Hope and Poison

flower sidewalk

Feb 25, 2017

I had tea with a friend yesterday and he told me that the word “poison” was a word he had trouble with in my writing. I said, yes, it’s a hard word, a harsh word, but that I had used it consciously. The more I think about it though, the more depth I’ve encountered with it, and the consciousness I thought I had with the use of this word has been questioned and deepened.

Michael is being poisoned, and it’s a word we both use. It dissolves any sense of denial that we might have about what is happening, about the reality of this treatment he is undergoing. But as my friend said, it is also the poison that heals. And that is also the truth.

I’m not ungrateful for this treatment. Without it, Michael would be dead within the next several months. I’m also not ungrateful to the people who give us these treatments. They work hard and they are saving lives, and by and large, they are truly dedicated and caring.

But it’s such a primitive way of healing, this poison we consume. I remember going to an event at which Bill Moyers was present because he wanted to use the work for his series on healing. The presentation was about cancers and the way we heal them. The refrain of the song throughout the piece was “Cut, poison, burn!” and the woman who sang this piece performed it with anger and intensity.

It really struck me at the time, and it strikes me still. It’s all we’ve got, this cutting, poisoning, and burning our way through diseased bodies. This is the way Western medicine works right now, and we pay a high price for this healing.

Michael and I have spent most of our adult lives studying and using healing methods that are gentle and in alignment with nature. We have used alternative medicine as ancillary treatment for all kinds of illnesses, including cancer. We know of people who’ve chosen to pursue nothing but alternative treatment for cancer, and we know of several of those who have died. We also know the stories of those who have healed through diet, herbs, energy medicine, and meditation alone.

So we come to Michael’s treatment with a huge load of ambivalence. There are no alternative treatments for Amyloidosis so there doesn’t seem to be any way around our current path. But it’s hard. We believe so deeply in healing from that other realm, from the realm of energy and intention, from the realm of Spirit, that to subject ourselves to this system is difficult and disturbing.

And it does feel like a subjugation, a surrendering of ourselves, to a system that doesn’t understand us or our underlying ambivalence. How can it? It’s built around a method of treatment that gives little credence to diet or herbs or energy fields or any of the methods that we’ve seen work. It’s impersonal and lacks the individualized attention that is one of the hallmarks of alternative medicine. We are just a cog in a giant machine that at its base, cannot care for us in any other way. There are simply too many people to treat and too little time.

Now we’re starting to see the side effects of these “poisons that heal.” Michael is very tired, much more tired than he’s been before, and he can’t seem to sleep well enough to feel better. Even on the few nights when he does sleep well, it’s not enough to allay his underlying fatigue. His eyes look sick. They are red and swollen and they itch and bruise easily. His skin tears with the slightest rubbing against a harsh surface. He still can’t eat much of anything that doesn’t have a sauce around it, something to make it easy to chew and swallow.

In spite of this, Michael and I spend a fair amount of time every day meditating on health and healing. It is what we can do, what anyone can do, to help themselves heal. It brings the light of Spirit into a process that could lack that light without our conscious intentions. And it allows us to hope.

My friend reminded me of a quote from Meher Baba who exhorted his followers to “have hope,” and I found my ambivalence again. Though hope can be the perfect support for any endeavor, it can also bring an influx of desire and wanting with it. And when that kind of hope gets frustrated it leads to anger, fear, and despair.

So I’ve been careful in my hoping, and I think that is exactly what Meher Baba would have supported. As my friend writes to me today, “It is not ‘blind hope’ (like ‘blind faith’) or ‘grasping/craving hope’ that he is advocating, but a hope informed by the reality of grace and mercy.”

I do hope, we both hope, but we hope knowing that we have no control over the outcome of our hoping, that things may turn out very differently from what we hope. And knowing this, with full acceptance, we surrender to reality just as it is, over and over again, trusting that the larger plan of Spirit will bring us to exactly the place we are supposed to be.

Adjustment

Adjustment

February 13, 2017

Another Monday, another day of chemo. I’m finding myself absolutely astonished at how people adapt. Something that was initially horrifying has become routine. And though I know that the horror is still lurking just under the surface, we’ve come to accept Mondays as our “chemo day.”

There are “short chemo days” every other week, and “long chemo days” every other week. And then there are “really long chemo days” once a month. The short chemo days involve only two poisons, while the long ones involve 3 poisons that take longer because they have to be delivered sequentially in case Michael has some sort of adverse reaction to one of them. The really long days involve four poisons, and they are brutal. They last anywhere between 5-7 hours depending on how fast the pharmacy can deliver the drugs. It is agonizingly boring waiting and sitting in our cubicle while trying to entertain ourselves through what has become just another chemo day. The patient gets to sit in a comfortable reclining chair while the support person suffers in a hard-seated straight back chair. I take pillows and sit on the floor from time to time in order to get through these long days but even that is hard and uncomfortable. Still, I’m glad Michael gets a good chair. It’s bad enough for him without adding even more discomfort to these difficult days.

Today was a short day and we’ve become ridiculously grateful to leave the chemo unit in under 2 hours. And today, for the first time, Michael feels he can walk all the way from the chemo unit to the parking ramp with me. We walk slowly, very slowly for my usual gait, holding hands while I listen to him breathe heavily through his protective face mask.

But at least he can walk! In fact, we’ve made it around our block twice now in the past two days with this same slow pace while enjoying this oddly warm February weather. It’s the first time he’s walked outside in the past 5 months and it feels good for both of us to be able to do this. We even went to a movie yesterday, face mask in place, bacterial wipes in my purse, and off to the earliest 10am show in order to reduce exposure to other people. A simulation of normalcy that allows both of us to feel a bit more balanced, a bit more like the couple we used to be.

But the illusion of normalcy is inevitably interrupted by various realities. Michael’s eyes are being attacked by this illness. Sometimes there are huge dark bruises around them, sometimes they are an ugly swollen red and purple. Most of the time they itch and tears continually fall down his cheeks while his body tries to moisten eye tissue that is simply too dry. His skin is so thin that even a slight scrape becomes a bleeding leaky mess that requires layers of ointments and bandages for several weeks before it heals. Now he tires easily, has trouble eating, and of course he has lost his hair. We are learning to live with all of it.

I’m no longer sad all the time though sometimes I wonder where all the sadness went. Again, I suspect it’s hiding just under the surface of this new life we’re living, quietly nestled in beside the horror. Regardless, I’m amazed by the human capacity for adaptation. When faced with horror, even life-threatening horror, all of us try to adapt. We strive to live, we seek balance within the unbalanced, and somehow we make it work.

Sometimes I wonder how many more adjustments will be required of us, of him, and of me. Michael is more accepting since his enlightenment, and thank god for that. He still has his initial human reaction to things but then settles into acceptance and calm. I, on the other hand, must go through various whirlings of emotion and thought in order to accommodate this new reality. I am learning to adjust though the cost is often high in terms of the emotional turbulence that plays in the back of my mind.

This all puts me in mind of the Adjustment card in the Thoth tarot deck. It is the Justice card of most other tarot decks and they both speak of balance. But it is important to understand that it is a precarious balance requiring absolute stillness and concentration to maintain it. According to various interpretations of this card, the slightest distracting thought can destroy this balance, this adjustment.

Now I am excruciatingly aware of the thoughts that upset this balance and I find that any thoughts of the past or the future are dangerous, for both are filled with unreality.

The past often leads back to the good times — to vacations at the ocean or the mountains, to raising three good boys, to the adventure of creating a healing center together, to dancing with a partner who knew my every move, to a daily life that was generally kind and calm. The past is also a place of regret. For who among us doesn’t regret some of the choices we’ve made, some of the moments we’ve lost, some of the harsh words we’ve spoken?

The future is even more fraught and I’m learning to be suspicious of the inevitable expectations that arise. Looking ahead is either filled with hopes and fantasies about returning to a more golden time, or it is full of the darkness of deterioration, grief, loss, and death.

So now Adjustment is my newest teacher in this long process. She is a harsh mistress for she demands greater consciousness in every moment in order to maintain this still and balanced center. If I forget her lesson, I can suddenly find myself in anxiety, sorrow, or despair.

It is this constant dance of Adjustment between centeredness and uncenteredness which is the instruction here, and it is this constant effort that is the real work — the coming back to center again and again and again. Living in the present moment has never been a greater challenge and yet it is exactly this that every spiritual philosophy exhorts us to accomplish.

There is some kind of Adjustment, some kind of Justice, to be found in these gyrations. There is some kind of learning that only great harshness and suffering can teach. It is such a deep lesson, this learning to be present, and after the painful gyrations I return again to gratitude. For in this pain, I know I am being taught exactly what I need to learn.