Haiku

In May I took a haiku class. What is the truth, in 17 syllables? The effort below is is not a proper haiku (no nature references, let alone other formalities) but it pleases me. And it's very true


Mastectomy
Dig out the roots of disease,
make the scar a furrow.
Plant life.

How much?

I'm in the delicious position of wondering how many activities to put back into my calendar.

It's like coming home from a long trip where the backpack (or lately the rolling suitcase) held all I needed. Facing the entire closet of clothes once more, I inevitably balk. Do I really need all this stuff? Wouldn't I have more time for The Cool Things In Life if I weren't tending to so much excess inventory?

An exciting proposition.

Completing the Journey

Friday was my last day of treatment. Again. Apparently the scheduler & I didn't have the same info as the oncologist, so I've had a couple more treatments since the last entry.

But this time, it was Oncologist Approved. The Real Last Time. The always-radiant woman in Swedish's entry hall gives me a hug when I tell her. The treatment center receptionists cheer. James pauses on his way to work to say Congratulations and give me an extra kiss.

There is so much support for the process of cancer treatment. It has become a pilgrimage of our era -- a physically and spiritually taxing journey that the culture recognizes, respects, reports. In bygone days, we'd tell the tale of the trip to Jerusalem, the hardships of travel, the dangerous gangs ,the welcoming saints. Now, we listen with respect to the hardy souls who have sojourned through chemo and wonder at the epic sweep -- the side effects, the heroic caretakers, the (hopefully) wise healers. There are the people we meet along the way, finding a fellowship across disparate pilgrims. The auto mechanic Jeff, who tattooed his defiance to cancer on his arm. Sylvia, the gardener, whose bent body has already survived so much. Karin, far too young to have given up so much of her tissue. Rowan, who bravely left everything to return home.

In travelling to Jerusalem and through chemo we set out asking "Will this make a difference?" Some fervently believe it will. Others simply hope.

I watch the final drips of Herceptin flow into the IV, moving toward my blood vessels. I promise my body, I Will Not Do This To You Ever Again.

I choose life.
I choose health.
I choose balance.
I choose thankfulness.

One Year Later

It's now been one solar cycle since the mastectomy. This week I've flashed on images from June 2009: Robin and David talking softly and from the heart as I doze in the hospital. Blair joining us for dinner and bringing strawberries. Cynthia's quilt with a circle of village women joining together. A circle of prayer, laying hands on me. Consecration to a year of healing.

What beautiful, loving support.

On Friday I will receive the last drip of Herceptin treatment. Treatment is normally a solo undertaking; I plug into my i-thing's healing mediation and remember the dedication to recovery. On this last day, David -- who has accompanied me through so much of this walk -- will come along to make it an official celebration. I look forward to literally sharing that space with him. And lunch after.

Lunch! I've now lost 25 pounds since November, due to the diet restrictions that come along with my little intestinal oddities. It's kinda nice. The return of my 42-year-old-tango-fanatic weight. But it's time to stop loosing & start stabilizing. In the past weeks, small servings of forbidden foods have returned: yogurt. apples. rice. Maybe we'll go a little crazy and have teriyaki on Friday. Wooo Hooo!

More soon. I think the end of treatment is going to bring a lot of reflection and question.

The Ego Doesn't Know

I've been hearing this theme frequently in the world lately. The Ego is limited in its wisdom. It tells us it knows how to do everything. Wrong. The Ego doesn't know how to ride a bicycle. Our wise body-mind does.

It's not possible to plan and execute a rock climb completely in the brain. 20 feet up, it begins (quite sensibly) to scream "WE COULD DIE UP HERE". One must climb from a different place. Call it faith or hope.

I was given the terrible gift of living in that place as my diagnosis was made and treatment began. Now, as I'm getting back toward "normal", how do I continue to live, make choices, confront my limitations from a place of my body-truth, of faith? I'm approaching the season of my employer's annual fundraising gala, an infamous time-sink. I so want to live more healthfully into the many needs of this event. How?

Well, tonight I'll start by getting off the computer, doing my physical therapy, and remembering the gifts of the weekend: sun, rich words, a game with my sweetie, time with friends. I'll lay this question before God. Then I'll drink chamomile tea and leave the answers for tomorrow.

Rolling Through Half-Way

I've made it to the mid-point of treatment. Either my energy has improved a good deal or I've gotten used to "the new normal". There are signs of change. At work, the annual gauntlet of January grant deadlines reminds me that last year I was putting in 50 & 60 hour weeks. Not this year - not even possible. I've come to think of this as God's way to help me not overwork -- a blessing if I choose to see it as such.

I'm still in negotiation with the blastocytes over Who Really Owns the real estate of my intestines, which has meant a fairly restricted diet since November: no sugar, alcohol, potatoes, milk products, flour, etc. We're depriving them of things they might like to eat, making it easier for caustic herbs to scrub 'em out. Last week I got to add parsnips & quinoa into the menu. I never imagined that parsnips would seem exciting, but lemme tell you, mashed parsnips with garlic and olive oil casts a bright light in a world without potatoes.

Here's what supporting my healing these days:

• Bicycling - pretty much every day. We just tricked out my cycle with more equipment. I think it looks like a reindeer. James proposes wildebeast. See pic above & suggest your own antlered critter.
• Silent retreats - once a month at a Benedictine convent in Lacey. Spaciousness to remember what my source really is, to put my little list of worries into a bigger context.
• Physical therapy - a juicy blend of yoga & pt, Miss Adrienne is addressing several long-term movement problems in addition to recovering from the mastectomy. It's Fabulous!
• The wonderful warm wishes of friends and family - yup. You help.

Here's sending wishes for a healthy and rich 2010 to you all.