I tried to be grateful—'tis the season—but an appointment last week left me reeling. My parents came up to help after my pain pump surgery, and they brought me (along with my oldest daughter) to this month's appointment and cancer treatment. Although we got some good news (the cancer hasn't grown since August—wow!), they still think this will kill me. "Whenever we take you off of treatments," the provider said, "the cancer grows. And since your body can't handle being on these treatments forever..." I've heard things like this about a million times over the past four years. I know this is probably what I'll die from, and I thought my family understood too, but when I glanced at my parents and daughter... When I saw the pain in their eyes... There are things worse than death, and seeing that desperation, well, that was horrific.
I knew I'd never shake that memory.
"Hello, Elisa," the woman said during a Zoom call. "How was your week?"
"I couldn't wait to talk with you," I said, and then I spilled the entire story, telling my counselor about how out of control I feel. "I'm such a failure," I finally said, deflated. "Why can't I just beat this?! For my family. People keep saying if I'm positive enough or if I pray enough. But they don't understand melanoma."
She sighed, then whispered, "We often forget that we can't control the outcome. We can only control the amount of effort that we put in."
I nodded. "And no matter how hard I try, I just don't know if I can beat this. At some point we have to realize that no amount of positivity or cancer treatments—or even prayers—will work if it's my time to go. But it's still hard to see pain in the eyes of people who care about me. I just don't think I'm doing enough."
"You don't give yourself enough credit." She took a sip of her drink, and I wondered if she holds these remote sessions at a home office or in a work building. "Tell you what," she finally said, "I'll email a lesson to you. It might seem kooky but promise me you'll give it a chance?"
I nodded.
"I think we should work on your self-worth. If you're at least feeling emotionally stronger, maybe it'll help with everything else."
The lesson came to my email a few minutes after the call ended. I watched as a woman chastised herself for getting mediocre sales numbers and when she forgot to pick her kid up from daycare. "I'm a failure," she told her friend, Margaret. Of course, Margaret disagreed, saying that everyone makes mistakes. The video ended, and a new screen popped up.
"Think about your exact situation," the prompt read. "If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?"
Reading the questions, I felt struck by a memory. Throughout this journey, I've met many terminal patients. It's been devastating to hear when some of them have passed and miraculous when others lived longer than expected. Despite human nature's desire to hope, I have become a bit cautionary about death, truly knowing that life is unexpected. In a quagmire of thoughts a while ago, I emailed a dear friend a lengthy letter, telling her how proud she made me. She'd felt how I do now: like a failure, scared to leave this world too soon, and worried for the people she loved. When she died a few months later, the fact that she knew how much I cared gave me peace.
So, with tears in my eyes, I pulled up the email and decided to see if any of it could be used for this exercise. After all, she'd been experiencing the same emotions and concerns about mortality that I am right now. What better way to heed my own advice than by reading a real example?
"If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?" I read the first prompt again. "Answer the three following questions:
"1. Without judgment/criticism/blame what makes this situation hard?
"2. Without minimizing, explain that no one is alone in suffering because others have experienced similar things.
"3. Offer words of kindness/encouragement without trying to 'fix' the situation."
The letter I'd written had elements of all three questions, and after I copied and pasted sections into the exercise, I felt stunned by the result.
"You have a lot on your plate," I'd written, "and I really admire how hard you're fighting despite setbacks and struggles. A lot of people would've given up by now, but you haven't. That must make your family so proud." It was the last line that got me, and I suddenly realized that my entire heartwish with all of this—the damn thing I want almost more than anything—is to be remembered well by my family. When my life is winnowed down to what mattered and what didn't, this is the desire that matters most. THIS is the point of my life.
As I sat at the computer, thinking about Thanksgiving and this huge realization, I suddenly felt an overwhelming peace that everything will be okay. Reading words I'd written to a friend—and trying to apply them to my own life—maybe I have been too hard on myself and it's time to conserve some energy so I can have more time with the people I love.
So, this is a very special Thanksgiving, a time when I'll stop being so hard on myself and let go of perfectionism and control. Just over four years ago, doctors said I only had two years to live. I've lived double what they thought.
"Hello, Elisa," the woman said during a Zoom call. "How was your week?"
"I couldn't wait to talk with you," I said, and then I spilled the entire story, telling my counselor about how out of control I feel. "I'm such a failure," I finally said, deflated. "Why can't I just beat this?! For my family. People keep saying if I'm positive enough or if I pray enough. But they don't understand melanoma."
She sighed, then whispered, "We often forget that we can't control the outcome. We can only control the amount of effort that we put in."
I nodded. "And no matter how hard I try, I just don't know if I can beat this. At some point we have to realize that no amount of positivity or cancer treatments—or even prayers—will work if it's my time to go. But it's still hard to see pain in the eyes of people who care about me. I just don't think I'm doing enough."
"You don't give yourself enough credit." She took a sip of her drink, and I wondered if she holds these remote sessions at a home office or in a work building. "Tell you what," she finally said, "I'll email a lesson to you. It might seem kooky but promise me you'll give it a chance?"
I nodded.
"I think we should work on your self-worth. If you're at least feeling emotionally stronger, maybe it'll help with everything else."
The lesson came to my email a few minutes after the call ended. I watched as a woman chastised herself for getting mediocre sales numbers and when she forgot to pick her kid up from daycare. "I'm a failure," she told her friend, Margaret. Of course, Margaret disagreed, saying that everyone makes mistakes. The video ended, and a new screen popped up.
"Think about your exact situation," the prompt read. "If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?"
Reading the questions, I felt struck by a memory. Throughout this journey, I've met many terminal patients. It's been devastating to hear when some of them have passed and miraculous when others lived longer than expected. Despite human nature's desire to hope, I have become a bit cautionary about death, truly knowing that life is unexpected. In a quagmire of thoughts a while ago, I emailed a dear friend a lengthy letter, telling her how proud she made me. She'd felt how I do now: like a failure, scared to leave this world too soon, and worried for the people she loved. When she died a few months later, the fact that she knew how much I cared gave me peace.
So, with tears in my eyes, I pulled up the email and decided to see if any of it could be used for this exercise. After all, she'd been experiencing the same emotions and concerns about mortality that I am right now. What better way to heed my own advice than by reading a real example?
"If someone you care about were in your shoes, what would you say to them?" I read the first prompt again. "Answer the three following questions:
"1. Without judgment/criticism/blame what makes this situation hard?
"2. Without minimizing, explain that no one is alone in suffering because others have experienced similar things.
"3. Offer words of kindness/encouragement without trying to 'fix' the situation."
The letter I'd written had elements of all three questions, and after I copied and pasted sections into the exercise, I felt stunned by the result.
"You have a lot on your plate," I'd written, "and I really admire how hard you're fighting despite setbacks and struggles. A lot of people would've given up by now, but you haven't. That must make your family so proud." It was the last line that got me, and I suddenly realized that my entire heartwish with all of this—the damn thing I want almost more than anything—is to be remembered well by my family. When my life is winnowed down to what mattered and what didn't, this is the desire that matters most. THIS is the point of my life.
As I sat at the computer, thinking about Thanksgiving and this huge realization, I suddenly felt an overwhelming peace that everything will be okay. Reading words I'd written to a friend—and trying to apply them to my own life—maybe I have been too hard on myself and it's time to conserve some energy so I can have more time with the people I love.
So, this is a very special Thanksgiving, a time when I'll stop being so hard on myself and let go of perfectionism and control. Just over four years ago, doctors said I only had two years to live. I've lived double what they thought.
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| Free Pic from UnSplash () |
Despite fear over the future, I'm bound and determined to be grateful for today. None of us knows what tomorrow might bring. This holiday, we should hold our loved ones a little closer, enjoy each second we can, and be grateful for the opportunity to be alive. After all, every one of us is lucky to even be here.
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