These days this pilgrim continues to look at life from a planetary perspective. This beautiful blue planet that we have been given belongs to all of us. We need to live as if we were all neighbours - planetary neighbours. David and I, and our entire family, have been amazed at the support we have received as we move though the journey of my recent health challenge. It is so much easier to give support, isn't it? To cook a meal for someone, to visit a friend, to comfort a person who is suffering. I find that most of us find it much more difficult to receive help. To acknowledge that you are vulnerable, that you need care.
Life for this Planetary Pilgrim has been painful during the last couple of days. Sharp pain, out of the blue, not on the site of the incision, but in the soft tissues of my upper arm. It has been pretty constant in the past five days. A nurse at the hospital had warned me that most of the pain would feel like stinging or burning. It does burn and sting, and sometimes it takes my breath away. I understand that it is probably the nerves affected by the surgery trying to recover and to re-establish themselves. I don't know exactly what they are doing, but it is painful!
I am trying to strike balance between pain relief and pain tolerance. I don't want to be a hero, but I do want to keep this in a "planetary" perspective. I ask myself what can I do to relieve the pain, other than pop pills which I might need later for something else?
When the "phantom pain" is bad, I concentrate on friends, the many friends who have brought me their love and their hope, often wrapped in olives from Kalamata, cookies that look forward to Easter, pastries from the Polish store where we often enjoy coffee, bagels from the City Cafe. Other friends bring flowers - delightful orange and yellow bouquets that assure us that spring (with this year's crop of excellent dandelions!) is here. Some of the cards I have received have moved David and me to tears. Not sad tears. Tears of exultation!
A friend who knits brought me a prayer shawl. (Me! Imagine getting your own prayer shawl when you have taken so many to others) She stayed and had chicken soup with me - what a blessing that was, to be able to feed the wonderful care giver who had come to see me. She knows, you see, that there is blessing in receiving as well as in giving.
A dear niece sends me a brief meditation every day. A nephew and his friend came with his dog, and ate stir fry with us. We had a wonderful conversation about cancer. His dog Ben has cancer.
My friend brought me a Rosary from Iraq, a Muslim rosary. A Muslim rosary has ninety nine beads. Did you know about the Muslim practice of reciting the ninety nine most Beautiul Names of God? The Beneficent, the Merciful, the One, the Creator, the Evolver, the Forgiver, the First, the Preexisting ... I have given Muslim rosaries to many Muslim patients at the Hospital. Now, I have received one. Al Hamdulillah!
I want to share a song with you. It is called The Denial. The words were written in the twenties, but the song became very popular in the late sixties, when it was forbidden during the time of the Greek dictatorship. Imagine! To forbid signing!
I hope you will look at the video. It is not too long. It will be the next entry in this blog. And just look at the face of the singer, when the entire audience starts to sing with him. There are moments when he stops singing, and the audience carries him along with their music. His face registers surprise and then delight, as he surrenders to their signing. So, how do I feel? I hurt, but how can I keep from singing?
And now, I must get going, but we will see each other around, surely, on the Way to Santiago.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Some times Planetary Pilgrims are like Kilroy, who was here first!
My daughter suggested that the title of this blog should be "Myrta Is Here", rather than "Myrta Was Here". Why do I use Myrta "was" here? Is this an indication that I have given up, and am thinking of myself in the past tense? Indeed not!
Who was Kilroy? He is part of the legendary history of the American soldiers during the Second World War. Kilroy worked in a factory, and part of his job was to count rivets. At the end of each counting shift, Kilroy would place a check mark, indicating how much had been produced. He also signed his name and used the graphic "Kilroy was here" to make sure that workers would not falsely report more production in order to make more money.
As time wore on, Kilroy's signature and graphic remained on the equipment and made its way to battlefields all over the world. Soldiers all over the world would run into his famous mark. Many soldiers then got in the habit of writing Kilroy's name and note on walls, tanks, planes.
Everywhere, soldiers were discovering that they were not alone, that Kilroy had already "been there" before them. It was a comforting note that assured them that they would finally prevail in the war.
Kilroy's name and signature, together with the graphic, has become a classic reminder that we are not alone, that Kilroy has indeed already been there. That we might just be safer because of it.
And so it is as a reminder of that piece of the history of my time, and as an expression of hope and encouragement to others who might be going through breast cancer, that I have chosen "Myrta Was Here" as the title for this blog. Just as I am not alone, you need not be alone either. Thanks to the Eternal power that is loving, creative and everlasting, "Kilroy was here" and we can keep hoping and going forward.
I must be going, but I will see you around, surely, with Kilroy, on the road to Santiago.
Who was Kilroy? He is part of the legendary history of the American soldiers during the Second World War. Kilroy worked in a factory, and part of his job was to count rivets. At the end of each counting shift, Kilroy would place a check mark, indicating how much had been produced. He also signed his name and used the graphic "Kilroy was here" to make sure that workers would not falsely report more production in order to make more money.
As time wore on, Kilroy's signature and graphic remained on the equipment and made its way to battlefields all over the world. Soldiers all over the world would run into his famous mark. Many soldiers then got in the habit of writing Kilroy's name and note on walls, tanks, planes.
Everywhere, soldiers were discovering that they were not alone, that Kilroy had already "been there" before them. It was a comforting note that assured them that they would finally prevail in the war.
Kilroy's name and signature, together with the graphic, has become a classic reminder that we are not alone, that Kilroy has indeed already been there. That we might just be safer because of it.
And so it is as a reminder of that piece of the history of my time, and as an expression of hope and encouragement to others who might be going through breast cancer, that I have chosen "Myrta Was Here" as the title for this blog. Just as I am not alone, you need not be alone either. Thanks to the Eternal power that is loving, creative and everlasting, "Kilroy was here" and we can keep hoping and going forward.
I must be going, but I will see you around, surely, with Kilroy, on the road to Santiago.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Some Planetary Pilgrims are STARTREK Fans
I know I am! There is a lot of good stuff in StarTrek, and today I will remind you of the StarTrek IV movie. In the fourth movie Scottie, who was the engineer, tells Admiral Kirk (who is an admiral by then!) "Admiral, there be whales here!" Yesterday I was able to confirm what I always suspected about St. Mary's General Hospital: There be Angels There! Some of them you can even see and hear.
One of the angels asked me if I preferred to be wheeled in to surgery, or if I wanted to walk. I walked.
Then, as I was lying on my stretcher in Surgery Suite # 4, I felt a profound need to say, "Oh, Siht!" If you don't know what that means, it means "Excreta!" If you don't know what that means, look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls (I hope I spelled that right!)
I lay there, feeling very apprehensive about the loss of control involved in surrendering to a cold operating room, anaesthesia, shiny metal, bright lights, masks, and talk of which scalpels are more effective for this or that. Then, two nurses came close to me and said: "We both know you. Once when we had a really difficult case, you came and spoke with us. It was good." That was the last thing this chaplain heard as she drifted into the arms of sleep. There be angels there, and I did not know it!
Soon, I was awakened by other nurses calling my name and telling me that I was in the recovery room. Without opening my eyes, I asked if Florence, my nursing friend who used to work on one of my floors, was working that day. In next to no time, Florence was near me, inviting me to trust in a loving creator, and encouraging me to hope. There be angels there, too!
The lump was malignant.The lump is now out, and there is some of lymph node material being tested as I write this, to discover what other little cookie monsters might still be hiding under my bed. If that should be the case, the excreta will hit the fan, and we will participate in more aggressive treatment. As Josh Martin, one of my heroes, wrote me, "that lump doesn't stand a chance" with so many of us walking together on this journey.
Of course, it doesn't stand a chance! This grandmother has three grand children in Ottawa, and five beautiful grand children who have adopted me in Kitchener! Lots of stories to tell, songs to sing, trips to the cottage to take. That old lump does not stand a chance. Do you know why? Because I am not alone. We are not alone. None of us needs to take this journey alone, when there are so many of us walking together.
I believe radiation is on the agenda. We will know more concretely within the next three weeks. Before that, I will go back to work. I miss my work family already. Staying busy is important to me; making sure that we are ready for spring, if it ever stops snowing, is important. Making more homemade pasta with my grand children is important. Having coffee with my friends, signing in my choir, and having special conversations with my children are all important and beneficial tasks that help my healing.
And so is spending time with David. Spending precious time with a lovely man who makes me feel special, and who tells me several times a day that he loves me, is not only special and healing, it also keeps the little cookie monster under my bed getting smaller and smaller. So, have another cookie, little monster. As for me? Pass the broccoli, please, isn't it the most delicious broccoli you ever tasted?
I am indeed fortunate to live in Canada, where health care is a right, not a special privilege for just a few. I am blessed with family and friends. I have received the gift of love from family, colleagues, neighbours, friends of my children, church members, pastors, and so many others.
To all I say, thanks, and, "It is time I got going. We will see each other around, most assuredly, on the way to Santiago."
One of the angels asked me if I preferred to be wheeled in to surgery, or if I wanted to walk. I walked.
Then, as I was lying on my stretcher in Surgery Suite # 4, I felt a profound need to say, "Oh, Siht!" If you don't know what that means, it means "Excreta!" If you don't know what that means, look it up in your Funk and Wagnalls (I hope I spelled that right!)
I lay there, feeling very apprehensive about the loss of control involved in surrendering to a cold operating room, anaesthesia, shiny metal, bright lights, masks, and talk of which scalpels are more effective for this or that. Then, two nurses came close to me and said: "We both know you. Once when we had a really difficult case, you came and spoke with us. It was good." That was the last thing this chaplain heard as she drifted into the arms of sleep. There be angels there, and I did not know it!
Soon, I was awakened by other nurses calling my name and telling me that I was in the recovery room. Without opening my eyes, I asked if Florence, my nursing friend who used to work on one of my floors, was working that day. In next to no time, Florence was near me, inviting me to trust in a loving creator, and encouraging me to hope. There be angels there, too!
The lump was malignant.The lump is now out, and there is some of lymph node material being tested as I write this, to discover what other little cookie monsters might still be hiding under my bed. If that should be the case, the excreta will hit the fan, and we will participate in more aggressive treatment. As Josh Martin, one of my heroes, wrote me, "that lump doesn't stand a chance" with so many of us walking together on this journey.
Of course, it doesn't stand a chance! This grandmother has three grand children in Ottawa, and five beautiful grand children who have adopted me in Kitchener! Lots of stories to tell, songs to sing, trips to the cottage to take. That old lump does not stand a chance. Do you know why? Because I am not alone. We are not alone. None of us needs to take this journey alone, when there are so many of us walking together.
I believe radiation is on the agenda. We will know more concretely within the next three weeks. Before that, I will go back to work. I miss my work family already. Staying busy is important to me; making sure that we are ready for spring, if it ever stops snowing, is important. Making more homemade pasta with my grand children is important. Having coffee with my friends, signing in my choir, and having special conversations with my children are all important and beneficial tasks that help my healing.
And so is spending time with David. Spending precious time with a lovely man who makes me feel special, and who tells me several times a day that he loves me, is not only special and healing, it also keeps the little cookie monster under my bed getting smaller and smaller. So, have another cookie, little monster. As for me? Pass the broccoli, please, isn't it the most delicious broccoli you ever tasted?
I am indeed fortunate to live in Canada, where health care is a right, not a special privilege for just a few. I am blessed with family and friends. I have received the gift of love from family, colleagues, neighbours, friends of my children, church members, pastors, and so many others.
To all I say, thanks, and, "It is time I got going. We will see each other around, most assuredly, on the way to Santiago."
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
So, what is a "Planetary Pilgrim?"
Thank you for asking! The way I see it, Planetary Pilgrims look at life and at the world from the point of view of the Universe. They are able to imagine what the world looks like from space, not only physically, but spiritually, as well. They try to be mindful of certain truths, even when they cannot be ever-mindful! Truths such as this one:
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these ..."
I am not a very good Planetary Pilgrim, but I am trying. I am beginning to learn the ways of the road. I have learned that it is not the destination that is important, but the journey. I have learned that one must know how to offer support, but also know how to receive support.
During the past month, while waiting for surgery and whatever may come after that, I have felt enveloped by a mantle of support. I have been held inside a circle of caring and love. This circle is respectful, ongoing, strong, dignified. I have confirmed what I already knew - that I am not alone. That we are not alone.
Today I posted a beautiful dance on this blog. I do not dance. But I have been adopted by those who love me. This is what being adopted means to me: being surrounded by a circle that offers joy and support in times of challenge. It is an active circle. It is not static at all; it keeps moving, slowly, without missing a beat. It encourages different dancers to play their roles. The dancers take turns. And the one dancer that supports the others as they take their turn hardly moves, yet he, too, is dancing. He is offering his strength, his steadiness, his balance.
Planetary Pilgrims appreciate their family and their friends. My daughter comes tomorrow, to be with us on the 24th. My grandchildren called me tonight to tell me that they are sending their mother, and to wish me good luck. They, too are dancers in this circle. My son encourages me and answers questions patiently when I need to learn how to do this, or that, how to compose a blog, how to post my father's stories on the Internet. He, too is a dancer in my circle.
Children, partners, in-laws, friends, colleagues. Nieces! A certain niece who sent me a bagful of Mardi Gras beads, for me to show off before and after surgery! A sister who sends blessings and a sister who looks for reading materials. A nephew who takes and sends me lovely pictures. And David ... always, David.
Planetary Pilgrims bear witness to the psalm: "And when you call for me, I have already answered"!
We will talk, and see each other on the other side of March 24.
For now, it is time I got going. We will see each other around, surely, on the Road to Santiago
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these ..."
I am not a very good Planetary Pilgrim, but I am trying. I am beginning to learn the ways of the road. I have learned that it is not the destination that is important, but the journey. I have learned that one must know how to offer support, but also know how to receive support.
During the past month, while waiting for surgery and whatever may come after that, I have felt enveloped by a mantle of support. I have been held inside a circle of caring and love. This circle is respectful, ongoing, strong, dignified. I have confirmed what I already knew - that I am not alone. That we are not alone.
Today I posted a beautiful dance on this blog. I do not dance. But I have been adopted by those who love me. This is what being adopted means to me: being surrounded by a circle that offers joy and support in times of challenge. It is an active circle. It is not static at all; it keeps moving, slowly, without missing a beat. It encourages different dancers to play their roles. The dancers take turns. And the one dancer that supports the others as they take their turn hardly moves, yet he, too, is dancing. He is offering his strength, his steadiness, his balance.
Planetary Pilgrims appreciate their family and their friends. My daughter comes tomorrow, to be with us on the 24th. My grandchildren called me tonight to tell me that they are sending their mother, and to wish me good luck. They, too are dancers in this circle. My son encourages me and answers questions patiently when I need to learn how to do this, or that, how to compose a blog, how to post my father's stories on the Internet. He, too is a dancer in my circle.
Children, partners, in-laws, friends, colleagues. Nieces! A certain niece who sent me a bagful of Mardi Gras beads, for me to show off before and after surgery! A sister who sends blessings and a sister who looks for reading materials. A nephew who takes and sends me lovely pictures. And David ... always, David.
Planetary Pilgrims bear witness to the psalm: "And when you call for me, I have already answered"!
We will talk, and see each other on the other side of March 24.
For now, it is time I got going. We will see each other around, surely, on the Road to Santiago
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Planetary pilgrims don't need to bargain!
No medical news to report. This is the waiting time. But I thought I would tell you about my experience so far. Not from the point of view of physical conditions and responses, but from the point of view of: "so, where is God in this?"
I often tell patients at the Hospital that I don't bring God into the room; rather, I find God waiting for us, in the room! And so, it is not surprising that I have not had to look very hard for the presence of a loving Creator in this experience I am going through.
I'll keep this short. It is late, and I am working tomorrow. But I need to share a thought that has captivated me since Sunday morning. One of the readings for the first Sunday of Lent was from Psalm 32. Keep in mind that the Psalms sometimes refer to conflicts between good and wicked people; between enemies out to get the Psalmist, and the hope for God's protection and care. I am not so much interested in the "wicked" in this reference, as I am in what comes after that phrase:
"Many are the torments of the wicked, but steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the LORD."
Funny, isn't it? It does NOT say that those who trust God will not suffer, but it says
that steadfast love surrounds them! They are not promised easy sailing; rather, they are assured that they are not alone.
I was bowled over when I heard that, because that is how I feel. I don't think I will look for a "lifetime warranty", life does not work like that, right? But I do heartily accept the promise that "steadfast love surrounds those who trust."
The past month has been a learning experience for me. I have not been shy about sharing what is happening in my life. My family and my friends, my colleagues at work, all know. That is why I wanted to share how this particular reading moved me. I hope you can read this and feel in your heart how I feel: totally surrounded by a mantle of love and care.
At this moment, that is all I ask for, and that is all I care for. This planetary pilgrim has learned (oh, maybe I knew it intellectually already) that she is not alone. That she is surrounded by a mantle of steadfast love. All I can say is: Thank you!
It is time I got going. We will see each other around, surely, on the Road to Santiago.
I often tell patients at the Hospital that I don't bring God into the room; rather, I find God waiting for us, in the room! And so, it is not surprising that I have not had to look very hard for the presence of a loving Creator in this experience I am going through.
I'll keep this short. It is late, and I am working tomorrow. But I need to share a thought that has captivated me since Sunday morning. One of the readings for the first Sunday of Lent was from Psalm 32. Keep in mind that the Psalms sometimes refer to conflicts between good and wicked people; between enemies out to get the Psalmist, and the hope for God's protection and care. I am not so much interested in the "wicked" in this reference, as I am in what comes after that phrase:
"Many are the torments of the wicked, but steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the LORD."
Funny, isn't it? It does NOT say that those who trust God will not suffer, but it says
that steadfast love surrounds them! They are not promised easy sailing; rather, they are assured that they are not alone.
I was bowled over when I heard that, because that is how I feel. I don't think I will look for a "lifetime warranty", life does not work like that, right? But I do heartily accept the promise that "steadfast love surrounds those who trust."
The past month has been a learning experience for me. I have not been shy about sharing what is happening in my life. My family and my friends, my colleagues at work, all know. That is why I wanted to share how this particular reading moved me. I hope you can read this and feel in your heart how I feel: totally surrounded by a mantle of love and care.
At this moment, that is all I ask for, and that is all I care for. This planetary pilgrim has learned (oh, maybe I knew it intellectually already) that she is not alone. That she is surrounded by a mantle of steadfast love. All I can say is: Thank you!
It is time I got going. We will see each other around, surely, on the Road to Santiago.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A slice of life - in the context of a planetary pilgrim
I had a biopsy today. A biopsy. All Greek to you, you say? Well, perhaps. But keep in mind that some of our family's best friends are Greek! Doing a biopsy, means taking a look at life. "Bio" means life, and the rest of the word comes from a Greek word that means "view"
Since cancer cells are extremely successful at growing, the trained observer can determine whether a tissue sample is malignant or not by the speed at which the cells multiphy. Malignant is such a heavy word. Malignant, malevolent, sinister, evil. Let us be more generous toward the cookie-eating monster under my bed: we might (might) say that it is just a successful little bugger that is growing too fast. Should that be the case, the medical people in my corner would discover that the biopsy shows cancer.
"Medical people in my corner", "the cookie-eating monster under my bed", "family", "Greek". Those are all words that I am using to place what is happening to me into a context that I can understand. I am seeking to normalize things. No, I am not escaping, avoiding or denying what might be happening. I am reducing it to a size I can understand and deal with.
Some time ago I attended a three-day seminar on Cancer, as part of my Chaplaincy Residency training. There I heard a specialist describe cancer cells as highly successful. I was fascinated! I thought, "Wow, I wonder what could happen if science could harness their power!" And we will, someday. As my grandson Gabriel used to say when he was little: "Not yet, maybe later; soon"
So now we wait. My surgeon has already decided that this uninvited guest is coming out, regardless of how fast or how slow it is growing. So, wat the biopsy a waste of time, given that the lump is coming out anyway? Perhaps. However, it might confirm what the doctor already suspects. The more we know about what we are dealing with, the better. One way or the other, it is curtains for that cookie-eating pest. That will happen on the 24th of March, at St. Mary's Hospital. That feels comforting, to me, somehow.
The medical team in my corner includes a doctor who calls himself "Shark". The doctor who specializes in the science of radiology, is Dr. Shaw. He did the biopsy today. I have seen him many times in the Cafe 911, at St. Mary's. Today I saw him from another perspective. We were not looking at one another from a vertical point of view. Today I was lying, looking up at the ceiling, and he was working his science with his instruments, while performing magic with his voice. Setting me at ease, explaining, chatting, using humour to disguise the fact that there was a little bit of a sting to the initial needle.
The nurse who attended to me is called Angela. There are many angels at St. Mary's. Some you see, some you feel. This one was both. On my way out she wished me well with my next adventure on the 24th of March. I had the feeling that she meant every word. I hope that people find my own words of comfort as inspiring when I speak with them.
After my experience at the hospital I went to lunch with Rukhsana and Eileen, long time friends who have minded the financial fortunes of the Multicultural Centre for a long time. When we worked together I was the lucky one. I just had to find the money. They had to keep track of it, and keep all the papers in order. When Eileen first came to the Centre, the budget was something like $25,000. Today it is around $1.6 million!
At lunch we were joined by another person in my team: my husband David. Now, there is a fine man, who loves cookies, but does not live under my bed. My main man, together with my two fine kids, their children and partners. We will see this through, inshallah!
It is time I got going; but we'll see each other around, I am sure, on the road to Santiago.
Since cancer cells are extremely successful at growing, the trained observer can determine whether a tissue sample is malignant or not by the speed at which the cells multiphy. Malignant is such a heavy word. Malignant, malevolent, sinister, evil. Let us be more generous toward the cookie-eating monster under my bed: we might (might) say that it is just a successful little bugger that is growing too fast. Should that be the case, the medical people in my corner would discover that the biopsy shows cancer.
"Medical people in my corner", "the cookie-eating monster under my bed", "family", "Greek". Those are all words that I am using to place what is happening to me into a context that I can understand. I am seeking to normalize things. No, I am not escaping, avoiding or denying what might be happening. I am reducing it to a size I can understand and deal with.
Some time ago I attended a three-day seminar on Cancer, as part of my Chaplaincy Residency training. There I heard a specialist describe cancer cells as highly successful. I was fascinated! I thought, "Wow, I wonder what could happen if science could harness their power!" And we will, someday. As my grandson Gabriel used to say when he was little: "Not yet, maybe later; soon"
So now we wait. My surgeon has already decided that this uninvited guest is coming out, regardless of how fast or how slow it is growing. So, wat the biopsy a waste of time, given that the lump is coming out anyway? Perhaps. However, it might confirm what the doctor already suspects. The more we know about what we are dealing with, the better. One way or the other, it is curtains for that cookie-eating pest. That will happen on the 24th of March, at St. Mary's Hospital. That feels comforting, to me, somehow.
The medical team in my corner includes a doctor who calls himself "Shark". The doctor who specializes in the science of radiology, is Dr. Shaw. He did the biopsy today. I have seen him many times in the Cafe 911, at St. Mary's. Today I saw him from another perspective. We were not looking at one another from a vertical point of view. Today I was lying, looking up at the ceiling, and he was working his science with his instruments, while performing magic with his voice. Setting me at ease, explaining, chatting, using humour to disguise the fact that there was a little bit of a sting to the initial needle.
The nurse who attended to me is called Angela. There are many angels at St. Mary's. Some you see, some you feel. This one was both. On my way out she wished me well with my next adventure on the 24th of March. I had the feeling that she meant every word. I hope that people find my own words of comfort as inspiring when I speak with them.
After my experience at the hospital I went to lunch with Rukhsana and Eileen, long time friends who have minded the financial fortunes of the Multicultural Centre for a long time. When we worked together I was the lucky one. I just had to find the money. They had to keep track of it, and keep all the papers in order. When Eileen first came to the Centre, the budget was something like $25,000. Today it is around $1.6 million!
At lunch we were joined by another person in my team: my husband David. Now, there is a fine man, who loves cookies, but does not live under my bed. My main man, together with my two fine kids, their children and partners. We will see this through, inshallah!
It is time I got going; but we'll see each other around, I am sure, on the road to Santiago.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Planetary pilgrims feed cookies to their monsters
For the next 2 weeks and 2 days, this pilgrim will be waiting. My appointment for surgery is for March 24, which is the eve of the Annunciation, for those who keep calendars. That will determine where we go after that.
Dr. Seuss talks about waiting in his wonderful book Oh, The Places You'll Go!
Listen to the genius of Dr. Seuss:
"You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long-wiggled roads
at a break-necking pace, and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed,
I fear, toward a most useless space. The Waiting Place ...
........................
Waiting, perhaps, for their uncle Jake, or a pot to boil, or a better break,
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants, or a wig with curls, or Another Chance..."
Today my surgeon spoke about the immediate future with me. A biopsy, this week. And on March 24, surgery to remove my uninvited guest, the lump in my left breast. He spoke clearly, I thought, and matter-of-factly, with dignity and humour. I liked that.
If I had met a doctor who was a sour and nasty person, I would not have been too happy. Granted, this is not a picnic in Victoria Park. We are talking about serious stuff, here - my body, my health. I know I need a doctor, not a clown. But he was friendly, open to questions, comfortable, and welcoming.
My appointment won't take place for more than 2 weeks. I already described the waiting experience as "not as much fun as chewing aluminium foil." That is one of the challenges of this situation. The waiting. The other is the craziness of knowing that you feel absolutely well, but that there may be something that is not well within you. More waiting.
Two Sundays ago, the choir sang "Be still, my soul" at Trinity United Church: "thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake." I will try to be still. And I will not be nasty to my uninvited guest. While I wait, I shall talk nicely to the monsters under my bed.
I shall feed them cookies, as Sister Barbara suggests. No bitterness, and no undue fear, I hope. And I shall continue to eat broccoli! Oh, yes. A positive attitude is what I am asking for, and lots of broccoli for me, please!
It is time I got going. And I will see you around, on the way to Santiago.
Dr. Seuss talks about waiting in his wonderful book Oh, The Places You'll Go!
Listen to the genius of Dr. Seuss:
"You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long-wiggled roads
at a break-necking pace, and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed,
I fear, toward a most useless space. The Waiting Place ...
........................
Waiting, perhaps, for their uncle Jake, or a pot to boil, or a better break,
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants, or a wig with curls, or Another Chance..."
Today my surgeon spoke about the immediate future with me. A biopsy, this week. And on March 24, surgery to remove my uninvited guest, the lump in my left breast. He spoke clearly, I thought, and matter-of-factly, with dignity and humour. I liked that.
If I had met a doctor who was a sour and nasty person, I would not have been too happy. Granted, this is not a picnic in Victoria Park. We are talking about serious stuff, here - my body, my health. I know I need a doctor, not a clown. But he was friendly, open to questions, comfortable, and welcoming.
My appointment won't take place for more than 2 weeks. I already described the waiting experience as "not as much fun as chewing aluminium foil." That is one of the challenges of this situation. The waiting. The other is the craziness of knowing that you feel absolutely well, but that there may be something that is not well within you. More waiting.
Two Sundays ago, the choir sang "Be still, my soul" at Trinity United Church: "thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake." I will try to be still. And I will not be nasty to my uninvited guest. While I wait, I shall talk nicely to the monsters under my bed.
I shall feed them cookies, as Sister Barbara suggests. No bitterness, and no undue fear, I hope. And I shall continue to eat broccoli! Oh, yes. A positive attitude is what I am asking for, and lots of broccoli for me, please!
It is time I got going. And I will see you around, on the way to Santiago.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
On being a planetary pilgrim ...
It was an exciting crossing - a bit frightening, dark, humid, not very pleasant. It was not unsafe, as long as you remained on the main tunnel. There were rails to keep us safe. But we could hear the dripping of the water, as some of the river escaped the dam. People often made the crossing on horseback, so one could hear the horses coming, in the dark.
Getting to the other side, we were rewarded with a view of the night sky. Stars in numbers well beyond my ability to count, winked at me, telling me "See? You made it! It was worth the trek and soon you will be at your grandmother's home. If you ask her, she may make you some hot chocolate."
On nights when the moon was full, my grandfather would turn off his flashlight, and we walked home, all the way up the mountain by the pale, cool light of the moon. Just as the apprehension over having made the ominous crossing under the river was easing off, the uphill moonlit trek added the last bit of excitement.
"Are you afraid, Myrtita?" my grandmother Julia would ask. Before I could answer, my grandfather would reply with a severe, gruff voice: "How could any Rivera child be afraid in these mountains?"
What my grandmother might not have noticed, however, was that my grandfather had taken hold of my hand, to reassure me! How could I be afraid in those mountains? If I close my eyes, I can see the dark hills, bathed in starlight, speckled with tiny flickers from lanterns and kerosene lamps in the neighbouring homes.
This has been a tough week. Waiting is not fun; it can be very disempowering. Reflecting on the stars and on how long they have been scattering their light over the earth has been a steady, ever-present help for me. Each morning I have been reminded of the young man who was running away from home for his safety. He had to sleep in the dessert, a rock for his pillow. In the morning he realized: "Surely, God is in this place, and I did not know it."
I am learning to embrace this dark, early, waiting. Walking into it with the light of the inmense love that surrounds me, I am finding out that there is light in this place, and I did not know it!
It is time I got going. I'll see you around, on the way to Santiago.
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