Peace Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi

Since my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer, I have found that I have been drawn to the prayer commonly known as the Peace Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. While he was born in 1182, the prayer itself didn't appear in printed form until 1912, so it seems likely he didn't author it. Still, it has such a powerful message, I'm not surprised that it is so popular. Here's the prayer:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

I so appreciate how the words turn around our normal expectations about the way to live and be happy, and to thrive. We can think that the meaning of life, having a full life, is all about us and getting what we want and believe we need, when often life is most deeply about reaching past ourselves to see how we all are connected and need each other. The words feel very healing to me.

Brugh Joy, in a workshop I attended, told a story about St. Francis that spoke deeply to me. Francis was born to wealth, and, while he wasn't always happy to be wealthy, he avoided unpleasant situations and people for much of his young life. But God was speaking to him, and at some point, he realized that he needed to do what he most feared. Brugh saw this as an example of a person challenging his shadow, that disowned part of ourselves, by doing the thing we most fear, by facing the thing that most challenges us. So, the story goes, Francis sought out a leper, whom he feared, knowing that the disease was highly contagious, and he put his hand into the wounds of the leper. In doing so, he faced his deepest fear and found himself transformed. After that, he was not the same man. Brugh used this story to illustrate how we can be transformed by facing our fears and doing the thing we fear the most. While I have no illusions that I'm like St. Francis, dealing with cancer, having a life threatening diagnosis, and being faced very powerfully with my mortality has certainly required me to face some of my deepest fears. And I'm still struggling with all of it . . .

For Christmas last year, I asked Patty to give me a mobius bracelet of the St. Francis Prayer. (A mobius bracelet has no beginning and no end, because a twist in the metal keeps the circle - and the words - going; see illustration at top of this post.) I had discovered them for sale on Healing Baskets, a website that sells custom made baskets for folks who are sick, including those with cancer. My friend Mary sent me a basket last summer, and it was filled with special wonderful items to heal and soothe and support (bath salts, a pad to warm in the microwave, ginger candy, and so on), and when I ordered a basket for a friend last fall, I discovered the mobius bracelet with the St. Francis Prayer. I like silver anyway, and the silver bracelet is just $75.00. So Patty gave it to me, and I've worn it most of the time since Christmas (except when we were in St. John, because I didn't want to worry about losing it).

Wearing the bracelet, having the first part of the prayer there and available to read through and meditate on is a wonderful soothing exercise. I love the prayer, I love my bracelet, and when my illness has me really down and worried, I feel better remembering the prayer.

Out of Control

Out of control is how the life of a cancer patient often feels. I certainly know the feeling all too well. Did I do something to make my gallbladder cells travel down the mutation road? Am I somehow responsible for getting cancer? Mostly, I think the answer is no, and that I will probably never know why the cancer cells were able to develop in my gallbladder. In addition to worrying about the cause of the cancer, I worry about whether I am doing the right things to prolong my life, in fact I worry and wonder about whether or not anything I do matters with respect to the cancer again affecting the functioning of my body.

I am not alone in this wondering. On one of the (three) discussion boards for those with gallbladder cancer, Melissa just wrote to me, in response to my posting that I'd had a clean scan in September:

I am glad to hear that your scans have come back clean, I can only wish that mine would have but I am not giving up hope. What type of diet are you doing. I am willing to do what I can to kick this thing in the butt. I went 6 months of treatment and then 4 months clean and my last scan showed that it is back so i am doing the chemo thing again. so if you can tell me what it is that you did that might have helped i would love to hear....... right now I am just so tired of having people tell me how sorry they are and that they have never seen someone as young as me get this cancer..
some words of advise would be great. thanks

My heart has been aching for Melissa since reading the question on the discussion board, and I'm still working on my response. But I know that mostly I'm going to say that I am doing things to try to stay healthy, but I really feel that it is grace that has kept me free of signs of the cancer so far, since the initial surgery. Grace, a wonderful, amazing, awesome gift of ongoing life and work and time with my family and other loved ones. I don't think I did anything, really, to cause this cancer, and I don't really think that anything I'm doing has given me the clean scan results I've gotten over the past months. Don't misunderstand; I'd like to think that I'm in control, and that my actions are having an impact. Don't misunderstand either, and think I'm going to stop doing the things I'm doing, because I have hope that they may be making a difference, keeping the cancer from spreading. And at the same time, I have to admit to not feeling in control of any of this with my actions.

The day I began this blog entry, I read Leroy's blog for November 8, and I was amazed to see that Leroy was also writing about the search for meaning of the cancer, and how out of control we feel with our diagnosis. We want meaning, we want hope, we want to think that we will recover and that life will go on. When we don't have symptoms or signs, or when we are actively in remission, we are hopeful but worried. When we are active with the disease, recovering from surgery or in treatment, we want to know what we can do to get better. We want successful treatment, the right diet, good medical care, recovery. We want something to do to get better, to feel in control, even if in small ways. Leroy has written about this more than once, and Melissa's question to me so crystallizes the issue.

What helps when we feel out of control with cancer? I don't know. I know that my life feels like daily walking the line between hope and despair, between what is known and what is not known, between thinking I could be in control and letting go of the belief I can control my body, between blame and surrender, between opening to healing and recognizing the truth of the cancer still in my body, between envisioning the cancer self-destructing in the sunset and recognizing the medical reality. The lack of an answer, a clear sense of the future, of what path my life will take, is painful and challenging, but it's what is right now, for me, and for so many others with gallbladder cancer. So I'll keep doing what I'm doing in hope that it is helping, and I'll keep hoping for healing.

Cancer: Call it enemy, or call it friend?

In his blog earlier this week, Leroy Siemens examines a posting from a mother who asks whether or not her daughter, who died from cancer, has "lost" if the fight for life against the cancer is a "war." Of course, he points out that we would not stigmatize the now dead cancer patient by saying they "lost the war," but so often those with cancer and those writing about cancer describe the fight for life as a war, a battle, a fight, and those fighting for their lives as warriors. I'm not entirely comfortable with this language, this image, although I certainly want to continue living, which would mean "winning the fight" against this gallbladder cancer.

A longtime friend who has had several different cancer diagnoses, including breast cancer, wrote to me soon after my diagnosis, and encouraged me to make ffriends with the cancer. "It is part of you," she wrote, "so why not make friends with it?"

Similar language is expressed by Dawna Markova in her book I Will Not Die an Unlived Life, where she describes her survival from a cancer diagnosis many years ago, and her discomfort with the "battle" language so typical of describing a fight for one's life following a cancer diagnosis. She writes:

When cancer first came into my life, people all around me treated it as the enemy. I was told I had to join the medical team and we'd fight together to defeat it. This was the wrong thing to say to someone who was the last one to be picked for any team. I was much happier sitting on the sidelines and encouraging the other players. I was totally unskilled at defeating anything. So, I secretly went my own way and decided that I was free to choose the meaning of the healing experience. I decided I would develop a friendly relationship with the cancer, which was something I was good at.

However, Markova does not go on to say how befriending the cancer helped her to heal from it, to move past it, to have it not take her life. Rereading this passage, I can see that one way would be to put the emphasis on "healing," not on cancer. I can also see a "lessons to be learned from the cancer" aspect of befriending it, but I don't see how that can lead to healing of the physical body. So, perhaps a part of me does want to "beat" the cancer, because I can't see how I can continue to live as long as it is in my body, and the doctors tell me that they know of no way to kill gallbladder cancer. Again rereading Markova's words, I am reminded of my competitive nature, my desire to excel, to do a thing well. But, more than being a "good" cancer patient, I want to be successful in my intense desire to have my life continue, and not to have it end with this cancer.

Battle image or friend image? Which has the potential for more healing, for me in this situation? I feel that I need to hold this question in my heart and see what answers come. While I wait for those insights, I am interested in the experiences, thoughts, impressions, wisdom from those reading this blog. And, perhaps I should call my friend who befriended her cancer and ask her how she did it.