The Timber You’re Cutting

Photo credit: Colette Kenney

My cousin, Colette, saw this quote on a whiteboard somewhere and sent it to me recently, and it just seemed to fit so well.

What timber are you cutting today?

We all manage so much over the course of our lives, but there are times when the timber gets really thick, or the saw pile gets really deep, and we have to find the strength to get through it.

On my son’s 15th birthday this year, I walked smack into a whole wide unexpected forest. Diagnosed with colorectal cancer at 11:00 am, I was baking an apple pie at 2:00. My husband and I stumbled through the birthday supper, not looking at one another, and waited until the kids were in bed to stare at one another in crazed disbelief.

My whole life just slammed to a stop, and I was left staring absentmindedly into space or crying in dark corners between doctors’ appointments and scans. My thoughts coiled and uncoiled like a rope. Sometimes panic took the end of the rope in her teeth and ran and ran and it took all of my strength to reign her in.

This is my one of my first blog posts, and I don’t want it to be all about cancer. I want it to be about rewriting life, and cutting through the noise and expectations we shoulder everyday.

The meat falls away from the bone so quickly when things fall apart. Work – there was no way I could navigate my demanding job and deal with cancer treatments at the same time. Social commitments – all of a sudden, my friends became lifelines. Family time – yes please! Each and every interaction with my kids, husband and family became more special to me.

I can look back now only two months later and see how quickly my priorities shifted. I can also look back to that day and remember one strategy that I developed that reliably eased my stress and panic.

It was a visualization strategy, inspired in part by a book I was reading about Buddhism and then brought to life by my observation of a black speck that appeared in the water of my bath that evening. I watched the speck as it dipped and dived with the movement of the water. I moved my knee, and it swirled about in the eddy I created. I sliced my hand sideways and the speck lifted slightly towards the surface on the wave I brought forth.

Watching that speck, I realized that I was exactly the same. No more important, no less important, but caught up in waves and motions that I really could not control. I settled my shoulders down and relaxed and took some deep breaths and thought to myself that I would flow gently along with the waters I was immersed in.

Every day I did this visualization, and it brought me great relief.

What responsibility we shoulder! What great draughts of importance we gulp everyday! Recognizing our humble nature and honouring our helplessness is so freeing.

All we have is this moment in time – the past is gone and the future is yet to come. Right here, right now, we have some substance. Everything else is but a dream.

Peace Signs and Laser Beams

One of my brother’s fine old windows

Bolstering myself for the strangeness ahead I make an odd lonely peace sign in front of Josh’s window. Driving to the hospital I am so normal. The afternoon traffic laughs at me. Ordinary things like driving and giving your body up to medical science.

This is the first part of my treatment program. I am freshly freckled, my little black markings perfectly aligned. I imagine my tumor, happy and safe in its fleshy bed, is unaware of the coming onslaught. I feel a little sorry for it.

One of my mom’s legendary pieces of advice – when you are facing something difficult, focus on the after.

I will have a nice supper and glass of wine later with Josh and Ozgen. I will lie on the couch and read – imagine such a luxury on a Monday! My husband and children are at home, going to after school activities and slogging through homework. I am in the ether.

In the waiting room wool and needles await. All who sit here are invited to knit a square for a cancer patient’s afghan. I realize too late I chose an over-long pair of needles. I am clumsy and my thumb joint aches. I don’t want to knit the afghan square but there are others here and now I’ve committed. I jump up too quickly when my name is called, send the partially completed square flying into the basket with relief.

Lovely technicians talk to me and I am at ease in my hospital gown. In true Newfoundland fashion, we discuss our places of origin until we discern that I grew up down the street from one of their cousins. They organize my body on the machine, turn up the music and reassure me before they leave.

The machine approaches me confidently and turns all about my body, whirring and clicking. I think lights like eyes are on me but I’m not supposed to move so I don’t really see much. The lighthearted music makes me feel celebratory.

I christen the machine Wall-E. Soon it rests and they come back. They ask me how I’m doing. I tell them my surgery is next Monday. I ask about side effects and they explain that by the time I’m able to feel side effects the surgery will be done and that will cover them up anyway.

“So go out and have a nice dinner, have some fun! Your radiation therapy is 20% finished!” they say. They fuss around me for a moment. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy the attention.

I float out of the Cancer Center. I am still in one piece. I am still me.

I made it to the after. We all make it to the after, in our way.

So many of my friends write me jokes about getting a laser beam to my ass. I really love them for it. I kind of wish I could show them Wall-E.