Sweet nectar

A bothersome thought has been stewing in my subconsciousness these past few weeks. When it finally broke into my conscious mind this past week, I was too busy to dedicate much time to the hodge podge of ideas and figure out how I felt and what I thought. But yesterday, I saw my therapist, who helped me sort it out.

My cancer experience this time feels different. I'm not as anxious nor as consumed with trying to understand what I'm going through. Last year, my mind was constantly churing, processing the shock of the diagnosis and the treatment, contemplating what was happening to my body (and finding ways to explain it to others), reaffirming my faith, contemplating my death, evaluating my relationships and wondering what I could/should be doing.

All that activity in my mind had me coiled up pretty tight sometimes. When I was busy figuring something out, I probably looked like a deer in the headlights. Many times, I'd wake in the middle of the night and my mind would view it as an opportunity to once again work on figuring out my cancer experience. As a result, I had several restless or sleepless nights.

But this time, after the initial shock at the news the cancer was back and a few steroid-induced sleepless nights, my mind is, for the most part, mysteriously calm. While at times I'm still contemplative about my situation and my future, thinking about them doesn't make my mind swirl. I'm sleeping well and don't think about cancer all the time.

I was more fearful and anxious during my remission when I was worried the cancer would come back. But I have it again, and one of my worst fears has been realized, and I'm composed?

This mysterious calm bothered me because I wondered if I'd given up; letting cancer have its way with me. As a result, I thought I wasn't actively and consciously fighting the cancer any more. That worried me because I felt I needed to actively fight in order to survive.

Or perhaps, this calm is because I've been in cancer treatment long enough, the disease has become "normal" in my life. This idea bothers me because I don't want cancer to be considered normal. It doesn't deserve that status.

While it would make sense that I'd be more relaxed if I were going through treatment in London again, because I'd be familiar with the processes, the people and the hospital, I'm in a new city with a new set of variables. I travel quite a distance from home to an unfamiliar city with a new cancer centre, doctor, nurse, chemo suite and set of processes. To top it off, I've got all the different protocols and experiences related to the clinical trial drug.

When I presented this idea that'd been bothering me to my therapist yesterday, she provided a new insight to my reaction. She explained that perhaps because I mentally, physically and spiritually worked through the cancer experience last time, I've become a master at it. Since I'm a logical thinker and write this blog, I had to fully understand what I was going through and make sense of it all. As a result, I understand myself better, learned a lot of lessons, reassessed my life and cancer's place in it.

That's not to say, I don't have more to learn, but like a karate master, I've been through the experience, learned the lessons and uncovered some wisdom to personally draw on, and hopefully share with others.

So, my mastery of the cancer experience provides the calm I'm experiencing. I don't have to spend the same energy learning the valuable lessons I gleaned last time. Oh, I still have lots of learning left to do and I'll continue to be contemplative (because that's what I do), but I can draw on the strength of the knowledge I previously discovered.

That interpretation of my situation made me smile. Being a master (it's still hard for humble me to say that) allows me to focus on the living part of being in treatment instead of the cancer portion. That's a good thing. I only hope that by not focusing on the cancer, I don't lose sight of some of the lessons its taught me. I think I've incorporated many of them into my life - making me a better person - but the insights were hard won and worth keeping.

Examining my situation another way, perhaps I've also learned to let go of my cancer, over which I have no control, to a higher power. Let go and let God.
 
My therapist, S, recited an interesting poem yesterday about a child bringing broken toys to God to fix. But the child wanted to help and didn't let go of the items. But God couldn't fix them when the child would not relinquish control. Perhaps, I've learned to let go of the cancer and place it in God's hands.
 
As for the perceived idea that I need to fight cancer to beat it, I'm not sure that works for me any more (and for many cancer patients). It's so difficult to just get through the physical side effects of, not only the disease, but the treatment, that the idea of fighting becomes overwhelming. Yet that's what society says we should do.
 
But it's hard to figure out how to fight. Then there's the fatigue if the cancer battle is too long. In addition, there's the sense of failure if the cancer doesn't go away or comes back. I asked myself, "What did I do wrong? What didn't I do? Why did the cancer come back so quickly? Didn't I fight hard enough?"
 
But perhaps it's not about fighting at all. Maybe it's a peaceful fight, like Ghandi. It's tolerating the side effects, taking care of myself both physically and mentally, surrounding myself with loving, supportive people and creating peace in my life. I'll let the drugs do the fighting. I'll do the living.
 
S shared another interesting story yesterday about some monkeys. Scientists needed these monkeys to conduct some research, so they set up a serious of traps in the jungle to catch them alive. These contraptions used a rare, sweet nectar the monkeys loved to entice them to put their hands/paws up into the trap. Once the monkey groped inside to retrieve the nectar, their hands became stuck, allowing the scientists to capture them.
 
If only the monkeys stopped reaching and grasping for the nectar, and instead calmed down and squeezed their fingers together so their hands could slide out, they'd be free - and they'd still have the nectar to lick.
 
Moral of the story: Perhaps if I stop fighting the cancer and struggling, I can be free to enjoy the sweet things in life. Interesting concept.
 
I don't know how many days I have to live (then again, none of us do), but I do know that I want to experience the sweet, rare nectar my life has to offer. So perhaps my calm, more accepting attitude towards my cancer situation will allow me time to enjoy more experiences and make the most of life.
 
May you find the sweet, nectar in your life.
 
Tina