Love, Cancer and Vulnerability

Lately, I've been thinking about the vulnerability of loving a person with cancer. Like many folks who are diagnosed with cancer, after my gallbladder cancer diagnosis I found that some of the folks in my life drew closer, and some pulled away. Those who drew closer have provided amazing emotional, physical, spiritual support for me. And those who have withdrawn are suddenly not in touch and not connected. I don't know whether any of my friends in the second group made a conscious decision to withdraw, or if it just happened somehow. And I don't know how many of my friends in the first group, those who have moved closer to me, have thought about the consequences of their closeness.

In the 1980s, two friends of mine were killed while vacationing in the Caribbean. Murdered on the beach, those of us left behind felt shock and horror at their sudden death. This may sound like an obvious observation, but their deaths brought me the realization that when we love someone, two things can happen. They can leave us, through death or dissolution of the relationship, or we can leave them, through our death or a decision to end the relationship. Those are the options, really. It was the first time I was able to articulate the true vulnerability of loving someone, whether it's a friend, an intimate partner or a family member.

In the past, I have been one who withdrew after a cancer diagnosis. My friend Willa was diagnosed with lung cancer almost three years ago, and soon after, we spent a wonderful afternoon eating and talking and sharing stories. She was determined to fight her cancer, and seemed convinced she would win the fight against the cancer. I left that wonderful day with a strong intuitive sense that she would not survive the cancer, and then I had to decide whether to be with her, loving her, but feeling strongly she would not survive, or whether it was better for me to withdraw. I did withdraw, except through cards and emails and phone calls. I didn't see her again before her death in May of 2005. Given that situation again, with my own experience, I would not withdraw, but I would need to decide how to talk with her about my own feelings about her illness. It's tricky.

As a person with cancer who would very much like to survive this illness, I also have a strong intuitive feeling that I am not meant to assume I will survive. I hope, very much, that this doesn't mean the gallbladder cancer will kill me, but the same intuitive sense that told me that Willa would not survive has told me to take this illness very seriously, not to assume that I'll survive. So I do my best not to be in denial, and to take this illness and diagnosis in full awareness of possible/probable consequences. I hope to be here for many more years. But I digress.

Thinking about the vulnerability of loving someone with cancer, I have been thinking about my friends, longterm and new. My longterm, long distance friend Bev has been consistent in her loving attention. When she heard about my diagnosis, Bev called me in the hospital with two things to say: "I love you. When can I come to see you?" Those were the perfect words for me to hear a day or two after surgery, still hospitalized and still reeling from the diagnosis. Later, when she came to visit and stay for a week, Bev sat with me in stunned companionship as we contemplated the diagnosis. "You need another spring, at least," she said, and we both cried. I haven't asked Bev if she's contemplated the intensity of continuing to be in relationship with me, knowing that I have a terminal diagnosis.

I've also been thinking about new friends. I talked with my new friend Sandy about this last week. We've had a developing friendship for less than two years, and we meditate together weekly. Sandy said that she has thought about the vulnerability of being in an ongoing relationship with me, and she doesn't plan to go anywhere. We talked about this and we cried. How much easier, I think sometimes, would it be for her to leave now, and not to wait, not to worry with me as I anticipate a scan, not to worry about where this disease will take me. I don't want to lose her friendship, but I think about this.

And I think about the vulnerability of my family, my family of choice and my family of origin. Because we are family, they may not feel they have a choice, although we all know that family members do sometimes leave when faced with disease, or financial hardship, or the lure of something more enticing around the corner. I think about Patty, struggling with me through the challenges of this disease, and of my children, who are surely too young to lose a parent.

Loving someone with cancer means being vulnerable to loss, to pain, to the struggles the disease can bring. If someone you loved had cancer, would you choose to stay in relationship? Would you move closer, or farther away, or maintain your current distance? Do you know? Could you bear the vulnerability?

The River Ride - Part II

This post is Part II of my river trip story, tubing down the Virgin river outside of Zion National Park in Utah. The posting just before this one begins the story; this posting ends it. At the end are the Bible verses from Isaiah with which we began, ended and interspersed the story as I read it to our church.

When I surrendered, I could be on the river without fighting the experience. The river was flowing, I couldn’t get off. The rocks kept coming, and I was aching, and I could do nothing about it. So, I relaxed as much as I could given my exhaustion. I trusted that I was safe, ultimately. I just wanted the journey to end.
Finally, the first bridge came. I looked eagerly on the side where the road would be, but there was no path, no place to exit. Lucy and I kept floating and bobbing down the river. She was delighted, and I was dismayed. But once more, I settled into just being on the river, and surrendered to the experience. I felt relief that I had seen that first bridge, and dismay that the trip was only half over.

The second and third bridges came sooner than I’d hoped, having been told that the first bridge was halfway. Not soon enough to keep me from being completely exhausted, but soon enough that I didn’t give up. How could I? The river was flowing and carrying me along. And then, finally, almost three hours after we had left, the trip was over, and Lucy and I climbed out of the river and waited for our ride. In my journal later that day, I wrote that it was the best and longest “log flume ride” I’d ever been on, despite my exhaustion.

Later, I thought about that moment when I surrendered to the river, to the experience. I stopped fighting and let it flow, let myself go with it. And that surrender was healing, not of my physical body, but of my spirit and soul. Like life, the river kept going, and my surrender was part of living and healing and knowing that I could survive even the sharpest rocks and deepest drops.

Thinking about this birthday river trip, I see it as a metaphor for my life, and especially my current life changing journey with the cancer diagnosis. There are tranquil times, when I have no cancer symptoms, and my recovery from the surgery is going well. There are rocky, rocky rapids when a CT scan is scheduled, and I worry about the cancer growing and about needing treatment. There are times when I surrender well to the challenges of my illness. Then, as on the river, I trust that I am safe, that I can live in the moment, and that I can savor the life I have. Then a body twinge throws me back into the rocks, and again I am challenged to surrender.

All of us, I think, are on a river trip, the river we call life. There are tranquil times, and at our best, we savor and appreciate them. And many of us encounter rapids and rocks and challenges we feel unprepared for. Our challenges may be physical illness like mine, or the difficulties in relationship with a spouse or family member or colleague or dear friend. We may experience addiction, failure with work, or deep disappointment with our parenting or in our children. We may find that growing older is harder than we ever thought. We grieve the loss of loved ones, those who have loved us and held some of our history. Whatever the rocky places in our rivers, we are challenged to surrender, to turn over to God our need to be in control, and to trust that God holds us safe. God offers healing, if not in body, in spirit, mind, soul, and heart, if we can ask for God’s company on the journey.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD, your God”