What does it mean to live? To embrace life? To fight for your life? I keep returning to the same ideas lately. If you've been following along, I'm sure you've noticed. That may be a symptom of an increasingly disordered mind, or it may be a result of the more contemplative personal habits I've been practicing. Whichever better describes my state of mind these days, I want to talk about fighting some more.
I have another friend who is dying. There's no easy way to say that. The doctors have lowered his prognosis from "a couple years," to "a few months." He isn't in physical pain right now. He can still get up, go out, drive himself places. He still exercises. He doesn't need you to feel sorry for him. He isn't giving up on life.
He's a hero to me. I wonder how I would respond in his place? I hope I would have some of the courage and strength that he has.
He and I are part of a community. We meet a couple times a week. Our bond is wonderful and horrible. Each of us has experienced hearing the words, "You have cancer," and lived the aftermath of that moment. We all reacted differently, some with hope, some with anger, some with grief, most of us with a combination of all those things. What we didn't do - what we never allowed ourselves to do - was to give up. We never gave up on life. When our community - our cancer family - when we learned of the change in our friend's medical status, we reacted differently, too. Some laid hands on him and prayed. Some held back tears. Some related stories of miraculous cures and sudden scientific discoveries. We made jokes that would scandalize outsiders. We listened silently, feeling our friend's suffering in our own darkest fears. Each in our own way, we tried to project some of our own strength into our brother. He will need it. And we will not give up on him. I don't see him giving up on himself, either.
But "don't give up," isn't really a strategy, is it? What is it that I'm not giving up? What is the positive action implied by that refusal to quit? What does it mean to live until you die?
Years ago, I chose the path of a warrior. I chose to fight. I battled with my weight, my athleticism, my depression, my habits... mostly, I went to war against cancer. I tried to help where I could. Raised money for organizations. Offered to listen or to help survivors to stay fit and active. Built a career around creating communities of survivors who helped themselves and one another. Went to funerals. Saved their pictures. Honored their lives by fighting beside them. Honored their memories by helping others to fight.
I've always equated "don't give up" with "don't stop fighting," but lately I have started to question that plan. Maybe fighting isn't the only option. And maybe there is a place in life's garden where the path splits. Choose the warrior's way and keep fighting, or take this other way, a path of peace.
It sounds so foreign to me, this notion of making peace with cancer. With mine. With yours. With the cancer that makes people I love suffer. With the cancer that changed my life and haunts my secret fears for the future. Cancer has always been my enemy. I've imagined its sneering face and cruel heart. I've held the hand of a beautiful, dying young man, prayed for his rattling breath to stop, and hated the murderer growing inside his frail body. How do I make peace with that? How do i accept it?
Ahhhh...
How can I not accept it? Next to death itself, cancer is just about the realest thing there is. If I say I'm fighting cancer, what am I fighting? Am I fighting reality? Am I fighting the truth?
I can't fight the truth of what might happen, because I can't know what might happen. Can't fight the truth of what has happened; that ink has long-since dried. All I can fight is what is happening now. Fight back the feelings. Fight down the nausea. Fight to stand. Fight to sleep. Jesus, no wonder I'm so tired all the time. I am living my life at war with reality.
I've been at war with the truth.
Nowadays, I'm looking for an alternative. That's why I've been meditating. I've spent a lifetime talking to God. Now, I'm listening. I'm learning to see and hear what is really there. Truth doesn't need my approval or even my acceptance. Maybe, Truth doesn't need anything from me at all. Maybe I don't have to fight for my life, because when I stop and sit and breathe for a moment, I can't help but notice that I'm alive right now. I have my life. For how long? I can't answer that. No prognosis or actuary or oracle can tell me. No tea leaves or entrails or star chart can peek into tomorrow, or even tell me what I'll have for lunch this afternoon. All I have is now. All I have is life.
Maybe my task isn't to wrestle my life from cancer. Maybe my task is to live life with cancer. I know that sounds like I'm just playing with words, But I think they describe two radically different paths.
And it feels like a part of the garden that's worth exploring. I think I'll be back again.
Peace, y'all.
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