here I stand

"The waters closed in over me, the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains...Then the Lord spoke to the fish and it spewed Jonah out onto the dry land."  Jonah 2:5,9

I look out the window at this cold, grey day and feel a heaviness settle on my spirit. I often begin my morning quiet times by asking: "what is true of me today?" and then try to bring that question into conversation with God and whatever else points toward a Truth bigger than my own subjective experience. What is true of me today is a growing sense of dread. My third whopper chemo treatment is Monday, January 24th, three days from now. I have to have four of these big ones with three weeks in between to recover. The first week after a treatment is a haze of nausea, fatigue and the isolation that illness often imposes. The second and third weeks are much better, but I still dread the first week, which seems to get progressivly worse each time.

Coming out of a chemo tx is like coming up from under water and seeing the sun shimmering beyond the surface. Going into one feels like standing at the end of a dock and looking at a cold dark lake, waiting for strong hands to grab me and shove me under, holding me down until I am ready to give up whatever it is that I have been holding onto.

What is it that I have been holding onto and what must give up? This is where it gets interesting. Turns out that I have a lot of old stuff clinging to me from the past, espeically from the bad old brain tumor days of not so long ago. As some of you know, meningiomas are almost always benign tumors that grow very slowly. Mine took over 20 years to get that big. That was a long time in which to accumulate the elaborate set of coping mechanisms that I used to mask the shame, fear and depression that came from a slowly progressive brain tumor induced dementia.



For years I tried to appear smart and capable and competent whether I was or not. That falseness almost killed me as I refused to face what was really happening to me. Like weeds wrapping around me and dragging me to the bottom, depression and denial held me under so long it was almost too late for me to come up again. That's why I was SO ridiculously happy when I was told that my problem was a big, fat brain tumor that could be removed. I thought I could have a dementia-ectomy and all my problems would go away. I bounced back that time amazingly well and everyone applauded. The first six months after my brain surgury were euphoric.

My brain tumor, July 2009

Then, with a growing sense of dread, the depression came back. It turned out that my vision was permanently damaged and I could not find work that did not involved a lot of driving. Now that I was suddenly "able" again in terms of my mental facalties, I was also disabled and didn't know what I was going to do with my life. My old demons of anxiety and depression began to circle again and I had no excuse or defense against them this time. Trying to fake wellness only made me more depressed. Those damed weeds  
were reaching for me and it scared me to death.

In late October 2010, I got diagnosed with a very aggressive type of breast cancer and had a double mastectomy a week later. Initially, that sent my anxiety through the roof. But here's the really strange part. Although today is dark and dreary, I am actually more calm and clear than I was before my breast cancer diagnosis. Even though I dread my next chemo tx, I am slowly becomeing more whole in a way that I cannot explain.

Maybe it is because so many people have come out of the woodwork to surround me with love and prayer. Maybe it is because I am finally learning to be more open and authentic about my experience of illness. For whatever reason, I am finding the courage to face personal pain and talk about it in a way that is more true. I do not need to reject my old self that hid in a smokescreen of determination and denial. I only need to embrace that which is new and true and authentic, even if it means becoming bald and vulnerable to do it.

This image of water that both kills and saves is baptismal. But let's not get confused about our images of baptism. Cancer is not a pretty baby baptism with candles and white lacy christening clothes. Cancer and chemo is more like water boarding; scarey and desperate and gasping with relief after the worst of it passes. Sounds torturous, I know, but each time I go under, I let go of a little more of that which is not essential to life. Layers of old falseness are washing away. Newness, shaking, wet and weak is starting to come. I wish there were an easier way for me to let go of my old scared and shameful self left over from all those years of pretending. There probably is, but for what ever reason, here I am standing at the end of the dock again, about to take the next plunge. What's true of me today is that I dread it, but I know that I will come out the other side, hopefully a little newer and a little truer. Thanks for standing with me. See you on the other side.

Love, Mary



limping toward the light

The people of El Camino de Emmaus on December 26, 2010

Hola buen Compañeros!
As many of you know, one of the primary life lines that keeps me semi-sane is El Camino de Emmaus. This is the name of the small but wonderful Hispanic community of faith with whom I walk. The name means "The Way of the Emmaus Road", which is a reference to the path that the grieving disciples walked immediately after Christ was crucified. Luke 24 tells us the story of the risen, but unrecognized Jesus who fell into step along side his devastated friends and walked with them for a while. Jesus drew them into conversation about their shattered dreams and gave them some perspective on the long, long road stretching behind and before them. The scripture says that "their hearts burned within them" as he spoke, but still they did not recognize him. Finally, when darkness began to fall, they found a place to stop and urged him to stay and eat with them. At this simple yet strangely familiar meal, their eyes were suddenly opened in the breaking of the bread.
This little story is one that I come back to again and again as a source of inspiration and sustenance on this crazy road that is cancer (and life for that matter). Indeed, my heart burns within me in these strangely rich days as I vacillate between desolation and hope. Some days it feels as if I am gathered in the company of great friends for a warm meal on a cold winter's night. Other days it seem that we are only beggars huddled against the cold, holding out our hands toward the warmth of a burning barrel fire. My point is that even when I feel lost and alone in illness, I know that I am never truly alone. Not only am wrapped in the support and compassion from so many of you, we walk in the company of all who are mortal and who have suffered. We are surrounded by a whole host of humanity, winners and losers, heroes and beggars, saints and sinners beloved of God, all. I am grateful that perception is not reality. Stars still shine whether we can see them or not. "Ubi caritas, et amor"...where there is love, therein dwells God.  See you down the road...    Love, Mary  PS: to my non-religious friends, please forgive what sounds like a sermon. This is where I find life.

Well here it is, January 10, 2011, and I am circling. Having recently emerged from the fog of my second chemo treatment, I am now clear minded and well enough to reflect upon this experience and almost have the nerve to talk about it.

Why a blog? The first reason would be to reply, inform and deeply thank all those who have walked with me in the valley of the shadow. Whether near or far, “in the know” or not, I have felt an amazing amount of solidarity and compassion from so many of you. For this, I am humbled and grateful. The second reason would be to help me get a bit of distance and perspective on what it means to have my mortality stare me directly in the eye once again. There is never a time when any of us are far from death, so why not look back at it and see what it has to teach us? I think it might have something to do with freedom from fear. More on this later…

Still I circle. Circling the drain? Well yes, that too, but more immediately circling this blog project. This is not an easy thing for me. Although I am quite open about my passions and opinions, I am loathe to talk about personal pain. I suppose it feels like an admission of weakness or might look like a plea for pity, or worse yet, could become a bog of narcissistic self absorption.  Still, writing about this journey into darkness seems worth the risks if any of us, even for a moment, can catch the far off tune of redemption song clear and sweet.

So walk with me, if you will, down a darksome road and listen with me for songs in the night. Thanks.