I Choose Authenticity

(Published in The Enneagram of Death: Helpful Insights by the 9 Types of People on Grief, Fear, and Dyling, 2012)

Authenticity is a daily practice. Choosing authenticity means cultivating the COURAGE to be imperfect, to set boundaries, and to allow ourselves to be vulnerable; exercising the COMPASSION that comes from knowing we are all made of strength and struggle and connected to each other through a loving and resilient human spirit; nurturing the CONNECTION and sense of belonging that can only happen when we let go of what we are supposed to be and embrace who we are. Brené Brown, Ph.D.

Many people who've had cancer report significant changes in their lives and a gratitude that might seem strange to those who haven't been there. Having had breast cancer, I realize how difficult it is to put into words the gratitude I felt. Of course I'm grateful to be alive, grateful to all the helping professionals, friends, and acquaintances who were part of my healing, grateful to my body that the cancer didn't spread through the lymph nodes, grateful that I didn't have to have chemo. But my gratitude spread beyond those happy aspects -- I was grateful to the cancer because it brought me into greater presence than I'd ever experienced.

The important question became, "Now that I am present to my impermanence, how do I live every moment going forward?" The answer to this question was not a conscious decision. It bloomed in me as a consequence of opening myself, of having yielded and embraced breast cancer. The biggest lesson I learned was how I'd contributed to the burden of caretaking I'd felt -- in my life and in my work -- by keeping the focus completely on other people and not asking for what I needed. I was giving, but not allowing myself to receive. 

Caretaking fed my ego and also exhausted me. Having cancer required that I learn how to ask for help and be clear to those around me what kind of help I needed: to be listened to, encouraged to talk about myself. Instead, my gift of focusing on the positive had taken charge, and left no room for feeling tired, disoriented, lonely, or that dreaded state -- NEEDY.  Everyone was rejoicing in how brave and amazing I was, while some newly acknowledged part of me simply wanted to curl up and be held. 

Exactly as Dr. Brené Brown's research on authenticity suggests, I'm more connected now because I learned a new kind of courage -- to be imperfect (needy), to set boundaries (ask for what I want and don't want), to allow myself to be vulnerable (admitting these needs without shame), and along with this came true compassion (giving is no longer a one-way street). Thus, I'm grateful to Dr. Brown for having put into words the lesson I most needed to learn.

Once my energy and mental balance returned, instead of feeling I was "back to my old self," I found myself "going forward into a new self," one that has a squishy part I didn't have before. Vulnerability can be interpreted as feeling defenseless, exposed, insecure. My new squishy part has none of those negative connotations. It has made me softer, more yielding, tender, sensitive, open, and accessible.

Lovely Amazons

I received "One Lovely Blog Award" this morning from The Spirit That Moves Me. This generosity is an example of the community I've found, a sisterhood I think of as Amazons, who -- according to legend -- protected their territory with bow and arrow, and removed a breast to improve their ability to pull the bow-string:

Circles and circles
of brave, extraordinary
Amazons who have
no breasts to hinder
strength of bow, arrow's quiver,
our hearts' target
the cancers threatening
to invade our home. 

As a recipient I'm asked to link to the blog that sent me the award and then to seven others that have inspired me. In turn, maybe they will post the award, then link to my blog and seven others, each time widening our circle of lovely Amazons:

1. The Spirit that Moves Me
2. Breast Cancer? But Doctor... I hate pink!
3. F--- Cancer and The Horse it Rode In On: The Adventures of Baldylocks
4. The Cancer Warrior
5. Knock, Knock, It's Cancer!
6. Not so Big C: A Breast Cancer Odyssey
7. Dancing with Cancer, Living with Mets: A New Normal
8. ChemoBabe

Here's a short TED video about a public art space created by Candy Chang where passersby could write in their wishes: "Before I die I want to..."

From the Heart

The word courage comes from the Latin cor or heart.

Because I grew up in a military family, many of my male high school classmates went to West Point, and then to Viet Nam. In 2000, I reconnected with my high school sweetheart and learned he'd been awarded The Bronze Star for "heroic service" in Nam. When I asked him to describe the events leading to the medal, he said "I don't think of myself as a hero. I wasn't feeling courageous. I just did what I had to do."

That's what it was like for me, as I moved from a "suspicious" mammogram to an MRI and biopsy, to bilateral mastectomy all within a two-week period. I just did what I had to do. As have many of you, I always wondered if I would be frightened by life-threatening circumstances. I was not, and so I don't feel "brave" or "amazing" as others have suggested.

Last week I went to my first breast cancer support group meeting, and the other women there said their experience was similar to mine. 

It's like driving in a heavy rainstorm late at night. You'd rather be home by a cozy fire, but you're on full alert, every sense attuned to what's happening in your immediate environment. You don't have time to be afraid. 

The Cries of the World

I wept when my friend Nancy gave me this statue after my surgery, with only an intuition of why Kuan Yin touched me so. Then I read this quote from Exotic India, which captures how I have been feeling these past few weeks:  

Kuan Yin: The Compassionate Rebel. Buddhism's most enduring (and universal) contribution to the world has been insufficiently translated as compassion. The original Sanskrit word is karuna, which holds within itself traces of the fragment ru, meaning to weep.

The term karuna is frequently described as a love for all beings. However, the all-encompassing nature of compassion is quite unlike conventional love—which is rooted in dualistic thinking and is egoistic, possessive, and exclusive. 

Karuna's root meaning is said to be the anguished cry of deep sorrow and understanding that can only come from an unblemished sense of oneness with others. The name of Kuan Yin signifies her compassionate nature, literally meaning 'One who hears the cries of the world.'

Grist for the Mill

The Sandhill Stage -- a concert series at the Prairie Creek Lodge to benefit the non-profits Conservation Burial, Inc. and Alachua Conservation Trust.

At a Sandhill Stage concert last night, Penny Nichols sang "Grist for the Mill" from The 8 Voyages of Nep, about her own experience with breast cancer.

Penny brought it all back to me -- Linda Ronstadt and the Stone Ponies, Janis Joplin, Mother Earth, Jefferson Airplane. So much pain, so much love, so many blessings, it's all grist for the mill (click here, scroll down and play #4): 

Bring it in, bring it in, 

it's all grist for the mill. 

What comes out is the sweetest flower, 

fills me up in my darkest hour.

Bring it in, bring it in,

it's all grist for the mill.

Theater of the Absurd

The lymph ducts of the breast usually drain to the sentinel node before the lymph nodes underneath the arm. It's called the "sentinel" because it helps sound the warning when cancer has spread.

I have been very, very lucky. The radiology team was able to isolate the sentinel lymph nodes for each breast before surgery. The word "sentinel" stems from the Latin sentire, to watch, and my sentinel nodes took care of me, alerting the doctors that no further lymph nodes need be taken, and no chemo is necessary. 

There was drama in the surgical theater, drama in my happy conversation on New Years Eve morning when my surgeon reported the news. "We did the right thing; we got it all."

Since the surgery a week ago, you can think of my life as a theater of the absurd. Stage directions:

Single actor onstage, night-time, then day-time, a bed, a reclining chair (both surrounded by rumpled covers, socks). A CD player. Actor sighs, adjusts reclining position on bed, fluffs pillows, dozes, awakens, moves to chair, raises and lowers chair back, sighs. She turns on CD player with remote, listens to indistinct voices, dozes, sighs, moves back to bed. No monologue.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame; the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

From The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks


(Thanks to Gilly Weinstein for sending me this poem)

...

Volcanic Moments

A volcano erupts in Iceland. Tens of thousands of flights are canceled and millions of passengers stranded...  Have you experienced any of these typical reactions in the face of an oy vey moment -- lost your sense of humor, became fixated on what wasn't working, gave up completely, felt annoyed and resentful, looked for someone to blame, pretended it wasn't happening?" Larry Dressler, "Volcanic Moments: Four Practices for Facing Surprises with Grace."

Dressler's post miraculously arrived in my in-box on December 24, minutes after my surgeon told me I have cancer in both breasts. Definitely an oy vey moment. My typical defense in the face of unwanted news has been to pretend it wasn't happening. Of course everything bubbles below. Indeed, my personality style has been characterized metaphorically as a "volcano" -- apparently calm, with complex layers beneath the surface. 

I'll be even more particular, and suggest I've been a shield volcano, formed of layers of fluid lava. Unable to pile into steep mounds, these layers create a gentle, sloping cone and spill from several vents. Attempts to shield myself have created a calm exterior but have also led to lifelong digestive problems, joint pain, and occasional bouts of magna-lava anger -- the symptomatic "vents" my body developed to blow off steam when the rumbling could no longer be contained.

Our bodies give us messages and this one is clear: another vent has appeared, cancer erupting in both breasts. So I'm taking Dressler's advice to heart:

1. Check-in:  Notice without judgment what you're feeling physically and emotionally.
2. Name It:  What underlying thought, judgment, or belief are you holding too tightly?
3. Pause:  Instead of acting, take deep, deep, conscious breaths.
4. Shift:  Ask questions that shift you to a more productive mental, emotional, and physical state: "What beliefs can I let go of right now in order to serve my highest purpose?" "What are the hidden gifts and opportunities in this moment?"

Some of my thoughts and beliefs:

• "I'm not the cancer type -- my issues have shown up in stomach aches and arthritis." 
• "Death is unacceptable." 
• "I must fight this." 

Obviously the first belief has been refuted. The second is simply laughable; we all, eventually, accept death. Third, trying to "fight" the cancer would reinforce the dysfunctional belief that I must shield myself from reality -- instead of fighting I want to embrace and transform this energy for healing. 

On Christmas Eve I extended Dressler's Pause and Breathe stage, spending hours reading about double mastectomy, searching for post-surgery apparel, sending love to my breasts, letting in the messages cancer brings, terror echoing all the way down to my toenails:

CANCER, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer.....

...

Wired

Sometimes an abnormal area will be seen on the mammogram that should be tested for cancer, but is not felt as a lump on examination. The mammography department can help your surgeon find the area more easily by using a technique called "wire localization." Harvard Health Publications.

The day after a biopsy of both my breasts I viewed The Buddha documentary, and was struck by this: "All things change. Everything born is subject to decay. Use even this for awakening." 

My wake-up call came suddenly. After a mammogram on December 24 and consulting the next day with my gynecologist, I met with my surgeon last Monday, had an MRI and blood work on Tuesday, and biopsies on Wednesday.

The pre-op procedure was quite an adventure. The radiology team placed localizing wires in each breast, with only a local anesthetic. Some women freak out, the nurses told me. They've seen everything, from a woman who threw up on them to another who bit the nurse's hand. 

I couldn't turn my head to watch, because if I moved the radiologist would have to repeat the procedure. After he finished I looked down and saw a blue push pin in each breast. The nurses then cut two Styrofoam cups to half-size and taped them over the push pins to protect them until surgery. Robo woman!

The woman next to me in the pre-op holding room was questioning her doctor about the size of the scar he'd leave. I gleaned from their conversation (through the curtain between us) that she'd had a lumpectomy before and now had another lesion with lymph node involvement, but had opted for a lumpectomy again instead of mastectomy. 

Her surgeon kept saying "We need to look at the bigger picture. You have breast cancer, and we want to remove it." She appeared to be in her forties, so I understood her fear of losing her breasts, but what level of vanity would lead her to endanger her life? I was clear about my own wishes. I wanted the cancer GONE.

Under general anesthetic for the biopsies, I was woozy afterward, and couldn't help laughing at the dressing that replaced the push pins: white, pointy tents. 

My surgeon called with the results on Friday. Mastectomy on the left. "We can negotiate the right." But why would I want only one breast, and a 72-year-old one at that? Can you picture the reconstruction? "No, no, guys, it's not nearly old enough, far too perky...."  

The Dalai Lama said a miracle is "something you cannot understand, something unexpected." My miracle? Instead of fear, I have felt mostly joy and gratitude for the tangible love from everyone I encounter, including each of the nurses and doctors who took care of me earlier this week. 

A friend wrote to me on Friday: 

"I understand your 'mostly joy' response. I experienced the same with my reality encounter last year at this time. I think it has a lot to do with how we give meaning to the whole of our lives--whatever comes can be greeted with open hands, open mind, open heart, odd calm, certain gratitude, with the occasional terrifying gut check cry."

Christmas Eve: I removed my pointy tents and took a good look at the biopsy stitches. Both breasts would be deeply scarred. Then a deep breath and gut check. Ah, no. They will be gone.