When I sit down to write for This is the Moment, I include the date, and it’s a shock every time. Partly because the summer is entering its last month and I haven’t really experienced it. It escaped my grasp. I’ve been tied to this new house and its needs, and also lost within its walls, away from the oppressive heat, while part of me has been floating, hovering above my life like a lost spirit.
It’s a strange feeling to be made so captive by reality—separation, relocation and cancer—that there seems to be nothing to settle upon, nowhere to gain purchase. I won’t be restarting my teaching contracts, or zipping around in my shiny green Mazda 2 nearly as much as is usual for me. I’ll mostly be shuttling by train and metro between islands named CHUM CLINICS, CHEMOTHERAPY and CLSC. Those spaces on the calendar will be marked with the biggest X’s and dominate the landscape.
But most of my living can’t happen there. I haven’t quite figured out what my time there will be and what life elements I’ll find. For the most part, the CHUM is a state-of-the-art space that climbs up into Montreal’s skyline and offers almost everyone within its windowed areas the joy of looking out at the bright, beautiful city and the great river that’s wrapped around it. But it’s also the space where medicine is practiced with ferocious intensity and intention.
When I begin chemo—which should happen on August 22nd—I’ll be in untested waters, for me that is. I’ve accompanied both my father and mother through theirs (events that occurred 25 years apart), and it has left its imprint, a shadow on me. As I watched the stellar nurses puncture my parents’ veins at each session, sending the poisons with inhuman names into their veins (the word Carboplatin still makes me shudder), I felt revulsion, for sure: I think that it’s the first, overwhelming and sensible reaction to have. But as I watched them and the other patients in their own recliners lean into the experience, the stakes became more easily visible. These were areas where sick but healthy people (the dichotomy that cancer creates, in which the medical teams treating you refer to you as both healthy and cancerous is one of the most perplexing to patients—it certainly was for my mum and has been so far, for me) have learned to live with their fear of needles, of pain, of indignity, of losing their hair, of losing their vitality, of losing their ability to eat, taste, walk, laugh, experience pleasure and engage with the world; of losing all of their beauty, and their grip on life as they’ve previously known it, and of ever having a carefree moment again…and yet resolutely accept what lies ahead.
There’s such strength in resignation and forbearance. Cancer isn’t all, or only, about fighting. I think it’s also about making peace.
You can beat this!
Fight like hell!
Kick the crap out of it!
A positive attitude is so important!
Go at it with guns a-blazing!
I’ve been cheered on already by so many people (again, thank you, thank you) with chants like these. I understand them. I do. But I don’t know if I’m capable of manufacturing this state of mind.
When I think of what’s happening insidiously inside me, I feel compassion for my body. Poor thing. It’s struggling with this tumour that has sent emissaries out into my bloodstream and has been doing so very quietly for a long time, exacting very little from me so far. Fighting this cancer, waging war on it, fills me with images of damage and destruction; of laying waste to parts of me that are my body. This isn’t where my mind wants to go.
Just in time, my sister Marie arrived in town 4 days ago (she’s on a flight home to Vancouver as I write) supercharged with encouraging energy and bearing gifts from her very recent trip to Morocco.
I felt shy opening them because we’ve agreed not to exchange presents any more. But she knew what she was doing.
Everything I opened was made in Morocco, and was a beautiful bright pink. Among the bounty, there was a necklace and leather bracelet which carry the symbol of the Hamsa or Hand of Fatima, a multicultural, multi-faith symbol of protection, and several other fuscia gifts. Marie explained to me that in Morocco, pink is a symbol of healing.
I immediately put on the Hand of Fatima necklace and bracelet, placed the cushion on my bed, and set the scarf and pens right next to it, in the hope, I think, that the message they carried would linger in my room, and settle in a quiet place in my psyche.
By an eerie coincidence, and not at all in character, the colour I chose for my bedroom in our new home is unapologetic pink. Not a speck of pink had ever graced a single space in any of my previous homes.
Love, protection and healing.
It’s among these that I choose to stand.
“I’d never used the word destiny before. What is it? A coagulation of your hunger to find a path, to find a place, to set one foot after another. To come inside out: to show your guts, everything you are made of.
If this was true about destiny, cancer was my ally on that course. It pushed me out beyond any boundary I had known. It threw me right into the pool of fear, stripped me down to animal survival. Could I face that polarity of life and death and find another place to stand?”
This is one of my favourite passages from a book by Natalie Goldberg, Let the Whole Thundering World Come Home, A Memoir. Also given to me very recently by my wonderful friend Gail.