MY THOUGHTS ON CANCER AND LIFE IN GENERAL

Cancer is a curious disease. By the time we experience symptoms we have probably been living with it for some time. In my case I have had mammograms yearly since I was 38 and there have never been suspicious markers or tumors to indicate that I had a problem. What I did have was a swollen, pesky, painful lymph node that began to bother me in the spring. We thought it was caused by problems I’d had a few years earlier, completely unrelated to my breast and not a problem. On December 4th I had the lymph node removed and we were quite surprised at how large it was, but we thought the problem was resolved. Unfortunately, we have learned this wasn’t the case at all.

Needless to say, there is always a sense of shock and disbelief that abnormal cells have been busily multiplying, creating lesions or tumors in our bodies. As someone who is quite in tune with my body, I had no indication of a problem; indeed, with the exception of the painful node, I felt great. I have always eaten carefully, exercised regularly, laughed (and talked) way too much and, during my years of working with a holistic doctor, was told that I don’t have the personality or profile of someone susceptible to cancer.

So why do I have it? The best answer I can think of is, why not? Life is as capricious and unpredictable as the weather, and we never know what will come our way. All I can do now is to stay in the moment, grateful for many lessons I’ve learned along my lifetime journey that will serve me well on this new adventure. You know the lessons I’m referring to – the ones you were sure you never needed to experience because they hurt, or made you angry, or humiliated you, or just plain wore you out. Sometimes they contained unimaginable loss. Often the painful experiences came in clusters rather than one at a time, and you probably considered retreating to a dark cave with the hope that perhaps it was simply a bad dream. But it wasn’t and you muddled through, and ultimately you were stronger for it.

Twenty-eight years ago, after my daughter, Serena’s accident and extended hospital stay, she and I moved to an isolated area of Northwest Marin (Northern California) where we rented a little beach cottage in a very small town. She was three years old and I was thirty-two. In addition to Serena’s injury and medical negligence in the hospital, I was recently divorced, my grandmother died, my father had a depressive breakdown, and we were robbed, a rather dismal period during which my humor largely failed me.

Although we knew no one in the area, it seemed like a good idea to move as close as possible to the wildness of the Pacific ocean, to an area where the wind nearly always blew fresh and salty off the water, a region of rolling hills and wide open space where my daughter could again learn to run and fall down and grow strong, and where I could experience long walks along the beach and have a quiet place to heal.

Shortly after we arrived a huge storm blew in. We were driving over a country road in a small Volkswagen “bug” through a long eucalyptus grove, and limbs from the trees were falling all around us. I was certain that a branch was going to smash down on us at any moment, but we managed to make it through unscathed. Later, I went back to the grove and gathered the smaller downed branches for firewood (lemonade). And as I gathered the wood I realized that adventures come in all forms, some that are planned and great fun, and some that are unplanned, hair-raising and even potentially lethal. Adventures can be thrilling, terrifying, or just plain dreadful, but they all come with information and the potential to make us stronger, deeper, and wiser.

Once I understood the power of adventure, my perspective shifted dramatically. I remember one morning driving my daughter and two other little girls over the back roads to a ranch where they attended nursery school, when a huge bull escaped his paddock and walked into the center of the narrow lane, defying me to drive by him. Given that our car was so small and filled with small children who depended on me for their safety, I deferred to the bull and drove an extra five miles around the back roads to get the girls to school. Of course, as soon as the car was turned around, the bull ambled to the other side of the road to enjoy the grass in the neighbor’s pasture. The little girls had shrieked with joy and encouraged me to “ram him.” Easy for them to say – they didn’t need to worry about damaged cars or the wrath of the bull’s owner, nor did they give a moment’s thought to their safety – but I remember it struck me as very funny – the imperious bull, the fearless little girls, and the silliness of the situation.

By nature I have always been a high-spirited person. I often prefer to dance than eat, and I love parties enough that even my dogs and cats have endured party hats and parlor games on their birthdays. At the same time, never one to miss an opportunity to experience the full human condition, I have also struggled through periods of deep sadness and depression.

As a woman growing up in the 1940s and 1950s my strong independent streak was held in check by protective parents and a culture that strongly encouraged dependence and deference to fathers and husbands. My parents gasped in shock as I defied their good intentions and leapt fully into the bohemian, artistic life, first in San Francisco in the 1960s and later rural Northern California. But it wasn’t until Serena was injured and we moved to Dillon Beach that I undertook my first exploratory steps toward embracing my life alone and on my own terms without the support of either parents or a man, and to dare to laugh in the face of adversity on my own. The metamorphosis didn’t happen all at once, of course, but in small, tentative steps. And that, to me, is one of the most wonderful things about life – our resilience, our ability to overcome obstacles, and to continue on our journeys, perhaps scarred and deeply wounded, but also stronger, braver, and more compassionate.

What will I do now? Exactly what I was doing six weeks ago! Running the business, working on the history book, taking long walks, laughing, singing, dancing, writing, cooking, gardening, and being amazed by the fullness of life. Six weeks ago I had cancer but I didn’t know it. I was doing all those things and was quite content. The only difference between then and now is a diagnosis and a flurry of new information rattling in my head. I’m sure I’ll need to cut back some on activities as I recover from surgery and go through radiation and chemotherapy. But the reality is that life goes on with or without us, and I plan to be in the middle of life every minute I can, because I’d be very disappointed to miss out on a good laugh, a juicy, ripe peach, the jokes that my animal and children friends share, the smell of lemon blossoms and the cedar and redwoods.

We are all acutely aware that life is a cycle, a dance, an opportunity to give and receive and be remembered for what we left behind. We are guaranteed death at birth but no certainty of when that moment will come. My intention is to fill as much life into each day as possible, even on the bad days when “full” means lying still and meditating or crying. But make no mistake, I will be celebrating all of it. Your love and thoughts, prayers, and spirited beings will make my journey all the better.

With love to you all,
Patricia Rain