ad infinitum, and this tide-like dynamic isn’t about progress. In some ways, it feels more like breathing: in and out—being sucked in, and then coming up for air. Or like sliding back and forth between two lives: the first, the one that extended itself far into the illusion of a future full of the promise of aging; and the second, the reality of a life occupied by certain, daily struggle and my far more imminent death and separation from the future of my loved ones.
How does this play itself out in my daily life? In a list of random thoughts and ways. Here’s a sampling:
- The seeds of love are sown among human networks every day. Yesterday, I was with Penelope and Graeme, my 7 and 5-year-old grandchildren. Penelope was telling me about her swimming lessons, and what she does in grade one, and how the ballet school she attends has asked her to double or triple the number of weekly classes she takes because they want to move her to the advanced level, and how she’s willing to start with a one-week ballet workshop this summer and then, well see…
And her brother Graeme sat next to me as we read the Pokémon encyclopedia together, identifying the evolutions of most of the creatures, just an hour or so after we had returned from shopping, all of us together with his parents, for his birthday presents (because he turns 5 next week), during which he had been so reasonable and showed not a glimmer of greed or selfishness…
And at one point, with P&G on either side of me on the couch, I took each of their hands and pressed them together over my lap, to show them that Graeme’s were already the same size as his sister’s. And it seemed like a good time to talk about such disparities, and what they might mean, as neither was sure whether it was a good or bad thing that sweet little Graeme has large strong hands…
And during every moment of these hours spent in such perfect company, I carried inside me the feeling of having been prematurely aged by cancer, and of not being as sure of myself as I once was with them. Cancer was there, in the room with us. It heightened my sense of separation from them because it took up space that has its own weight, its own gravity.
- Several months ago, while watching the movie World War Z with Simon and Christian, in which infected, ravenous zombies are terrorizing the whole world and attacking every person in their path, I learned that I would have been spared. Sick people like me, with cancer and other diseases, were left alone by the zombies. Christian and I, upon realising this, looked at each other and smiled, even stifling a giggle. Quickly though, the other message of this scene hit me, then my sons: whether by disease or design, inclusion or exclusion, being culled is still being culled.
First, there was escape into a movie, then cancer pulled me away again.
- I still have time to read. And I’ve been reading all over the place, trying to catch up with blogs posts I write for the Pointe-Claire Library and simply enjoying escaping into imaginary worlds. But reading has also provided one of the clearest, smoothest paths to approach cancer and dying, and I have found myself eagerly following it. It’s where I’ve most felt the sliding back and forth between lives and needs: between cancer and cancer-free thoughts.
And so, despite everything I’ve written here, I do approach death and dying willingly, in ways that work for me. I must prepare. Denial is impossible for me. That’s why I’ve just picked up Maggie O’Farrell’s I AM, I AM, I AM, Seventeen Brushes with Death, which is getting rave reviews, and have just ordered Jayson Greene’s Once More We Saw Stars, in which he shares the story of the death of his tiny daughter, just a couple of years old, as the result of a freak accident.
I don’t find anything morbid in these books, nor do I find them depressing. What they allow me to do is to approach death over and over; examine its shape and its impact on those it touched; learn from the person who is dying or, finally, observe death’s survivors.
Every book I have read about death and dying so far has shown me families of survivors who are able to speak of their lost loved one with joy and still such an abundance of love. And this helps me to stay on the track that is leading me towards death knowing that it’s possible for me to leave life without causing irreversible suffering. The only prize worth keeping an eye on. Life goes on!
- Every day, several times a day, I receive short quotes from an app named We Croak. Simon had originally heard its creator talk about it on CBC Radio, and I loved the idea of being reminded of my mortality at random daily intervals. This was many moons ago.
And then there was my cancer diagnosis. And when the first few quotes buzzed in on my phone, We Croak suddenly appeared to me in a different light. It was, briefly, macabre, and I wrestled with the impulse to deactivate it.
It still reminds me several times a day that I am mortal. Sometimes it does this philosophically, sometimes poetically, sometimes medically, sometimes religiously and sometimes brutally.
But I kept it as just one part of this path that I walk along now. It’s a path that backs me away from my cancer for essential, replenishing and escapist periods of time, and also leads me toward my cancer, from which I still have many lessons to learn.
This is the quote that buzzed on my We Croak phone app just minutes ago. It’s everything I’ve just written, delivered clear as day.
A dying person may book a vacation you know they will never take, plant a tree, buy a car, and shave their head. Make room for rage. Make room for clarity and insight, composure and acceptance, and throwing out a bedpan across a room.” – Sallie Tisdale
May I continue this movement away from and towards what my cancer comes to deliver.