The Glass Staff of Belonging

I dreamed last night that I was in a sprawling lodge. Others are there with me, but I don’t have a sense of who they are. I felt imprisoned, but in the dream, I didn’t experience any restraints. And then I — as well as a number of others — were given what was called ‘a glass rose,’ but was actually a glass staff that was shoulder high and opened at the top into a calla lily. I received the staff with wonder, not knowing why I had been chosen or what it signified, knowing only that I now chose to be in this place. While others set their staffs aside, put them in tall vases, I held onto mine, liked the way it warmed in my hand.

What gift, I asked myself, when I journaled about this dream, could transform a prison into a home freely chosen? What could change my perceptions that much? What did the glass staff even signify?

Dream interpretation always starts with questions for me. Write down the dream. Summarize impressions and then ask questions, allowing the answers to emerge spontaneously from that inner well of wisdom that can rarely be accessed directly and then more by intuition than logic. Surprisingly, just asking questions and remaining open often works, though more often over a period of time than immediately.

So it was with this dream. The title came first and confused me, but I accepted it as part of the dream’s truth. And then, weeks later, the answer came. What can alter a person’s perceptions so much that without a change in circumstances, an experience is transformed from prison into place of belonging? Insight and understanding.

A simple answer, but not a flippant one. Cancer has been my prison for nearly two years. I went into the hospital on the morning of Dec. 12, 2019, for a minimally invasive preventative procedure and left four days later with a cancer diagnosis. I went through chemotherapy alone because COVID-19 hit the state shortly after my first treatment and have been part of a clinical study since that time.

While I have prayed frequently for the grace to make this journey with dignity, I have resented the limitations it has placed on me. I have hated the side effects of both the chemo and the trial drug. Most recently, my immune system started to attack my body as a result of the trial drug. I’ve been on steroids to weaken my immune system to address that problem, but steroids bring their own side effects.

Earlier this year, I realized how incredibly naive I was when I started this journey. I knew chemo would be rough, but I thought my life would get back to normal at some point. I now know that is not the case. The chemo knocked back the cancer, but did not cure it. The immunotherapy is holding it at bay, though minuscule lesions that do not concern my oncologist have popped up in both my lungs and liver. Because uterine cancer metastasizes to the lungs and liver, I view them as a harbinger of what is to come.

The most difficult burden to bear has been the burden of lost dreams. I have always known I would probably work long after my contemporaries. As a single woman whose gifts led me into a profession that pays more than retail, but less than teaching, manufacturing or government jobs — and offers fewer benefits — I knew I would not be positioned to retire at 62 or 65. But, since I like talking to people and writing about it, I didn’t mind continuing to work as a reporter.

I always imagined, though, that eventually I would retire and then I was going to paint. I didn’t think it likely I would be able to rebuild my art career, or “catch up” with fellow artists who were able to establish their professional reputations during the long years when depression had placed a solid barrier between me and my ability to create art. But, I fully expected to polish my skills enough to exhibit work again, primarily because I had started painting periodically and liked what was emerging.

And then cancer arrived and I did not have the physical stamina to take my supplies out to do plein air painting. I did not have the energy to either sit or stand at the easel for hours, working to bring forth the kinds of vibrant images which are my signature.

Living with that awareness broke my heart. A writer writes; an artist creates. Being an artist has been part of my self-identity for decades, even during the dry years when I didn’t pick up a brush. I would look at the work which lines my walls like a gallery and know the truth of my identity. Who was I without that dream?

Fortunately, I have a good set of pastels and a portable camping chair. One day, well over a year ago, when the chemo side effects were manageable, I needed to get outdoors, to feel spring on my face. On impulse, I picked up the backpack in which I store my pastel supplies and headed out to Lake Herman State Park. I sat near the entrance and over the next couple hours did a small landscape. Something inside relaxed as I grew to understand that cancer had not taken my art from me.

In subsequent months, I did others, and framed the pieces so I could hang them. They affirmed to me my identity. However, due to their size — 11 inches by 14 inches framed — I made no effort to exhibit them. I didn’t think anyone would be interested.

Earlier this year, I started painting little landscapes — no larger than six inches by six inches. I can do these in the studio in a couple hours. While small, they are marvelously compete, capturing entire landscapes with an economy of strokes. As I work on these, I am thinking big. I want to put together an exhibit called “Cancer: Living in a Small World,” where I pair some of my earlier work with my current work. I want to do activities with cancer survivors at art centers which choose to show the exhibit. I want to help others battling cancer realize that while their worlds may have gotten smaller, they can find ways to live well in those small worlds.

I think I understand now what the dream was nudging me toward. I did not choose cancer and I have experienced it as a prison. But, in finding in it a way to minister to others, I can experience it as a gift and can live with it in peace. I can hold the glass staff of belonging, not knowing why I was chosen, but knowing I can make a difference in this place.

Pink Dawn

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thy Holy Spirit from me,

Restore to me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit. (Ps. 51:10-12)

This morning, I watched as pink dawn spread across the sky. A new day. Darkness lifting yet again, allowing light to flood over the land. I felt the throbbing life of it, and was glad.

Time stopped for me a few weeks ago. I went in for a routine physical, and was swept into a whirlwind of tests culminating in a biopsy that did not indicate cancer. I agreed to a minimally invasive procedure anyhow, because my doctor recommended it.

I went under expecting a 45-minute, one-day procedure, and came out hours later to see my daughter crying. She’s the stoic one, the brave heart who sees adversity as a challenge to be overcome. She gave me the news — they found cancer.

Cancer is a death sentence less often these days than it once was, but I don’t think you can hear the word without knowing that possibility exists. Often, you also discover you have to pay a price for life — literally and figuratively. Medical treatment is expensive and it takes a toll physically and emotionally.

Hearing the word is a bit like being sucker-punched — at least, that’s how I experienced it. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Or think about what it meant. My world got very small — bodily needs, sleep, the way my body smelled (was that normal?). I could not think beyond this moment to a day when I would be healed and life would resume its sweet routines.

As far as I knew at that point, that day would come. I had no reason to think otherwise. Stage 1A. No treatment beyond surgery would be necessary. The incision needed to heal, but I could resume normal activities as soon as I felt up to it. Still, I could not pray, and that is an activity which normally forms the cornerstone of my day.

I get up in the morning. I start coffee, make my bed, and then take a cup of coffee to my prayer desk where I spend a half hour in prayer. The diagnosis had somehow created a barrier between me and that routine, a barrier I didn’t even understand.

As I sat in the darkness, the situation kept snowballing. The incision didn’t heal properly. The pathology report showed Stage II cancer. The oncologist wanted a CT scan to see if the cancer had spread before giving me options.

As the season of Advent drew us closer to Christmas, to Emmanuel, to God with us, I waited, but not with anticipation, with dread. Finally, a little voice, a whisper I have come to trust, managed to pierce the stupor. Tell me about it; what do you fear?

I pulled out my journal and began to write. What if this is my last Christmas? What if I never see my grandgirls again? What if they forget me? On and on the list went. What if I don’t get to see the Coteau bloom again or hang out with Breck when he does chores? What if? What if? What if?

Blessing after blessing, grace after grace. I will not say I have not appreciated these gifts, but I can say I did not know how much my heart has been shaped by all that God has given me to love. As I wrote, I realized I could not pray because I was afraid God was asking me to let go, to say good-bye.

For several years, God has been working with me, helping me to learn that obedience means embracing reality, trusting Him to reveal himself and His task for me in each day. I’ve learned to love in new ways, to walk through open doors and turn away from closed doors without regret. I’ve learned that opportunities come in strange packages, and I’ve learned to live more days — not all, but more — in his peace.

I am not ready to say good-bye. Of course, as soon as I began to write, I could almost visualize him sitting with me with his own cup of coffee, as he has so many other mornings. He said with a quirky grin, Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? What happened to taking things one day at a time?

He was right, as usual. Stage II is not a death sentence. Uterine cancer, which I presume I have, has an 82% survival rate. This is just another one of those challenges that comes with life. And while God may let me wallow a bit in darkness from time to time, he’ll keep nudging me toward light and life and the ability to see all the love he has put into my heart, including the love which reflects a right spirit.

That’s what he does, helps us see the dawn.

Breathing Through The Tears

This I learned today — no matter how prepared you think you are, you really aren’t prepared for a cancer diagnosis. The tears will come — totally unbidden. And then, they will return.

I keep taking deep slow breaths, and try to catch up with my girls as they make plans. Who will come with me when I have a PET scan? How will they coordinate providing support when I start chemo?

But, I am not there yet. I am still taking deep slow breaths, battling tears, and speaking little truths as they come to me.

Take care of the girls. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, my brothers and I were lost. Dad was with Mom. Gramma, Mom’s mother, came to stay with us for a week or so, but did more harm than good and was soon banished, leaving me and my brothers to fend for ourselves. Then, Mom died and Dad withdrew from the family altogether, except to live in the same house, and shove us out one-by-one as we graduated from high school.

That wound significantly shaped me. I looked for love in all the wrong places until the second of two abusive husbands not only left bruises on my body, but also abandoned me with two small children and no money. I knew I needed to change or I would destroy my daughters’ lives, so I worked with a gifted therapist until I could make better decisions.

After working so hard to make sure my girls would be OK, it would break my heart if this battle sapped so many resources from the family — emotional or financial — that my granddaughters’ needs were not met. I need them to be OK. I am an old lady, months away from Medicare. They are young and vibrant with dreams and energy. I couldn’t bear to have them hobbled in any way.

Sometimes, I am going to cry; please, let me. Tears don’t mean I have lost hope. Rather, right now I have a lot in common with a toddler. Emotions are close to the surface, and I can’t even articulate how I feel sometimes.

• Habitual tasks are now incredibly difficult. I have to plan how to put on socks because, since surgery, I can’t reach my feet.
• The entire routine of my life has been disrupted. I no longer get up, pray, go to work and help build the community in which I live. I no longer do dishes at lunchtime and laundry in the evening; I can’t even do my own laundry. I need wound care and shots and medication; I sit in doctors’ offices and have tests that were nothing more than names to me until recently.
• I tire easily, and when I tire, I can’t think straight. I can’t even answer simple questions like, ‘What would you like to eat?’ When the ‘tired’ switch goes on, I want one thing & one thing only — a nap — and then I may sleep for hours.
• My life is spinning out of control at an overwhelming rate. A 45-minute procedure turned into four-hour surgery, during which I apparently lost a lot of blood. I’ve gone from Stage I cancer needing no further treatment to Stage III requiring chemo, radiation, and immunotherapy. It’s a lot to deal with, so please understand I will cry.

Help me get life back to normal in little ways. I need to write to make sense out of this. I need to get my home in order so I can get some work done when I am too tired to go into the office. I need to go to the ranch because sitting in the tractor beside Breck makes me happy.

I know I am not going to make it easy. I’m an intensely private person and I have great respect for the crazy-busy lives that we all live. I will find it very hard to ask for help and harder to accept help. Accepting help from my children has already been difficult, and I raised them. But I know I won’t get through this alone, so please be patient as I come to terms with being one of those in need that God calls us all to help.

Joy and Hope

My life — what I believe, what I value, how I live, the decisions I make — are shaped by my faith, by my Catholic faith.

As a child, in those pre-Vatican II days, when Mass was in Latin and children would traipse to the front of the church on Sunday mornings (at least in my parish), I would kneel before the statue of our Blessed Mother, as the priest intoned with his back to the people words I did not understand, and dwell on Marian apparitions. Loudes. Fatima. Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico. I wanted — desperately wanted — Mary to appear to me. I wanted to be good enough that she would choose to bring a message of hope through me.

That, obviously, didn’t happen. Instead, my life went off the rails when my mother died of cancer. For more than a decade, I was tossed around by the storms of life in the flimsy boat of ignorance and naivete and desperate longing. I wanted the stability of a home and the guidance of a hand that loved me. I mistook any hand that reached my way as a loving hand, not knowing then how some people prey on others, use them, abuse them, and then cast them aside.

Through it all, though, I never felt abandoned by God. Having been introduced to the Word of God by a dear friend at college, I always had a Bible at hand. I always engaged in spiritual reading, including not only Christian authors but also books about Zen Buddhism and Taoism. I stopped going to church because I could not reconcile the lifestyle I pieced together in my brokenness, in my woundedness, with the life I believed necessary to worship with the faithful, but I trusted in God’s love and his mercy. I trusted that with his view of things, he knew my heart which loved him and longed for relationship with him.

I trusted that God would help me find that place where I could, in good conscience, confess my sins and return to the fellowship of believers. I cannot say I experienced that confidence every step of the way during those long and painful years, but always there were calm moments when his grace would touch me in ways that drew me back into his loving embrace. I think of that often these days, of the way his grace would draw me out of the darkness into his loving embrace, away from the storms into moments of peace and hope.

Remembrance is an integral part of the spiritual journey, and for someone like me for whom a relationship with God has been the shaping force, all of life is a spiritual journey. Having cancer is part of my spiritual journey. Therefore, remembering what has God done during other difficult times is an integral part of living with cancer, living with the diagnosis, living with the treatment, living with the demands my body makes upon my time and the way those demands influence my decisions.

Part of that is remembering the resurrection experiences, deaths that have led to new life. Watching my dream of becoming a university professor evaporate only to realize I was a gifted artist. Watching my art career crash and burn only to find a career in journalism. Finally accepting that I would never know the intimacy and companionship of married life, only to discover that a solitary, contemplative life was my true vocation. My life has been filled with experiences such as these, great and small, which I have come to understand as God’s hand at work.

These days, I ride the wave of remembrance, because I cannot know how the cancer will progress — how quickly and what the impact will be on my life. These days, I can only trust this is a journey I am making with God’s love, just as I have traveled through all the other rough patches with his love. He recently reminded me of this. For Lent, I took an online class on the Catholic faith through Notre Dame. One of the first readings was from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, a compendium which draws together key thoughts and ideas from various church writings throughout the centuries. A line from Gaudium et spec, a Vatican II document, caught my eye.

“For if man exists, it is because God has created him through love, and through love, continues to hold him in existence.” Gaudium et spec translates as “Joy and Hope.” I found hope in that because at that moment, I needed to be reminded that God was holding me in love. My latest CT scan had showed changes and my oncologist, without committing himself to an interpretation of those changes, had asked if I had considered quitting work. I interpreted that to mean the cancer had come back with a vengeance — which was a difficult idea to consider.

But, there was joy, too. St. Paul reminds us in his Letter to the Romans, “For I am certain that nothing can separate us from his love: neither death nor life, neither angels nor other heavenly rulers, neither the present nor the future, neither the world above nor the world below — there is nothing in all creation that will ever be able to separate us from the love of God which is our through Christ Jesus our Lord” (8:38-39, GNT). I have lived loving God and knowing God loves me. That is not going to change, whether I live or whether cancer separates me from life.

As Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

Living in Holy Week Tension

I just put together a box of books for a young mother I have never met. We took an online course together, and I learned she lives in my home state and her parish priest is a man I knew as a seminarian. Those connections created a bond.

I am sending her books I think may aid her in her church ministry and might be meaningful on her spiritual journey. I am including one that a dear friend gave me as she courageously faced death a few years ago. As she prepared to die, Wanda — an ELCA minister — systematically simplified her environment by giving away her possessions. I am doing the same.

My oncologist hasn’t actually told me I am going to die, but my last CT scan showed changes to the lungs and liver. Those are the areas to which uterine cancer metastasizes. My oncologist said we can’t know the lesions in the liver are cancerous and we can’t know the nodules in the lungs are cancerous without a biopsy — and their location makes them difficult to biopsy. He said he considers my condition stable.

And then, he suggested I might want to consider quitting my job. That is simply not an option for me. Yes, I suffer from fatigue. Yes, I need to sleep 10-12 hours out of every day and can only function well (i.e., think clearly enough to write with ease) for about four hours out of every day. But, I am still able to conduct interviews and meet deadlines. I need to schedule with greater care, and sometimes I do feel so overwhelmed, I just sit and cry, but I am managing. And I have financial obligations.

But, I see the writing on the wall. That day is coming, and so I have slowly begun the process of separating myself from all those things I have gathered around myself, all those things which create the sanctuary I call home. I don’t know if I will still be able to function by myself for a while when I can no longer work or if I will need to go into a nursing home. If I can function by myself, I will need to move into low-income housing and I want that move to be as easy as possible. If I go into a nursing home, I want little left for my girls to clean out.

I find myself obsessing over odd things. I have a beautiful set of Corning Shadow Iris dinnerware which was a gift from one of the mother figures in my life. Service for eight. They have been my “good dishes” for over 30 years and I love them, not only because the delicate pattern is lovely, but because they were a gift from someone whose joy in the face of devastating challenges inspired me. I want them to go to a “good home,” where they will be appreciated. How do I find a good home?

But I also find myself walking in what I have come to understand this week as the tension of Holy Week. Jesus intentionally turned his face toward Jerusalem. He knew he’d made folks mad. We read in the gospels that religious leaders wanted to stone him because of the way he spoke with authority and challenged their hard hearts. He may not have known how he would die, but he certainly knew that he would die.

That knowledge, that certainty, didn’t prevent him from living those last days fully. In Matthew’s gospel, he enters Jerusalem at the beginning of Chapter 21, drives commercialism out of the Temple, continues to teach, shares the Passover meal with his disciples, and spends time in prayer before his arrest in Chapter 26. Mark’s gospel and Luke’s follow that same pattern. John’s gospel is structured differently with Jesus raising Lazarus, then going into Jerusalem, where he washes his disciples’ feet and does a final cram session with them before praying for them and being arrested.

Either way, he’s living those last days fully while at the same time preparing for what is to come. I think that’s why I cling to my job — while at the same time beginning to separate myself from my possessions. Yes, I could immerse myself in creative endeavors if I wasn’t working. I have two writing projects in progress and envision two others. I have some scrapbook projects to finish which I can’t do as long as we’re doing back-to-back special editions on top of the daily newspaper. As the weather improves, I would like to paint again.

But when I do my job, when I do the work to which I was called, I am — I like to believe — bringing light into the darkness of our world. I tackle tough stories — like legislation targeting transgender youth. I bring the light of truth to what is happening in government meetings. I bring the light of hope by drawing attention to the good things happening in our area. I light the way to building a stronger community by helping folks become more engaged.

I don’t mean to compare myself to Jesus in saying I bring light. If I do so, I am simply acting as a conduit of the light which is his great love for us. But I think I can say, without drawing a comparison between my suffering and his, that I find myself looking to him, especially this week, to show me how to make this journey, how to live fully while knowing my life will change in coming months.

I have come to think of it as a holy tension. I have the hope of the Resurrection. I do not need to fear death. It’s the living that may become difficult, but in reflecting on his journey this week, I have been reminded that he has walked this journey, too. I have been reminded that I can follow in his footsteps and live fully to the end.

Not a Death Sentence

I would be exaggerating if I said I received a death sentence last week. That actually came a year ago; I just didn’t know it.

Every single day we hear survival stories. We hear that folks live for years after being diagnosed with cancer. I guess, at the back of my mind, that’s what I was expecting — life to go on.

I would have chemo.

I would go into remission.

I would pick up the threads of my life and continue doing the things I had been doing when cancer entered the vocabulary of my daily life.

I was a little naive in making that assumption. First of all, when diagnosed, the uterine cancer was Stage IIIC. Sources are not in agreement regarding the five-year survival rate of someone whose cancer has spread beyond the uterus to include the lymph glands as mine had. After reviewing a number of them, I started thinking of my chances as 50-50.

Following the advice of a brochure produced by the American Cancer Society, I asked the oncologist the goal of treatment and he said without hesitation, “A cure.” While suffering through chemo, I assumed the goal was remission and there was a 50-50 chance the cancer would return in five years.

After six rounds of chemo, I learned the lesions — or tumors — which were being monitored showed a marked improvement. Two of the three appeared to be gone and the third was reduced in size. I learned at that point the outcome was better than expected. I remember sitting in the oncologist’s office thinking, “This doesn’t sound like a cure to me. I thought we were going for a cure.”

The continued course of treatment was experimental — a clinical trial with immunotherapy. Immunotherapy strengthens the immune system to fight cancer. The website for the American Cancer Society says it works better for some kinds of cancer than others, and lists seven different kinds of immunotherapy. It also says, “New immunotherapy treatments are being tested and approved, and new ways of working with the immune system are being discovered at a very fast pace.”

By participating in the clinical trial, I am helping to identify new ways immunotherapy can be used. I may be wrong, but it’s my understanding the immunotherapy I am currently receiving has been used in the past to slow the growth of the cancer cells when the patient has reached Stage IV. The trial was to determine whether using it in conjunction with chemo and immediately following chemo as part of a maintenance regime would delay recurrence.

Another factor I did not take into consideration when I received my diagnosis was one I could not have anticipated — the Covid-19 pandemic. As a result of the pandemic, the design of the clinical trial changed. The double-blind study, which was to determine whether there was a statistical difference between using the immunotherapy and not using the immunotherapy, was un-blinded. All receiving the placebo were notified and dropped from the study.

Those of us receiving the drug were allowed to continue receiving it — even though it is costly. Sources vary, but list prices between $11,000 and $20,000 per dose. Using a price of $15,000, the cost per patient during the clinical trial would have been over $500,000. With more than 200 of us receiving the drug, the cost of the trial — nationwide — would have been around $117 billion for the drug alone. Related expenses — regular bloodwork, CT scans every nine weeks, appointments with the oncologist — were to be covered by the patient and/or the patient’s insurance provider.

Last week, I learned the trial will be ending this year. Probably in November. Three months earlier than I expected.

I’ve been taking deep, slow breaths since learning that, primarily because I learned in December that my oncologist had expected the cancer to return by October, just six months after I had finished chemo. It was only then that I realized the five-year survival rate does not indicate the chances of cancer returning, but instead indicates the chances of survival if you fight every damned step of the way.

I was stunned, but not overly concerned because the immunotherapy was working. My Christmas present to my daughters was the news that the latest CT scan indicated no evidence of the disease. Even the tumor which remained after chemo was not visible to the radiologist. That was the best Christmas present ever.

Just six weeks later, I learned that treatment which appears to be working will be ending sooner than anticipated. I asked my oncologist what that means, what happens next, and learned it is a waiting game. For some forms of cancer, the immune system continues to fight the cancer after immunotherapy ceases. A little independent research indicated that in some cases, it appears to be effective for nearly a year.

I have no way of knowing what will happen in my case. The options for treatment will be limited when the cancer does return. Radiation is a possibility, depending upon where it re-emerges. Otherwise, hormone therapy and targeted therapy, both of which only slow growth, are my only options — and the side effects are not unlike chemo if my research is accurate.

At that point, it’s terminal. I can choose the suffering of treatment or an earlier death. Having gone through chemo, I’m leaning toward quality of life rather than longevity, and hoping I have the courage to live that choice.

I have to admit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the hard truths that come with a cancer diagnosis. Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed by the realization that my days are truly numbered and just cry. At other times, I remember that God has been working with me over the course of the past decade on a single lesson: to take one day at a time, to live it fully and gratefully.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus says, “Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?” (6:26). Jesus was admonishing his disciples not to worry about their lives. “Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?” (6:27) he asked.

I know that is what I need to live every single day moving forward, and with God’s grace, I will make this cancer journey with dignity. But, I’m guessing I will also cry. I will have to leave so much that I hold dear and saying ‘good-bye’ won’t be easy.

Something New

“Behold, I will do something new, Now it will spring forth; Will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, Rivers in the desert.” –– Isaiah 43:19

Yesterday I cleaned my apartment, caught up on some correspondence, downloaded and processed photographs for the newspaper story I wrote this morning, spent a couple hours in meditative journal-writing and prayer, and spent far more hours skimming through digital photos to select those I will put in a scrapbook.

On Saturday, I was even more productive. In addition to skimming digital photos, I covered an event in the community, spent several hours at the local state park doing a pastel drawing, balanced my checkbook (never an exciting task), and did the laundry.

For me, these days are sweet. Not too long ago — when I was hairless and receiving chemo — I was lucky if I managed to do two tasks each day.

During the workweek, especially in the days immediately following chemo, I would get up in the morning and make my way to my computer, using the walls as support. There, I would peck out a story, working hard to focus my attention on words blurry from chemo-related vision problems. After submitting my story for the day and checking my email, I would lurch to my recliner, weak with exhaustion, and fall into a deep sleep within minutes of raising my feet.

Later, groggy from my nap, I would head back to my computer, check my email a second time and get on the phone. I would conduct an interview for the following day’s story and schedule other interviews. Within a couple hours, I would find myself unable to concentrate and would burst into tears if I tried to push myself beyond that point.

I learned to listen to my body and to be kind. When I found myself struggling to read my calendar in order to jot down the time for an interview, or unable to remember the keyboard combinations helpful when using Photoshop, commands which were nearly automatic before I started chemo, I would quit for the day.

If I started to think about the shape of a normal day prior to my cancer diagnosis, I would be swamped with feelings of uselessness. To combat this tendency, I set reasonable goals for each day and worked to avoid comparing pre- and post-diagnosis routines. And, I knitted. Thank God for muscle memory! I didn’t have to think about the pattern I used as I knitted baby blanket after baby blanket in the evening because I’d knitted dozens of blankets using that pattern over the years.

By the time I finished my last round of chemo, sitting alone in the infusion room because visitors were not allowed during that phase of the COVID pandemic, I could no longer envision a day when I rose in the morning with energy. I could not imagine a time when doing a single load of laundry did not exhaust me, when taking the stairs to the washer and dryer in my building the necessary three times did not require a lengthy nap.

When I finished chemo and learned we hadn’t beaten the cancer, only knocked it back a bit, I was so completely and utterly worn out by the experience, I wasn’t certain the suffering had been worth the outcome. I didn’t bother asking my oncologist how much time we had gained because I knew by then he was the eternal optimist and wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He had, after all, told me that with the chemo we were going for a cure, only to tell me after the fact that the outcome — decidedly not a cure — was better than he had expected.

Recovery was slow. Nearly five weeks passed before my urine stopped having a chemical odor and my bowel movements had a normal color. During that time, my energy began to return, though I still needed a nap to function in the afternoon and evening. Near the end of that time, I was able to do my laundry and clean my apartment in a single day. It was such a tremendous accomplishment that I marked my calendar.

Bit by bit, although I still need naps, my life has begun to take on a more productive shape and I find myself appreciating every single accomplishment. When I was in the midst of chemo, the newspaper put out a special edition. I think I contributed one story. Recently, we did another and I contributed half of the stories. We’re working on my favorite one at present, and I’m doing well over half of the stories. I’m proud of that accomplishment.

I’ve also begun setting some goals. Among them is the goal of completing scrapbooks which will be my legacy for my children and grandchildren. My mother died of cancer when I was 17 and she was 40. I know she was an amazing baker and gifted seamstress. I know she worked hard in the home and was able to organize some amazing community fundraisers. I don’t know what experiences shaped her, what broke her heart, what filled her with joy. I don’t know who she was as a person or what mattered to her.

I want my family to know me — not just their experience of me, but also how I experienced my life. I think my scrapbooks will be one way of showing them who I am as a person. The photos I choose will show what is important to me. The page designs will showcase my creativity. The journaling on each page will indicate what I found important about the experiences I chose to document.

As I look back, skimming photos and planning scrapbook spreads, I also find myself looking forward. I have Stage III uterine cancer. The American Cancer Society gives me a 69% five-year survival rate. Once it spreads — probably to my lungs or liver — that drops to 17%. Initially, that was all I could think about — the ticking clock, the death which awaits me after a journey of suffering. But now, with a renewal of energy, I find myself recalling all of those wonderful Scripture passages about God doing a new thing, God promising us hope.

Last night, I reflected on Isaiah 54:2 — “Make the tent you live in larger; lengthen its ropes and strengthen the pegs!” I realized that God was telling my to make my tent — my life — larger, big enough to hold all that he has promised me. For me, that encouragement was intimate because long ago I felt God promise to bless me as he did Sarah (Abraham’s wife) and Elizabeth (Zechariah’s wife) with fruitfulness late in life. I didn’t understand that to mean a child late in life, but a gift which would be a blessing to others as well as to me.

Last night, God seemed to say, “Mary, don’t forget my promise.” After months of simply looking at the ground and putting one foot in front of the other, that helped me to look at the horizon with faith. God still has surprises for me in this life. That thought was, at this stage in my journey, something new.

Live This Life Well

Tomorrow is my birthday — September 8, the nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the feast day from which my name was derived.

My mother had planned to name me Josephine Dorothy and call me JayDo, but fortunately God intervened. One of her aunts was named Josephine, and one of my favorite literary characters is named Josephine (Jo March in “Little Women”), so being named Josephine would not have been a fate worse than death. However, I don’t think I am a JayDo. It appears God didn’t think so either.

I wish He had made other matters in my life equally clear. My life has been rich in experience and I have learned much, but most of those lessons were learned the hard way. Sometimes I have wondered what my folks were thinking when they raised me. I was no more prepared for adulthood when I graduated from high school than I would have been at twelve.

I suspect at least a few folks reading this will say the same was true for them. If my situation was different, it was simply that I was for all practical purposes an orphan. Mom had died. If Dad cared, he hid it well and did not provide guidance as I tried to figure out how to live outside the family home.

My ignorance was appalling. I didn’t know basic things — like how to use a clothes washer because we had a wringer washer at home. I didn’t know how to make decisions because I had always been told what to do and belittled for any effort at independence. I didn’t even know myself or where my gifts lay because those things that interested me — writing and drawing — were considered foolishness, and so I could only do them clandestinely.

Even my faith had a different shape than that of my parents. Both were educated in Catholic schools and practiced the faith diligently. My faith was more mystical in nature, more about relationship than ritual even in elementary school. Mom actively discouraged that, encouraging me to spend time alone with a male friend in junior high, hoping — I would guess — that a little kissing and petting would change my relationship with God into something more familiar to her.

It didn’t, but I didn’t know how to live an experiential faith either. I ended up trying evangelical Christianity and Zen Buddhism before I learned about contemplative practices in the Catholic faith and returned to the church of my childhood in my 30s. My entire life, not just my faith, has been lived by trial and error.

If I knew when I graduated from high school at seventeen what I know now, I would undoubtedly have made better choices. But, I have to admit, I am not entirely sure the world would be a better place. I suspect that had I made better choices, I would have had neither Sara nor Katie. Both are blessings to those who know them, sending out ripples of goodness into the world — Sara in leadership positions, Katie by helping children to love learning.

That realization has been pivotal for me. That realization has helped me to appreciate that God’s hand has been leading me through all the rough and ragged years, through all the failures and disappointments. I know my life doesn’t look like much to those who measure a life by worldly standards. I raised my kids in poverty, found a professional home in a field that doesn’t pay especially well, and have not been able to find a companion for life’s journey.

However, God’s wisdom is beyond ours and I have to believe the pilgrimage to which I was called has a purpose I do not understand. I have to believe that even this battle with cancer, difficult as it has been, is part of a pattern of light which I cannot see. Believing as I do, I have to believe that at this juncture God asks only one thing of me — that I live this life well, that I commit myself to doing the work He has given me as well as I can.

It’s taken me two days of prayer to articulate this, but hopefully having experienced His love in drafting this, I will continue to experience His grace in living it.

Too Much

I rest my head back against the back of my chair and take deep breaths between sentences. It’s the only way I can manage the nausea. I take two prescription medications on days like this, alternating them at four hour intervals, but when it’s bad, it’s bad. They don’t really help.

I spent the weekend in my recliner, trying to knit. For some reason, although I didn’t have any tingling in my hands or toes following the first four rounds of chemo, I have experienced that side effect with the last two rounds — and this time it’s worse than last time. This time, the tingling sensation in my fingers makes me clumsy. Even typing is a two step forward one step back affair. I have to hit backspace repeatedly to correct my errors because I can’t really feel my keyboard and am guided by muscle memory.

Dizziness makes it hard for me to walk unless I am using a wall or piece of furniture for balance. The taste in my mouth makes eating or drinking into a punishing experience. And my mind is on a phrase my oncologist used at my last appointment that hasn’t come up before — “life expectancy.” I was too stunned to ask for clarification. I’m still rolling it around in my head, trying to find the questions which I will need to have answered.

But my mind isn’t just on me today — though cancer has made me appallingly self-centered. I’m thinking about our nation and how it has suffered as Americans have allowed greed to destroy a beacon of light in this world.

We have allowed the rich to become richer — not through their own efforts, but through unfair tax structures and the backbreaking work of the poor — and created so much need among so many that we can no longer see one another as fellow human beings, but rather see one another as “the enemy,” taking what we deserve or need.

We have created a cauldron of hate by allowing our elected officials to act like rival gangs having turf wars rather than holding them accountable, rather than saying, “You were elected to solve our problems, not create more problems which will plague our children and grandchildren.”

We have become appalling hypocrites, claiming to be “One Nation Under God,” while living in a way which shows contempt for all God — through his Word — admonishes us to do and to be. No where on our national agenda are the words that Christ gave us — Love one another as I have loved you. Instead, we kowtow to the bullies, the rich and powerful who lost their souls long ago.

As I have battled cancer, I have been acutely aware of the way  our nation’s light has flickered and threatens to go out. We have seen very little strong leadership shown in dealing with the COVID-19 pandemic. We’ve seen it called a hoax when efforts could have been taken to curtail the spread. We saw no coordinated national effort to address the growing crisis or even to distribute supplies where they were needed.

Then, after failing to address the public health crisis, attention was turned to the economy, because our nation fails to value life despite all the pro-life rhetoric politicians like to spout to pluck at the heartstrings. In my state, the number of positive cases has increased 118% in the month since our governor called for residents to resume normal activities. Deaths have increased by 226%. I didn’t track the number of those hospitalized, but I know the increase was significant, too.

With tensions running high as a result of the high unemployment which resulted from the failure to address a major public health crisis appropriately, from a polarized environment where folks can’t even agree to follow CDC guidelines and wear masks in public, from the stress of self-isolating and shortages and everything else which resulted from mismanagement at the federal level, it’s not surprising the death of a man has caused the nation to explode. It’s too much. It’s simply too much.

While I will not dispute that racism is a problem, this problem is larger than race alone. This problem is about a people who are so enamored of the rich and powerful, we have allowed them to reduce us to animals who fail to see our common humanity. We must reclaim our humanity, and we must reclaim God’s values if we are to bring healing to our once-great nation.

When Mary spoke to Elizabeth of the new life growing within her, she said of God, “He has shown might with his arm, dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart. He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly. The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty” (Luke 1:51-53).

It’s not the rulers and rich who God lifts up; it is the lowly. It is the hungry he fills. And, if we are to be his in this world, then our role is to be his hands, his feet and his voice, with our actions, with our votes, and with our love.

Choices have Consequences

I was in fifth grade when I first read Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken.”  My desk was setting in the corner, by the aquarium, not because I had misbehaved, but because I had injured my ankle and was on crutches. I may have been in a cast as well, but what I remember most about that childhood misadventure is puzzling over that poem — while doing art, while Miss Groths was explaining a new math concept, while the other children went out to recess.

I was in the corner because I had to sit with my leg elevated. I am sure the goal was to reduce the likelihood that other children in their rambunctious, healthy way would bump or shove me and inadvertently — or intentionally — cause me more pain. Children, unfortunately, pick on one another and I was a child others liked to bully. Having worked for years with a counselor to unravel the Gordian knot that handicapped me in early adulthood, I have no doubt that I was socially inept due to a wide range of factors, so I was probably an easy target.

But during those weeks in fifth grade, I was like Cinderella in the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. Separated from the other children, “in my own little corner in my own little chair, I [could] be whatever I [wanted] to be. On the wings of my fancy I [could] fly anywhere and the world [would] open its arms to me.” In that corner, I felt safe. I assume I managed to get my assignments completed, but what I remember most is daydreaming, or perhaps I was reflecting because over and over I went back to the lines from the Frost poem which was in our reading book.

The third stanza, especially the fourth line intrigued me:

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

Frost ends the poem with lines that have appealed to many over the years because they speak the truth plainly: “I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference.” For M. Scott Peck, who wrote a book which remained on the New York Times bestsellers’s list for more than 10 years, “The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Values and Spiritual Growth,” the road less traveled was one in which we live more authentically in healthy, loving relationships.

But, what I have come to learn and appreciate over the years is that any road we choose, whether less traveled by or trampled by the masses, makes all the difference because “way leads on to way.” That’s the pivotal phrase: “way leads on to way.” We can’t go back. We can’t change what has been done or left undone. We can only move forward — step by step.

But, what I have also come to realize is how the ways we choose are interwoven with the ways others choose and create the tapestry of God’s hand at work. I think of that a lot these days when the social isolation recommended to stop the spread of the virus causing COVID-19 is especially necessary for me due to my compromised immune system. For the better part of two years, I spent several weekends every month visiting the dearest of dear friends on his family’s ranch. I never would have met him had I not given up a job I loved to accept one to help a floundering nonprofit in what proved to be a doomed effort.

But, in working for the nonprofit, I met his sister — a newlywed who had accepted a newly-created position for which she had little experience. I was in a position to offer her a first-class training experience if she was willing to accept a position on my board of directors. My organization had received a grant which would enable me and two board members to attend a week-long, intense workshop. Since none of the experienced board members was interested in attending, they were not opposed to adding two young women to the board for the specific purpose of attending the workshop. My friend’s sister was one.

The other young woman quickly dropped out of my life when I left the organization, but my friend’s sister remained in touch. For well over a decade, we’d drop one another occasional email messages, and she stopped by to see me once in a while when it was convenient. For a while, we even had a blog together, which was fun. She’d choose the topic; I’d write something; she would respond. Then, when her family was nominated for a prestigious conservation award, she asked for my assistance. I edited the nomination for the team which did the heavy-lifting of compiling the information. The family won and my friend asked me to put together a scrapbook as a family memento. That project turned into a book of nearly 300 pages.

And, that’s how I met the dearest of dear friends. I went to the ranch to interview family members. My friend said her brother would talk to me if I would ride in the tractor with him while he was doing chores. I don’t think she expected that conversation to last long, but we ended up talking for four hours and I fell head over heels in love with him — which embarrassed me, because he’s 20 years younger than me. I felt like a cougar and determined I would never visit the ranch or see him again. It didn’t work out that way, for which I am grateful, because it was his constancy and generosity of heart that got us through that rough first year when I vacillated between intense feelings of love and equally intense feelings of self-loathing, because I feared I was taking advantage of his kind nature.

But what does this have to do with cancer or God, you’re wondering. Well, it has to do with cancer because my low magnesium level made me think of how inter-related and nuanced are all things in God’s created world. The chemo apparently likes to strip my system of magnesium. When the magnesium is low, my body doesn’t absorb potassium. When my potassium is low, my blood pressure rises. Neither increasing my blood pressure medication nor my prescription for potassium helps if my magnesium is low. That’s the issue which must be addressed. Since I also get diarrhea from chemo, I can’t take the simple remedy — milk of magnesia — because it’s also a laxative. We have to try something different — soaking my feet and calves in water with epsom salts daily.

When you think about it, that’s a small thing to do. But when you think about it, most of the things that God asks us to do can be expressed with small gesture. We are to pray — for for God’s kingdom to come (not the world as we in our flawed humanity want it to be), for God’s will to be done (“thy will” not “my will”), for daily bread (not enough to last a lifetime), for the ability to forgive (because that may be one of the hardest ways we are called upon to show God’s love into this world), and to be delivered from evil (which wears such attractive guises, as we can see in the way greed of the wealthy has come to dominate our landscape crushing the hearts and lives of God’s beloved poor).

And then, our prayers are to be followed by actions — not necessarily grand gestures, but actions. We help give birth to God’s kingdom each time we act with love toward another — whether that’s a kind word or a helping hand. We embrace God’s will each time we open ourselves to the simple truth that each day is God’s gift to us and we are to live it with gratitude (and hope, even when cancer or another challenge makes it tough). We place our trust in God when we choose to live simply so that others may simply live, when we are willing to share what we have with those who are in need. We find our way into forgiving others not by an act of will, but by staying in relationship with those whom God has given us to love, by showing up with a willingness to see that person — and their trials — with God’s loving eyes, which helps anger and hurt and pain release their grip on our heart.

We can only be delivered from evil by asking God to open our hearts and minds to the inter-relationships of all things. We live in a world which increasingly works to deny this. This can be seen in every arena. I’ll use the example of neonicotinoids simply because it was a conservation award which brought the dearest of dear friends into my life. Neonics are administered through seed coatings. The theory is that the plant’s roots absorb the insecticide; the reality is that much more of it is washed away and is decimating insect and wildfowl populations it wasn’t intended to affect. However, farmers find it to be effective and are reluctant to sacrifice the convenience. So, bee keepers and those who rely on bees are dealing with the consequences, and hunters, who are finding fewer ducks and pheasants in the fields because the insect life needed to sustain the young simply isn’t there, are living with the consequences.

The same pattern can be seen in so many areas of our life today, and our society is becoming increasingly immune to the ramifications because those who benefit the most have the loudest voices. However, if we are to live as people of faith, we have to be willing to see our world as God created it — inter-related — and only when an action benefits the common good can it said to be of God. Only when we work for the common good can we know that our values are aligned with our prayers. Only when we work for the common good can we truly say we are acting in a way which is consistent with our desire to be delivered from evil.