In the light of death, you see clearly what is important and what is not. You are amazed at how much time and life energy you dissipate in matters that, in the end, do not mean much to you or do not make much difference in life. – Ken McLeod
What is your difficulty?
I wonder if I am having a relapse of lymphoma. I had a blood test that signaled a possible problem.
My lymph nodes are enlarged, I’ve had a few night sweats, and I have a pain that, if I scoured the Internet, could make a case for a big fat uh oh.
I’ll have a scan this week.
How are you feeling?
Surprised and indifferent.
Questioning and not wanting to know anything.
Relaxed with bouts of anxious wondering.
Quietly joyful and sad.
(I cry.)
I’m having memories of treatment, feeling nauseated, in pain, and dull and absent. I notice how these memories bring up a feeling of wanting to be free of discomfort. The idea of having physical pain, or not getting to do something I want to do is taking a lot of space in my mind. I’m remembering the past, thinking about the future, and imagining, even fantasizing, a story that is not real. I haven’t had my scan yet. (Oh, good. I see that I’m making shit up.)
I sit in my chair and imagine something else: my body as a boat. I push off and ride the river of having cancer with flamboyant openness. That thought lasts about a half of a second. Come back here, sweet thought.
How does this affect you?
I feel like I better get going and also like don’t get going. Yeah, don’t go anywhere, Susan. Stay with your feelings, Susan.
What are you learning?
I’m at the beach as I write the responses to these questions. I’m a little more right here with myself. I notice the sky and colors of the waves as they roll in.
There’s nothing like a magical moment of personal intimacy. The warmth of my heart managed to knock on mind’s door and say, “Quiet down, you little thinker.” And there in a rare, mature light of less thinking is a meet-up with Clarity, who has a way of wordlessly saying the inexplicable.
And now I know.
I realize that there is no “me” or “you.” This is tricky to explain. No “me” or “you” means that rather than express or suppress, I let go. (Sort of. I know. So mysterious.) I let go of what I think and what you might think and the stories those thoughts create.
I just live. (And begin to notice that I’m sitting on sugar sand, can hear the gulls calling to each other, and feel the salt spray on my lips.)
What I’m trying to say is that these moments (a beloved passes, stark illness knocks, or a disaster arrives) seem to bring the best chance of living, experiencing with no expectation, no result, no hope, no wish, no purpose. It’s pure experience.
I know. Ideal and impossible.
What is shifting in your thoughts or feelings about your difficulty?
My experience of freedom.
Well, my experience is not shifting. It’s enlarging.
Just the thought of a cancer relapse, even wondering about relapse or thinking I shouldn’t be wondering, brings up a wish for freedom from thinking (impossible, I sing!) or feeling bad or sad, of not feeling, Instead, I’m in my head trying to understand what’s happening.
Okay, this feels complex. I’m saying that if I seek to understand as a way to control or release myself from pain, I think that’s a way to avoid living.
I like this: it’s a good idea to live whatever shows up, as Ken McLeod suggests. When I first heard the idea, I thought, “Too hard.” But, my next thought is, I’ll do it. Live whatever is right now.
Hey, I’m still here!
How do you choose to respond to or work with your difficulty?
I choose to experience what happens (and to work with the noise of my heart and mind).
How’s that for simple? HA!
Okay, this might sound corny and crazy, yet this is what comes to me as a way of living: I choose to think of all others who are relapsing (or feeling not-so-good or afraid) and breathe in their pain.
Right now I’m looking out at a choppy Gulf of Mexico mirrored by a calm sky. I choose to think of all others lost in a sea of fear. I choose to take in their fear and send them this relaxed sea breeze breath.
How can you use what you’re learning in other difficult moments?
Connecting to others who might be feeling fear and pain will help off-set my conditioned sense that it’s impossible to think of others when my next difficult moment arrives. I can also think of others in happy moments. So, when I see the doctor this week and hear that my scan is clear, I’ll think of others.
I hope I remember.
NOTE: A bird walked up to me today and practically put his foot on my knee. This guy:
Sending you so much love and healing energy dear Susan.
Thank you, Janette. xo
“If I practice being free to live what shows up however it shows up (relapse or not) that means I accept and live life as life”.
This paragraph jumped out to me, especially “live life as life”. Fully live every moment. I know you know. Breathe.
Live. So clear, so challenging. Thank you for reading my post, Bonnie. For being here.
Dear Susan,
I know that kaleidoscope of relapse feelings. Had one a year ago. I am holding you in the Light of your Inherent Health. My prayers this week especially for you knowing your angels will take good care of you. Here and Beyond. Love mm
Oh, Marilyn. I had no idea that you know about relapse. It’s comforting to know we share this experience. I send love to you and thank you for your kind support. Xo
I am with you spiritually. Sending all good thoughts, love and big big hugs. Feel the love Susan Michael.
I love you, beautiful one. Thank you.
I love you, beauty. Your willingness to work your process here so openly invites bravery and openness in my own. Sending prayers and love and hugs. As I sat in meditation tonight after seeing this, all I saw in my mind’s eye was our morning together there at your beach and what a gift that was to be with you. Know I am with you still, holding space with you for whatever comes. xo
It was a gift to share time, Christy. We’re still there and here. All is is well and all is well. xo
I love you, Susan. You are sunshine.
I’m sunshine? That makes you the rainbow. Love you, Lynne.
Oh, Dear One,
“Right now I am looking out at a choppy sea mirrored by a calm sky.” You are so beautifully living this imagery right now. You are both a warrior and young childlike spirit, a teacher and a student, a sage and a beginner. You hold the contradictions of life, of your current circumstances, in your hands and heart and suddenly they don’t seem so contradictory. I embrace you with my heart and spirit, wanting to both protect you and learn from you. I imagine that I’m sitting next to you at the beach, as I listen to your audio note. I can picture the wind blowing your hair, and I can see your eyes, both shadowed with uncertainty and concern, yet sparkling with the recognition that you are called to live even more fully, more intently. At this moment you are both a parent and child to me, which is hard to explain, but knowing you, you understand my meaning. You understand the love that goes both ways. I carry you with me today, in so many ways, and you have my heart, my prayers, and love and all the light I can muster up and send your way! ❤️
Oh, my. What a generous, gorgeous comment, Michael. What can I write to let you know how much I appreciate your visits, support, and love? I don’t know. So, I’ll quote you: “Love goes both ways.” I feel yours and send mine. xo
All my love to you, dearest Susan.
Thank you, Melissa. xo Sending love back to you.
Sharing is a beautiful thing, thank you for sharing, Susan. I will continue to keep you and Dr. Barrett in my well wishes. Keep smiling.
Thank you, David. And yes, I know you know sharing is a beautiful thing. I remember your poem on remembrance and your gifted ability to engage students to think about big personal questions.
Am enveloping you in thoughts of love and light and ease, dear Susan, knowing that you will respond to whatever life sends you with amazing grace and courage and presence. Much love.
Oh Bean, thank you. That is the type response I want to live. I am touched and grateful you are here and left me this message. xo