Beautiful Nurses Pray for the Patient

 

 Beautiful Nurses Pray for the Patient

October 9, 2010 - Comic Relief from The Onion

OK, this one's a bit out of the ordinary for my blog, but I can't resist posting a link to this "news" story from The Onion, the internet satirical newspaper. It's called "Teen With Cancer Vows It Won't Keep Her From Being Mean, Moody Little S**t."

(Sorry for the profanity, both in the headline and in the article, but you'll see how it makes literary sense in this case.)

The article gave me a good chuckle, but it also points out how we who have cancer are who we are. The disease strikes randomly, without regard to personal virtue (or lack thereof).

It's also a sly send-up of all the adulatory talk that goes on about people with cancer. When you get the disease, you find that people are a little more inclined than usual to say complimentary things about you.

Was anyone ever lauded for approaching their so-called "battle" with cancer like a total weenie? I'm sure many have taken precisely that approach. But they never say anything about that when they're hanging the medal around your neck at the Relay For Life.

Don't get me wrong. Cancer can be transformative. I believe it has been in my case, and mostly for the better (although - true confessions time - four and a half years later, I could stand to ditch the procrastinating, devil-may-care approach to personal financial management that I fell into during my chemo-treatment days).

For all the times we survivors may joke about "playing the cancer card," the diagnosis doesn't give us a free pass for treating others with disrespect.

I suppose the experience of dealing with cancer does lead some of us to rethink, maybe even reform, our lives. Others, maybe less so.

Are we somehow obliged to approach our disease like the opportunity for transformation it just may turn out to be? I don't think so. It's an individual thing.

We all do well to try to avoid judging others in that regard. Those who want to take the weenie approach have every right to do so. And they probably still deserve a medal around their neck.

Deep down, I'm enough of a Calvinist to believe that we're all sinners, and that chemo and radiation have little effect on that particular malady.

That cure lies elsewhere.

August 3, 2010 - Clinging to the Tail of Possibility

On vacation in the Adirondacks, I read a remarkable article from the August 2 New Yorker magazine. I was tipped to the article by my brother, Jim – though I later learned from Claire that members of her hospice team have been passing it amongst themselves, causing lively discussion in their weekly staff meeting.

I think “Letting Go: What should medicine do when it can’t save your life,” by Atul Gawande, may set off at least as much debate as his June 1, 2009 article, “The Cost Conundrum: What a Texas town can teach us about health care.” (which I discussed in a July 20, 2009 blog entry, “Where Not to Get Sick.”)

Gawande is a general surgeon who practices at Boston’s Brigham and Women’s Hospital, and who teaches at Harvard Medical School. He’s operated on a lot of cancer patients. Some benefitted mightily from his expertise, and others’ last days would likely have been more tolerable without the invasive procedures. Yet, hindsight is always 20/02, and ahead of time it’s always a tough call.

It’s his physician’s perspective that leads Dr. Gawande to question the lack of agreed-upon procedures for end-of-life decision-making in America. For a country with some of the most advanced medical care in the world, our practices in this area are remarkably haphazard.

Gawande points out that the financial costs of successful cancer treatment can typically be graphed as a bell curve: there’s a steep climb from the time of diagnosis to a sort of plateau, as very expensive scans and treatments are deployed. Then, there’s a drop-off in costs as the patient recovers. In the case of patients whose treatment is unsuccessful, the frequent result is half a bell curve. We throw some very big money at solving problems that are – statistically speaking – unlikely to be solved, sending the line of the graph soaring upwards. Because it’s a human life at stake, doctors typically follow the lead of patients and their families, ordering such last-ditch treatments if that’s what they want. In many such cases, the patient dies anyway, often after many days, or even weeks, of intensive care. If the ICU stay is long, those days can end up costing as much as – sometimes even more than – the cancer treatment itself.

These are agonizingly difficult decisions, some of the toughest in medicine. When to pursue extraordinary, experimental treatment? When to throw in the towel and admit that maintaining a reasonable quality of life for the patient whose health is in a tailspin is more important than the increasingly quixotic search for a cure?

Gawande remarks that nearly all categories of dying patients and their families – with one exception – are ill-prepared to wrestle with such complex, emotionally fraught decisions. When, as too often happens, everyone’s energies are single-mindedly fixed on the search for a cure, doctors fail to raise the what-if question of death at all. It seems to them premature. Yet, when that likelihood suddenly looms large, and quick decisions have to be made about such interventions as feeding tubes and ventilators, patients and families scramble to wrap their minds around the new state of affairs. Unable to achieve unanimity, a great many families fall back to the default position, which is to press on relentlessly in search of a cure – even though the doctors may know, full well, that chances of extending such patients’ lives by more than a few weeks are slim.

Granted – as Claire reminds me, based on her hospice ministry experience – there are some cultural and ethnic traditions that inform this process. Orthodox Jews, for example, typically make decisions within a moral framework that nearly always opts for treatment, no matter what the chances of success. African-Americans and Hispanics, bearing cultural memories of parents and grandparents to whom the system too often denied advanced care, are more likely than others to press for it, even against medical advice.

Referring to science writer Stephen Jay Gould’s oft-quoted 1985 essay, “The Median Isn’t the Message” – in which Gould tells the story of how, upon learning he had mesothelioma, he decided to take his place among the tiny percentage of patients who survive, and did – Gawande speaks of the “tail” of the statistical curve. That’s the narrow portion that stretches a good distance into the future, and includes the fortunate few patients who manage to beat the odds and survive a deadly cancer. It’s good to remember, when faced with such stories, that the statistical median is just that – a median. Always, there are some who do better than clinical expectations, others worse. An awful lot of people, though, are trying to ride the tail of statistical probability – far more than will end up actually being on it. Gawande writes:

“I think of Gould and his essay every time I have a patient with a terminal illness. There is almost always a long tail of possibility, however thin. What’s wrong with looking for it? Nothing, it seems to me, unless it means we have failed to prepare for the outcome that’s vastly more probable. The problem is that we’ve built our medical system and our culture around the long tail. We’ve created a multimillion-dollar edifice for dispensing the medical equivalent of lottery tickets – and have only the rudiments of a system to prepare patients for the near-certainty that those tickets will not win. Hope is not a plan, but hope is our plan.”

I mentioned above that Gawande identifies one category of patients and their families who are better prepared for end-of-life decision-making. He’s talking about those who have received hospice services. Alone among the specialties of modern medicine, the hospice movement is not afraid to face death head-on and talk about it with patients – well before the anxious moment in the little family waiting room just off the ICU, when a doctor (or, just as likely, a critical-care nurse) sits down on the vinyl-covered furniture with the family and informs them a decision needs to be made about discontinuing life-support.

Patients who have signed on for hospice care have already decided they’re not going to cling to the slim tail of possibility any longer. They’re going to strive for the best quality of life they can construct in the here-and-now, placing their hope somewhere other than joining the tiny percentage who defy medical expectations.

I can’t begin to recall the number of grieving family members I’ve spoken with who told me they wished their loved one had gone on hospice earlier. Claire confirms for me, from her experience working with bereaved family members, that this is a nearly-universal comment. Curiously, the vast majority of hospice patients live no longer than a few days. That’s not because hospice care is somehow bad for them – quite the opposite. It’s because, by the time most patients make this decision, they’re already so far gone that hospice functions as little more than a transfer-station between the hospital and the funeral home.

It’s not meant to be that way. The hospice ideal is for weeks or even months of active, but mostly palliative, treatment. The hope is that the hospice experience will provide a gracious space for patients and their families to work through the full range of issues – medical, emotional, spiritual – they need to deal with at the end of life. Surprising as it may seem, there are even some patients who go on hospice for a time, then go off it – their improvement has been such that the “six months or less to live” criterion of hospice admission no longer applies to them.

So, signing up for hospice care is not giving up, as some fear. Far from it.

The key to a higher quality of life for the dying, Gawande points out, is communication. One of the things hospice team members do exceptionally well is to encourage patients and their families to share their thoughts and feelings about dying, then to listen attentively and respectfully to what they say. Next, they help them think through what goals they have for the rest of their lives, and do whatever they can to help them attain them. “You don’t ask, ‘What do you want when you are dying?’” explains one expert. “You ask, ‘If time becomes short, what is most important to you?’” Gawande observes:

“People die only once. They have no experience to draw upon. They need doctors and nurses who are willing to have the hard discussions and to say what they have seen, who will help people to prepare for what is to come – and to escape a warehoused oblivion that few really want.”

The asking of such questions was meant to be a central part of the new health-care legislation recently passed by Congress, but politics blocked it. The Tea Party mob ignorantly slapped the label “death panels”on the funding for these vital conversations, then pressured Congressional leaders to excise it from the bill – which they did, so as not to lose the bigger battle. This is a terrible miscarriage of justice for the dying: the sacrifice of a proven care approach that offered real promise for enhanced quality of life.

When the only goal worth talking about is to beat the disease, Gawande concludes – no matter what that may mean in terms of unproven, experimental treatments – the statistical outcome in nearly every case is going to be disastrous. Which general would you rather have leading the troops into battle? George Armstrong Custer or Robert E. Lee?

“Death is the enemy. But the enemy has superior forces. Eventually, it wins. And, in a war that you cannot win, you don’t want a general who fights to the point of total annihilation. You don’t want Custer. You want Robert E. Lee, someone who knew how to fight for territory when he could and how to surrender when you couldn’t, someone who understood that the damage is greatest if all you do is fight to the bitter end.”

This article is a good read, for anyone whose life has been touched by cancer – either their own or that of a loved one.

Death, Blood, Sex, Corruption

There, now that I have your attention with that headline, time to disappoint you, because I am just seriously sick and tired and fed up. I'm sick and tired of the incompetence of President (sic) Obama and his incompetent Democratic Party cronies. I'm sick and tired of all the blood and gore and sex on television, in music, and in movies. I'm sick and tired of all the negativity constantly bombarding my home via the mass media.

For too long, I've even been a part of the problem in some ways. This little blog of mine has talked politics, society, religion, education, philosophy and other topics in the news or of general interest, and has often taken on it's own cynical or negative tones. Hell, it's right there in the first paragraph. Go back and re-read in case you missed it.

Well, it's over. I's done had me all's I can take, and I can't takes me no more. This whining and bitching and moaning and crying over negativity and the disturbing, disgusting, revolting, lying hate-mongers that push it constantly is over and done with as of the end of this article.

From now on, this blog is going to be all sunshine and light and happiness. That's right, and if you can't stand it, go turn on your TV and tune in to CNN, or surf your web browser out to Huffington's Post, or Google a speech by Al Gore or Obama, or buy a copy of the New York Times. Plenty of places for you to find bad news and get your fix.

But this blog of mine is changing it's tone and tenor, knowingly, willingly and intentionally. From now on, you can turn here when all the rest of the crap is just too much. When the market is down, the pols are lying to you, the pseudo-stars are self-destructing, wars are raging, crime is running rampant, the blood is spilling, and the talking heads are blah-blah-blahing about it all, and you need a refuge, this is where to turn.

After this entry, I am going to begin regularly posting stories of a generally positive nature. There will be human interest. There will be comedy. There will be food, fun and frivolity. There will be heroism and simple neighborliness. And most of all, there will be the two things without which there is no reason to live: family and faith.

There will still be the occasional political commentary when that is most appropriate, right around election times. But that commentary will be to the positive regarding individuals and ideas that I feel are important and uplifting, and will be presented in that light. No attacking, no mocking, no sabre-rattling here any longer. Just real ideas and real opinions and honest evaluation presented for the hoped-for betterment of our neighborhoods, our town, our nation.

The stories that I present here at the blog will not always be my own. Whenever I find something of interest out on the web and it fits the new theme of positivity, then I will share it as much in it's entirety as fits comfortably on this blog, with a link to any continuation at the original site, and with an appropriate acknowledgement of the original writer.

If there is anyone out there who decides to write something of their own that fits this positive, uplifting spirit, something involving family or faith or culture or humor or life, and who wishes to share it with others, feel free to submit the item to me here at the blog, and I will consider it for print. If anyone wishes to contribute regularly, let me know that too. My work and family time don't always enable me to come up with original postings as regularly as I would like.

Don't worry about murders, rapes, assaults, drug overdoses, celebrity misbehavior, political scandal, divorce, disaster, destruction, and death. They'll still be going on, and everyone from the local news to Entertainment Tonight will keep you informed if that is what you are looking for at any point.

But when you want to smile, to laugh, to learn, to be uplifted, come here to this blog and replenish your soul and your spirit. We need a place like that, a place that guarantees it on a daily basis. Hell, I need it, and so I am going to provide it to myself, for myself, and for anyone else who feels the same and who could use something good in their lives.

As I type this, the sun is shining. It's one of the most beautiful days around here in the past few weeks. Temperatures are moderate for early summer, humidity is low, a light breeze floats through the air. There is a sense of peace and serenity around me at this particular moment, and of refreshment and renewal. A lightness of being and a song in my heart. All that, and God is in His heaven. And that's just how we're going to keep it, at least around here.

Can I get an 'Amen'?

May 16, 2010 - What To Say or Do When a Friend Gets Cancer

Here’s a helpful video clip from the Today Show, featuring Lori Hope, author of the new book, Help Me Live: 20 Things People with Cancer Want You to Know:

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When I was sick, I was so fortunate to have so many friends from the church bring over food for the family. We never got tired of those gestures, repeated every other day or so for months. It wasn’t an economic thing; it was a way of giving us time with each other.

Of the clueless comments cited by survivors in the video clip, the one I remember hearing is “I know exactly how you’re feeling.” To me, that’s probably the number-one thing not to say. I’s meant to be a helpful comment, but it’s so patently untrue. Every person’s journey is different. Sure, there are points of commonality, but we do well to respect each other’s differences.

I also remember people quizzing me about what I might have done that brought on cancer. Is there any dietary or environmental link that leads to lymphoma, they wanted to know. I figure these comments had more to do with the person making them than with me. They saw what I was going through, and they were trying to reassure themselves that the same thing wasn’t likely to happen to them.

I do have to confess, though, that when I hear of someone diagnosed with lung cancer, I really have to refrain from asking if the person ever smoked. Maybe it’s a carryover from my experience with my father, who died of smoking-induced emphysema complicated by lung cancer. I want to reassure myself I’m not a risk.

Whether the loved one persisted in unhealthy, cancer-causing behaviors is neither here nor there. Such a question has nothing to do with begin supportive. It’s more an attempt to satisfy our own morbid curiosity, and to allay our irrational fears. So, I really work hard to avoid asking that one, myself.

August 1, 2009 - In the Now

I’m sitting on the screened-in porch of our little house in the big woods – what they call, here in the Adirondacks, our camp. These are the waning days of my vacation.

I’m joined here today by our college-age daughter, Ania. She’ll be with me through the weekend, before we make the long drive home on Monday.

I picked Ania up at the train station in Fort Edward, near Glens Falls, late Friday night. The train was nearly 3 hours late – good ol’ Amtrak – so by the time we drove the couple hours back up to our camp, we didn’t get to turn in till 3 a.m. Needless to say, we both slept through the morning.

Ania’s working on a jigsaw puzzle, one she remembers from when she was much smaller. Of all the things we could be doing, this is what she wants to do right now, and that’s fine with me. This is her time, and I’m happy to simply enjoy it with her.

Turns out the puzzle is missing a couple of pieces. That doesn’t faze her. To Ania, it’s all about the process, not the product.

I’ve had a week and a half to ease myself into relaxation mode, but Ania has the gift of being able to jump right into it. She’s much better at living in the now than I am. I take a lot longer to shed all the to-do list items I typically carry around in my head.

Living in the now is a survivorship skill. Some of us are just slow learners.

June 25, 2009 - Farrah, Jane and "Let It Be"

News has just come through, today, of the death of actor and model Farrah Fawcett. I wrote about her cancer struggle in my May 16th blog entry. Her television documentary, Farrah’s Story, was a graphic account of the last months of her life.

While the film attracted some negative comments from critics, who branded it as reality-show exploitation, I saw it differently. It seemed to me a courageous (although rough-around-the-edges) statement from a dying woman whose deepest desire was to “not go gentle into that good night.”

Sure, Farrah’s story was hardly typical. She was an enormously wealthy woman with the means to jet all over the world seeking alternative cancer treatments. She was also more vocal than some about the problem of how cancer was affecting her physical beauty (hardly surprising in a woman who, in her prime, was a fashion icon). Yet, whose cancer story is ever typical, anyway? We’re all individuals, and in our respective responses to this disease we each display our own interior beauty.

This morning I walked across the street to St. Mary’s By-the-Sea Episcopal Church to attend the funeral of a neighbor, Jane, who died at mid-life after having been diagnosed about a year ago with a pretty-much untreatable form of cancer. She left behind two teenage daughters and a whole churchful of friends.

Jane designed the funeral service herself, down to every last detail. While it wove in and out of the Book of Common Prayer liturgy, the musical selections and personal testimonies were hardly typical funeral fare. We sang along with the choir to Pete Seeger’s “Turn, Turn, Turn” and listened to a talented guitarist sing the jaunty medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (as styled by the by the late Hawaiian singer Israel Kamakawiwo’ole) and “What a Wonderful World” that’s been making the rounds of indie singers.



We finished by singing the Beatles’ “Let It Be” – a baby boomer anthem if ever there was one. I’ve always heard the song’s mention of “mother Mary” was inspired by a dream Paul McCartney had of his own mother, whose name was Mary. After checking it out on Wikipedia, I learned his mother died when he was 14, of cancer. As she came to Paul in the dream, he was blessed with an overwhelming feeling of comfort and peace. According to Wikipedia, he later told an interviewer: “It was great to visit with her again. I felt very blessed to have that dream. So that got me writing ‘Let It Be’.” Speaking to another interviewer, he shared how in the dream his mother had comforted him: “It will be all right, just let it be.”

Some have assumed, I know, that “mother Mary” in the song must surely be Mary, the mother of Jesus, but of course that’s not the case. So, it doesn’t make sense, as some have done, to sing it in church as a celebration of that Mary. It turns out, though, in this context, “Let It Be” has a compelling personal (if not exactly liturgical) rightness.

From what I know of Jane – a deep-thinking, highly organized person – it’s likely she knew this story, and included it in the service for that reason. It’s the message she would have wanted her own daughters to take away from the experience of losing their mother:

“And when the night is cloudy,
there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”

May 16, 2009 - Farrah's Story

It’s hard to believe it’s been a week already since my last blog entry. Life has been overflowing, of late – not so much with rich and wonderful experiences as with the sort of minutiae that distract from the main thing.

Anyway, last night I did manage to take some time to view Farrah’s Story on NBC TV. For several years, Hollywood celebrity Farrah Fawcett has had anal cancer that’s now metastasized to her liver. Her prognosis is not good. For the past couple years, she’s brought a video camera along on most of her medical visits. Her intention, at first, was simply to keep a personal record of the complex medical information the doctors were feeding her, but eventually it occurred to her to make a documentary out of the footage.

This is the program that premiered on NBC last night. As the documentary airs, she’s no longer receiving chemotherapy, but is said to be receiving other anti-cancer drugs. It does seem, sadly, that her doctors have just about run out of options.

The film records Farrah saying, long before she reached this stage in her treatments: “So I say to God – because it is, after all, in his hands – ‘It is seriously time for a miracle.’”

It’s a gritty, realistic documentary. It pulls few punches in displaying the pain and exhaustion that so often go along with aggressive cancer treatments. So eager was Farrah to receive the most cutting-edge treatments that she left the care of her Los Angeles doctors for a time, and flew to Germany. There she had found a surgeon willing to undertake the tricky removal of her anal tumor, as well as another doctor who was willing to directly destroy her liver tumors, one by one, with a painful laser ablation treatment that involved sticking needles directly into her abdomen.

Farrah evidently wanted to show it all: a rather surprising move, for a movie star who’s spent her life carefully managing her public image. “There were things that I thought were too invasive to film,” Farrah’s friend and collaborator Alana Stewart explained, in an interview. “But Farrah said, ‘Film it. This is what cancer is.’”

The treatments seem to have bought her some time, little more. Hers is the story of a cancer survivor who's determined to do everything possible – even pushing the limits of the possible – to aggressively turn back her disease.

Because Farrah Fawcett is who she is – a world-famous celebrity, and a very wealthy woman – she has access to treatment options few other patients can consider. The film portrays her flying back and forth to Germany on a chartered jet, and staying, during the time of her treatments, in a picturesque alpine chalet that looks like it comes straight out of Heidi. Here’s a woman who’s lived her adult life at the pinnacle of privilege, but at the end of the day, she’s like any other cancer patient. Cancer is a great leveler, that way.

Towards the conclusion of the film, Farrah even loses her trademark mane of blonde hair. I found it a strange experience to watch some of her close friends describing what a horrible sacrifice this was for her, as though a coiffure were life itself – but then, I had to remind myself, these are Hollywood people. Their aging faces display the craft of the cosmetic surgeon. For them, physical beauty takes on disproportionate importance. It seems less so for Farrah herself, actually, than for those around her.

In the film, Farrah’s longtime companion Ryan O’Neal pays tribute to her inner beauty – and that’s the impression I’m left with, from this rather roughly-edited, but very realistic film. Farrah’s Story is the tale of a survivor. Whether or not she gets the medical miracle she tells God it’s “seriously time for,” there are miracles aplenty of strength, perseverance, community and love.

April 8, 2009 - Michael J. Fox

Michael J. Fox was the guest on Monday’s The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I watched it a day later on our DVR.

Fox, of course, is a Parkinson’s Disease survivor. I found him inspiring. Take a look and see for yourself:

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Michael J. Fox
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I was struck by the fact that Michael kept his 1991 diagnosis secret for seven years. Undoubtedly, that was a tough time for him. He was one of the hottest talents in Hollywood, but he was leading a secret life as a chronic-disease patient. The knowledge of his slowly-worsening situation was hanging over his head.

Fox tells how he went a little crazy during those years – drinking too much, that sort of thing. But then, he came to a point where he grew comfortable with his diagnosis. He stopped fighting it. He learned to go with the flow. I wonder if that coincided with his going public with his medical situation?

It’s always tough to live a lie. Little by little, it tears you up inside. I’ve never regretted going public with my cancer diagnosis, as soon as I was sure that’s what it was.

I could relate to these words of his: “Once you accept it and fix it in space and say, ‘This is this and it’s not anything else and it’s not going to go away any time soon, and you're going to have to deal with it’ then you open up to all the stuff that’s around it and say, ‘Wow, this gives me an opportunity to help people out, this gives me an opportunity to look at things in a way that I might not have looked at them before...’”

Fox even gave voice to the cancer survivor’s mantra, at one point: “It is what it is.” How many times have I heard people with cancer say that?

Note it, and move on.

There’s a kind of strength that comes from facing our life-situation honestly, and trying to live as resolutely as we can in the present. It does little good to pine for our pre-diagnosis days, nor does it help us to obsess about the future. The art of living with a chronic disease lies in living in the now.

Accept it. Fix it in space, as Fox says. Admit, “This is this and it’s not anything else and it’s not going to go away.” Then, go searching for the blessings that are still around: and there are many.

Thanks, Michael. You’re a great example for all of us.

March 22, 2009 - Waeger Still Wins

Another cancer survivor whose blog I’ve been following has succumbed to his disease. Dan Waeger, a young man with lung cancer, died last Monday, March 16. I’m a little behind on my blog reading, so I only just realized it.

(Prayers and good wishes go out to you, Meg. From your blog, it certainly does appear that you and Dan had a very special relationship indeed. No doubt you’ll miss him terribly.)

The blog Dan and his fiancee Meg have been writing is called, “Waeger Will Win.” Less than a week before Dan’s death, Meg wrote a little reflection on the meaning of winning, when it comes to cancer.

She was recalling something she’d heard Lance Armstrong say at a conference. Lance was relating a brief conversation he’d had with the chairperson of his foundation board. “This is fun,” said the executive to Lance, caught up in the enthusiasm of whatever project they were working on.

“It’s only fun if we win,” replied Lance.

Lance Armstrong is, of course, one of the most competitive people on the planet. It’s no wonder he’d view the work of curing cancer as the biggest, baddest bike race of all.

Meg offers a different perspective. She has some wise words to share about winning:

“But when Lance said that to the Livestrong audience, I remember thinking that judging victory in cancer solely by ‘winning’ is maybe worth another look. After all, many cancer survivors, like Dan, don't see the ultimate victory in being cured. There are 100s of cancers, and to ask for a cure sets a high bar, and one that may be unrealistic in our lifetime. This is not a ‘one-size-fits-all’ solution. Many cancer survivors would be ecstatic if their cancer could be managed as a chronic disease - like diabetes or AIDS. Or if genetic testing could even narrow down the treatment options so that they avoid toxic and crippling treatments as a cruel form of trial & error.

The day I heard Lance speak was about 3 weeks after we’d found out that Dan’s cancer had spread. I knew that even then, if Dan’s ‘win’ could only be fun if he was cured, than we were in trouble. If he passed on from cancer, we would surely say that he ‘lost his battle.’ But as many of you’ve pointed out, Dan’s story isn't a straight win/lose scenario. There are more ways to win than just judging the score.”

Indeed. In this life, there are winners and there are winners. Some win by conventional means, edging out a host of competitors by crossing the finish line first. Others start winning from the first moment they leave the starting line, regardless of the outcome.

We can be winners in the here and now, not just in the distant future. From everything I’ve read of Dan Waeger, he seems to have been one of those people who began winning from the first day of his diagnosis.

Faith helps create winners like Dan, of course. The Apostle Paul has something to say on that topic:

“But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.” – 2 Corinthians 4:7-12

Clay jars. Amphorae, they called them – ordinary, everyday vessels used in the ancient world to carry water, wine and all manner of other liquids. To Paul’s readers, clay jars were about as exciting as Tupperware – and just as commonplace.

Yet, this is the image he chooses to describe the treasure of the Gospel – the very treasure that enables God’s people to be “afflicted... but not crushed... perplexed, but not driven to depair,” and so on.

In the world of cancer, the winners are not only those competitors who go charging across the finish line, pedaling furiously. Somewhere back on the racecourse a rider sits under a tree, dozing in the summer sun. He will not open his eyes again. He will not cross the finish line. He doesn’t need to. The finish line has come to him.

(To Meg and all of Dan’s circle of family and friends: blessings be upon you in these days of goodbyes. Remember what goodbye means: “God be with you.”)

March 2, 2009 - Power of Blog

One of the tough realities of following cancer blogs is that, from time to time, someone you’ve come to know and respect in this strangely intimate medium dies. This is what’s happened in the “Clusterfook” blog written by Lisa, a young wife and mother who’s been dealing with ovarian cancer for several years now.

One of the last topics Lisa blogged about was what she called “power of blog” – a concept similar to power of attorney, but having to do, instead, with who would take over her blog. As she entered hospice care, she had to find someone to whom she could entrust her username and password, so as to inform the blogosphere of her death.

Her husband is not evidently much of a computer person, so she turned to a fellow blogger. On Saturday, February 28, Lisa’s friend, Karl, posted news of her death.

Just over a month ago, Lisa mused about the reactions of some readers, who said they found her blog “too depressing.” I never had that reaction, myself, as I read her words. I found Lisa consistently blunt and down-to-earth as she described her decline in health, but she seasoned those grim facts with a quirky sense of humor and a passion for living her days to the fullest.

Here are a couple of excerpts from that post of January 26:

“As heart breaking as death is, I’m doing O.K. with everything that’s happening. Do you hear any ‘woe is me?’ in my writing? Do I sound like I feel sorry for myself? Am I crying out for pity?

No, no and no.

Every day I strive for inner peace and so far I’ve found it. I consider myself one lucky chick-o-dee, perhaps I should say I’m a blessed chick-o-dee to have such calm and inner peace.

That’s not to say that I don’t cry. Crying is a release of emotion for me but I’m not crying every day. Usually I cry when having deep, heartfelt discussions with family members and friends. Those moments when we are brutally honest about how we feel about each other and say to each other the things we should be saying but usually never have the courage to say. Then the day comes when it’s too late to say what we’ve always wanted to say.

If you ask me, it’s a gift to have those opportunities right now. My advice to you is don’t wait until you are facing death to tell those dear to you how you really feel about them. Whatever is holding you back…let it go.”

In a post just prior to that one, Lisa related what it had been like to tell her 8- and 11-year-old girls (whom she calls by the pseudonyms “Cam” and “Teeny”) that she was dying:

“Telling Cam and Teeny the truth, that I’m not going to get better, was one of the most heart breaking things I’ve ever had to do. It is NOT easy to tell your children that you are dying. Listening to them cry was one of the worst things I’ve ever heard. Not being able to fix it is the worst feeling in the world....

Dude [that’s her blogging nickname for her husband] and I decided to deliver the news to the girls last Saturday afternoon, a few hours before they had to go to church. Teeny has been consistently lighting a candle for me every week and she finds a lot of comfort in going to mass with Dude. Cam doesn’t complain about going nor does she get real excited. Dude and I thought they might find some extra comfort in going to church after talking to us earlier in the afternoon.

I’ve been too sick to go to mass for a while so Dude takes the girls by himself. He said that each girl was snuggled up as close and as tight to his side as they could be during mass. And of course, Teeny lit a candle as she always does. When she got home she told me that she still believes in the hope that I’m going to get better. God, how I wish that little ray of sunshine was right....

My kids are strong but they have been dealing with cancer in their lives for five years. I hope the lessons they’ve learned and continue to learn make them stronger and don’t scar them. Although how do you tell an 8 and 11 year old there’s a lesson to be learned when their mom dies?

Well, I’ve got them surrounded by great people and a good support system that I hope pulls through for them. That’s how you do it.”

Lisa’s blog has a subtitle: “It Is What It Is.” I can remember repeating that phrase on numerous occasions, myself, during the acute phase of my illness. I can remember taking an odd sort of comfort in it. There’s something strangely liberating about shedding all the myriad worries and distractions of everyday life in order to focus on one, true thing: living as well as you can.

One of the reasons “It is what it is” is comforting is that it reflects a fundamental truth: a cancer diagnosis is a lot scarier through the windshield than it is in the rear-view mirror. Eventually you adapt, your family adapts, your friends adapt, as together you learn to face the future, whatever it may hold. A few people around us are never able to do that, and withdraw – but most manage to make the transition eventually.

Yes, it is what it is. And, sometimes, it can even be beautiful – like Lisa’s indomitable spirit. Truly, that’s the “power of blog.” Prayers and good wishes go out to all who love Lisa and miss her.

January 15, 2009 - Retirement Planning

Yesterday, Claire and I returned from Princeton Theological Seminary, where we attended a two-and-a-half-day Pre-Retirement Seminar sponsored by the Presbyterian Church’s Board of Pensions. Not that we have plans to retire anytime soon. That, God-willing-and-the-cancer-don’t-flare-up, is 15 years off at least. We went because the Board of Pensions encourages ministers over 50 to attend one of these conferences, and to bring their spouses with them. The idea is to get a head start on long-term financial planning.

The Presbyterian Church has a mighty good pension plan. It’s fully funded, and conservatively run – something we plan members surely appreciate in uncertain times like these. The sticky wicket, for those of us pastors who live in manses, is where we’ll live in retirement. The Board’s encouraging us to start thinking about the answer to that question now.

Claire and I found it a positive experience. The leadership – especially the financial-planning speaker – was excellent. Just what we budget-challenged liberal-arts graduates needed, even if it did feel odd to be thinking about retirement in our prime working years.

There were 20 or so participants, all told. Ages ranged from people in their early 50s, like us, to one man who’s just a few months from the proverbial gold watch.

My active cancer diagnosis sets me apart from my fellow participants. Will I make it to age 66 and 4 months – the threshold when Americans in my birth year can collect full Social Security benefits? Or, will disability be staring me down sometime before then, as a stem-cell transplant or some other treatment looms? If disability is in my future, will I recover fully after treatment and return to full-time ministry? So many unanswerable questions...

The more time I put between myself and the aggressive large B-cell lymphoma I once had, the more retirement planning makes sense. Indolent NHL is kinder, that way. When Dr. Lerner assures me I could still be doing the watch-and-wait thing years from now, I take him at his word - which is why I can even go to a conference like this in the first place.

Questions like these are, of course, imponderable. The only thing to do is to plan for the best-case scenario, and hope I’m prepared for anything worse that may come my way.

The conference program also included a presentation on maintaining personal health. I’ll be the first to admit I’ve got a long way to go in that area. I’m vigilant about anything cancer-related, of course, but anyone who knows me knows the diet-and-exercise thing is a tough sell. The spirit is willing on that one, but the flesh is weak.

So, Claire and I left Princeton with a lot to think about. One of the benefits of this particular meeting was that it encouraged us in ministry – that most other-directed of occupations – to try thinking about ourselves, and taking care of ourselves, for a change.

Point well taken, Board of Pensions. I’ll try to do better.

December 30, 2008 - Christmas Haste

Christmas has come and gone, without a blog entry. That’s mainly a function of my being so busy.

It was a good Christmas. Ania was back from Chapman University for the holidays, and Ben continues to be living here at the house, as he works full-time giving guitar lessons. My mother, Shirley, is now living back in New Jersey, having moved up here from North Carolina in September. Brother Jim came down from Boston for the holiday. From Claire’s family, we welcomed her sister Eva and her daughter Elizabeth (who also live in our house), as well as her brother Victor from Baltimore, with his kids, Chelsea and Nick; and Claire’s sister Ramona, from New York City. There were a few friends here, besides.

It made for a full table at Wigilia, the traditional Polish Christmas Eve vigil supper from Claire’s family tradition, which we somehow squeeze in between the 7:00 and 11:00 pm Christmas Eve services. (Here’s a picture of Claire spreading some straw on the dining-room table, assisted by Murphy the cat – the straw goes under the tablecloth, and is symbolic of the straw of the manger.)

A few days before the holiday, we had about 30 members of the Youth Connection group here for pizza and snacks, after their annual Christmas caroling expedition to homebound and nursing-home folks.

As for the Christmas Eve services, we had the usual children’s service at 4:00, followed by Candlelight Services of Lessons and Carols at 7:00 and 11:00. My sermon, “A Hasty Christmas,” focused on that line from Luke’s Gospel that describes how the shepherds “went with haste” to Bethlehem.

It’s a perfectly ordinary phrase, but to me it seems to offer a basis for reflecting on how many of us tend to approach the holiday. There are two kinds of haste: the stressful kind that pushes you, and the wondrous kind that pulls you. While the shepherds may have had good reason to fear the angels (who, in good biblical tradition, were anything but gentle emissaries of sweetness and light), I like to think they rushed down off that hillside because of the wonder of Word-made-flesh that was apparent in that humble stable.

From the sermon:

“There is another kind of haste, besides the sort that pushes us. There’s also the haste that pulls us. It’s the same sort of haste grandparents feel, as they’re waiting in an airport lounge to go visit their new grandchild for the first time. It’s the sort of haste a young man feels, when he’s off to pick up that special young lady to take to the prom. It’s the sort of haste that says, ‘Come on, let’s go – every minute we delay is a minute we won’t be there!’

It’s the sort of haste we’ve all come to know, when Christmas is at its very best. It’s not the tyranny of the to-do list, but the joy of a churchful of people singing carols; the glow of the candlelight, passed from hand to hand during ‘Silent Night’; the swell of the organ, as we roll into that first stanza of ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ It’s the sort of haste that beckons us onward, that wins cold hearts over, that pulls us out of the December doldrums and sets us gently down into a holy place, a place of light and love and faith.”

One of my growing edges, in these days of watch-and-wait monitoring of my lymphoma, has to do with maintaining the right kind of haste in my life. Better to be pulled than pushed. Better to be motivated by wonder than by worry.

It's a tough balance to maintain – but I’m working on it.

Think Globally, Act Familially

Yesterday I asked the question: "What are you prepared to do?" Today I will begin with another one: "What are you supposed to do?" Anyone who read yesterday's post and came away with the impression that there is no use in caring about the injustice in the world when there is nothing that an individual can do about it simply missed the point. There is plenty that you can do about it. You can get active politically in support of folks who are willing to invest American 'blood, sweat, and treasure' in the causes that you feel are important. This means that you can both vote for these candidates when they become available in elections in which you can participate, and you can write and phone your current elected officials no matter what their track record, letting them know how you feel and what you want them to specifically accomplish. Heck, if you have the opportunity at all, run for office and become the 'mover and shaker' yourself. We should always be willing to look both at our own neighborhood and town, but also outside at the region, nation, hemisphere, and world around us for injustice of all types. We should then be willing to get involved in helping to correct those injustices, both as individuals and as a nation. But while we should place that political pressure on candidates and nations, we need to absolutely ensure that there is one place where we are actually taking action every day: in our homes with our families. Outside of our relationship with God, there is nothing more important in this life than family. Acting familially means any number of things. First of all, it means actually being there and being involved, and that goes particularly for men. Anyone who got married and began to have children as a mature, thinking, responsible adult had reasons for doing so. You need to understand and embrace that commitment fully at all times, and ensure that nothing in this world comes before your family relationships and responsibilities. Not work, not school, not hobbies, and certainly not any interest in global injustices. By being a strong, loving, supportive husband to your wife and father to your children you are doing the one thing every single day that you can best do to make a real positive difference in the world. That isn't to take any of the same responsibilities away from women. It is just to frankly recognize the fact that the vast majority of familial problems can be traced to men, and that a change in our attitudes and actions as a whole would make a measurable difference at home. If enough men around the world took their familial responsibilities more seriously, the world would be a better place. Women need to do their part as well, and the traditional role of nurturing mother should be at the forefront of their lives. There is nothing more important in this world than properly raising children, and no one, including natural fathers, will ever be as important in this regard as a mom. Another consideration needs to be extended to those who say that they don't want children, or only want one child. I can think of no more selfish position for someone to take in life than a militant anti-parenting position, or even a restrictive one such as the one-child position. It is a well known fact that for any society to propagate and sustain itself, families need to produce approximately two and a half kids per family. I would highly recommend to any young American a dual goal of marriage, and planning to have at least three kids within the context of that marriage, be that by physical birth, adoption, what have you. And when you have those kids, you need to raise them to understand and appreciate traditional American values and history, and need to raise them with a love, understanding, and knowledge of God and His love for them. Now don't get me wrong, this is not me telling you what to do, no matter how it sounds. Because the fact of the matter is that I didn't follow all of this advice in my own life. Then again, it took me a long time to grow into my current level of education and experience, and to form my adult opinions. What I am pointing out, however, are what I believe to be the best things that you can actually do to make a real positive difference in our nation and our world. Pray on injustices and direct the powers-that-be toward their attention, but to really make a difference you will need to concentrate on your own marriage, children, commitment, presence, love, and faith. You can indeed make a difference by thinking globally, but acting familially.

Happy Thanksgiving

With everything going on in the world that makes life difficult for us, there remain so many gifts from God for which I am personally thankful on this Thanksgiving Day when we set specific time aside for such reflections. I am thankful first of all for God Himself and the relationship that He has inspired in me with my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and for the blessings of inspiration bestowed on me by the continuous presence of the Holy Spirit. I am thankful for a tremendously loving, forgiving, understanding, and growing family. My wonderful wife who provides me love and caring every day and night as the best partner and friend that I could ever want. My daughters who provide me with affection, challenges, and inspiration as they continue to grow and mature in their own lives. My grandchildren who provide me with pure joy, encouragement, and hope for the future. My dad and brother and their families who provide me with that long term familial base, that loving bond that stretches across time and distance. My further extended family, my wife's family, my co-workers and friends who make life full and its experiences deep, and provide me with perspective. I am thankful this year for the Philadelphia Phillies and the gift of their World Series title that was so utterly thrilling and enjoyable. I am thankful for our brave police officers and firefighters who help protect and secure our families and neighborhoods and nation every day. I am thankful for the American troops and all those who fight for freedom around the world in any way that they do so, be it physically or spiritually or ideologically. For all these people and the relationships that they provide, for all the gifts that the Lord has given me, including the gift of being able to express myself at this website and in other forums, I am forever thankful. Thank you God, and thank you all, and may He bless you all today on Thanksgiving Day and throughout the holy Christmas season.

August 7, 2008 - It Happens to Everyone

Film star Kirk Douglas has an insightful little essay in the August 2 issue of Newsweek. He’s not writing about cancer – Douglas had a disabling stroke, and has had to learn to speak again – but the wisdom he has to share about survivorship applies to many different obstacles in life:

“Years ago I was at the bedside of my dying mother, an illiterate Russian peasant. Terrified, I held her hand. She opened her eyes and looked at me. The last thing she said to me was ‘Don’t be afraid, son, it happens to everyone.’ As I got older, I became comforted by those words....

In my case, a deep depression set in when I had a stroke 12 years ago and my speech was affected. The thought that I would never make another movie echoed in my brain. I was constantly beset with passivity. I just wanted to lie in bed and do nothing. Fortunately, my wife believes in tough love. When I lay there feeling sorry for myself, Anne would say, ‘Get your ass out of bed and work on your speech therapy.’ That helped.

Depression is caused by thinking too much about yourself. Try to think of others, try to help them. You will be amazed how that lessens your depression. That satisfaction is priceless.”

There’s more to depression than “thinking too much about yourself,” of course. If nothing else, there are biochemical factors that play a major role. Yet, the mind-body connection is porous, with causation flowing both ways. How we choose to deal with our life-situations does make a difference.

I think Douglas is right: that relentless, “woe is me” pattern of turning in upon ourselves can lead to nothing good. He took his mother’s homespun advice to heart. Sooner or later, death does happen to everyone. It’s all about how we play the cards we’re dealt.

Douglas seems to have learned that the meaning of life is found not in its duration, but in how we live the years we’re given. No doubt, it’s a hard-won lesson. He’s a ripe old 91, but he’s had a grueling dozen years since his stroke. In his first 79 years, he lived a storybook life, becoming Hollywood royalty. Reading his words, I get the sense that these recent years have been among the most rewarding – especially as he and his wife have engaged in a host of philanthropic activities.

His mother’s deathbed words to him are not the sentimental platitude you’d expect to hear in an old-time Hollywood movie. They’re simple, practical and true – as is Kirk Douglas’ advice to us.

Preach it, brother.

August 2, 2008 - More Cancer Poetry

The New York Times blog I cited on July 29th directed me to another website, The Cancer Poetry Project.

Here’s another cancer poem from that website, this one by a woman named Marjorie Woodbury. She died in 1993 of leukemia, but wrote this poem about her uncle, who died from lung cancer. It’s called “Chocolates”:

When he wakes with pain pounding
his spine, and it’s still two hours
before she can give him the fat yellow capsule
he craves, she offers chocolates
instead. He runs his hand over cellophane,
and suddenly he, to whom nothing
has tasted good for weeks, rips
the box open, devours an orange cream,
then three more, before offering them
to her. Propped against the big bed’s headboard,
knees drawn up, they eat chocolates
like children: testing centers for flavor, licking their fingers,
letting wrappers fall in the sheets.
He savors the sweet on his tongue,
and it lulls him, like her quiet talk
of gardening, the cats, groceries she must buy
the next day, until they sense
another night past. Turning from each other,
they breathe more easily, crumpled, fluted wrappers
rustling when they turn, the empty box between them.

July 29, 2008 – Some Cancer Poetry

Here’s another way some survivors respond to cancer: by writing poetry. I ran across this poem on a New York Times health-related blog.

It’s by a woman named Kyle Potvin, who’s just gotten over chemotherapy for breast cancer.

The backstory is, Kyle had just come back from a business trip to Texas, where she’d bought her sons terrariums to grow cactus plants. Working with them to plant the cacti, she was inspired to write a poem, “The New Normal”:

To grow a Texas cactus from the start,
You scatter tiny seeds on dirt and sand
(Your nail works well to nudge stuck ones apart).
Then sprinkle water with a steady hand.
Each day, my son asks, “Will it get real tall?”
He crowds his brother as they check for growth –
The way I’ve searched my hairless head since fall.
I pray young shoots will sprout up soon for both.
It happens all at once – soft spikes appear;
I rub my scalp while calling to the boys.
They peer in close to analyze each spear.
My bigger joy is lost to hooting noise.
The victory is all my own: Mom’s hair?
The news is that we grew a Prickly Pear.

May 18, 2008 - The Imperfect Is Our Paradise

Some time ago, I saved this quotation from Philip Simmons’ book, Learning to Fall: The Blessings of an Imperfect Life. Simmons suffers from ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease):

“We have all heard poems, songs, and prayers that exhort us to see God in a blade of grass, a drop of dew, a child’s eyes, or the petals of a flower. Now when I hear such things I say that’s too easy. Our greater challenge is to see God not only in the eyes of the suffering child but in the suffering itself. To thank God for the sunset pink clouds over Red Hill – but also for the mosquitoes I must fan from my face while watching the clouds. To thank God for broken bones and broken hearts, for everything that opens us to the mystery of our humanness. The challenge is to stand at the sink with your hands in the dishwater, fuming over a quarrel with your spouse, children at your back clamoring for attention, the radio blaring the bad news from Bosnia, and to say ‘God is here, now, in this room, here in this dishwater, in this dirty spoon.’ Don’t talk to me about flowers and sunshine and waterfalls: this is the ground, here, now, in all that is ordinary and imperfect, this is the ground in which life sows the seeds of our fulfillment.

The imperfect is our paradise.”

I can’t say my suffering begins to approach that of an ALS patient like Philip Simmons. In fact, whatever suffering I experienced during my chemotherapy is becoming more and more of a distant memory. I’m still troubled by the thought of the recurrent cancer inside me, of course, but I’m trying to be thankful for days that approach normalcy, for the absence of symptoms and for the absence of the need to pursue further treatment at this time.

Sure, life’s imperfect. I’d prefer to still be in remission, or to be pronounced cured. But this life is the only life I've got.

Tomorrow morning, Claire and I pick up Ania at the airport, as she returns home from her freshman year of college. We’re looking forward to seeing her.

Life – even an imperfect life – is good.

May 1, 2008 - Fill in the Blank: My Cancer...

On April 29, Leroy Sievers posted a request on his My Cancer blog on the National Public Radio website. It attracted hundreds of replies from readers. Leroy simply asked his readers to complete a sentence: “My cancer....”

The replies he got were many and varied. I’m copying a selection of them below. I’ve included only those that come from cancer survivors themselves – there were many other noteworthy responses that begin, “My husband’s cancer...” or “My wife’s cancer...”, but those are a subject for another day.

I’ve only included responses that are positive, that speak of learning or growth or gratitude. There were some negative responses, of the "cancer sucks" variety – expressions of anger, pain, sadness, loss – but not nearly so many as you may think.

I’d guess there were 3 or 4 positive responses for every negative one. I’ve omitted the negative ones not because they don’t have validity (indeed, I think ANY honest response to cancer is valid), but simply because I’m more interested in the ways cancer has changed its survivors for the better.

If you want to read some more of the responses, I’d suggest you visit Leroy’s blog.

My cancer reminds me that no one is permanent and I will not be the exception to this. Also, my cancer has taught me that life and health is process not a final destination.

My cancer has made me more compassionate and more appreciative of the time I have left....

My cancer made me stop taking myself so seriously....

My cancer has taught me who my true friends really are...

My cancer has taught me valuable lessons about living, loving, and dealing with things, all of which I would have been happy to have learned from a book instead.

My cancer was a great teacher. It taught me gratitude, hope and that not everything is within my control....

My cancer grounded me in reality; made me more empathetic and compassionate for the suffering of others...

My cancer taught me I was stronger than I ever knew....

My cancer reinforced for me what is truly important in life – God, family, friends – pretty much in that order. And conversely, that I could safely put aside, career, status, things....

My cancer has given me FREEDOM I never had. I don't worry. I don't fret. I am free. I faced the beast. Lived and live with it. My shoulders are broader than I ever thought, and I can handle anything. The Beast may be lurking, but he is wasting his time....

My cancer finally made me give up, at 58, the illusion that I was still just a kid in a grown-up body. But I've worked hard to regain the feeling and find myself looking at children with more joy.

My cancer helped change the direction of my life. Time became precious and relationships even more important....

My cancer made me so aware.

My cancer has taught me that every day on this side of the grass is a Good Day!

My cancer taught me the power of others’ prayers for me. It also taught me humility.

My cancer sucked me up in a slashing, burning, poisoning tornado, then set me down in a new place, headed in different direction. I'm a better person since cancer, and in whatever time I have left, I'll add more to the world.

My cancer... has shown me what the real difference is between "wheat" & "chaff" in my life. It's a lot easier to deal with life's little irritations now....

My cancer has been a “life sentence.” A poster I found not long after my diagnosis and treatment says it all: “Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life.”

My cancer showed me how much my husband really loves me and that his love truly is unconditional.

My cancer has enabled me to know both the fragility and the hopes of life, and with this knowledge to live most fully.

My cancer has brought out the talents, skills, devotion and strong faith for those that care for me. That is my reward, watching from my “cancer” vantage point as others improve their life’s journey.

My cancer will not define me or become the be and end all of my life. What it has done is make me stop and be aware that I am not the center of the Universe, and that I must be attuned to others, their ideas and needs.

My cancer has made me face up to the many things that were wrong with my life, and fix them.

My cancer brought me face to face with death. And that made me realize how important the gift of eternal life really is, and how glad I am I have it through my relationship with Jesus Christ. No outcome is bad now – if I live, that’s great, and I’m embracing life.
If I die, I go to heaven, a place of eternal rest and peace. And that’s a rather wonderful “backup.”

My cancer... saved my life.

My cancer taught me to pare down to the essentials in all things – to live large and travel light – trusting in the power of kindness and love to lead me where I need to go.

My cancer was the best worst thing that ever happened to me.

My cancer has made me worry less about what I can't control.

My cancer has... stretched my gratitude muscles but I have learned to be very, very grateful for the smallest of things.

My cancer taught me that I am living and dying at the same time. The living feels so full and so intense, filled with exquisite beauty and wonder. The dying feels like I am tearing away all the layers, seeing parts of me I didn't know were there, and it hurts, but just a little. And I am also learning forgiveness and gentleness and a lightness of being that will hopefully let me die with peace and grace.

My cancer has humbled me.

Cancer stripped me of my hair, breasts, uterus, ovaries, eyebrows, eyelashes, 60 pounds of excess weight, career, and marriage. But I looked in the mirror one morning and saw big green eyes, a beautiful smile and a spirit that filled the entire room and said “There you are. I wondered where you were all these years. Welcome home.”

My cancer has taught me patience....

My cancer is the thief of all the opportunities life has to offer, yet also the perspective by which I appreciate everything more.

My cancer taught me to “let it go”....

My cancer has taught me to treasure, not mourn, transience. Because the beauty of this spring will fade, or because it might be my last, does not make it less glorious.

My cancer is not me. My cancer has tried to change me. My cancer has tried to take me. But it only made me more and more what I am before my cancer. It made me discover parts of me that cancer cannot touch. Indestructible hope. An ability to laugh. A mind of my own.

As for me, I posted a response as well:

My cancer has made me a better pastor, husband and father.

If you're a cancer survivor (or someone who loves someone who's had cancer), why not try filling in the blank? Click on "Comments" and post your response here. Pass it on!