A Candle for Each Other

My monthly breast cancer support group met this week.  I don’t always go, but I went this week so that I could see one of my nurses, and give her a Christmas gift.  The meeting was surprisingly crowded.  A good way into the hour, the door opened to the small conference room, and a woman entered, face covered with a mask, two hats on.  As she peeled off her layers, she appeared drawn, haggard, and stressed.  She asked if this was the meeting where she would learn to make herself look beautiful again, in a jesting voice.  My nurse got up and greeted her, “It’s so good to see you.  I’m glad that you are here.”

The woman sat down and burst into tears, wracked with fear, pain and despair.  She told us that her treatment was just killing her.  She could not eat, had lost a lot of weight, and she felt so terrible all the time.  She could not sleep and found herself awake, night after night at 2:30 AM, “the witching hour,” as she called it, pondering all of the frightful what-ifs – what if I go through all of this, and the treatment doesn’t work, what if the side effects of the medications harm me, what if I can’t eat what I want to eat again, what if, what if, what if? All of it was so overwhelming, and she did not know what to do.

 As her tears gradually subsided, the therapist who co-leads the group, introduced herself, welcomed the woman and summarized what we had been discussing – gratitude mostly and how to practice it mindfully.  Then, the rest of us went around the room, introduced ourselves to her and shared a little something with her.  One woman offered the gift of forgiveness, that it was okay for her to feel crappy and want to cry.  Another related that she and every member of her book group are up most nights at 2:30 AM because that’s how they are – “I’d like to say that is probably more about our age, than about the cancer.” 

Another woman spoke more of the gift of gratitude, that even when we feel our worst, there is always some small thing to hold onto and that the important thing is to try to find it, even if it is as simple as watching a favorite holiday show.  Still another suggested that she ask more questions about her diet and treatment and to speak to her doctors about how she was struggling.  

As I sat and listened to what the others were saying, I watched the woman’s face.  Her forehead started to unfurrow.  Her breathing became more regular, and for a moment, she appeared a bit calmer.  Then, the tears began to trickle again from her eyes, and she said that she just could not handle all of it.

Lucky me, now it was my turn to share something.  Crap.  Think, Chris, think.  From the back of my brain, the title of one of my favorite books, Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, my favorite writer, gave me an idea.  If you haven’t read this book, you should.   I'm reading it again.  (The book is about writing, by the way.)  The title of the book comes from a story that Lamott relates about her older brother, who at 10 years old, had to write a report about birds.  Of course, her brother left the project until the day before it was due.  (Whose kids do this?  Surely, not mine, except actually . . . all the time.)  Lamott’s brother was overwhelmed by the enormity of the task and did not know how he going to do it.  Then, his dad sat down with him and said, “Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird.”

And isn’t that the truth?  Do we need to solve the mysteries of the universe all at once?  Do we need to totally figure out how we are going to handle the path of a disease, over which have no control?  No.  We. Don’t.  So, I offered to the woman that she try to be more gracious to herself and accept that didn’t need to deal with it all of it.  All she had to do was handle what was in front of her right now, in this moment.  She replied that she didn’t think she could do that.  I responded, “You did.  You made it here.”  Then, my nurse chimed in, “And, you made a funny joke when you arrived.”  Nodding her head, the woman wiped her eyes and said, “Thank you. Thank you.”  The woman turned to my nurse and asked her to help come up with a list of questions for her doctors.

The meeting started to wrap up, as people had to move on with their days.  I gave my nurse her present; it was a bead bracelet because she loves her beads, with a charm inscribed with the word, “Hope.”  “Because that’s what you give us,” I said and then headed out.

As I drove home, my thoughts turned to the meaning of hope.  Desmond Tutu once said, “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”  But, what are we supposed to do when we can’t see the light?  We can wail at the darkness and stay up night after night fixating on the worst.  We can withdraw from our friends and family.  Or, we can find the damn matches and use them because we are supposed to be living as “children of the light.”

It’s all over our spiritual traditions, for the love of all that is good, and I don’t think that’s an accident.  We light candles to celebrate the Hindu festival of Diwali to signify the victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and hope over despair.  In the season of Advent, we wait for Emmanuel, God with Us, the Light of the World.  To celebrate Hanukkah, we light the Menorah and rejoice in the miracle of light.  We give praise to Allah, the light upon light.  We do sun salutations in the practice of yoga.  It’s all there right in front of us, if we open our eyes.

After this karma-has-kicked-my-ass year, I have come to believe that we need to light the light in each other.  It’s not that hard.  It can take any form -- a kind word, advice from our own experience at a support group, a nod that we get it, a text, a note, a call, or an invitation to have coffee or to sit together at lunch -- what-fucking-ever it takes to make the path brighter.  One single match dispels the darkness, you know.

So, this is my prayer as we enter the last week of Advent and as this long year comes to close, that, please God, we become a candle for each other.

What I Know Now

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.

List-Making, Leave-Taking

The guest room fills with piles -- clothing, sweaters, shoes, sweats, linens, towels, practice suits, granola bars, pillows, photos, books, coffee maker, mugs, a drying rack, printer, Lysol wipes, paper towels, wires, hamper, laundry supplies, hangers, first aid kit, flashlight, batteries.  She is getting ready for the day, for the leaving, for the start of her new adventure.

Each morning, as I walk my dog, my head fills with lists -- what else, what else does she need to bring?  I know that there are stores in Vermont, but still, the lists swirl: Tylenol, Advil, cold medicine, toothpaste, vitamins, Band-Aids, Tide to Go.  "When will this end?" her dad asked on yet another trip to Costco, the weight of this new responsibility, this new chapter bearing on him.  My breath catches in my throat. I shrug and turn.  "Umm, well, not until I breathe my last," I think to myself.

The lists swirl as I walk,  and I travel to those early days, to those first times leaving home with a newborn, a toddler, a child, children.  I remember.

I learned to pack the red Lands' End Do-it-All diaper bag with the attached changing pad: diapers, wipes, formula, bottles, extra pacifier, pacifier leash, blanket, outfit, extra socks (because they always wet their socks, said my mother-in-law), hat (in case it's cold, said my mom), burp cloths, onesies, a sweater, all for a trip to the grandparents, to a friend's, or to the grocery store.

I learned to pack for those early vacations to the beach: the diaper bag, beach blanket, umbrella, baby beach hut, swim diapers, bathing suits, shorts, tees, snacks, sunblock, towels, a sweatshirt (in case it's cold at night), baby Tylenol (in case of a fever), anti-gas drops (in gas of colic), teething rings, Pat the Bunny, Good Night Moon, stroller, play mat, baby bouncer seat, sand toys.

Later, I learned to pack lunches: peanut butter on whole grain bread, apple slices, Oreos; and to pack and unpack backpacks: lunch, assignment pad, books, worksheets, pencils.  I learned to pack for scout camps: sleeping bags, bug spray, s'mores, propane stove.  (Be Prepared!)  I learned to pack multiple children for trips abroad: suitcases, phones, tickets, passports. And now, they do it themselves.  They pack.  They go.  They return.

Yet, as the lists continue to swirl, I realize that my list making is my leave-taking.  I won't be there to do the laundry (although I am not complaining about that) or to take care of her when she gets sick.
However, like the diaper bag I learned to pack so many years ago, I can make sure that she has what she needs to do these things without me.  My swirling lists allow me to let her go.

With each addition to the pile and subtraction from the list, I add my silent benedictions: be happy, make new friends, be safe, make good choices, work hard, stay healthy, and please, take good care of yourself for me.

I am pretty sure she will.  She is a list-maker, too.

Credit for Trying?

It's June 21st, the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, and the last full day of school for my three children. Notice, I did not say it's their last day of school.  Because it isn't.   We have 1/2 days next week until Wednesday for my high schooler and middle schooler and until Thursday (haha) for my 2nd grader, whose school had to close for a day last fall due to a water main break and ran out of extra days with the hurricane and all.  But, I digress.  Let's not talk about the insanity of our school calendar, shall we?  Rather, let's chat about the insanity of homework at the end of the year.

Yesterday afternoon, after everyone was home from school,  I conducted my afternoon inquiry regarding homework.  This gives me an opportunity to practice my deposition skills so that, if I ever need them again, like when we are paying college tuition, I won't be too rusty.

The high schooler has quarterlies -- those are what we used to call final exams, but which our district has eliminated because they apparently caused our poor, precious future leaders of America a tad too much stress about testing (but, I digress) -- so, no worries there.

I ask my second grader, "James, do you have any homework?"  "No, mom, field day," as if "field day" is a homework pass.  "So, you don't have any reading tonight?"  (Note the leading, follow-up question.)  "No, mom, field day."   Same answer, second time.  Score one for me.  This means that I don't have to fill out the reading journal with another smiley face, instead of actually recording the minutes that he read because, at this point, I have no idea how many minutes he is reading (I know it's supposed to be 20), how many pages he is reading or even what he is reading.  He could be reading cereal boxes for all I know, and, if he did that for 20 minutes, I am pretty sure it would count.  But, he said "field day," so, no worries there.

I ask my middle schooler, "Thomas, homework?"  No answer.  I ask again, raising the volume, "Thomas, homework?"  He lifts one Skull Candy earphone from his ear, "What?"  "Homework?"  "Uh, maybe, um, no.  Not a lot."  "Well, what do you have -- math, you have a test tomorrow, right?" (Note the follow-up question.)  "Yeah.  But, I did the whole study guide in school.  Mom, I'm good."  "Anything else?"  (That's the catch-all question, the one you ask so that the witness can't change his story later.)  "Uh, yeah, Latin.  I have a vocab quiz.  I'm good."  "Do you need to review the vocab with me?"  "No, I'm really good."  So, no worries there.

"Wow, how did that happen," I wonder.   I think I will finish the article I'm writing.  I walk toward my desk.  "Uh, mom."  "Yes, Tom?"  "I need stickers and a stencil."  "What," I reply in stunned amazement, a request for supplies today?  "I need stickers."  "What kind of stickers?  What do you need them for?  "I need them for my group science project.  To decorate the circuit board or something.  I think we have a stencil in the Box."

I am pretty sure there is no stencil in the Box.  There hasn't been one in there for years. Don't know where it went, stickers?  Hmm, let's take a look.  I think to myself, "I hope I find something because I am not, no way, no how, going to the store to buy stickers."

I open the cabinet above my desk to get the Box.  Dear Lord,  it's the Island of Misfit Toys in that cabinet, I realize.  The first shelf ostensibly holds the first aid kit.  But, it's been plundered so many times this year that there's very little aid to be had.  I don't think there even is a box of Band-Aids in there now.  I see the Tylenol and the bottle of vitamins and calcium supplements that I am supposed to remember to take every day.  I found the dog's ear drops, and the math facts flash cards.   Let's leave all that until later, shall we, and just get down the Box.

I take down the Box from the second shelf.   The Box is where I keep all of the things that my young learners may need for exciting things, like group projects.  This sounds great, in theory, except that it's June 20th.   I put the Box on the counter and pull out (with props to Eric Carle): one bag of dried up markers; one bag of cruddy crayon stubs; one old glue stick; one box of colored pencils of various sizes; two broken pencils without erasers; lots of loose index cards and one unopened package of colored index cards (that I bought last July because the Latin teacher said that we needed two packages of colored index cards); and three pencil sharpeners with pencil shavings leaking out all over.  And still, no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  I find the heart hole puncher that James immediately starts using on the index cards, thereupon scattering heart-shaped confetti on the floor and counter.  He hole-punches an index card into the shape of a heart, and says, "Here, mom, this is for you." Sweet, but no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  I find a stack of tattered construction paper and 8 Scooby Doo Valentine's cards.  I remember that I kept them thinking James could use them next year, and I could avoid buying two more packages of 16 Valentine's for James' class of 22.  I thought this was a good idea at the time, except that I donated the Scooby Doo pencils that went with the cards to the middle school some time in early April, after I received a desperate email from one of Tom's teachers begging for supplies, since apparently, they ran out of pencils.  And still, no stickers or stencil.

I keep looking.  What is this?  Can it be?  Yes, it's James' First Grade vocabulary workbook that his  teacher told us at the end of last year that he should take to Second Grade.  I sent it to school in September with a stickie note on it to his teacher explaining this.  His teacher promptly sent it back home, with the stickie note.  It was still on the workbook.  I don't think I need to send it in for Third Grade.  But still, no stickers or stencil.


I am at the bottom of the Box.  I pull out a gingerbread shaped activity book, probably from Christmas, and out falls a sheet of stickers -- 12 wonderful, little round stickers of snowmen.

"Tom, I found some stickers."  He lifts one earphone from his ear, "What?"  "Stickers.  They have snowmen on them, but it's all I have.  I found poster letters too, but no stencil."  Silence.  "I'll put them in your backpack."  "Mom, I think I'll look for the old Pinewood Derby decals in the basement."

So, the snowmen stickers, the letters, and the Pinewood Derby flaming decals all went to school today, the last full day of the school year, to add a special touch to the circuit board group science project.  I would like think that they will get some credit.   For trying?

P.S. Tom did not use the snowmen stickers, after all.