Over the past ten months, I have been dealing with breast cancer, as many of my close friends and family know. As I slogged through treatment, one of my nurses asked me to share some thoughts and ideas that could be helpful to others going through a similar situation. Now, I believe that my nurse was looking for a short, simple list of helpful information. Well, I didn't provide her with that. Instead, after some months of writing, I put together ten themes that I found important, as I went through my experience. The last of these is entitled, "Gratitude," which I am posting below. I thought that, at the end of Thanksgiving weekend and before I plunge headlong into my final reconstruction surgery next week and then Christmas, I would share the most important thing that I have learned over these many months. That is the need to be grateful, to live with gratitude, not the use your manners and remember to say "thank you" gratitude, but the heart felt, we are given such a short time to walk this planet, let's leave it a better place gratitude. That kind of gratitude is dang tough. It requires thought. It requires being present to one another. It requires grace. But, I am trying.
As I enter into Advent, my most favorite part of the Catholic liturgical year, the time of waiting, the time of preparation, I have always thought it right and just and fitting that Advent comes in the darkest and coldest part of the year (at least in this area). We wait for the Light to enter our world, again. We prepare our hearts and homes for His coming again. "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom, a light has shone. You have brought them abundant joy and great rejoicing. As they rejoice before you at the harvest." (Isaiah 9:1-2). So my spiritual challenge this Advent is to continue to remember to live with gratitude, to rejoice in life's small everyday blessings for they are abundantly joyful. And, this is the tenth thing I know now.
Gratitude
About a month before my surgery, I returned
to my most favorite place, Harwich Port, Cape Cod, in early August to spend a few days at the
beach with Katie and her friend at my mother-in-law Jeanne's beach house. During our stay, Jeanne's sister, Aunt
Barbara, and I spent some, actually quite a bit of, time talking about books. She recommended several authors whom I had
never read, including Gladys Taber, who wrote Stillmeadow Daybook. Gladys Taber was born in 1899 and received her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College in 1920 and a master's from Lawrence College in 1921. She wrote 59 books -- 59 for Pete's sake! -- and was a columnist for Ladies Home Journal, Family Circle and a Cape Cod newspaper, as well as a writing professor at Columbia University. She died in 1980.
Aunt Barbara
described Stillmeadow Daybook as a
perfect book for recovering from surgery because you could dip into it, put it down, and
return to it. About a week or so before my surgery, I
started Stillmeadow Daybook. Published in 1955, it chronicles a different
time and place, as the author recorded her life on a farm in rural
Connecticut. It is a sweet book, nostalgic,
but not sappy. There were passages that
I loved so much, like one about making corn chowder (a family favorite) and one
about her favorite containers for cut flowers, that I read them aloud to my family. I did this so often that Tom and Katie began
making fun of me, in the snarky, yet oddly worldly way that only teenagers can,
“Mom, what does Gladys Taber have to say about this?” “Mom, tell us more about Gladys Taber.” Even James chimed in, “Oooh, Gladys Taber,”
trying to keep up with his sister and brother.
After surgery, I put Gladys down, and did
not return to her until about a month later in early October. Since the book is written as a daybook, I
turned to the chapter, “October,” and began reading. In the middle of the chapter, among discussions
of gathering the late harvests, making preserves, hunting for nuts in the
woods and caring for her beloved dogs, Gladys shared some remarkable thoughts on life’s meaning. She wrote: “There is always one moment in a
day when I think my heart will break.
Such a moment I think all women have, and men too, when all the meaning
of life seems distilled and caught up and you feel you can never, never bear to
leave it . . . But there is the moment, and all the heartaches and sorrows of
your life suddenly diminish and only the fine brave things stand out.”[1]
I thought, “Wow, Gladys, you sure got that
right,” as I had one of those moments that morning while I was walking my
dog. A crisp, early October morning, the
sun shone through a maple tree and set the orange-red leaves aglow. My breath caught in my throat, and tears
welled up in my eyes. I raised my eyes
to the perfect autumnal blue sky and said, “Thank you. Thank you for getting me here. Thank you for now, for this moment of grace.”
I have started going to a nutritionist and
am changing my diet, except for kale -- well, because, kale. I am back to walking and jogging on the
treadmill, going to spin classes, and doing too much volunteer work.
I am going to cross-country meets and swim meets. I also went back to my trainer and thanked
him for making me do all of those squats.
I texted E and told her that I was back to the trainer, and she replied,
“Look. At. You. What a feeling of
normalcy to your routine . . . that you CAN do what you want.” Indeed, I can.
I am blessed.
The road is not so scary any more. Perhaps, it has not been so for some
time. I know now that the road has been
lit and signs have been there to guide me all along – sort of like the
revelation Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz
had when she finally returned to Kansas. I could not see them because I was so caught
up in the disease, in the treatment, in my fear, well, in me.
Yet, there they were, all around me. My intelligent and compassionate three wise
men brought me priceless gifts. Dr. D
brought me the gift of his intellectual rigor and kind heart. Not content to let me have the answer I
wanted (surgery, no chemo), he gave me the answer I needed (yes, chemo, then
surgery) (in the words of the Rolling Stones), and thus mapped my way forward
to the best possible result. At my most
terrified moments, he brought me peace.
Dr. A brought me the gift of confidence and faith. When I challenged and complained, much like
an angry teenager, he remained confident in his treatment and its result, God
willing. As Anne Lamott, one of my favorite
authors, wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for
boats to save; they just stand there shining.”
Dr. A was my beacon, leading me to safe harbor.
Dr. R brought me the gift of his art. Through
his artist’s eye, he is making me whole again.
I now feel beautiful and at peace when I look in the mirror.
There are so many others who have lifted me
up along the way.
K, my PA, and my dedicated nurses, K and J,
all of my chemo nurses, and all of the nurses at Morristown Medical Center,
gave me the gift of their care and time whenever I needed it. They answered my questions, wiped away my
tears, and helped me to heal.
The wonderful lab ladies and receptionists in
Dr. A’s office gave me the gift optimism with their kind words that always made
me smile, even when they were crazy busy, and A always got my port hooked up
without any pain.
My awesome trainers, B and N, who made me do
all of those stinking squats (and still do), kept me strong, when I felt
anything but.
My amazing friends, too many to name, became
my guardian angels and walked with me, sat with me, listened to me, prayed for
me, cooked for me, shopped for me, drove my boys to where they needed to be, supported
Tim through so many dark hours, and sent me flowers, cards, and funny jokes and
videos, when I most needed them.
Finally, my steadfast family never wavered,
and their love remained the rock that I carried in my pocket all along the way.
The woods are no longer dark, but shine in
autumn’s soft golden light. While the
journey is not quite finished and likely still will be bumpy along the way, I
know now where my road is leading. It is
leading me home, home with a grateful heart.
[1] Taber, Gladys Bagg. Stillmeadow Daybook,
p. 148. New York: Harper & Row,
1983, originally published, Lippincott, 1955.
