Dear Traveler,

“The nicest people get cancer” said my friend the other day. Like me she’s a nurse and a keen observer of things, so it really set me thinking.

What’s up with that?

We’re all familiar with the “type A personality”; the person who is constantly driven, the over-achiever who often becomes a cardiac patient once their relentless pace wreaks enough havoc on the heart and cardiovascular system.  Similarly, one fairly recent series of studies has arrived at the theory of a “type C personality”, a profile that fits such a large percentage of cancer patients (especially in the female population) it can’t be ignored. Being “nice” is one of the main attributes, along with being self-sacrificing, experiencing more than the usual ration of trauma and grief in life, a sense of overwhelming obligation, chronic (hidden) inner conflict, and above all, a sense of helplessness regarding the ability to change one’s situation.

Just to be clear, no one is saying that this particular stellium of characteristics is going to lead to having cancer, and no one is saying that working to change them will cure cancer. What’s being postulated is this:

We all carry cancer cells in our bodies, but only some of us will get cancer.*  Genetics aside, the rest have an immune system healthy enough to quell the activities of wayward cells before they can aggregate into a tumour.  Those whose physical "terrain" supports the replication of cancer cells, and whose immune systems are compromised, may end up with tumours. Certain physical and emotional conditions work together to create this "cancer-hospitable" terrain.

What makes for a healthy immune system, then? The newly emerging field of psychoneuroimmunology is fascinating, and volumes have been written which address the question of "terrain". So, where does being “nice” fit in?

“Niceness” is a learned behaviour. No one is born nice. We may be born with the capacity for forgiveness, and compassion, and other inner qualities, which, if nurtured, will blossom and become part of our emerging personality. “Niceness”, on the other hand, is a veneer, and one that’s toxic to the environment of our personal ecology. It sits on the surface like a hard shell, glossing over our actions, feelings, and expressions, keeping the truth below the surface where it backs up and begins to ferment. Dishonesty predicated on “niceness”, even if kindly intended (and no matter how seemingly inconsequential), blocks the flow of life force through our bodies. If we keep this up, after a while the truth of what we feel becomes tainted and cloudy, and we’re no longer sure of our feelings. In time our “niceness” is all we have left to rely on; we’ve learned it well. But the price we pay is high: we feel an emptiness; we have ceased to be real. The fire and courage have gone out of our lives. And maybe out of our immune systems.

To take that one step further, even a person with evil intent can be nice. A pedophile can be “nice”. So is “niceness” what we really need to be reaching for if what we want is to add goodness to this world?

What I’m learning is this: we’d be better off if we forget about being nice.  What the world needs is for us to be loving. Love can be expressed in myriad ways, and is the greatest medicine we have for all our ills. Compassion is real – let’s be compassionate. Gentleness is a blessing – let’s be gentle. All these qualities are real; they are not a “veneer”. They are true expressions of the goodness that is latent within us, that is inherent in our humanity and our divinity. The expression of true compassion, of true kindness, is active and fiery, not meek and self-sacrificing (ask anyone who ever met Mother Theresa.) It carries great power and can create real change, and alleviate suffering. The superficial veneer of socially-approved “niceness” is a cinder that burns up in its light.

If we begin to be truly loving, in the end we won’t have to worry about being “nice.” Loving-kindness is full of grace, and is never destructive but always healing. Love doesn’t speak with arrogance, or selfishness, or mal-intent. I guess you could say love is the nicest thing there is.

So why fake it?

With love,
rosemary

* from “Anti-Cancer: A New Way of Life” by David Servan-Schreiber, M.D., Ph.D.

Dear Traveler,
This made me think of you, so here I am to share it.

At the end of yesterday morning’s meditation and prayer time, the image of a nearby demolition site floated into my awareness. A large, historical building was torn down, and during the ensuing five-year tussle over who should be allowed to rebuild there (and how high), nature has reclaimed the space. A half-acre concrete slab, bordered by asphalt and littered with gravel and broken bricks, now sprouts a wildly abstract carpet of audacious weeds and hopeful saplings. The bright spirits of the neighborhood arts community interweave the surrounding chain link fence with ephemeral art and benevolent signage in an ever-changing public canvas. New life reigns (and rains) in the fought-over but otherwise neglected territory.

Everything wants to return to nature.  

What is man-made is mostly unsustainable. A building, an amusement park – even a farm; none of these can replenish themselves. Nature is in a constant, reliable, and never-ending state of renewal. As in the example of the abandoned building site above, nature will subtly but powerfully heal a wound wherever it finds one. Our bodies, if not our spirits, are part of and governed by nature. If most of our diseases are man-made, should we not also be able to heal if we “get out of the way” and let nature address our wounds?

How do we do this? Granted, some illnesses have an acute onset or are life-threatening, and need immediate addressing by whatever means will be life-saving. But afterwards, in the healing time, we can still turn to nature, and with respect and humility, learn to work with its compassionate intelligence.  

Think of a hatching chick, persevering for hours or days to peck its way out of its shell, gaining strength for the life ahead. The hen never interferes with this process, living in a state of acceptance that all is as it should be. Think of those remarkable wind-bent pines growing along the timber line, sometimes on sheer cliff faces. They send out their roots, gripping tenaciously wherever the smallest pocket of soil is found. And they survive, bringing such poignant beauty to the landscape. Surely our own well-being is worth the same effort. Here’s the kicker: sometimes the effort lies in doing nothing except what comes naturally (or would if we’d let it).

What seems difficult to our thinking minds is simple when we’re flowing with nature’s way. I’d never say easy, just simple. For example, the depth of relaxation that promotes real healing is one of the most difficult things for 21st century humans to achieve. It requires no particular action, yet at the same time it’s not about sipping margaritas on the beach (which is more like pressing the “pause” button for a brief moment in an otherwise stressful life; nothing really changes.) What I’m learning is that true relaxation is a state of intense aliveness, vibrant, fully engaged, and joyful; it involves not doing all the things that prevent the free flow of life from coursing through our bodies. Not thinking too much, just be-ing more. Not suppressing creativity, desires, emotions, but either shifting them or giving them expression, as appropriate. Think of grazing deer… completely relaxed and at one with their natural surroundings (and their own inner natures), yet poised and alert – in other words, fully alive.

There will always be casualties of illness and injury, for various reasons. Sometimes despite our best efforts things just can’t change quickly enough, and we all know the state of the planet makes it virtually impossible for anyone, anywhere, to be 100% healthy. That said, there is nothing preventing every single one of us from walking a grace-filled healing journey; learning, accepting, awakening.  That’s my wish for us all.

Be like the deer.

With love,  rosemary

  Dear Traveler,
It’s been a while…I hope you’re well.

Recently I've heard about more than one person who is feeling very "alone" in their illness, prompting me to share this story.

While soaking in the tub not long ago, the memory of my first shower after “the big surgery” came flooding back to me (so to speak.) On reflection, I’m amazed to realize how very weak I was, and that I risked getting into the shower by myself at all. But Oxycodone maketh giddy the prudent mind, and I had been looking forward to a real soak for days. Drugged and dizzy, a-showering I did go. At first it felt wonderful – Independence! Hot water everywhere!  Ahh… everything was going to be OK! 

A few moments later, every bit of the strength I’d mustered suddenly spiraled down the drain. I checked; no reserves. I stood grasping the wall, exhausted and shaking. Afraid of falling head-first on the hard porcelain and tile, I didn’t try to move, nor did I have the lung power to call out for help. OK, I thought to myself; you have to solve this problem on your own, right here and now, before you fall. “Treat yourself as you would one of your patients”, I heard, from somewhere inside. OK, what would I do? (What would you do?)

In retrospect I acted on intuition, and the images make me laugh now. I moved my right hand slowly toward my left arm, making sure not to throw myself off balance. I patted my left arm kindly, and whispered “It’s alright, honey. I know you’re really tired, and this is scary, but you’re going to be OK. Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to rinse away all the soap, then we’re going to turn off the water and step out of the tub. We’ll dry off, and you can go lay down on your nice, comfortable bed. You’ll be fine – I’m right here, holding on to you.” I felt a tiny surge of strength, my balance stabilized. “Honey” cried a few anxious tears, but she hung on and we made it out of the shower safely.

Please try this approach some time if you’re struggling or in danger, and there’s no help at hand. Nuts, you say? Well, sometimes we have to be a little bit desperate to open ourselves up to solutions. I don’t know who or what whispered in my ear, and I don’t need to know. I’m grateful. The suggestion worked beautifully, and after some time, I believe I’m beginning to understand why.

When we’re sick or injured, even when we’re really sick or badly injured, a large part of us is still OK. We feel  terrible; we’re in pain, we’re scared, we’re going to throw up… maybe all of the above. But here’s the thing: if we’re conscious, our heart is still beating. Our lungs are still expanding and contracting, exchanging gases, breathing. In all likelihood our bones are holding together and our muscles and nerves are enabling them to move. Our minds can still think, our hearts feel. With all of that happening, we have a lot going for us and can say to ourselves “Well now; part of me is sick (or emotionally wounded, or physically injured), but another part is well, and from that vantage point I can help the sick/damaged part.” If, dear Traveler, you’re a parent or have ever helped another in need when you yourself were not at your best, you’ve already practiced this. All that remains is to apply it to your self.

This becomes a very empowering skill when we use it consciously. For one thing, it means we’re never alone, never helpless, because we can always depend on ourselves. To have the love and support of friends and family in times of struggle is an immeasurable gift; yet even without it, gifts abound. To dig deep into the well of our own resources when the need is greatest makes us wealthy… we find riches there we might never have found otherwise. If you’re seriously ill and are being cared for by dear friends and family members, it’s a blessing. If you have a committed life partner who selflessly participates in your efforts to save your life as if his/her life also depended on it, you’re (both) doubly blessed. If you’re on your own, you still have the best helper any of us can have: yourself. Not only that, you’re three times blessed, because you will emerge from your difficulties with new courage, clearer vision, and a peaceful self-confidence you never dreamed you could possess – because you worked for and found it yourself. Now you can share your new strength with those in need, and with the whole world.

So, dear Traveler, whether you’re wondrously healthy or facing some trying health challenges, remember: you’re never alone. If you’re constantly surrounded by caring people, count your blessings, but make time occasionally to reach into your private well of resources so you don’t miss out on the treasures there. And if you’re on your own, you’re one step ahead. You’re already reaching, and growing richer by the day.

With love ~  rosemary

PS – we all need some help with a few basic things when we’re ill… we need groceries delivered, and laundry done, and the bills paid. If you’re having trouble with the basics, there are people and organizations that can help. If you don’t know how to find them, please email me and I’ll try and point you in the right direction.

Dear Traveler,

A few days ago I was reminded of this song, and wanted to share a verse of it with you. More posts coming soon...

With love,
rosemary

Baptism of fire, all happening within
Illusions burn like tall grass
In the wild and reckless wind
And now they're coming down around me
...And I am rising up
Like a great bell resurrected
Ringing loud and true
The only way out is through.

Julie Snow (from the song "Same Rain")

Dear Traveler,

Today is Thanksgiving here in Canada. In the spirit of the day, here's the story of one man's undying sense wonder and gratitude, against all odds.

Happy Thanksgiving! With love, rosemary

One day about ten years ago, I was working my regular shift as a visiting nurse in the city. It was steamy midsummer, an asphalt-melting day, and the traffic was awful. On top of that I was sick, and wasn't coping well with the demands of my heavy caseload of patients. All in all I was meeting the difficulties of the day with not so much grace and goodwill as I would have liked.

Minutes before the end of my shift, my pager went off. I was being asked to make an extra visit to an elderly patient who needed extensive wound care to both legs, as his regular nurse had been called home on a family emergency. The dressing change would take a good hour. Somehow I summoned up the will to make that last visit, my seventeenth of the day.

I had never met the patient I'd been asked to see, but found the address in a run-down west-end neighborhood. A volunteer from Meals On Wheels arrived at the door of the ramshackle old Victorian at the same time as I did, and as there wasn't any answer to our repeated knocks we opened the door and stepped inside. The volunteer went  first with the meal tray, and I came close behind with my medical bag and supplies. The scene that greeted us was surreal: dusky darkness revealed the outlines of looming stacks of boxes and garbage bags, bicycle wheels and rusted tools, newspapers and broken bits of furniture piled from floor to ceiling. There was a narrow path through the debris, just passable by one person. Tiny, dark shapes skittered through the shadows at our feet as we passed, and the smell was nauseating. I stopped to put on a surgical mask and offered one to the volunteer. Halfway through the front room, the volunteer began to tremble. She set down the tray, uttered a tortured, breathless apology and bolted for the door. Great; at least there was safety in numbers. Now I was alone. I knew I could call for a police escort if I truly felt endangered, but that would take time, and I was running out of strength. I decided to push on.

I made my way back to the kitchen, where I came upon a lovely-looking old white-crowned gent sitting fast asleep in a wooden chair. All around him the counters were littered with small piles of garbage, dirty dishes covered in mould, old food containers and the like.

I greeted "Mr. O" by name, but he didn't respond. I called out to him - still no response. I thought at that point that he might have passed on, so I went closer to check his vital signs. Finding that he still had a pulse, I yelled into his ear a couple of times and he finally stirred. Once awake, he was lovely and gracious - and almost completely deaf. One more challenge! The old fellow laboriously extricated himself from his chair and led me to his bedroom, where he could lay down for his treatment. I anticipated the same scenario there as elsewhere in the house, but instead found a tiny, sun-filled "back porch" room which Mr. O's regular nurse had set up for him to receive his care in. Bless her heart; it was clean and orderly, and all the necessary supplies were there. What ensued was a long session of bending over the low bed, cleansing and dressing the many leg wounds while shouting at the top of my lungs in response to Mr. O's friendly questions, all the while sweating like a champ in the 35 degree heat.

I was completely drained by the end of the visit. Mr. O, having perched himself on the edge of the bed, continued his friendly chatter as I cleaned up the room and got ready to leave. Finally he asked:

"May I tell you something?" then waited for me to give him my full attention.

"Of course, anything" I responded. He went on:

" I have a sister in M__________. She's very wealthy... has lots more money than I've ever even seen in my whole life. But she won't even speak to me because I'm poor and have to live like this; she's embarrassed by me. But you know what? She's the one who's poor. She thinks she's rich, but she's poor, because she has a bitter and selfish heart. It's I who am rich. Would you like to know why?"

He smiled beatifically at me... he had the look of a child who’s bursting with a secret. His eyes sparkled; his heart and soul shone in them.

"Why?" I ventured.

"May I sing for you?" he asked me then, the innocent smile never leaving his face. Here I have to admit I was a bit taken aback. All I could imagine given Mr. O's age (late 80's) and deafness was that it surely would be some pretty awful caterwauling that would issue forth once I gave the go-ahead. But it seemed to mean so much to him, so I steeled myself inwardly, smiled back at him and told him I'd be delighted to hear him sing.

That was all he needed. Before I could draw a breath, the room rang with a voice so sweet and extraordinary that it jolted me like an electric shock - the utter beauty of it searing, crystalline... and so profoundly incongruous with that impoverished environment. My tears came fast and in my heart I felt myself humbled to my knees. Encouraged by my reaction, Mr. O sang on and on, and in his songs and hymns were the mountains and rivers and flowers of his native Wales, unfolding in colours more real than any that could have been captured on canvas or film.

I stood transfixed, beyond time and circumstance, lifted into Mr. O’s world. He had spoken the truth: he was, indeed, a rich man. As for me, I was far richer for having met him.

  Dear Traveler,

Serious illness changes us. We find ourselves on a fast track to transformation (whether we like it or not), and there’s no way of knowing who we’ll become as we shed the old “me”. Today I feel like a seed that’s just beginning to sprout. I’m in the dark, longing to reach the light that beckons me to break through and blossom into – what? 

We can gather our courage and obey, or wither and perish. Scary, isn’t it? These days, if I resist the moment-to-moment call to be fully open to seeing things in a new way, everything suddenly stops flowing and I feel stifled and anxious. I think that’s nature, goodness, life, saying “change - live!” So I’m gazing at the brilliant maples and birches a lot lately, observing the graceful ease with which they cease to be summer trees, and become autumn trees. And how, when the leaves have finally fallen, the magnificent, unfathomable architecture of trunk and twig is revealed.

Illness brings with it a certain burden, yet it also has a way of stripping us of all the weight of illusion, obligation and expectation we’ve been accustomed to shouldering. Therein lies an immense gift: it’s our big chance to break free. What will happen if we allow this transformation? And of our many relationships, which ones will flourish in this new freedom, and which will fade? Are we ready for the possibility that some of the people we’re close to may not elect to make the change with us? Even more important, are we prepared for the possibility of finding love and community in places we have never looked before, in ways we’ve never experienced?

There is an immediacy to life when we finally comprehend how easily it might be lost; an intimate, beautiful wildness.  I can no longer tame my days, or myself, into something neutral and “acceptable”. I hope you won’t, either. I hope if we ever meet on the street it will be as wide-awake, fully lit-up souls with selfless courage in our hearts and love in our eyes.

I’ll be the one in the red shoes.

With love, rosemary

Dear Traveler,

Do you want to know what will save you?

I sure did. From the moment I learned my life was under threat, I yearned to know how to save it. I already embrace a healthy lifestyle; I got sick anyway. Obviously, there are other factors involved. Who could I ask? If I asked a doctor, I would get a medical answer, but medicine (allopathic or naturopathic) is not a perfect science. If I asked a friend or family member, I’d receive an empathetic response but probably very little in the way of wise guidance. I needed an answer! I wanted to take the proper responsibility for my situation, in a constructive, participatory, (not controlling) way. Where to turn?

Maybe you felt this way, too.  If you found a truly helpful solution, please share it (that would be a wonderful use of the “comment” option on here.)

As for me, it occurred to me that I should ask myself. After all, where is God, Goodness-by-any-other-name? Within. Where have the great spiritual Masters of the ages found their timeless wisdom? Within. Was there a better option? I couldn’t see one. This may seem like a highly presumptuous (or whimsical, depending on your thinking) approach, but a drowning person doesn’t hesitate when tossed a life ring, and neither did I. In fact, I believe that turning within for strength and guidance in times of peril is the most natural reflex in creation… we’ve just allowed it to become flabby from too much comfort.

So it came to be that one day I respectfully asked the goodness-within-me, with all the sincerity I could muster: “What is the most important thing I can do in order to help save my life?” And I waited, and I received my answer. To my great joy, it could not have been simpler or more do-able.

My answer is for me, and your answer will be for you. They will likely not be the same, as we each have our own path back to wellness that’s as unique as we are. But I can tell you what is written on the main trail marker, where we all have to start: “Be True To Yourself.” Go down that trail when you find it. Here’s how you’ll know when you’ve found your answer: you will be standing face-to face with the part of yourself you love most. You may not have crossed paths with him/her in a while, maybe not even since childhood if your life’s been a rocky one, so don’t be surprised if you don’t recognize her/him right away. If you get to the end of the trail and there’s no one there, that’s ok. You’ve sent out the invitation; be humble and patient, and try again another day. When you do make the connection, it will bring you much happiness.

Just one more thing, dear traveler: Once you’ve received your answer, remember to be thankful, and to take time to honour it and give it expression every day. Then, whatever else you may need to do in order to heal your body - and even if it can’t be rescued - you will know your life has already been saved. And as the song says, “save yourself and we’ll save the world.”

With love, rosemary

Dear Traveler,

I believe what I’m about to write is so important it deserves a post of its own. I hope you’ll agree.

My primary physician, a trusted, lifelong friend and person of great integrity, offered me the most helpful gem of cancer treatment wisdom I could ever have hoped for. I want to share it with as many people as I can. I had just shared my post-op revelation with him (please see post #2, below), and told him I was now open to considering chemotherapy. Here, to the best of my memory, is his response:

“Chemo is not for everyone. But if you think you have it in you to ever consider it, even as a last resort if all else fails, the best approach is to just go ahead and do it first. You’ve already had surgery, and the best outcomes occur when the window of time between surgery and the first treatment is as small as possible. When people wait and use chemo as a last resort, it’s usually ineffective, and it’s because that critical moment when its efficacy would have been greatest has long passed.”  (I've since learned one of the reasons for this:  primary tumours often secrete substances which mitigate the growth of smaller, younger tumours, preventing them from "stealing" circulation and nourishment from the larger growths. Once those primary tumours are removed through surgery, that mitigating force is no longer there, leading to a sudden "blossoming" of the smaller, remote tumors and micro-tumours.)

At first I felt stunned, then grief-stricken. So many people I’ve known had followed exactly the route my doctor described, trying numerous other healing methods first, and leaving the fearsome spectre of chemo to deal with later “only if necessary.” How many thousands of people have been deprived of the opportunity to make an educated decision based on this equation? How many of them would have been happy to follow the wise counsel I’d received, if they’d been offered it it? How many may have, in fact, lost their lives on this point alone? In all my time as an R.N., not a single one of my cancer patients has ever mentioned this concept when relaying discussions with their physicians regarding treatment options.

More conversation ensued, but the point had clearly been made. I’ll always be profoundly grateful for my doctor friend’s advice. It guided my decisions, and come what may, I will never have any regrets about my choices; I will know I have done my very best to meet this challenge face on, eyes open. Surgery and chemotherapy are forceful and immediate solutions when such is needed. If (o happy thought) they do their job and buy me a future here, I will have lots of time to repair the damage done using the natural, time-honoured methods I have always embraced and trusted.

I wish the very same good fortune for you. I wish the same for everyone. Please share this with as many people as you can… we all know someone who is dealing with cancer.

With love,
rosemary

Postscript: Some cancers are very slow growing, and when detected early, can be eradicated or managed very well using a naturopathic approach. I have also witnessed complete healing using prayer alone. I am not advocating for one treatment option over another - only for educated decisions. You and I will find the greatest success in that, and by following the guidance that speaks in our own hearts.

Dear Traveler,

I hope all is well in your world as I write post number two.

It’s been a few months since my diagnosis, and I didn’t start writing about my experience right off the top. I figured I’d better see if I could learn a few things first. So I’ll just play catch-up now, starting with the day of my surgery in late July of 2010. Something extraordinary happened to me that day, and I think it could happen to you, too, if it hasn’t already. I hope the story will be helpful, and worthy of the precious time you spend reading this.

You and I each bring a certain amount of conscious and unconscious baggage (both helpful and not so helpful varieties) to the table when making any kind of decision. Here’s a wee insight into mine, to give some context to whatever conversation might ensue. As a community nurse working in one of the most multi-cultural urban centres on earth, I cared for thousands of patients with every conceivable illness. I’ll never find words to describe the value of the education I received behind the doors of every kind of home Toronto has to offer, from Post Road mansions to crumbling, roach-infested rooming houses and shelters – and sometimes no houses at all. The most important thing is: I came to see that illness is a great equalizer; it strips away all illusions of “difference” brought on by privilege or poverty. Through my work, I came to have a profound respect and fierce love for humanity – that includes you - and for the miraculous, resilient, transcendent human spirit. A human being – any human being - is the most beautiful garden on Earth.

As long as their choices couldn’t potentially cause harm I always supported my patient’s treatment decisions, no matter how unusual, because I understand how important a part belief plays in healing. My own beliefs about healing were shaped during a very nature-inspired upbringing by a European immigrant mother who considered diet, herbs, baths, and an attitude of courage to be the best doctors. I still agree, though I would add prayer to that list. So when I learned my own diagnosis, and heard that surgery was necessary in short order if I didn’t want to be pushing up asters by Thanksgiving, I had a real dilemma on my hands. All the healing methods I believed in take time*… clearly not one of the features of ovarian cancer, which is typically diagnosed at a late stage because of the absence of overt symptoms. I was not mentally or spiritually prepared for the battlefield approach that seemed the only reasonable course of action to save my life.

After deciding without a doubt that I wanted to live and therefore would take the advice of several trustworthy physicians who had my best interest at heart, I was able to embrace the idea of major abdominal surgery. But I pulled up short at the prospect of chemotherapy. Although some drugs used in the ovarian cancer protocol here in Canada are plant based (ex:Taxol) , they are all highly refined and extremely toxic, and there are several additional medications one must take in order to endure the effects of chemo upon the body. No, this was not for me; I felt sure of it. I made the decision to have surgery, followed by a rigorous program of herbs, prayer, diet, and supplements. I felt confident with my choice, was otherwise healthy and strong in every way, and my doctors were not expecting to discover a worst-case scenario at surgery. Dilemma solved with a minimum of compromise - or so I thought.

If by any chance dear traveler, you’re a mother who, let’s say, entered into the childbirth experience with clear and noble ideas about how you wanted to welcome your little one into the world (no anaesthesia, no hospital, for instance), and subsequently needed an emergency C-section in order to save your child’s life, you already know what I’m going to say here. In the final analysis, it’s about preserving life. The stakes are high, life is precious, and in the searing moment of reality it’s not about ideas and ideals any more, it just IS. The axis shifts; the light pours in. It’s no longer about the birth; it’s about the baby. Suddenly, the decision is easy. Sometimes that same kind of illumination happens simply by grace – with no emergency at hand, and without you or I ever realizing the need to re-examine our ideas. That’s what happened with my plan about not doing chemo.

When I awoke from surgery, before reaching full consciousness, everything was so still.  I felt saturated with peace. Eyes still closed, I observed within my little cocoon of peace a warm light, and glimmering somewhere in the light was a concept. The concept was “Now it’s time to do chemo.” I lay there smiling and felt strangely, deeply happy, as if some well-loved voice had announced: “Now there is no more suffering in the world.”  Seconds later, my mind sputtered “Wait a minute - Chemo? That can’t be right – I’m SO not doing chemo!” In my utterly simple state I decided I didn’t like the feeling of this second "voice". I focused on the lovely light again. The peace returned. I thought “How can this be? Am I really supposed to have chemo? How can I reconcile that with everything I believe?” But I didn’t turn away from the peace. I just thought to myself, well, it must be that the soul knows things the mind does not. I decided to trust this, and see what would unfold. Later, after hearing the results of the surgery from my Doctor, I would learn why chemo was the right choice for me. But it’s not those cold facts that give me the courage to stay the hellish course. It's my decision to trust in the absolute clarity of that moment of peace, when I listened to my inner voice, that brought me the strength I need to rise to this challenge.

You and I have the privilege of choice. Even when severely constrained by outer circumstances, we have limitless inner choices: how we will view things, how we will judge, how we’ll act if action is possible. For any given scenario there’s always a path of least resistance – usually a lazy one, well worn by habit and paved with notions that have little basis in reality. There’s a path of obligation, the one we take when pleasing others is our priority. There’s a path of hard knocks, where we wilfully and self-destructively – for various, unsound reasons - turn away from what’s in our best interest and put ourselves in harm’s way.  There are myriad paths and you and I have been down most of them. Now I'm learning there’s a very different kind of road we can travel.. I call what I experienced after surgery “the path that unfurls.” There’s a natural ease, and a beckoning, and a sense of “rightness” on this path, and if I pay attention to those feelings as I navigate this illness, I can tell when I’m veering off course. It’s not always easy; I end up in the ditch a lot. It takes practice. The road’s never familiar; it springs, perennially new, from the still-glistening edge of the previous moment. But when I can stay with it, it always carries me safely to my next crossroad. None of this is to say that planning is a bad thing; quite the contrary. It's just that often our best-laid plans don't unfold as we'd envisioned, because we can't always see the big picture at the outset. That's when the "path that unfurls" can show us the detours around whatever obstacle we've encountered. Wouldn't it be amazing to always live this way, feeling the welcoming road unfurl before us like a beautiful carpet, always sure of which way to go?

So, dear traveler, here’s what I’d like to share with you about treatment decisions: In truth, it’s not about having chemo or not having chemo.. It's about letting go of old prejudices - no matter how well-founded they may seem - so grace can find a way into your life. It’s about accepting the best choices that life, in its compassionate wisdom, offers you (and it WILL offer). It’s about having faith in the inner guidance that’s available to each one of us.

If you look around in there, I know you’ll find the trailhead to the path that unfurls just for you, no matter how dark it seems at first. And if you don't find it right away, just be gentle with yourself and make the best decisions you can in the mean time. Life is kind and will meet you half way. One more thing: Your path and mine may be very different, even if our circumstances seem similar. My little planet has its own secret highways and byways, just like yours. It’s OK to ask for directions sometimes, but always remember: it’s your little planet; you’re the one with the map.

With love,
rosemary

* with the exception of prayer, which I believe – and have witnessed – is sometimes answered with miracles that operate beyond the limitations of time.