Standing Fast

“I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

It’s been one hell of a year.

Every single day when I awaken, I try to concentrate on the unexpected joys that surround radical change and practice counting the blessings that are so abundant in my life; however let’s face it, I’m a flawed human being. There are days I get mired in some of the sadness that change has imposed.

This morning in particular, I’m thinking about the unwritten guidebooks for surviving things like, being laid off from one’s job and long term unemployment, or having a marriage come to an end, or having a family member diagnosed with cancer. Specifically,  I’m wondering why there aren’t operating instructions for dealing with the loss of friends one once had, yet who drop away when life’s terrain gets bumpy and the view from the windows is less than scenic. Fair-weather friends, my mother used to call them: those who are most likely to appear when they are in need or, at best, when you are not in need. Because, let’s face it, friendship is sweeter when life is fun, right? A lot more work is required to remain present to someone who’s world has been turned on its axis.

Mind you, I’m not questioning WHY it happens. It happens for a myriad of reasons, such as:

1. People don’t know what to say or do. Keeping a safe distance allows them to watch without touching and very little extra effort is required.
2. Hard situations sometimes remind folks of their own problems - past or present - and they often don’t have the stamina for more.
3. Sometimes it’s about inability to pay attention to a story that isn’t a Hollywood action flick but a slowly unfolding real life documentary. People bore easily.
4. Folks get scared. They don’t want to admit it, but they’re afraid that if they get too close they might “catch” the problem. Like witnessing a friend’s divorce might cause one in their household, or knowing the reality and pain of cancer might cause a cell mutation in their family. Their fear takes on more meaning than their friendship.
5. They just can’t be bothered. They don’t want to take the time. They’re over it - even if their friend isn’t.

Initially, I was hurt and angry knowing that friendships were evaporating for reasons that, in my judgment (with the exception of #2) were pretty messed up and selfish. But in classic Kübler-Ross movement through the stages of grief, I’ve come to realize that what I mainly feel now is a deep sense of sadness and believe it or not, a bit of gratitude.

Relationships may be sweeter when they’re only fun, but they’re not nourishing.

As this big year of changes continues to catalyze and the guidebooks write themselves along the way, I grieve the loss of those I thought I knew, and celebrate the unwavering true.

In the long haul, I’m grateful to know and love a few well-rooted old friends as well as some amazing new ones. I am honored by these full-hearted individuals who have courageously reached out across the rough scenery and despite my grief to stand fast. Ambose Redmoon said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” 

Choosing love is that “something else.”

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures,  have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing  and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”  ~ Henri Nouwen

An Ancient Story of Farewells

Your absence pierces me

In this world wired
and quivering with connection

to feel the pulse of solitude
and truly yearn for one who is absent,
is a small stanza
in a long and ancient story of farewells.

It tells of trying to contain
a dark and fertile passion
that rises, as a tide
turbulent — beautiful — unceasing,
across the vulnerable shoreline of our lives.

There is no denying it.

I imagine the wives of sailors long ago...
bidding their lovers good bye -
urgent embraces,
their bodies and lips
already kissed
by Loneliness, and
hearts aching with the impending void.

How could they breathe?
How...?

Did the pain
ease with each passing day?
or did bits of their souls, captured
on waves,
follow their beloved out to sea,
sometimes never to return?

Apart from you,
I am gasping for air.

Tide rising, your presence
haunts and presses into me.
Miles between us, nay — lifetimes between us -
yet still
I surrender to the longing

Collapsing into the arms of my ancestral sisters,
my soul is set with theirs,
out upon the water.

Red Pushpins

Twenty-seven years ago tomorrow, I witnessed the birth of my nephew, Jarrett.

It wasn’t pre-planned that I should have the honor of being a part of his arrival. I was home from college for mother’s day weekend, merely doing the dutiful May visit, when my sister went into labor. Like a red pushpin in a map of significant places one has visited, I can point back to that Sunday afternoon and say, “That was a defining moment of my life.”

It was one part - seeing courage in my beloved sister that I’d never seen before; it was one part the wonder of generations squeezed into a very warm, very small bedroom for a birth in the home I had grown up in; it was one part the gift of observing love’s commitment between my sister and her husband, and it was one part the miraculous itself: a perfect, dark-haired, squirming-with-life baby boy.

I returned to college in a state of pure joy and huge desire to tell friends back at school what I had seen, how it felt and why I was changed. Sadly but truly, I was greeted by people who either listened for two minutes before shrugging and turning back to their accounting 301 textbook - or worse, those who said, “Oh yeah, I saw a movie in high school health.” I knew it was alright. I mean, I understood that I really couldn’t expect someone who has never eaten an apple to understand it’s taste and texture, but I also knew that my change was going to create ripples. Namely, I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could never ever have children with the young man I was engaged to. And if I could never ever have children with him, I knew that I could not marry him.

That moment of birth became the first of nearly three decades of decisions I have made wherein my “mother self,” out of the many selves that reside within me, took charge of casting the final vote for all major life decisions. My “mother self” has been strong, resilient, determined, fiercely protective, very loving - and has always (sometimes to a fault) put her children first. While my other personae have occasionally disagreed with her choices over the years, they’ve let her drive the ship -- until recently.

With Mother’s Day upon us, the day that I do not consider a Hallmark-induced experience, rather - the day of my nephew's birth and the beginning of how motherhood would define my life, there are changes underway. Worn by joy as well as grief, my “mother self” has resigned - not her duty - but her post, and while she remains diligent she has definitely passed the baton. Someone else is at the helm. Now, if ever I didn’t quite fit before, I will surely shatter any June Clever mold in which I might be expected to conform.

As my wise friend Katie said to me last spring, “I know that you still have mothering to do, but the tide has shifted. You get to look forward and envision what’s next in your life - with work, artistry, in finding a partner, where you go next and why. Now, you can choose what’s best for Martha. It may be scary, but it’s also exciting.” Damn straight, Katie.

So, in honor of the ever-changing continuum of motherhood and the strong women who embrace it, and in celebration of my children whom I love more than any single thing in the world, I’m placing a new red pushpin on the map and changing course. And last, but not least, happy birthday, Jarrett. I love you very much.

 

(to my children)

I do not doubt you would have liked

one of those pretty mothers in the ads:

complete with adoring husband and happy children.

She's always smiling, and if she cries at all

it is absent of lights and camera,

makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:

ever since I was small like you

I wanted to be myself -- and for a woman that's hard --

(even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me

when she heard).

I cannot tell you that I know the road.

Often I lose my way

and my life has been a painful crossing

navigating reefs, in and out of storms,

refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens

who invite me into the past,

neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

But I advance,

go forward holding to the hope

of some distant port

where you, my children -- I'm sure --

will pull in one day

after I've been lost at sea.

by Daisy Zamora ~

What NOT to Say to Someone with Cancer

When presented with the opportunity for a new life experience, many of us  take anywhere from a few moments to a few days to “bone up” (study) on what we may need to know for the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact when we have said “new experience.” The internet is an incredible resource for quick studies on damn near everything. So as I sat considering today’s blog, I started with a simple search engine query to find out what others have had to say about: “What not to say to someone with cancer.


There were 52,100,100 search results. Wow. Why bother with today’s blog?

Maybe the real question is: why have there needed to be 52,100,100 posts, articles, videos, newsletters, ezines and statements about this topic? Clearly, people aren’t getting the memos being sent out over and over and over and over. While no one denies the good intentions that friends and community may feel deeply toward a cancer patient and their family, nor the gratitude that a cancer patient and their family feel in response to the care and concern extended to them, there truly are things that one SHOULD NOT SAY to someone with cancer.

Lori Hope at care pages has written a short and clear piece about this issue that I highly recommend, while pink prozac’s blog relates “41 Things Not To Say To Someone With Cancer” in a very direct, non nonsense, language colorful manner. Wild Roses has both a “what not to say” entry as well as a “what TO SAY article” that is very well informed and positive.

Should I attempt to be the 100th monkey on this topic? The one that ultimately tips the proverbial balance so that there is an awakening of compassion and understanding in how to talk with cancer patients? The answer is yes. Because if you want to have the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact in the life of a friend battling cancer; if you want to be a part of their HEALING journey, then you need to study up on how best to communicate and be present for that person and their family.

I won’t recreate a list of 41 things (but please, click the link and see for yourself). I am going to touch on things I hear about eight times a week (unless I happen to be at a social event, in which case - I hear them eight times in an hour).  For each of these, I offer an alternative thing one might say instead.

1. “What’s your (son’s) prognosis? “As Lori Hope says, this word reminds us of mortality. Hearing it challenges one’s ability to remain present and positive. 

Try this: You are in my thoughts and prayers.

2. “I saw your son, he looks great for someone with cancer.” What is someone with cancer supposed to look like? My son looks like himself. He cares about his appearance in the world, even when he feels like shit, is completely exhausted, frustrated over having his nineteen year old life ripped off and has just weathered an hour long nosebleed and a three hour blood transfusion.

Try this: I’ll bet this sucks. Would you like to talk?

3. “I had a (fill in relation) who had cancer.” Stop. Just stop. Don’t even think of telling the story unless it is positive and the outcome is LIFE.
Try this: Say nothing. Offer a hug. Say I love you. Talk about something besides cancer.

4. To me, the caregiver/mom: “You’re so lucky you don’t have to work right now.” Good grief. First, I’d take ANY job over having my boy have cancer. Second, this IS work. My son is working harder than he’s ever in his life - for his life; I am working very hard also - to support him, his sisters and myself. Third, I’m unemployed and while the timing (as if there were such a thing with cancer) allows me to care for my son, this is anxiety producing on multiple levels.
Try this: I’ll bet this is hard work. or - I have a lead on a part time job for you that will allow you to keep taking care of your son.

5. Again, to me: “I just can’t imagine having my child die before I do. Where do you find your strength and positive attitude?” Guess what? I can’t imagine such a thing either. What parent wants to imagine such a thing? Our family is moving through stages of grief and loss. Dealing with depression, anxiety and panic is very taxing. I am doing this because I love my child. I find strength in my love for my child - just as any true parent does in times like these.
Try this: I’m here for you. So there you have it.

Now the search engine will read 52,100,101 results. Hopefully this one will help teach.

"Please Drain Tub"

"Please drain tub." That’s what a tasteful little sign above the jacuzzi requested as I steeped in appreciation of a gift certificate recently given to me. The words brought memories into mind --

First, I recalled 17 years ago when, at day’s end of a very intense personal growth workshop, the facilitator said to the group, “Take a long bath tonight but be sure to shower for a moment afterward. You don’t want to stew in the juices you’ve been releasing; be sure to rinse it all away.”

And next, I remembered our fourth day of cancer. I was on the phone with a friend. The stormy debris of the first shock-wave was surfacing: intense fear, the gravity of Reid’s illness, a leukemia diagnosis, being alone, being homesick for my daughters. Searching to offer me some sort of comfort, she said, “See if you can find a bathtub, Martha. You need to be held. Find a bath and let the water hold you for a little while.”

We’d been there for three days, and I wandered from Reid’s room only far enough to get a cell phone signal or use the bathroom. It was hard to conceive of leaving long enough for a quick meal, let alone an entire bath, but I went searching.

I discovered the “family facilities” in the Knight Oncology Treatment Unit: a laundry and sleeping room on the 13th floor; another sleeping room and a shower on the 14th floor. A shower. For family. Hot water - and a moment in time.

I’ll never forget that first shower. It was neither an embrace nor a receptacle for the grief that washed from me. I closed my eyes and let the water take control. It was elemental, and with deep shuddering breaths of solitude and vulnerability, I stood naked  - in all ways - and cried.


Maybe it’s a good thing there is no tub in the oncology unit. Maybe someone very wise said, “Let's not put bathtubs in the family facilities. There’s already so much sadness here, we’d best not have folks soaking in it also. Showers only here, so we can send grief down the drain.” 

Let it go; let it go. Let it all go down the drain.