It’s just one thing to hold a cup. It’s another thing to sip. It’s one thing to close your eyes, another to see. Frame by frame, each of these adds up to living. To life.
Another: my daughter enters the room, sits to check her phone. Her thumb strums the screen. Her neck is a swan staring down at the glass. All around us is the noise of living: the street traffic, dawn on a Sunday, this Sunday, here and now in the paper piles, the dishwasher hum, the ongoing ordinariness of morning.
I have passed many such mornings in a rush. So many days have rolled by in a turning of chores, tasks, to-dos. And the trance of pre-cancer life is one of there is tomorrow. You’ll get another chance. It is of course a myth, but it is one we live by.
But along comes cancer in its red truck and its repeating, manic music of death. Of dying. After nearly three years in and out of treatment, I still wake to its songs. I still wake and do a mental body scan with questions such as: Does my head hurt? How is my breathing? I check for aches, for pains. I imagine the worst. Anything lasting longer than two weeks warrants a call to my oncologist.
Life now is in-between. In-between scans, in-between appointments, in-between one medical event and another. Note the dash between “in” and “between.” It is a space I currently claim and occupy. It is hovering, unnoticed, a connector that links one state to another. A grammatical and embodied corpus callossum.
My body is a radar station and my mind is on alert.
It’s exhausting.
I’m in a holding pattern now. Treatment for the recurrence to my rib is done. Scans are over. I’m NED (no evidence of disease) for now, but the likelihood of a third recurrence is high. Every day I am learning to integrate the Fear of Recurrence into the reality of Get on With the Day, trying not to let the one disable the other.
This anxiety is real, and many cancer survivors need support in coping with the PTSD of treatment and long-term side-effects. There is no shame in this. It’s also worth noting that in terms of human evolution, living with a long-term, life-threatening illness is relatively new. Our brains haven’t been equipped to process or deal with such a scenario, and so survivorship requires practice.
“Practice.” Such a reassuring, powerful word that speaks to honoring the effort, honoring each attempt.
Each day I practice meditation and breathing.
Each day I practice honoring this body and its strengths.
I practice self-compassion, and extend this outward to loved ones, friends, community, the world.
- “No mud, no lotus.” Thich Nhat Hanh
Practice isn’t about perfection. It is, in a nutshell, doing. Doing without judgement, doing for the sake of itself. In this sense I find it immensely liberating – there is no call to be good at it at all.
What are you practicing these days? What practices help you cope with the stressors of cancer, of disease, of life in general?
Pink Stinks 
I have become much more focused on enjoying whatever there is to be enjoyed when I have a chance. I reach out to people more, I am much more flexible in how my day goes, I try to grab opportunities. And I try, but don’t always succeed, in letting things go that irritate me. (Like my mother complaining about getting old. I couldn’t help it – I said I would be grateful for the opportunity to grow old.)
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Focusing on what’s right there is important. It is great that you are reaching out, being flexible, and going for spontaneity. I hear you on getting old — it is a gift to be able to do so.
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Exercise and writing are two of the ways I try to cope with the stressors of cancer. It is really hard for me to ever feel away from from it because every day it is there reminding me of its presence. I do what I can to get away from it if only for moments.
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Kristie, those are great suggestions. Long walks, meditation, and nature are others I might add to your list. There’s something about getting physically outside of my own thinking that really helps to ground me in the here and now. Thank you for your reply.
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