Some people after a great battle go on to the next one, that being their duty and chosen vocation. Others choose to go home to rest and recuperate until they must fight again. I choose to fight only battles of mind that hinder clarity and wisdom. It is tempting to forget or deny my nearness to death. I do not want to relive the difficulties of my hospitalization and recuperation. I resolve to dwell in the present and not be captured by fear. I shall use my experience to remember the preciousness of life and the gifts I have received. I shall challenge myself to live wisely and make meaning of my experience, letting it transform me. I shall work to bring peace to others, so they too, may, be free. I am filled with gratitude to all who have helped me be alive and well. May I never forget the grace that has been bestowed upon me.
There is a sense of urgency to accomplish my goals but I shall not act in haste or imprudence. I shall listen and do what my soul knows is important, without needing to know whether I shall see the harvest of my labors.
It is not important what will be tomorrow. It is important to live today in harmony with myself and others and to use the love I receive to give it out again. I must act from wisdom and not let impatience lead me to deception and infirmity.
I shall work to maintain a balance, opening to what is true and acting accordingly. I shall not be ashamed of praise, but value my efforts, appreciate my bravery and celebrate my joy. May I be able to: Enjoy; Replenish; Dance and Sing; Make love; Carefully for the body and the spirit and help others do the same.
Clearly, my brush with death had changed me, but I was still digesting my experience. How it would affect me was unknown but my intentions were clear. I knew that I wanted every moment to count. I was aware of my impatience to move on and had to be patient. This wasn’t easy. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and be in public places again; I even looked forward to going to the supermarket and being able to choose my own supplies of dishwasher soap, fruits, vegetables and frozen goods. Going out to a restaurant and choosing from a menu of delights felt like a dream, my nirvana. I didn’t know how my work-life would be affected. I wanted to sing, dance, make love and be happy.
Nothing is permanent; to my relief that included my quarantine. David and I decided to go to Northern Italy to celebrate my re-entry into the world. It was early spring and the weather in New England was still cold, but in Tuscany and Umbria and along the coast in Cinque Terre it was warm and filled with bright colors, sunshine and the ambient Italian life. It was almost as if I had entered into the poster that had for so long sat propped up against the wall, warming up my hospital room. We leisurely explored Northern Italy. I tired easily so we went at a slow pace, stopping for long lunches accom-panied by a bottle of wine. Each day when I needed to rest, we paused in a park with a beautiful vista or sipped lattes in a cafe. We lunched in the mountains and by the sea. It was La Dolce Vita. All was bella.
I was in love. I was in love with Italy, David, and the freedom of being able to explore and be out in the world again. All of my senses were engaged. Every mouthful of food — and there were many — tasted extraordinarily delicious. The fruit and vegetables were fresh and juicy and beautiful to look at. My diet had been so limited for so long. “The hell with my weight,” I thought. We had two three to five course meals every day and I loved each one.
I savored every moment, every step, every site. We rented a small Fiat and David, pretending to be a race car driver, drove like a fiend, (or an Italian). I was proud of his ability to weave in and out of traffic and take the narrow curvy roads as he lifted his foot from the clutch and the brake.
During this trip he was very protective of me. Was I warm enough? Did I need to stop and rest? Normally his long legs would take him two or three strides ahead of me and I’d have to run or yell out, “Slow down.” Here he held my hand and we walked together. I appreciated having him with me, relaxed and relatively unworried. The trip was a wonderful break for both of us, taking us away from doctors, hospitals and the reminders of cancer. I came home refreshed and ready, at last, to return to work.
The Stress Reduction Clinic had moved in the time that I had been away, now sharing space with the research wing of Behavioral Medicine on the top floor of a building close to the medical center. Each office had a window and for the first time I now had my own space. I remember walking into the building for the first time and entering the corridor where a staff meditation had just begun. Every person on the staff was sitting quietly, either on a cushion or a chair, in the hallway between our offices. There was a seat set aside for me, which I took as I closed my eyes and entered into the silence of the meditation. As I felt my breathing, I became aware of warmth in the area of my heart. A deep sense of gratitude and awe filled my chest. My eyes teared up. Being able to walk up the stairs and sit with my dear friends and colleagues in the clinic felt very special, something I could never take for granted.
My first teachers’ meeting was also wondrous. As I joined the circle my colleagues and I formed, I felt at home, but very new to the experience. It was almost as if I were a baby emerging from its swaddling cloth, arms and legs now released to explore the world without being bound. What a miracle to be here. I saw with fresh eyes and appreciated anew the wonder of life.
It was arranged that Fernando DeTorres would share the teaching with me for my first cycle of classes. Fernando had put a string around his wrist as soon as he heard I needed a transplant; on our first day of class together, he ceremoniously took it off.
On Memorial Day, about six weeks after I started working again, I wrote the poem. It reflected the euphoria I was experiencing.
It is morning in the springtime.
May 24.
Memorial Day Weekend.
Spring is late this year.
I am here.
I am not having chemo.
My hair is growing.
The dogwood is blooming and the ash trees are budding at last.
I look out my window and it is green.
My husband sleeps.
Yes.
I am alive. What wonder.
How full it is
To use my mind
To reclaim my body
To celebrate the moment
Breathing in and out.
I do not know when my breath will cease.
I do know I love.
I love the day,
The people in my life.
I love
Being Here Now.
I plunged into activities. I was no longer falling when I walked. I even had hair. It was very short and showed off my eyes. I loved feeling it on my head and not needing scarves or hats to protect me from the sun. I still tired easily, but I was able to go to the gym and work out to regain greater strength and muscle tone. I got myself a personal trainer, Cheryl Mita, who consistently buoyed my spirit and helped me be positive about my progress. It was very important to me to restore my muscles and increase my aerobic capacity. I went to the gym several times a week and as I was able to exercise for longer periods of time and my repetitions increased on the machines my sense of accomplishment grew.
Yet, how easy it is to forget to be present. Just today I looked in the mirror at myself and called myself “ugly” because my face is still puffed up from the prednisone I had to take. I didn’t say to myself, “What a miracle, I’m breathing without an oxygen mask . . . I am able to stand . . . my hair is growing back! . . . I am alive!” Instead I focused on the puffiness of my face and suffered needlessly.
Teaching helped normalize some of my frustration with the slow-ness of my recovery. As I coached others to be present and make peace with their difficulties, I was encouraged to hang in with my own. Class came to an end in June and I prepared to teach the summer session class, my first one teaching alone since I had begun treatment for cancer. It was my first summer without chemotherapy in two years.
A film crew from “Chronicle,” a news show on the local ABC station, was coming to the clinic to tape some classes and document the work we were doing in stress reduction. My class was selected as the one they would feature and follow for eight weeks. This made me extra nervous, both for myself (How would I look?) and for the class. I was concerned about confidentiality and the intrusion of a film crew on our class process. I wondered if patients would be free to report honestly on their progress in meditation and truly express their deepest concerns.
The film crew was sensitive and only featured those people who wished to appear on TV. I still worried that the class’s integrity might be compromised or my teaching might not be up to par (and that everyone would see it). Fortunately, I focused so closely on the patients that I forgot to be self-conscious and we all got used to having microphones and booms in the room. I was reminded, once again, that as long as I was really present, there was no problem. When the producers discovered that I had recently had a peripheral stem cell transplant for lymphoma, I became part of the story.
At one point during the program, the commentator asked, “What qualifies someone to teach others how to overcome fear and pain?”
And the commentator answered, “In the case of Elana, experience.”
The cameras moved to the bone marrow unit in the hospital, illustrating and describing the procedure by showing footage of a patient currently on the unit. The interviewer visited me at home and borrowed some photos of me taken when I had just come home from the hospital, showing me with clear eyes, a puffy face, and looking pale and ill.
They also interviewed my hemo-oncologist, Dr. Pam Becker, who surprised me by saying, “The staff watched in awe as Elana brought herself through an incredible amount of physical stress which was very demanding.”
The program recorded footage of several class members who had particularly moving stories: a single mother as she helped her child who had muscular dystrophy climb up a stair; an older man who had had a heart attack listening to the body scan on earphones as he sat by his boat; and another single mother talking about how difficult it was raising her children alone as she struggled financially after recovering from drug addiction.
Patients were shown in class, meditating, doing a body scan and yoga. In a discussion regarding the difficulty of practice, they captured me as I said, “Of course you’re going to have a struggle. Just know it, it’s normal. Struggle isn’t a problem; getting stuck in it is.”
When I was asked what I had learned from my own experiences that was useful to my teaching, I paused and spontaneously said, “Waking up and feeling terror. It was hardest for me to accept I was afraid. I am now more understanding toward fear.”
And I suggested to the audience, “Trust yourself; be more in the present moment. Stay with direct experience rather than anticipating problems even with a disease that is difficult to accept and is painful. That way you can have a full life. And,” I repeated confidently, “You can have a full life.”
Class ended. The film crew left and I breathed many sighs of relief as I prepared to enjoy my fuller life, returning again to the beach for our vacation. Once again, Bekka would spend a week with us. This time, there was no hospital, no chemotherapy and no restrictions. Only joy. I could swim in ponds again. I could eat out. There were no catheters. I still got tired, but I could nap.
Every morning, David and I rose early and took our dog, Chaya, to the beach for her daily run. I noticed that each day I could go a little bit longer. Life seemed to be resuming a more normal pace.
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