I had never been a particularly religious person. Growing up, we were never encouraged to go to synagogue. It was deemed more important to learn the origins and traditions of Judaism than the spiritual principles of the faith: we celebrated the holidays that brought friends and family together. It was difficult to discuss the concept of “God” with my father. His beliefs were unyielding. “There could never be a ‘God’ who would allow such horrible things to have happened to so many people,” he would say of the Holocaust. Although my father’s family was untouched by the war, a large portion of my mother’s family in Poland was killed by the Nazis. My father gained no comfort from religion and held his beliefs firmly until the day he died. My mother, however, did believe in God. But her principles were not necessarily rooted in any specific religion. Her values were more humanistic in nature. She believed in welcoming everyone into her home with respect and kindness.
After marrying Jon and having children, I never felt a strong desire to go to synagogue. But we went, because I felt that we owed it to our children to teach them about our culture. That way, they would at least have some sort of foundation to build upon should they desire to embrace our religion when they became adults.
Within a few days of leaving the hospital, it was time to celebrate the Jewish High Holidays. These holidays are regarded as the most important ones in Judaism. When I told Jon I had decided to go to synagogue, he asked me if I was sure. I had just been diagnosed with cancer. I would have to face so many people, and he did not want any of them saying anything that might upset me. I really appreciated his concern and knew that this was his way of trying to shield me from gawking eyes and wagging tongues. But I didn’t care. Something was driving me there. It was not just a want; it was a need.
This time, I was being pulled toward the synagogue for a different reason. Something inside me thirsted for answers and desperately wanted some sort of peace. As we drove there, I asked the girls to sit quietly beside one another. My heart was pounding and sweat poured down my armpits, from both fear and general weakness. I anticipated that something important was going to happen there. When we entered the sanctuary, I held on to Jon’s arm, and with the girls close by, I lowered my eyes and found my seat. Ultimately, it didn’t matter how many people were there. I did not notice even a single one.
During the service, the rabbi discussed aspects of forgiveness, which is the central theme of the holiday Yom Kippur. We ask to be forgiven for any injury or wrongdoing we may have caused another. We also ask to find the ability to forgive those who may have harmed us in any way. Then and there, I decided that this was something I needed to do. I needed to forgive my mother-in-law, who had caused me so much harm, because her actions had been eating me alive. She had closed the door on me. Either I would behave in the manner she found acceptable, or we were not going to have a relationship. I had never been in a situation like this before, where someone didn’t like me because I did not do what they wanted. I internalized all my frustration and often questioned myself. Perhaps I felt that on some level it was my inability to deal with her that may have contributed to my getting sick in the first place. Author Louise Hay suggests that, metaphysically, cancer is believed to result from a deep hurt, a deep grief eating away at you. The colon represents our ability to let go and release that which is no longer needed. I was definitely having trouble letting go.
Because I had absolutely no power to change my mother-in-law (let alone even discuss my feelings with her), I decided on a different approach. I needed to change the way I thought about her. I decided to start by giving the word “forgiveness” a new definition. I would not forget the past, for the past has always provided information that helps create the present. It was not about excusing or pardoning bad behaviors, because we need to remember not to do those things that may be hurtful to others. I decided that forgiveness for me would be about letting go. I could choose to let go of all those things that were causing me pain, and the trauma she’d caused was definitely one of those things! I needed to take back my power and start protecting myself. Jon couldn’t fix this for me. I was the one who needed to learn to find my voice and fight for myself. I was determined to do this, because I desperately needed to focus all my strength on healing. I found my precious energy was leaking like water from a watering can. I needed to plug up all those holes through which it was seeping out. I could no longer occupy my mind, body, or soul with anything else. It was time to let go of the old stuff, change the story, and move forward.
The rabbi then read that it is God who decides who shall be sick or who shall be well, who shall live or who shall die. I remember hearing an internal scream so loud emanating from my gut: “Not my God!” I refused to believe that it was solely up to God to decide my fate. Didn’t I have any role in determining the outcome of my destiny? If God was going to become an integral part of my healing process, then there would have to be a partnership between us. I was not going to give myself totally up to him; we would need to work together. I figured that it was up to me to decide what I was looking for. My challenge was to create a concept of God that would suit my needs.
I closed my eyes and remembered that when I was a girl, I loved placing my tiny little hand in my father’s great big paw. The moment I did it, I felt safe and protected and whole. As I thought about this, I could feel a smile crease my face. When I looked up into my dad’s eyes, they twinkled back at me like bright stars on a dark night. There was no judgment in those eyes. They shone with pure love and reflected back to me a sea of endless potential. I remember feeling in those moments that I was perfect exactly as I was and that I could do or be anything I set my mind to. This was exactly what I was looking for.
I had thought that constructing a personal concept of God was going to be an arduous process, but this was going better than I had anticipated. I began laying a foundation. I first needed the feeling of safety and protection. I had felt so lost and ungrounded following the diagnosis of cancer that I wanted to imagine my heart and soul held and rocked tenderly in the arms of God. I also needed to embrace the idea of limitless potential and no judgment.
I remember years later, when I had a counseling practice of my own, talking to a client of mine who was dying. She felt that she was damned and going to hell because she had converted to a religion she always felt should have been hers from birth. Now that she was dying, she was terrified that her choices would undermine her and that she would be sent to hell. She told me that she wanted my God, a God that was kind and forgiving. How sad that during her last moments on earth, religion was a source of terror for her. I had always thought that people turned to religion in the hope of being comforted. I determined it would be that way for me. Since I was making it up, I could do whatever I wanted. Little did I know that when I left the synagogue that day, God was going to become my constant companion and best friend for life.
—
Although I came from a background where religion did not play a profound role, I managed to find tremendous support and comfort in the concept of God. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary defines faith as a “firm belief in something for which there is no proof.” I have found that the word “faith” often substitutes for “hope.” People who are not particularly spiritual or religious seem to pray for help when they feel threatened or when their loved ones are in dire straits. It is almost like wishing upon a star, hoping that somehow, someone out there might hear them and come to their rescue.
I needed to believe in something when I was sick. Because I had no idea whether I would live or die, I was looking for support irrespective of outcome. For that reason, I chose that which is intangible. It was important for me to find something that could not be touched or grasped. I needed to be able to wonder and dive into a world of possibility where no one could tell me for sure that what I chose to believe in was not real.
I found comfort in the notion of God. I did not expect him to alter the course of my life or take away my hurts and pain. What I wanted was to know that I did not have to walk this journey all by myself. I decided to personify God because it was easier for me to imagine communicating with him this way. I chose the idea of being held and rocked in the arms of God the same way my dad held me, and the way I in turn held and rocked my children when they were young. I remembered the pure joy and contentment I felt when I held them. This feeling accompanied me through some of the darkest moments of my life. The peace I was able to create under some very painful circumstances was extraordinary.
I was lucky to find something that ultimately became a universal truth for me. Did I make it up? Yes, of course I did. What I would like to suggest to those who are searching for something to hang on to is this: You have permission to create any belief system that offers you comfort. It does not take away from or impose itself upon the beliefs of another. It is yours and yours alone. I am sure that some would feel I am out of my mind for the way I think. But perhaps that is exactly what we need, to be out of our minds, so that we can truly be in our hearts and souls.
—
I was grateful to have God by my side. I was about to start a journey I was ill prepared for, and it was comforting to know that I would not have to do it alone—I had my constant companion in my heart and soul. Finding a sense of peace within myself and feeling supported unconditionally allowed me to embark on a brand-new adventure with the sense of having my hand held. It gave me the strength to forge into the unknown with grace and with ease. There was no guarantee that whatever I was willing to do or try would ensure I’d live long enough to see my girls grow up, but I was not discouraged. The goal of being there for my daughters was my initial driving force. Eventually I picked up the reigns and chose life for myself. I am not sure when that transition happened; I only know that it did.
Finding myself as a result of this saga was an unexpected gift, for I never realized at the time that I had gone missing. I’d always known I was a good mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend, but I wondered: Without those roles, who was I, really? Who was this woman named Susan Wener, and what was she willing to do to keep herself alive? I could fight for my family in a heartbeat, but could I really learn to fight for myself? I hated fighting. I spent my entire life as a peacekeeper. Everybody came to me with their problems, and I made time for them all, even when it took away from what I needed to do for myself. I wondered if I would be able to learn how to take care of my own needs before the needs of those around me. Could I do that and not care about how I was perceived? (That may have been part of the problem with my mother-in-law. I so badly wanted her to like and think well of me. Instead of finding my voice and speaking my truth, I lost myself in an illusion of what I thought a mother-and-daughter-in-law relationship should be. Could I change without losing the essence of me in the process?)
Over the many years that followed, I learned the difference between selfishness and self-preservation. Being selfish means doing something for yourself even though it might harm another. Self-preservation, however, means doing whatever is necessary to keep yourself healthy and strong, without causing harm to another (at least not intentionally). I had to learn the difference between what was mine to fix and what belonged to someone else. No matter how difficult it was initially, I came to understand that I could not fix anyone else. Offering guidance and compassion was fine, but not if it came at the price of depleting my own energy resources. I needed to develop boundaries of steel. Inside those boundaries I had to keep everything I required for survival; anything that might drain me had to stay outside. This was not going to be an easy task.
Wow! And I thought all I was going to have to deal with was cancer! I was being thrown into self-actualization long before I was ready. I used to think that the universe gave us little taps on the shoulder when things weren’t working well, to help direct us toward a better path. Had I been so unobservant that the gentle tap on the shoulder had turned into a sledgehammer over my head? Had the previous surgeries not been enough? I couldn’t seem to get the phrase, “ultimate failure of the body’s immune system” out of my head: the ultimate failure. Well, my mother always told me that if I was going to do something, I should do it well.
Enough of that: enough of going backwards. I decided I would explore options in both the traditional and nontraditional worlds on my road toward healing. I did not want to be judged for my choices. I wanted to be supported with kindness and compassion. Slowly but surely, I was creating a plan for myself. It felt good to have something to hold on to.
My main objective was to live long enough to ensure that my daughters grew into strong and independent women. I so badly wanted them to love themselves and realize their worth. I wanted them to see themselves just as I saw them. They would probably never really understand the depths of my love for them until they had children of their own. I thought they were loving, sensitive, and incredible young girls. I was so proud to be their mother.
All right, I had created my own concept of God. That was a good start. And now I had an objective, but what next?
All I knew was that I needed to live. I believed with all my heart that I wasn’t done yet. As much as I loved my husband, I knew he would be fine. I remembered telling him that if I died, I wanted him to be happy and have someone to share his life with. The only thing I insisted on was that he was not allowed to date anyone who brought him shivah casseroles. Shivah, in the Jewish religion, is when you sit in mourning for seven days after an immediate family member is buried. Traditionally, relatives, friends, and neighbors prepare the mourners’ food. Jon loves to eat, and I wasn’t having someone win his heart through his stomach. I thought this was hysterical and burst out laughing after I said it. He, unfortunately, did not seem to share my sense of humor.
So here I was, ready to embark on a journey anywhere away from the drama I was presently living. To this day, I am still in awe of my family’s capacity to simply live their lives. How seamless it appeared to be for them. It’s not as though I wanted them to stay home and suffer, but their ability to adapt forced me to accept the fact that their lives would go on with or without me. I was left with lots of time on my hands. I was forced to redefine my role as wife and mother. Whether I liked it or not, it was time to face myself. I decided that since my whole world felt a bit out of control, I needed structure.
I remember sitting down with pen in hand, trying to write a list of all the things and people that made me feel good and contributed to the quality of my life. I also made a list of all those who did not. I then gave myself permission (because who could argue with a poor cancer patient, after all) to get rid of or change all that seemed to be disharmonious in my life. If I didn’t like someone (even if they were a family member), I didn’t have to be with them. Believe me, it was not as easy as it sounds. I was often riddled with guilt. (I have learned since then that guilt is such a useless emotion. Remorse forces us to make amends, but guilt just eats us up alive.) If there was an event that I didn’t want to go to, I didn’t even have to make up an excuse. I simply didn’t go. Yeah! Cancer was proving to have some secondary gains after all. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to do or not do whatever I wanted. I moved with my reptilian brain away from danger and toward harmony. What the hell had taken me so long? Did I really need this disease to learn how to just say no? Had I previously been a mere pawn at everyone’s beck and call? Never again, I determined.
Years later, Jon asked me, when we were having a bit of a tiff, “Whatever happened to that sweet little girl I married?” I replied, “She’s dead, and the strong woman you never realized you wanted has taken her place. If you don’t like it, too bad, because she’s the one who is staying!” Perhaps the words came out a little harsher than they needed to, but I didn’t care. It is difficult when one person in a family decides to make drastic changes. It has a domino effect and upsets the equilibrium of the entire family. Ultimately, my transformation was really good for my family, and my husband grew to love the strong and independent woman I was becoming. As I learned to take care of my own needs, my family in turn learned to take care of theirs. The difference was that they didn’t have to get sick in order to get permission to take care of themselves.