Being Grateful for Everything

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. 

Free Pic from UnSplash (Megan Watson)

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.

The Importance of Being Sincere

 In Latin, sincere means without wax. It comes from a tradition of broken statues being repaired with wax so that imperfections could be hidden and painted. To be without wax is to be real, to be original. People see what they get.

A while back, I went to lunch with my family, and we talked about sincerity. My husband immediately said, “It’s not as beautiful as the statue analogy, but it makes me think of apples in the store. I once bought the reddest apple I could find, but when I bit into it, the inside had completely bruised. The only thing that made it look so wonderful, was the wax.”

My son also piped in. “Don’t they fix imperfections with gold in Japan? Broken bowls end up having gold streaks?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Well,” Trey responded, “wax could be when we try to fix ourselves, but gold is when G-d does.”

One of my oldest daughters smiled. “The statues that are worth the very most now aren’t the kind fixed with wax. They’re the kind with broken arms and missing pieces. People want to see what’s real, and what time did.”

Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com

I thought of how I’ve written memoirs about my life, memoirs that have been like ripping open my chest, just to see what makes me tick. There have been times when I wanted to act like my life is perfect—fill in all the imperfections with wax. I really felt like that at my high school reunion. Everyone had such great jobs and wonderful stories to share. Right before the reunion I looked at their profiles online, and their glamorous lives floored me. But then I had to stop and give myself grace. I’m fighting cancer, and things are so obviously wrong. I can’t even pretend my life is perfect.

So, I’ve set the wax and paint aside, and the result has amazed me. People who I thought were perfect, have been able to share real struggles with me because of what I’m experiencing. We’ve cried and built new friendships. It’s honestly incredible.

So, although I might be more battered than people realize, I’m still standing—lucky to be alive—and that makes me worth far more than a cheap fix or something any amount of “repairs” can do.

Despite health struggles, I’m proud of who I am. Because when people see my flaws, maybe they’ll realize their scars make them more precious, too.

A Blanket Filled with Prayer

Almost a year ago, I received the sweetest package in the mail. A mother and daughter duo sent me a card explaining that they follow me on social media. "We feel like we know you." 

Honestly, I grew a bit teary-eyed reading their words because it was really touching, but also, just seeing the little girl's handwriting, you could tell she was young and had thought hard about what to write. "I'm sorry you're sick," she'd shared. "We pray for you and your family. And I love your cat, Borah." Then she relayed how she'd made me something, and it had taken a long time. 

So, completely filled with curiosity, I pulled something from the box and realized she'd crocheted a huge blanket!

Months passed and I used that blanket every time I needed to feel hope. I brought it to the cancer center to keep my legs warm during treatments. I even used it when we drove in the car during winter. 

"Why do you use that blanket so much?" Trey asked one day.

"Someone prayed for our family while crocheting it," I said. "They filled it with prayers and shipped it across the country."

But when summer came, everything grew warm and we placed the blanket into the back of the closet.

"Mom," Trey said, months later, "I think I should get a counselor. I'm having a tough time, worrying too much about the future and what might happen." A close friend's brother recently died, and I think his death left a big mark on everyone. He was only in his 20s and had so much life to live. I'll never understand why people die young. "It's sad watching Beau grieve over his brother," Trey said, taking a deep breath. "And it's hard knowing someday..." He met my eyes and then looked away. "Someone close to me... will pass away."

Although doctors keep saying cancer will probably kill me, I've recently entertained the hope that I might beat this. After all, I've lived two years longer than oncologists expected. So, I told Trey about my recent thoughts because hope can be the anchor that gets us through the storm.

"If you beat this, Mom, it would be amazing." But the light didn't meet his eyes, and late that night, Trey still hadn't gone to sleep.

"Trey?" I whispered after finding him digging around in the closet. "It's the middle of the night. You need to go to sleep, and Mike and I need to get some rest too." I'm still recovering from the pain pump surgery, and Mike works really early. 

"Sorry. I'll be quick."

The next day, I set up counseling for Trey, but they were booked out a couple of weeks. Despite that, every morning Trey seemed better—other than hiding something from me in his room.

"What was on your bed?" I asked.

"Oh... that was nothin'." I went to leave, but Trey stopped me. "Mom, do you think prayer works?" he finally asked. "I mean, do you really believe in it?"

"I hope it does," I said. "Sometimes I want to think that G-d hears us, and other times I hope He doesn't interfere. That means everything would happen randomly, and none of the bad things are personal."

He raised a brow.

"Maybe G-d winds a gigantic clock but doesn't mess with it or choose when it will stop running. He just sets it in motion. Maybe that's what life is." I paused. "Do you believe in prayer?"

"Well, lately I actually think I do." He sighed. "I'm feeling a lot better than I was." 

After he left for school, I decided to see what he'd shoved to the side of his bed... The fabric felt soft against my fingers, and it came as a big surprise when I pulled the pink and blue crocheted blanket from the side of his bed. I shook my head with wonder because the only thing Trey knew about the blanket is that someone from across the country filled it with prayer. Did the little girl who made it have any idea how much her actions would help us? Her prayers have become our anchor in the storm...

I'm still really glad we have counseling set up for Trey, but I'm also grateful for the kindness of others. Whether G-d interferes in our lives or not, life can be exceedingly hard, but today I find myself so humbled by a little girl and her mother—strangers whose prayers show the type of love that can buoy us through nearly anything.

Hope for a Cyborg

The pain pump has been life changing. It hasn't been very long since I got that surgery, and I'm amazed. It's odd to think it's been four years since doctors gave me two years to live. All of the things that have happened since feel like a lifetime: radiation, numerous infusions and cancer treatments, as well as several surgeries and hospitalizations, decreases in the tumors and then more growths... Yet, I'm still here twice as long as they predicted, just like a cockroach after the apocalypse.

My main oncologist recently said I'm probably alive because of my positivity, but I think it's just stubbornness and doing what the doctors say.

When the doctor first told me it was terminal, my initial thought went to my kids. I just want to see them grow up. Then, I thought about Mike, my incredible husband. We'd only been married for five years and had so many dreams. It's surreal to think that I've almost been sick for half of our marriage.

It IS strange how we try to control and rationalize. Maybe that's why people use the line about cancer and positivity: "If you're positive, it can help you beat cancer." It's probably an unpopular opinion, but I respectfully disagree. I've known plenty of positive people—fellow patients who saw the world in an even brighter light than I do—but they passed far sooner than anyone would've hoped. One in particular quit getting treatments and said it was her time. I miss her, but all of us knew we had to respect her choice. And her bravery.

 
It's hard explaining what this feels like to fight cancer, and when all of my kids are adults, if I'm still alive and facing this, it might be tougher to continue treatments. They are truly THAT horrendous, especially radiation! But... I guess we never know where life might go or what we're willing to endure for a glimpse at the next bend in the road. After all, right before being diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma, I thought I had life by the tail. I felt so excited about my career, future travels with the family, and what adventures awaited. Then, in an instant everything changed, and I wished I would've taken advantage of my previous health, instead of being a... workaholic.

Anyway, the pain pump... It's about the size of a cat dish, and the surgeon implanted it inside of my stomach. There's a catheter that reaches through my abdomen and into my spine (that catheter goes from my T7 to my L2/L3, where the cancer has eaten away at my vertebrae). The pump sends a steady drip of medicine to help with that pain, as well as the pain from the cancer in my hips and pelvis. But this is where it gets extra amazing. It has a remote! And if I'm in additional pain, I can actually send medicine to my spine. I'm an actual cyborg!—not even 42 yet, and they're turning me into a robotic woman. Wow!

Seriously though, I was scared. There are A LOT of stats out there, but I heard people say these electronic pumps have a 32% fail rate. Sure, that's nothin' compared to America's divorce rate, but it's still not good.

A friend encouraged me to try anyway. "What do you have to lose?" Luckily, everything went well. I don't think I realized how much pain I was in. I must've kind of acclimated to it because now that I have the pump, well, the pain has lessened so much that I feel ready to fight for another day. My doctor said I can have an occasional glass of wine, get into hot pools, maybe even go bowling! I just got my life back. If I can simply get over this fatigue... well, and cancer... I'll be set.

It shows that life can be incredibly scary, but if the possibility of hope outweighs the fear of failure, we should push onward. That and stubbornness might not be so bad after all, not when it can help you fight to see another day with your husband and kids—even as a cyborg.