A NEW DANCE

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”   ~Desmond Tutu

 

     I first danced with NED in September of 2005 when my surgeon assured me that he had successfully removed all of the cancer in my left breast.  I had already completed 8 rounds of chemotherapy and was still to receive 36 radiation treatments, just for insurance, but the cancer had been cut out and there was No Evidence of Disease (NED).  And so I danced.  My world view had radically changed as a result of the cancer experience and I was truly filled with joy.  After a lifetime of cynicism and negativity, everything suddenly appeared rosy and all things were possible.  Most surprising, to me, was the discovery that people were actually good and kind and caring.  I would come to say that although I would never have chosen to have had cancer, I was grateful for its gifts.  And, of course, I also assumed that I had paid my dues and that, therefore, no cancer or other life-threatening illness or event would ever darken my door again.  Yes, I lived on the proverbial pink cloud and assumed that only good things would come my way and that I was, surely, entitled to them. 

     Fast forward to August of 2016.  I was having what I thought was an unusually bad year, one that followed the year that I lost my oldest sister.  My beautiful, beloved cat, Sasha, passed away after a painful and distressing illness, my home air conditioning system broke down and cost a great deal of money to replace, and  events had multiplied to make me think that I was, indeed, going through quite a bad patch.  Life began to feel, suspiciously, negative and not at all cooperative.  That sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, heretofore buried deep and largely ignored, began to creep into my subconscious.  And then the lump emerged, large enough to preclude ignoring it.  The music, and thus the dance, abruptly stopped and NED exited.

     There is no sugar-coating the experience of this cancer.  It was barbaric and extremely painful.  I almost died.  But I didn’t and, day after day, my dear Paul stood by me, throughout the twice-daily radiation treatments and the chemotherapies and IV hydrations.  And finally, after 2 months and 70+ treatments, it was over and recovery could begin.

     It became immediately clear to me that the landscape had changed.  Having come that close to death afforded me the opportunity to really look at not only my own mortality but, more importantly, my own life and how I wanted to live that life, going forward. 

     Once I learned, on January 17^th, that there was “no evidence of disease,” a brand new NED stepped up to dance and “he,” this time, was almost unrecognizable.  Whereas the previous “dance with NED” was characterized by a lighthearted confidence that my worries were over and I was entitled to a good life, one free of troubles and, certainly, of disasters, this new dance would, clearly, be more complex, more nuanced and, yes, more realistic.  What brings me joy and what gives my life meaning came into sharp relief and the need to fully participate in the creation of my life became pressing.  That is, rather than assuming all that is good would just come my way because I deserved it, I saw that living a full, joy-filled life can only happen if I’m willing to actively embrace and actively pursue what will be fulfilling and what would allow me to live with integrity and compassion.  And in order to do that, I needed to start with focusing on present moments.  Whether cancer or some other disaster is in the offing is pretty much irrelevant to the now moment when that disastrous event has not yet occurred.  And if I spend my time ruminating about catastrophic possibilities, then I completely lose the present and am left with nothing but imaginings.  That won’t do.  This is not to say that it is easy to stay in the moment, especially after having one’s innocence and trust ripped away but, rather, that it is absolutely necessary if one is to find any peace, any serenity.  Prior to the full weight of cancer descending upon me, I had been in the process of honing my stay-in-the-moment skills through the regular practice of both meditation and yoga and, additionally, by surrounding myself with people, readings, events and other stimuli that encouraged such an approach to daily life.  But the horror of the illness temporarily stripped me of the desire to remain present.  In fact, the present moments became the last place I wanted to be and, so, escape through sleep, stories and anything outside of my current reality became my coping mechanisms.  I honestly did try, on quite a few occasions, to take a mindfulness-based approach to my illness and even read several very encouraging books about how to accomplish that but, in the end, I was simply too afraid and too sick and exhausted.  Fantasy and even bad TV won out over sitting with my reality. 

     But that is over and I know that my daily reality, going forward, is very much up to my choosing.  So it’s back to my zafu and my mat and all of the things that support my being mindful and deliberate.  I’m pretty sure, however, that some creative imaginings and maybe even some bad TV will still be part of the landscape.  But if these bring me pleasure, I will embrace them and be grateful for them too.

     I am compelled to add one final clarification regarding this new dance and that is that it will probably never be free of fear and worry about more cancer or another catastrophe.  I know that I will never again enjoy that naive and carefree attitude that was part of my between-cancers life.  I’m afraid that I will always be aware that there is an endless supply of shoes that can be dropped. But I won’t be looking at these shoes too closely and will, in fact, put much effort into completely ignoring them…because they are not part of my today.  Given that, then, I won’t be going forward with great courage and certainly not with any naiveté but, rather, with strong determination that, despite all of the possible disasters that could befall me, each day will be lived fully and, hopefully, with much gratitude and even a modicum of joy.