Everything Possible

1992 was a memorable year. And I say memorable not in a “Whoo-hoo-fabulously- awesome-wish-I-could-do-that-again year. I turned 40; was in a toxic job that made me angry and resentful; filing for divorce that made me sad and resentful; single-parenting; holding down a corporate job and a job performing in a professional theater company which drained me of any energy I had left; my father passed away; and I was diagnosed with breast cancer. A memorable year.

There is a history of cancer in my family. Both sides. My specialist told me that chemo and radiation were the only remedial protocols and if I did not follow that protocol I would not see my ten-year old daughter graduate from high school.

After my mother’s death as a result of breast cancer in 1973 through 1992, I sought research about breast cancer in women: causes; treatment; holistic remedies; life-styles; social cultures; diets; cancer statistics of third-world countries vs. industrialized countries.

I read that cancer can manifest from stress, mental and/or physical abuse, toxic life-styles, highly processed food diets, and chronic fatigue. Without remedial attention, these could manifest as a malignant mass in the body. I was drawn to that data point and found it contrary to evidence I previously discovered.

From what I experienced from the strong, resilient women in my life, my mother at the top of that list, it stands to reason that women amass internal stress, abuse, and so much more. I don’t know the veracity of this theory, but I have held on to it as more true than not.

Chemotherapy and radiation slows down or can eliminate tumors or prevent metastasis. In my research I also found that chemo and radiation kill those properties in the body fighting cancer cells. Patients can build up their immune systems, naturally. The immune system has the ability to recognize and eliminate developing tumors in the absence of external therapy; another theory I have hung on to.

So, my journey began: I quit my job, divorced my husband, got involved with as much theater and music as I could, and dropped everything sucking the life out of me.

My first visit to my general practitioner, following my diagnosis, resulted in a big, long hug. He said, “Fill your life with people who will give you this–all the time.” While he was talking about hugging, he also meant support, encouragement, inspiration. I will always be grateful for his healing prescription. Did you know a human needs four hugs a day for survival, eight hugs a day for maintenance and twelve hugs a day for growth? Neither did I.

I adopted a macrobiotic diet for 5 years, practiced meditation, homeopathic remedies, surrounded myself with positive and joyful people, changed my career from sales to customer service. I began to find myself again. I began to feel more open to change, advice, alternative ideas. Listening more, talking less. Appreciating the gifts in others, especially my own.

I began to feel valuable to myself, which morphed into a need to add value to others. Not for any personal agenda, but simply to make something better if I could.

I found my tribe. People who supported and loved me, who made me a better person just by being with them. Spending time doing things that brought not only joy to myself but joy to others. And, slowly, I felt better. Not cured. Just better. I felt healed if not cured, by being grateful every day, minimizing judgement and trying to develop ways to better understand others. I fail lots of times. But I stopped beating myself up for the imperfections of my own humanness.

By putting myself out there, no matter how scary it felt, I realized my story connected with others and that for the most part, there is much good in people. Positive out became positive back in unexpected and miraculous ways.

By 1994, I had been working with AIDS Action Committee for almost 10 years at Fenway Clinic in Boston as a hospice volunteer. One day, I was not feeling emotionally or psychologically well to work my evening shift and considered calling a back-up. However, the clinic called that afternoon informing me that a patient of mine was expected to transition that evening. I didn’t think I had the fortitude for Larry’s passing. I was drained, but decided to go in anyway.

When I arrived, a new piece of art hung on the wall directly facing the entrance door. It was a large, charcoal drawing, of a man with AIDS. The caption read: “I came here to die with dignity, but I learned how to live with grace.” I knew why fate sent me there. Not just for Larry, but for me, too. Two gifts that night: a direction for celebrating life and supporting and loving Larry through his transition.

I survived breast cancer, ovarian cancer and am currently celebrating life living with Stage 1 – Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. I never had chemotherapy or radiation. I have one small, invisible hysterectomy scar. I have been provided unmerited blessings compared to those who have suffered painful post-diagnosis, operations, protocols the many side-effects that are caused by chemo, radiation and prescriptions.

Everyone is dying; that is a fact of life – ain’t none of us getting out of this alive. And cancer is not a battle to win or lose. It is a journey of decisions that can transform my life and the life of others. It is a gift to me. It helped me to find connections and to press against the uncontrollable, messy, uncomfortable parts of life, myself and people that I would have otherwise avoided.

I was once confronted with the question from my support counselor: “Are you running towards living or running away from death?” I choose life, fearlessly and without regret or victimization. Winning the day is all I have time for. How I decide to win it, is up to me. My hope is that when I am gone I have left something good behind.