Eight years ago, during this week, I was getting ready to embark on a solo pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I was 59 years old, and wanted to so domething to mark the end of my fifties. I also wanted to support the Capital Campaign of the K-W Multicultural Centre with a pilgrimage that would gather sponsorships, so that the Centre could buy a new building.
The actual walk took one month of walking in Spain, during May of 2003. Mornings were cool, afternoons comfortable. There was sunshine almost every day. I travelled alone, though I was never alone. There were always other fellow pilgrims on the trail.
My preparation consisted mostly of walking around Kitchener Waterloo, to break in my boots, and to get used to my backpack. Since I intended to take no more than 11 pounds (including a bottle of water that would get lighter as the day wore on), the planning of what to take was almost as important as the actual walking preparation.
What to take with you, when you are going to be walking every day, and sleeping in a different shelter every night, with up to sixty other people? I took a hat. A strong hiking pole to hold on to. Very few light, easy wearing items of clothing that would dry quickly, a comfortable pair of sandals for evenings, a long dress that would serve both as sleepwear and relaxing tunic after a long day of walking. I also took a cotton shawl that served as a privacy curtain around my bunk, and as a quick-drying towel. I took no cosmetics, except for skin lotion, sun screen and a few other health products. I cut my hair very, very short, so that I would not need to carry a comb or a brush. I took my father's little Book of Common Prayer. A map. My bank card and passport. In total, I carried eleven pounds, including a full bottle of water. I packed and unpacked, wound and rewound the clothing; I added, took away, and packed again until I was ready.
Later this week I am embarking upon a more taxing pilgrimage - an internal pilgrimage through the land of Chemotherapy and Radiation. I expect that this trek will take me, sometime in the middle of autumn, to a healthy resolution of the breast cancer that I discovered this winter.
What shall I pack for this awesome journey? How to prepare? I am thinking about this today, and so my post today is written as a review of what I might need to "pack". I am taking out my bright yellow backpack to carry my things to the hospital for treatments. It will serve as a connection to the earlier journey. My hat and a hair piece or a scarf will protect my head once I shave off my grey curls. Easy clothing, some of it made of silk, to be comfortable and soft. Precious few cosmetics, though I hope to carry and apply my Burt's Bees colour lip gloss every day!
I am walking alone this time, but it is a different "alone" from my earlier pilgrimage. Then I was physically alone, away from my family and home, though always in the presence of other pilgrims. This time I am alone in the sense that I alone will receive the treatments. It is my own body that has been affected,it will be my body that will experience both the blessing of healing and the worrisome side effects of the chemotherapy.
My previous pilgrimage experience put me in contact with dozens of local residents who decided to support my project. My church friends supported me and my family walked in spirit with me every step of the way.
Again this time, I have been overwhelmed with the support of friends, acquaintances and family from near and far. My sister, daughter and her family are here spending this beautiful Easter weekend with David and me. I visited family in Toronto over the weekend, our friend John calls David from time to time to check in. Friends have prepared meals that will come in handy after the treatment starts. My daughter, son-in-law, my grand children and my sister are planting things in the garden. My children's friends come over to visit and share their experiences, books,and music with me. They and many others are getting ready to set off with me on this amazing pilgrimage toward healing.
I was saying to David the other day that I imagine myself as a boxer, getting ready to go into the ring. The other people around are my trainers making sure that I make the right moves, protect myself, and get the job done. And by God, we shall get the job done, no question about that!
Why have I been keeping this blog journal? Why have I decided to make my encounter with cancer so open? Because I know how many people in our communities are shocked when they are diagnosed with cancer. It is still seen by many as a horrible curse, one that should not be talked about. And so, people suffer in silence until near the end. Even when friends know what is going on, they maintain a poignant silence: if it is not mentioned, then perhaps it is not happening. "If we don't tell the patient then she will not despair."
My decision to make my condition known stems from a desire to do whatever I can to stress that cancer can be beaten. It is an unfortunate thing to have happen, it is an unplanned interruption, it is frightening, but it is part of the human condition. And when these things happen, humans support one another, and visit each other, and bring a book, or send a card, or make a casserole or a prayer shawl, or a loaf of bread. In so doing, we offer comfort and we join the great company of pilgrims who are journeying to health and to healing.
As I write this, my grandkids are having a gardening blitz in our back yard, together with their parents and my sister. They are planting strawberries, onions, garlic, calla lilies and sunflowers.
It is time I joined them. I want to take some pictures of the kids, and gather more good thoughts and memories for the road ahead. And we will see you around, looking forward to sunflowers in the autumn, on the way to Santiago.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
An Easter Meditation From the Third Century
Indulge me please, this evening, and allow me to refer to my own spiritual roots.
Being a Planetary Pilgrim means that I am able to drink deeply from every stream of faith and comfort. Yet, I was brought up in the Easter tradition. Therefore at this time of the year my spirit soars with the promise of hope and life, with the certainty that justice can overcome injustice, and that righteousness must overcome homelessness and despair. I inherited a tradition that says that there is immorality in allowing poverty, hunger and greed to ruin our life on this planet.
To all who read this, whether you have been brought up in this tradition or not, I offer this meditation as a reminder that we are Planetary Pilgrims, all of us. We all are invited to live in hope, and to work and struggle for hope.
My thoughts today are not about whether the man Jesus rose from a physical death or not, but rather whether we accept the belief that injustice will not forever stand in the way of justice. We are called to proclaim that hatred cannot win over love, ever.
St. John Chrysostom's (347-407) Easter Homily:
"Are there any who are devout lovers of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!
Are there any who are grateful servants? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!
Are there any weary from fasting? Let them now receive their due!
If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their reward.
If any have come after the third hour, let them with gratitude join in the feast!
Those who arrived after the sixth hour, let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.
Those who have tarried until the ninth hour, let them not hesitate; but let them come too.
And those who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.
For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour, even as to those who toiled from the beginning.
To one and all the Lord gives generously. The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention. Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord! First and last alike, receive your reward. Rich and poor, rejoice together! Conscientious and lazy, celebrate the day!
You who have kept the fast, and you who have not, rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread! Feast royally, for the calf is fatted. Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the banquet of faith. Enjoy the bounty of the Lord's goodness! Let no one grieve being poor, for the universal reign has been revealed. Let no one lament persistent failings, for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the death of our Saviour has set us free.
The Lord has destroyed death by enduring it. The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh. Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below."
Hell was in turmoil having been eclipsed. Hell was in turmoil having been mocked. Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed. Hell was in turmoil having been abolished. Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.
Hell grasped a corpse, and met God. Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven. Hell took what it saw, and was overcome by what it could not see. O death, where is your sting? O hell, where is your victory?
Christ is risen, and you are cast down! Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen! Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life is set free! Christ is risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead. For Christ, having risen from the dead, is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
To God be glory and power forever and ever. Amen! "
Our blog will return during this week, for regularly scheduled posts regarding my new encounter with chemotherapy this coming Thursday.
Being a Planetary Pilgrim means that I am able to drink deeply from every stream of faith and comfort. Yet, I was brought up in the Easter tradition. Therefore at this time of the year my spirit soars with the promise of hope and life, with the certainty that justice can overcome injustice, and that righteousness must overcome homelessness and despair. I inherited a tradition that says that there is immorality in allowing poverty, hunger and greed to ruin our life on this planet.
To all who read this, whether you have been brought up in this tradition or not, I offer this meditation as a reminder that we are Planetary Pilgrims, all of us. We all are invited to live in hope, and to work and struggle for hope.
My thoughts today are not about whether the man Jesus rose from a physical death or not, but rather whether we accept the belief that injustice will not forever stand in the way of justice. We are called to proclaim that hatred cannot win over love, ever.
St. John Chrysostom's (347-407) Easter Homily:
"Are there any who are devout lovers of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!
Are there any who are grateful servants? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!
Are there any weary from fasting? Let them now receive their due!
If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their reward.
If any have come after the third hour, let them with gratitude join in the feast!
Those who arrived after the sixth hour, let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.
Those who have tarried until the ninth hour, let them not hesitate; but let them come too.
And those who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.
For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour, even as to those who toiled from the beginning.
To one and all the Lord gives generously. The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention. Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord! First and last alike, receive your reward. Rich and poor, rejoice together! Conscientious and lazy, celebrate the day!
You who have kept the fast, and you who have not, rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread! Feast royally, for the calf is fatted. Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the banquet of faith. Enjoy the bounty of the Lord's goodness! Let no one grieve being poor, for the universal reign has been revealed. Let no one lament persistent failings, for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the death of our Saviour has set us free.
The Lord has destroyed death by enduring it. The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh. Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below."
Hell was in turmoil having been eclipsed. Hell was in turmoil having been mocked. Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed. Hell was in turmoil having been abolished. Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.
Hell grasped a corpse, and met God. Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven. Hell took what it saw, and was overcome by what it could not see. O death, where is your sting? O hell, where is your victory?
Christ is risen, and you are cast down! Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen! Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life is set free! Christ is risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead. For Christ, having risen from the dead, is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
To God be glory and power forever and ever. Amen! "
Our blog will return during this week, for regularly scheduled posts regarding my new encounter with chemotherapy this coming Thursday.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Planetary Pilgrims Enjoy a Little Bit of Fun!
Enough of the strong stuff, enjoy this little CAT on the Way to Santiago!
Glowing Blood Vessels are the Order of the Day for this Planetary Pilgrim
Today I had a test called a "multiple uptake gated acquisition scan", or MUGA scan for short. This test took place at St. Mary's Hospital in Kitchener. First they took a couple of vials of my blood, sent it someplace to add a substance to it, and injected it back again into my vein.
Then I lay on a stretcher that took me in and out of the scanner, while it took a picture of how my heart works. It took 30 minutes to take this image, or series of images.
The reason for this scan is to ensure that the muscle in my heart is strong enough to withstand any side effects caused by certain type of chemicals used to combat breast cancer through chemotherapy. While some of these substances can be excellent in combatting this disease, they can also be hard on heart muscle.
While I lay having my test, not moving for over 30 minutes, I became aware of every breath, of every itch in my body. I was also reminded of the man some years ago who was forgotten in a CAT scan room, while staff left the building. No such thing happened today, or has ever happened at St. Mary's, I am sure!!!
Being a STARTREK fan, I was also reminded of Lt. Commander Leonard McCoy, also called "Bones". He was the doctor in the original STARTREK series. I may need to remind readers that this is a Science Fiction series that takes place in the 24th Century. Dr. Mc Coy's knowledge and practice of medicine is quite different from ours today. He is also well versed in historical medical practices, and often refers to the medical practices of our time (which is four hundred years ago, for him) as medieval and barbaric.
I listened to the plan to take some vials of my blood, mixing in a special substance, and injecting it back, to make the pumping action of my heart more visible to the scanner. I could not help but remember Dr. Mc Coy's description of our methods in this century!
And yet, we now live in the 21st century. I am grateful for the amazing discoveries that make the workings of my body visible and clear to the physicians who are working with me toward healing. It is the stuff of science fiction indeed, and it is available to me, free of charge, thanks to the good work of leaders who believed that health care service is a right, not just the privilege of a few.
It is time I got going. So, never fear, Dr. McCoy. We will catch up with you, surely, on the way to Santiago!
Then I lay on a stretcher that took me in and out of the scanner, while it took a picture of how my heart works. It took 30 minutes to take this image, or series of images.
The reason for this scan is to ensure that the muscle in my heart is strong enough to withstand any side effects caused by certain type of chemicals used to combat breast cancer through chemotherapy. While some of these substances can be excellent in combatting this disease, they can also be hard on heart muscle.
While I lay having my test, not moving for over 30 minutes, I became aware of every breath, of every itch in my body. I was also reminded of the man some years ago who was forgotten in a CAT scan room, while staff left the building. No such thing happened today, or has ever happened at St. Mary's, I am sure!!!
Being a STARTREK fan, I was also reminded of Lt. Commander Leonard McCoy, also called "Bones". He was the doctor in the original STARTREK series. I may need to remind readers that this is a Science Fiction series that takes place in the 24th Century. Dr. Mc Coy's knowledge and practice of medicine is quite different from ours today. He is also well versed in historical medical practices, and often refers to the medical practices of our time (which is four hundred years ago, for him) as medieval and barbaric.
I listened to the plan to take some vials of my blood, mixing in a special substance, and injecting it back, to make the pumping action of my heart more visible to the scanner. I could not help but remember Dr. Mc Coy's description of our methods in this century!
And yet, we now live in the 21st century. I am grateful for the amazing discoveries that make the workings of my body visible and clear to the physicians who are working with me toward healing. It is the stuff of science fiction indeed, and it is available to me, free of charge, thanks to the good work of leaders who believed that health care service is a right, not just the privilege of a few.
It is time I got going. So, never fear, Dr. McCoy. We will catch up with you, surely, on the way to Santiago!
CAT Scan Developments That Help Make this Planetary Pilgrim More Visible
Take a look at CAT scan technology, through this short video: Thanks, Ontario!
Friday, April 15, 2011
How Does a Planetary Pilgrim Define Joy?
Today was a red-letter day. In the past, calendars used to mark special holidays in red - that is the meaning of the phrase "red-letter day". Today is the 15th of April. Today my oncologist told me that she is working with me toward healing, and assured me that, in her studied opinion, the cancer I have is curable.
To be sure, it will not be a fun spring and summer. Autumn may not be that great, either. But we shall be working toward healing. So far it looks like other organs, beyond the original breast lump and the lymph system, have not been affected. There is still a need to further check certain questions regarding indications of chronic lung issues, and some bone indications that might just be arthritis. But we heard the word "curable", and we are relishing this today.
Chemotherapy will begin during the week after Easter. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition the first week after Easter counts as if it were one day - Easter Day. What a good week to start the next step of the journey toward healing!
My oncology appointment was long and tense for me, for David, and for our friend Sara. What an amazing gift she gave us, to come with us, to be present, to listen with us and to rejoice with us at the good news. It was good to know that there were three of us listening to the report of tests, and to the plans for chemotherapy.
Lots of work yet to do. Not out of the woods yet, but as Sara said, "At least we are in a clearing!"
Nothing else to report tonight. We will just bask in the good and hopeful feeling, and concentrate on getting ready for what is sure to be the challenge ahead.
Tonight I would like to think about the wonderful volunteers who work with such dedication and sensitivity. I would like to think about the folks at Hope Spring Cancer Support Centre. I would like to think about the staff and physicians who work at the Grand River Cancer Centre. Each of them is a person with their own story and reason for being active in this field.
Tonight is all about gratitude. It is a happy evening for me, because I have hope, and because more than ever I am aware that I am not alone.
Now, it is time I got going. There is bread baking in the kitchen, filling our home with the welcome aroma. Tomorrow we will think about chemo, and wigs, and injections, and blisters, and naps, and we will go on, with all our friends and family, together, on the way to Santiago.
To be sure, it will not be a fun spring and summer. Autumn may not be that great, either. But we shall be working toward healing. So far it looks like other organs, beyond the original breast lump and the lymph system, have not been affected. There is still a need to further check certain questions regarding indications of chronic lung issues, and some bone indications that might just be arthritis. But we heard the word "curable", and we are relishing this today.
Chemotherapy will begin during the week after Easter. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition the first week after Easter counts as if it were one day - Easter Day. What a good week to start the next step of the journey toward healing!
My oncology appointment was long and tense for me, for David, and for our friend Sara. What an amazing gift she gave us, to come with us, to be present, to listen with us and to rejoice with us at the good news. It was good to know that there were three of us listening to the report of tests, and to the plans for chemotherapy.
Lots of work yet to do. Not out of the woods yet, but as Sara said, "At least we are in a clearing!"
Nothing else to report tonight. We will just bask in the good and hopeful feeling, and concentrate on getting ready for what is sure to be the challenge ahead.
Tonight I would like to think about the wonderful volunteers who work with such dedication and sensitivity. I would like to think about the folks at Hope Spring Cancer Support Centre. I would like to think about the staff and physicians who work at the Grand River Cancer Centre. Each of them is a person with their own story and reason for being active in this field.
Tonight is all about gratitude. It is a happy evening for me, because I have hope, and because more than ever I am aware that I am not alone.
Now, it is time I got going. There is bread baking in the kitchen, filling our home with the welcome aroma. Tomorrow we will think about chemo, and wigs, and injections, and blisters, and naps, and we will go on, with all our friends and family, together, on the way to Santiago.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
This Planetary Pilgrim Gets Ready, and Leans on Her Team
The post immediately below this was written by Josh Martin, and it documents some of the lessons he learned as he walked his journey through Leukemia. He is one of my heroes. At the time he was diagnosed he was in his 20's.
Josh's story is told with clarity and humour. Look him up at:
joshmartinink.wordpress.com
One of Josh's brothers is Dan Martin. Dan happens to be my son-in-law.
I am sharing part of an essay Josh wrote because it gives me hope and because I do not have many words as I prepare for my first appointment with the Chemotherapy Team tomorrow. To tell you the absolute truth, I feel very very small today. Yet, even today, I know that I am part of a beautiful Universe. I know that I am surrounded by a whole company of loved ones, some on this side of eternity, some on the other side. I am accompanied by family, friends, colleagues, and by Josh's spirit and example.
If you have time, I highly recommend Josh's writings. He gives me courage. Today, in my silence and smallness, I lean on his words ... and expect to see you and so many others, on the way to Santiago.
Josh's story is told with clarity and humour. Look him up at:
joshmartinink.wordpress.com
One of Josh's brothers is Dan Martin. Dan happens to be my son-in-law.
I am sharing part of an essay Josh wrote because it gives me hope and because I do not have many words as I prepare for my first appointment with the Chemotherapy Team tomorrow. To tell you the absolute truth, I feel very very small today. Yet, even today, I know that I am part of a beautiful Universe. I know that I am surrounded by a whole company of loved ones, some on this side of eternity, some on the other side. I am accompanied by family, friends, colleagues, and by Josh's spirit and example.
If you have time, I highly recommend Josh's writings. He gives me courage. Today, in my silence and smallness, I lean on his words ... and expect to see you and so many others, on the way to Santiago.
Introducing One Of My Heroes, Another Planetary Pilgrim
More than a Coin Flip:
Five techniques for navigating life’s obstacles, By Josh Martin
Introduction
I flipped a coin. Heads I live. Tails I die.
It was February, 2008. I had just returned home after seeing my doctor. He had told me I had a forty to fifty percent chance of beating the leukemia diagnoses that I had recently received. The blood test I had taken had been startling to say the least. Somewhere between 4 and 11 marks the normal range for white blood cells in a healthy man. Mine? 584.
Yeesh.
Standing alone in my basement office, still numb from the news, I grabbed a quarter from the desk and tossed it in the air. Heads. Phew.
Though thrilled to have Lady Luck on my side, I quickly second-guessed the wisdom of putting my life entirely in the fate of a coin flip. I knew that in the end this was my fight. I couldn’t do it alone but I also couldn’t simply be a passive recipient of care. I needed to lead the charge in my recovery and be my own champion.
Thankfully I had some life experience to draw from as I embarked on this race against time and my own body. I had learned some valuable lessons from a race of another sort; lessons in attitude, team-building, preparation, adaptation and balance that would serve me well in the long journey ahead.
Five techniques for navigating life’s obstacles, By Josh Martin
Introduction
I flipped a coin. Heads I live. Tails I die.
It was February, 2008. I had just returned home after seeing my doctor. He had told me I had a forty to fifty percent chance of beating the leukemia diagnoses that I had recently received. The blood test I had taken had been startling to say the least. Somewhere between 4 and 11 marks the normal range for white blood cells in a healthy man. Mine? 584.
Yeesh.
Standing alone in my basement office, still numb from the news, I grabbed a quarter from the desk and tossed it in the air. Heads. Phew.
Though thrilled to have Lady Luck on my side, I quickly second-guessed the wisdom of putting my life entirely in the fate of a coin flip. I knew that in the end this was my fight. I couldn’t do it alone but I also couldn’t simply be a passive recipient of care. I needed to lead the charge in my recovery and be my own champion.
Thankfully I had some life experience to draw from as I embarked on this race against time and my own body. I had learned some valuable lessons from a race of another sort; lessons in attitude, team-building, preparation, adaptation and balance that would serve me well in the long journey ahead.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
This Planetary Pilgrim is Also a Chaplain ... what could that mean?
My only task during the daytime will be to have a ct scan. And my chief pleasure will be to visit with several friends and former co-workers from the Kitchener-Waterloo Multicultural Centre.
Today might be an appropriate moment to share some thoughts about the impact of cancer on new Canadian individuals living in our community. My observations are grounded on my life experience living and working within multicultural communities for over forty years. There are implications for the care of persons and families affected by cancer that we need to address as a community.
Cancer (together with AIDS, which often renders the patient susceptible to cancer) is seen as the new "leprosy". There are many aspects of this condition that isolate the patient and the family, even at the very moment that the community at large wants to offer support.
Shock and horror, together with the inevitable sense of helplessness, all conspire to make for a huge power differential between the patient and others in the immediate and extended community. If one does not speak English well, if one is not familiar with the important role that volunteers play in the helping process, if our community leaders don't encourage volunteering in wider community support services, the impact on patients and families can be catastrophic.
Loss of self is something that I have heard from patients. Loss, at the same moment that the entire circle of family and friends have been saturated with the crisis. "I know that people are talking about me, wondering how I am doing, how I look. They don't talk to me they talk about me!"
There are huge expectations to "fight a good fight", to be positive, to keep hope alive. One woman said to me, "Well, I feel crappy, and I am scared that I'll die from this. I am bitter about having my hopes broken, my family life in ruins, nobody might come and play with my kids. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, and I feel alone." Then, she added: "But don't tell this to anyone in my community!"
My first visit to a cancer patient took place in 1967, when I was a community worker among immigrants in Connecticut. I shall never forget the pain in a woman's voice as she said to me: "I lie there next to my husband, and am afraid to touch him, I could not stand his rejection. So, he lies there, afraid to touch me, in case he hurts me. A fine pair we are!" I was 23 then, what did I know? Yet I have never been able to forget her words.
For many new Canadians cancer is like a death sentence - there is a sudden awareness, a sense that one is "condemned". If one has come to this country as a refugee, there is the further bitterness of having made it to safety in Canada, only to be struck here. Cancer becomes part of your identity. People struggle with what to say. To make it better, the patient often ends up comforting others!
We all know that the human body is a time-limited offer. yet cancer seems to be much more of an intruder, more so than other conditions. We humans are not always logical about living and dying, yet there is a "cancer logic" that seems to insist that cancer is a curse. In some communities, "cancer" is a word that should not even be uttered; as if, by magic, one could bring it on oneself by uttering the word. There is a sense of blame associated with cancer that is not present in, say, MS, or CHF. Why is that?
Often new Canadians become even more isolated when they are diagnosed with cancer. The need to protect the patient becomes so overwhelming that doors are closed to the very activities that could make life more positive. If social activity, living within community, is what makes you feel most alive, how can we ensure that such participation is still available to a person who has cancer?
Where is God in all this? When do we begin to give the message that life is short, always too short, but ever so precious? When do we begin to acknowledge that quality, not length, of life is a patient's right, not a luxury? When do we begin to acknowledge that education about how to relate to a loved one who has cancer is a huge part of the healing process? What does "teach us to number our days so that we may grow in wisdom (Ps. 90:12) really mean in this context?
It is time I got going, but we will see each other around, meeting many others, and speaking many languages, on the way to Santiago!
Today might be an appropriate moment to share some thoughts about the impact of cancer on new Canadian individuals living in our community. My observations are grounded on my life experience living and working within multicultural communities for over forty years. There are implications for the care of persons and families affected by cancer that we need to address as a community.
Cancer (together with AIDS, which often renders the patient susceptible to cancer) is seen as the new "leprosy". There are many aspects of this condition that isolate the patient and the family, even at the very moment that the community at large wants to offer support.
Shock and horror, together with the inevitable sense of helplessness, all conspire to make for a huge power differential between the patient and others in the immediate and extended community. If one does not speak English well, if one is not familiar with the important role that volunteers play in the helping process, if our community leaders don't encourage volunteering in wider community support services, the impact on patients and families can be catastrophic.
Loss of self is something that I have heard from patients. Loss, at the same moment that the entire circle of family and friends have been saturated with the crisis. "I know that people are talking about me, wondering how I am doing, how I look. They don't talk to me they talk about me!"
There are huge expectations to "fight a good fight", to be positive, to keep hope alive. One woman said to me, "Well, I feel crappy, and I am scared that I'll die from this. I am bitter about having my hopes broken, my family life in ruins, nobody might come and play with my kids. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, and I feel alone." Then, she added: "But don't tell this to anyone in my community!"
My first visit to a cancer patient took place in 1967, when I was a community worker among immigrants in Connecticut. I shall never forget the pain in a woman's voice as she said to me: "I lie there next to my husband, and am afraid to touch him, I could not stand his rejection. So, he lies there, afraid to touch me, in case he hurts me. A fine pair we are!" I was 23 then, what did I know? Yet I have never been able to forget her words.
For many new Canadians cancer is like a death sentence - there is a sudden awareness, a sense that one is "condemned". If one has come to this country as a refugee, there is the further bitterness of having made it to safety in Canada, only to be struck here. Cancer becomes part of your identity. People struggle with what to say. To make it better, the patient often ends up comforting others!
We all know that the human body is a time-limited offer. yet cancer seems to be much more of an intruder, more so than other conditions. We humans are not always logical about living and dying, yet there is a "cancer logic" that seems to insist that cancer is a curse. In some communities, "cancer" is a word that should not even be uttered; as if, by magic, one could bring it on oneself by uttering the word. There is a sense of blame associated with cancer that is not present in, say, MS, or CHF. Why is that?
Often new Canadians become even more isolated when they are diagnosed with cancer. The need to protect the patient becomes so overwhelming that doors are closed to the very activities that could make life more positive. If social activity, living within community, is what makes you feel most alive, how can we ensure that such participation is still available to a person who has cancer?
Where is God in all this? When do we begin to give the message that life is short, always too short, but ever so precious? When do we begin to acknowledge that quality, not length, of life is a patient's right, not a luxury? When do we begin to acknowledge that education about how to relate to a loved one who has cancer is a huge part of the healing process? What does "teach us to number our days so that we may grow in wisdom (Ps. 90:12) really mean in this context?
It is time I got going, but we will see each other around, meeting many others, and speaking many languages, on the way to Santiago!
A Planetary Pilgrim Visits Grand River Hospital
This was my first visit to the Cancer Centre. My first visit as a patient, that is. I have been there before to act as a language interpreter, or to visit a friend receiving care.
Today it was different: I was the patient, I was lying on the stretcher. I won't pussyfoot around this, I was a bit worried. I felt anxious while I waited for my David to park the car; it felt like the first day of school!.
I was met by a volunteer who introduced himself to me formally. I found that helpful. I now knew his name, he wanted me to know his name! I felt welcomed. Every effort seemed aimed at normalizing an awkward situation. I felt that these people have seen it all before, yet they knew that I have only just entered this overwhelming new world - the world of cancer.
After an assessment interview where I was asked a lot of questions, I got to meet the radiation specialist. He brought me up to date with what is known about my situation. There was talk about the size of the tumor (2.5 cm.), about the lymph nodes that were examined (10) and how many were affected by cancer (8).
There was a clear suggestion that without radiation the chances of a return within five years could be 50%. Radiation could lower that risk to 10%. My reply was simple: It does not take a rocket scientist to choose radiation!
The proposed course of radiation would be 25 days, over a 5 week period, and it would take place after chemotherapy. Tomorrow I will have a CT scan at St. Mary's Hospital. Then, on Friday I will return to Grand River Hospital to meet with yet one more specialist, and to discuss chemotherapy.
How do I feel? I feel hopeful. I feel supported by a powerful team. I am looking forward to my appointment on Friday. However, I am quite aware that I am not out of the woods yet! I haven't even entered the forest ...
On days like today I feel enormously grateful that David is in my corner. He is there, present, trusting, feeling, This is a frightening situation in the life of any human being, and in the life of any couple. I think about where we were on February 13th this year, and where we found ourselves one week later. I think of where we are today, and try to imagine where we will be in six months. I find myself thinking "We can do this!" Do you know why? Because David has an enormous capacity to trust, and it fits with my own capacity (obsession?) to prepare. We may not get everything we want, we may not be able to make the sun stand still. Yet, in the words of the poet Andrew Marvell (1621-1678): "Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run!"
It is time I got going. I will see you around, after my CAT Scan on the 12th of April, on the way to Santiago.
Today it was different: I was the patient, I was lying on the stretcher. I won't pussyfoot around this, I was a bit worried. I felt anxious while I waited for my David to park the car; it felt like the first day of school!.
I was met by a volunteer who introduced himself to me formally. I found that helpful. I now knew his name, he wanted me to know his name! I felt welcomed. Every effort seemed aimed at normalizing an awkward situation. I felt that these people have seen it all before, yet they knew that I have only just entered this overwhelming new world - the world of cancer.
After an assessment interview where I was asked a lot of questions, I got to meet the radiation specialist. He brought me up to date with what is known about my situation. There was talk about the size of the tumor (2.5 cm.), about the lymph nodes that were examined (10) and how many were affected by cancer (8).
There was a clear suggestion that without radiation the chances of a return within five years could be 50%. Radiation could lower that risk to 10%. My reply was simple: It does not take a rocket scientist to choose radiation!
The proposed course of radiation would be 25 days, over a 5 week period, and it would take place after chemotherapy. Tomorrow I will have a CT scan at St. Mary's Hospital. Then, on Friday I will return to Grand River Hospital to meet with yet one more specialist, and to discuss chemotherapy.
How do I feel? I feel hopeful. I feel supported by a powerful team. I am looking forward to my appointment on Friday. However, I am quite aware that I am not out of the woods yet! I haven't even entered the forest ...
On days like today I feel enormously grateful that David is in my corner. He is there, present, trusting, feeling, This is a frightening situation in the life of any human being, and in the life of any couple. I think about where we were on February 13th this year, and where we found ourselves one week later. I think of where we are today, and try to imagine where we will be in six months. I find myself thinking "We can do this!" Do you know why? Because David has an enormous capacity to trust, and it fits with my own capacity (obsession?) to prepare. We may not get everything we want, we may not be able to make the sun stand still. Yet, in the words of the poet Andrew Marvell (1621-1678): "Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run!"
It is time I got going. I will see you around, after my CAT Scan on the 12th of April, on the way to Santiago.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Today, this Planetary Pilgrim has glowing bones!
I had a full body bone scan at St. Mary's Nuclear Medicine Department today. First, they injected a small amount of radioactive substance and sent me home for three hours, while it spread to my bones. Then, three hous later, I returned to the hospital for the actual scan.
These isotope materials are very expensive, I understand. Thanks to Tommy Douglas of Saskatchewan for his dreams of a just health care service, and to the Minority Pearson Government during the 60's, who made such service possible across our country. And thanks to the citizens of Canada, and of Ontario, for our excellent health care services in this Province!
For a short while today, my bones glowed under special circumstances, such as when the scan took place.
Just half an hour under the scanner, and painless. Yet how much my doctors will be able to detect from the report! The imaging agent allows for detection of abnormalities in the bone due to, among other things, tumors.The scan will help to determine if the cancer has spread to the bones.
While I lay under the scanner, which was ominously close to my body and moved very slowly, I was reminded of Psalm 138. Listen to the moving beauty of this hymn, and perhaps you will feel as I felt, while I underwent this awesome test:
"O, God, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and rise up. You discern my path, and the places I rest, you are familiar with all my ways...
"Where can I hide from your presence? If I ascend to the heavens, you are there; if I lie down in the grave, you are even there. If I take wing with the dawn, and alight at the sea's farthest limits, there also your hand will be guiding me, your powerful hand, holding me fast..."
It is not my custom to go around quoting scripture. But I have grown up hearing these readings all my life. They are part of our language, our literature. These words come at times such as these, and resonate with meaning and hope. I was being scanned by a marvelous machine, yes. But I also found comfort in knowing that I am known by a power that is loving and eternal. Once again, under the full body scanner and with my bones glowing, I was reminded that I am known. And that I am not alone!
It is time I got going. More tests next week, and also 2 appointments with the folks at the Grand River Cancer Centre. After that we shall have a clearer road map. And surely, we will see each other around, glowing, on the way to Santiago.
These isotope materials are very expensive, I understand. Thanks to Tommy Douglas of Saskatchewan for his dreams of a just health care service, and to the Minority Pearson Government during the 60's, who made such service possible across our country. And thanks to the citizens of Canada, and of Ontario, for our excellent health care services in this Province!
For a short while today, my bones glowed under special circumstances, such as when the scan took place.
Just half an hour under the scanner, and painless. Yet how much my doctors will be able to detect from the report! The imaging agent allows for detection of abnormalities in the bone due to, among other things, tumors.The scan will help to determine if the cancer has spread to the bones.
While I lay under the scanner, which was ominously close to my body and moved very slowly, I was reminded of Psalm 138. Listen to the moving beauty of this hymn, and perhaps you will feel as I felt, while I underwent this awesome test:
"O, God, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and rise up. You discern my path, and the places I rest, you are familiar with all my ways...
"Where can I hide from your presence? If I ascend to the heavens, you are there; if I lie down in the grave, you are even there. If I take wing with the dawn, and alight at the sea's farthest limits, there also your hand will be guiding me, your powerful hand, holding me fast..."
It is not my custom to go around quoting scripture. But I have grown up hearing these readings all my life. They are part of our language, our literature. These words come at times such as these, and resonate with meaning and hope. I was being scanned by a marvelous machine, yes. But I also found comfort in knowing that I am known by a power that is loving and eternal. Once again, under the full body scanner and with my bones glowing, I was reminded that I am known. And that I am not alone!
It is time I got going. More tests next week, and also 2 appointments with the folks at the Grand River Cancer Centre. After that we shall have a clearer road map. And surely, we will see each other around, glowing, on the way to Santiago.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Planetary Pilgrims need to sit quietly sometimes
Dr. Sharkey had news for me. There were cancer cells in the lymph nodes. Tests are in order, and so is chemotherapy and radiation. My immediate family knows.
Today is one of those "sit quietly" days. I have spoken with both of my children. I have spoken with one sister and one niece, and the others will surely come soon. I got a quiet huge hug from a young man with Acadian roots, who works in New York City. I have held my dear husband's hand. I have made a call to my mentor, Tom O'Connor. I have received a comforting e-mail from Gail.
Not bad, for a "sit quietly" day.
What else did I do? A quick trip to the Greek store to buy Easter cookies and to place my orders for Easter bread. I certainly plan to celebrate the triumph of life over death on Easter Sunday! I went to the mall and bought some items of clothing, and one big, beautiful, expensive, delightful purse and a scarf. A pink purse and scarf.
Lastly, I made an appointment with my dear friend of 40 years, to go to the mall later this week. I want to buy a wig. A really neat wig with really, really short, mostly white hair. I will not sit in the corner, whimpering, waiting for this stuff to catch up with me. I shall go out to the crossroad, and meet it.
This is not just bravado, or denial, or anger, though there is a lot of that. This is the certainty that I have had crappy days in my life before. Ah, but this time I know what is coming, and I am comfortable. Pissed, angry, but not bitter.
When my son John was little, he delighted in using interesting words. He was comfortable with a Thesaurus, and used it to great advantage. Nothing like hearing your grade three son say "Mom, just tell them that you are quite concerned about this". Whatever the reason for my concern on that day is lost in my memory, but the phrase remains. I am quite concerned about this diagnosis of cancer. And I feel a bit shaken when I think that we are now looking to determine where (if) it has metastasized. Yes. There. I have said it. I am concerned. So is David, and so is everyone on my team.
Ioanna called me. She is in Paris, working on behalf of the Canadian people. I am proud of her and of my son. Together with David they, and their partners and family, are my main support.
But, I now have a wider team -- oncologists, radiologists, nurses, volunteers and others who work hard to make cancer history.
Lastly, today I found a great recipe. Broccoli and chicken, with cream of mushroom soup, grated cheddar cheese and bread crumbs. Goes well with basmati rice, a green salad, and possibly some wine (though no wine for me. I am a cheap date.) I will just enjoy the broccoli and the chicken.
Just the meal to have before setting out on the road again, with your blessings and my friends and family, to Santiago!
Today is one of those "sit quietly" days. I have spoken with both of my children. I have spoken with one sister and one niece, and the others will surely come soon. I got a quiet huge hug from a young man with Acadian roots, who works in New York City. I have held my dear husband's hand. I have made a call to my mentor, Tom O'Connor. I have received a comforting e-mail from Gail.
Not bad, for a "sit quietly" day.
What else did I do? A quick trip to the Greek store to buy Easter cookies and to place my orders for Easter bread. I certainly plan to celebrate the triumph of life over death on Easter Sunday! I went to the mall and bought some items of clothing, and one big, beautiful, expensive, delightful purse and a scarf. A pink purse and scarf.
Lastly, I made an appointment with my dear friend of 40 years, to go to the mall later this week. I want to buy a wig. A really neat wig with really, really short, mostly white hair. I will not sit in the corner, whimpering, waiting for this stuff to catch up with me. I shall go out to the crossroad, and meet it.
This is not just bravado, or denial, or anger, though there is a lot of that. This is the certainty that I have had crappy days in my life before. Ah, but this time I know what is coming, and I am comfortable. Pissed, angry, but not bitter.
When my son John was little, he delighted in using interesting words. He was comfortable with a Thesaurus, and used it to great advantage. Nothing like hearing your grade three son say "Mom, just tell them that you are quite concerned about this". Whatever the reason for my concern on that day is lost in my memory, but the phrase remains. I am quite concerned about this diagnosis of cancer. And I feel a bit shaken when I think that we are now looking to determine where (if) it has metastasized. Yes. There. I have said it. I am concerned. So is David, and so is everyone on my team.
Ioanna called me. She is in Paris, working on behalf of the Canadian people. I am proud of her and of my son. Together with David they, and their partners and family, are my main support.
But, I now have a wider team -- oncologists, radiologists, nurses, volunteers and others who work hard to make cancer history.
Lastly, today I found a great recipe. Broccoli and chicken, with cream of mushroom soup, grated cheddar cheese and bread crumbs. Goes well with basmati rice, a green salad, and possibly some wine (though no wine for me. I am a cheap date.) I will just enjoy the broccoli and the chicken.
Just the meal to have before setting out on the road again, with your blessings and my friends and family, to Santiago!
Monday, April 4, 2011
Planetary Pilgrims know the difference between purposeful and useless waiting.
I saw my family doctor today. He had been away for six weeks. I had been hoping that the pathology report would have been available today for us to discuss but, alas, it is still early. So, we wait.
I am still feeling much pain in my arm. My family doctor agrees with me that nerve pain is not fun. It is annoying and keeps reminding you that something is amiss. Also we discussed the fact that I have diabetes. Diabetes can makes the healing of wounds slower. Maintaining a good blood glucose balance is important now, and will be important in the future, also.
Tomorrow I will see my surgeon for a post-op visit. If he has the pathology report by then, I shall hear about it. Most likely we will talk about the surgery, about the pain and swelling that I am still experiencing. I will welcome more pain relief, although I am trying to keep a balance between pain relief and pain management.
Once the report is available I will be referred to the Cancer Centre at Grand River Hospital. The Region of Waterloo enjoys good services in cancer treatment. You might want to visit this site: www.grhosp.on.ca/CancerProgram
On Saturday I visited with a breast cancer survivor, who received care at Grand River Hospital. His story was inspiring, and I was grateful to have met him at this moment in my life.
Hopefully, soon we can move to the next step in this journey. Will it be fun? Hardly! I expect big challenges, and not a little discomfort. But it will get me one more step closer to health again.
I have always been captivated by the season of advent. The four Sundays before the Christmas season are set aside to mark the waiting period before the Christmas holy day. Each of the four Sundays celebrates a special grace. A new candle is lit each Sunday, along with the previous ones: for Hope, Peace, Joy and Love. So this is my time of waiting. I am trying to live the four graces, and to let them flow over me like a healing balm.
I invite you to check out the 3-minute Sesame Street version of Waiting for Godot, below. This amazing play, by Irish playwright Samuel Beckett, was a favourite of mine during my university years. The characters in the Godot play wait and wait, but Godot never comes. Oh, we were so sophisticated then! We sponsored coffee houses, and volunteered in the inner city, and quoted Sartre, and agonized over the waiting, the deadly waiting for a just society.
Our waiting was not hopeless then, it was purposeful; we worked for a new day. And my waiting now is purposeful, also. I am not waiting for Godot, I am waiting for treatment that will help me to defeat cancer.
And it is time I got going; we will see each other again, soon, on the way to Santiago!
I am still feeling much pain in my arm. My family doctor agrees with me that nerve pain is not fun. It is annoying and keeps reminding you that something is amiss. Also we discussed the fact that I have diabetes. Diabetes can makes the healing of wounds slower. Maintaining a good blood glucose balance is important now, and will be important in the future, also.
Tomorrow I will see my surgeon for a post-op visit. If he has the pathology report by then, I shall hear about it. Most likely we will talk about the surgery, about the pain and swelling that I am still experiencing. I will welcome more pain relief, although I am trying to keep a balance between pain relief and pain management.
Once the report is available I will be referred to the Cancer Centre at Grand River Hospital. The Region of Waterloo enjoys good services in cancer treatment. You might want to visit this site: www.grhosp.on.ca/CancerProgram
On Saturday I visited with a breast cancer survivor, who received care at Grand River Hospital. His story was inspiring, and I was grateful to have met him at this moment in my life.
Hopefully, soon we can move to the next step in this journey. Will it be fun? Hardly! I expect big challenges, and not a little discomfort. But it will get me one more step closer to health again.
I have always been captivated by the season of advent. The four Sundays before the Christmas season are set aside to mark the waiting period before the Christmas holy day. Each of the four Sundays celebrates a special grace. A new candle is lit each Sunday, along with the previous ones: for Hope, Peace, Joy and Love. So this is my time of waiting. I am trying to live the four graces, and to let them flow over me like a healing balm.
I invite you to check out the 3-minute Sesame Street version of Waiting for Godot, below. This amazing play, by Irish playwright Samuel Beckett, was a favourite of mine during my university years. The characters in the Godot play wait and wait, but Godot never comes. Oh, we were so sophisticated then! We sponsored coffee houses, and volunteered in the inner city, and quoted Sartre, and agonized over the waiting, the deadly waiting for a just society.
Our waiting was not hopeless then, it was purposeful; we worked for a new day. And my waiting now is purposeful, also. I am not waiting for Godot, I am waiting for treatment that will help me to defeat cancer.
And it is time I got going; we will see each other again, soon, on the way to Santiago!
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