The Challenge and the Commitment

The experience of the world is processed

by our minds

Filtered by our experience

What is it that enables us to make connections

creating happiness or sadness?

Perception is my topic

Seeing life’s events as a challenge.

Knowing when and of what we have control.

Making wise commitments.

Challenge — Control — Commitment
lend themselves to Stress Hardiness

Courage lets us be free

To hold it all

With love.

 

My commitment not to suffer and to really welcome each moment as precious presented the biggest challenge of my life. It was truly meditation in action, the fruition of all my retreats and meditations. Could I maintain a sense of equanimity and focus on the present moment, the difficult ones as well as the pleasant?

Discovering I had cancer was such a surprise and a dislocation of routine. My colleagues at the Stress Reduction Clinic were in a state of disbelief. Mindfulness meditation is about impermanence, but now? And to me? I wasn’t ready to confront my own mortality so soon.

And others reacted. At the dinner table, my husband would look at me and cry. Friends were supportive but they, too, were disbelieving. Some people didn’t know how to respond.

The outpouring of support is almost overwhelming, but David’s cousins called and they didn’t know what to say. It seems that “cancer” evokes strong feelings of fear and discomfort. I have to deal with the reactions of others as well as myself. Some people feel the need to give advice like, “It’s good you went and got a dog . . . You know, mind and spirit go together.”

I used everything I could to help me manage the assault of doctors, procedures, and chemotherapy. When I felt really stuck in a feeling, such as sadness or frustration, and no attention to my breath would dispel it, I’d put it on paper either in the form of a poem or images, some of which I’ve included in this book. This allowed me to move the feeling from inside me to outside. Sometimes just napping or finding a sympathetic ear made a difference.

“Perseverance furthers” was my motto. I’d look at the lithograph I have hanging in my office of a little tugboat, small and chunky, not very glamorous or sleek like the big boats in the harbor (my secret wish is to be tall, slender, wear big hats, and eat as many ice creams as I’d like). I identified with that tugboat. It was sturdy and had a lot of power. It reminded me of Little Toot, a children’s story I read when I was little. In it, Little Toot plays a lot. He is little and isn’t respected, but when a big storm comes and none of the bigger boats can help the grand ocean liner, Little Toot courageously comes to the rescue. He knows how to ride the waves and stay afloat. Seeing this, the big boats stop laughing at him and applaud his bravery.

I’m a little tugboat, stubborn, and determined. I never knew it was a positive trait. I wanted to be a big ocean liner, not five feet tall and insecure. I fought with my mother, the symbol of power in my life. The seas at home were choppy and often high as my parents, too, struggled to stay afloat as caretakers of their own parents. I never knew that my persistence in the face of obstacles would be useful as I battled with cancer and my own ability to ride the waves of a changing mind and body.

When I was little my mother would admonish me, “Stop banging your head against a wall.” We never agreed on that wall. I thought she was too fearful; she thought I was impractical, selfish and foolish. The allergist I went to told her she had “Smother love.” And I, of course, wanting greater autonomy, agreed.

My mother’s relationship to death was quite different from my father’s. She didn’t see it as an adventure, but was very fearful of it. When she was pre-adolescent, an older sister had been killed in a car accident. As a young mother, four years after I was born she had a second child, Barbara, who was born a “blue baby” with a congenital heart defect. In 1947, surgery for this condition was just being explored. On a hot August day, three days before her scheduled surgery, Barbara died at the age of four and a half months. Mom never really recovered. Less than two years later, my brother Bob was born, but her worries only increased. What if something happened to one of us?

Perhaps my mother’s fears and unhappiness motivated me to look more deeply at causality. What does allow for happiness? How do our mental and physical actions affect our well-being? Could I be happy even if my mother could not? I’m sure this contributed to my becoming a therapist and later, a meditator. I wanted to turn my garbage into vegetables and fruit, maybe even flowers.

By simply observing my thought process and not getting lost in it, at least some of the time, I discovered that fear could come AND go; I need not drown in it. As a cancer patient, I knew that my stubbornness and fighting spirit would be useful, but I didn’t want to deplete my spirit by fighting what was beyond my ability to control. No more wall banging for me. As Seven of Nine, a Star Trek character, said, “Resistance is futile.” I needed to accept what was happening and focus on what was right with me rather than what was wrong.

I could not afford to let my mind run ahead of itself. I concentrated on one session of chemotherapy at a time and tried not to worry about the next one until it was near. There was a new urgency to my practice. I needed to live moment by moment. I was more scared of getting depressed and feeling helpless than I was of cancer.

I’ve been going over in my mind the sign in the oncology unit here at the hospital that says, “Cancer cannot kill hope; it cannot take away spirit.” I read this when I was here with my father when he was being treated for cancer. At that time I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t like seeing my Dad become weak. I feared his spirit might be affected. Today I know how true the words are. My spirit is strong. I am alive today. I do not intend to suffer. That is the miracle that my mindfulness meditation practice has given me . . . to be able to appreciate being in the present moment, here now.

Staying in the moment gave me a sense of control. I could choose how and what to eat; I never lost my appetite, and I was conscious of my nutrition and careful to eat well. Chemotherapy made me hungrier and I gained some weight. I didn’t like this, but I decided it was not a time to diet. When I was hungry I fed myself. I appreciated the crackers and hard candies at the oncology office and I’d carry my own healthier treats. I also saw a doctor of herbal medicine and acupuncture. I had massages regularly. I called up people I had known when I lived in Seattle, even my ex-husband, and asked them to pray for me. I had read that this helped.

For years, I talked about stress hardiness in the classes I taught. This is a term that Dr. Suzanne Kobasa coined to describe personality characteristics that seem to protect people from the adverse effects of stress — control, commitment, and challenge. Kobasa found that people who believe that they have some power to influence their lives have a strong sense of control. They are engaged in life and have a strong sense of commitment, energy and enthusiasm for what they do. This control comes not from holding on tight or trying to force something to happen but more from a sense of self-efficacy, an inner knowing and confidence in one’s own ability.

Stress causes a fight or flight reaction. I wanted to do both. Could my challenge to myself to be well and free of suffering be strong enough to keep me going? Could I maintain my commitment to being well and fortify my sense of control even with my vulnerability so clear? It seemed that each day brought a new challenge. It was very disturbing to wake up in the morning and find clumps of hair on my pillow, or to fish large masses of it out from the shower drain, but that is what was happening. I couldn’t change it.

Tonight I tried on a scarf and considered doffing my glasses and wearing my contact lenses until I learned that my eyes would dry out from the chemotherapy. I’m realizing I’m vain but I don’t want to wear a wig, it’s not ‘me.’ People are giving me scarves and I’m giving myself brightly colored ones. I wear them like a turban or draped dramatically. They keep my head warmer.

I was motivated to go deeper down to find what was real and could sustain me. I re-read inspirational books and thought often of the quote I used in my classes from the book Man’s Search for Meaning, by Victor Frankl. He writes:

We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.

I’d like to be free of cancer, but that is not within my control. The way I approach this time is under my control. It’s important to me to free myself from that which binds and perpetuates suffering. I hope to be free to see clearly, to experience happiness and well being and to face what arises with courage and faith. The present moment is my home. The more I can be HERE with acceptance, the happier I can be.

Last night I went to my Rosh Hodesh group, which in Hebrew means “head of the month,” the time of the New Moon. A modern custom among Jewish woman is to come together and study at this time. I normally find my Rosh Hodesh group stimulating and supportive but tonight when I was talking and reflecting on the fact that I didn’t know whether I would be here five years from now, one of the members said, “Stop . . . I can’t take this anymore.”

Her mother died of breast cancer and her sister now had breast cancer, a recurrence. She couldn’t tolerate hearing me bring up the fact that I didn’t know how long I had to live.

At that moment I realized that I wasn’t afraid of dying and I was committed to facing what was happening to me, opening up to it rather than running away. At the same time, I realized that it was she who was suffering, not I. Everything changes and is subject to separation and impermanence. This means me, too. Living and dying are part of the nature of things. The more I can really open to this reality the happier I can be. Is this what non-clinging is about, not holding on to what used to be?

When I went for my first treatment of chemotherapy, I was ushered into a small room that had a bed and a recliner. I was alone and I remember the room as stark and overly bright. I asked the nurse to turn off the fluorescent light and replace it with an incandescent one. Knowing this was my first treatment, she humored me and began searching for another light. The only one she could find was an emergency lamp that ran on batteries. She plugged it in, turned it on for me and turned off the overhead. I laid back in the bed (this first chemotherapy was the only time I got the bed) and listened to my relaxation tape and some music on the Walkman I had brought with me. I remember being very upset that the atmosphere wasn’t more soothing. My fuss over the lighting helped me feel more in control. I could not admit to myself I was scared.

I am living moment by moment. This helps. Now I am alive and with friends. I am here . . . and I intend to be here as much as I can.

It was helpful for me to learn more about lymphoma and its treatment. I didn’t concentrate on prognosis; too much was unknown. I got on the Internet, had my oncologist send me articles on lymphoma and had a consult with another oncology team in a second hospital, which thankfully confirmed the treatment I was receiving. In addition, I talked to myself: “Things happen

. . . Everyone gets sick at some point and dies . . . cancer is what’s happening now, use it, learn from it, you don’t have to like it . . . you’re still here.”

When I went for an appointment or chemotherapy, I brought a tape recorder and a tape of music or meditation, a book to read and my journal and colored pencils. I talked to people. I made myself as comfortable as I could and tried my best to continue living my life as before treatment. Of course, this was impossible.

There was much I couldn’t control. I never quite knew how I’d respond to chemo. This made planning difficult. My life was busy. I worked at the Stress Reduction Clinic three days a week and saw clients the other two days. I also felt responsible for our meals at home and household chores. I remember lying down during teachers’ meetings and forcing myself to stay awake. It didn’t make sense. I had to give myself more space to rest. I needed to let go, but I’m proud. I didn’t want to cut back at work. Who I was seemed very connected to what I did. Could I still feel worthy if I worked less? I wasn’t ready to let go and stop working. Yet, I was committed to maintaining a sense of wellness. That was hard to do if I was exhausted. Where was the balance?

I remembered a story I had heard about a monk who is being chased by a tiger. He runs as fast as he can until he comes to the edge of the cliff. Looking down, he sees a sheer drop down onto ragged rocks below. Looking behind him, he sees the tiger rapidly approaching. He notices a vine growing from the side of the cliff. He takes a leap and grabs onto the vine only to notice a rat gnawing away at it. On the land the tiger is waiting. Down below are the rocks. He looks about and sees a lush, juicy, ripe strawberry nearby. With one hand, he reaches out, plucks it, puts it in his mouth and says, “Delicious.”

Being very sick is a little like hanging over a cliff, clutching a precarious vine. Would I be able to have the equanimity and the presence of mind to notice the strawberry, taste it and experience its juicy sweet flavor?

The CAT scans, blood tests and other technological procedures the doctors requested seemed endless. As these large machines descended down on me, I would begin bringing my attention to my breath. I could surrender and calm during these tests but I didn’t like having my life interrupted and not knowing what would be.

“Powerful learning,” I’d say to myself again and again, as I observed my desire to keep things as they had been, rather than let go and accommodate to how they were now.

Again and again, I’d repeat to myself:

 

Breathing in I calm,

Breathing out I smile.

Dwelling in the present moment,

It is the only moment.

 

I tried to remember to forgive myself and be more compassionate towards my own struggles, rooting myself on. You can do it. Yes, you can.

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