His name is Ezekiel!

My walking stick's name is Ezekiel. And I am hoping we shall be friends for a long time. Ezekiel was a man who walked with God during a time when the people of Israel were not in very good shape. Ezekiel had a vision, one day, of a great valley filled with dry bones. The way he tells the story, he felt that God was asking him if the bones could live and be vital again. Ezekiel responded that if God should so decree it, the bones would become vital and live again. His response was pretty much all that was needed for the bones to take on lively power and strength again, so that they became in his mind a great army. The point of his vision, Ezekiel tells us, is that we can be lively, despite the dryness of the bones and the hopelessness of the situation. Readers of these reflections of mine know that my cancer has metastasized to the bones. Pretty dry-bone state of affairs. But with God's help, and with the proper amount of medication, we will continue to be part of this great army of walkers, some healthy, some not so healthy, who walk in the direction of hope, and life everlasting. My walking stick tells me that his name is Ezekiel. Not "Zeke" - his name is Ezekiel, and he stands as part of a great army of supporters. And we will get there, by God, though the road be rocky, and the journey be scary, and though the pain should break through unexpectedly. And we will see you, with my friend Ezekiel, on the way to Santiago!

What do you mean "in the moment"?

Ah, that is such a good question! We human beings seem to want stability, we want to be able to predict such things as "how long will it last?" We want to be able to plan - if we go to the lake, how long is the trip going to take? And we wish desperately for a pill, a salve, a cream, something that will take the pain away for a predictable length of time. I have not yet discovered such a medication. I am part of a wonderful palliative care team. My doctors and nurses are able to support patients on a 24/7 basis. If I call them, a response comes back to me in less than 30 minutes. A nurse who specializes in pain management has been assigned to me, and it is very reassuring to know that she knows my case, is familiar with my situation, with the meds I take, and with how my tolerance is working at this time. A quick and compassionate response is a very important part of my healing journey. It is important, however, for me to realize that I am on a healing journey; I am not on a race to find a cure. So, as I meet the severe pain on my lower back, or on my hip, I am aware, that we are part of a work in progress, moving toward the relief of pain, yet aware that we may not make it go away totally and for ever. Being in the moment requires an open mind, an awareness that we will use different modes, that we will address the pain in different ways, and that a good moment will be as long as it can be. We will be grateful for it, and be open to how ever long it lasts. We will be glad in it - that is what being "in the moment" means. And we will see you, along the way to Santiago, one moment at a time.

How long is a good time?

Oh, wow, if I had to tell you how long a good moment lasts, what would I tell you? This is the way we are working nowadays. A good time is as long as a moment lasts. Ten minutes? Ten minutes! Five? OK! I am learning to live in the moment, and am learning not to expect one hour. There will come a time, we still hope, when we will have a longer, possibly more predictable, time. When we will be able to predict with more regularity how long a trip we can have, or whether we will be able to sit through a play. At the present time, we are practicing the art of living in the moment. Winnie the Pooh knows about living in the moment. So does Toby the dog. How are you Myrta? Well. How is the pain? At the moment, it is six out of ten, and will hopefully go away. For a while. And we will keep on walking, together, to Santiago. With the pain, and the meds, and lots of good answers. And hope, always hope.

My cane, walking stick, walking aid...

It is a collapsible, aluminium deal, not hugely expensive, but very strong. Not elegant. Not cute or colourful, but strong; a really solid companion and dance partner in this new dance of life. I bought a lot of stickers and now my friend is all covered with sea shell stickers. Hanging from a chain is my calling card - my latest calling card: "Myrta Rivera, Spiritual care provider and story teller."


Alas, yesterday was my first day with my companion. Have not given him a name yet, though I expect that he is aware of his name and purpose. He calls me "boss". What a nice fiction ... the fact is that I can't go very far without it!


I got to thinking, how many walking aids and companions do we have in our lives? How many agencies and community groups exist out there, to help us when we need a hand? Not glamorous, not, elegant, not very shiny, but always there, aware of their mission and purpose, often run and supported by volunteers. 


Tomorrow, I expect I shall be starting chemo again, if the blood work is right, for 2 more weeks.


On this day, on this day that the Creator has made, let us be glad and rejoice in all our walking companions. And, we'll see you around, walking with purpose still, on the way to Santiago.

The second time around

Is love really sweeter the second time around? Certainly chemo is not sweeter. Oral chemo, intended to reduce pain, strengthen my bones, who knows? It may even put hair on someone's chest! So far I have no indications of this last item -- relax, folks, only kidding.


It has been a while since I wrote. Won't sugar coat it. Silence means either that I am totally zombied-out, or that the neuropathy in my fingers is making it difficult to type. I should get one of those programs where you just dictate! Sometimes my fingers feel like they are all thumbs, and it is difficult to choose between letter keys as I type.


So, how are you, Myrta? The physical difficulties made it easy  to not write, stay silent for a while and observe, feel how I am really feeling, examine what is happening. So many friends have honoured me by looking up the blog, and noticing that I have not written for a while. Thank you for checking in, and letting me know what you think. Thank you for your encouraging messages and your ongoing prayers and care.


When you are told, as I have been, that the goal will be to reduce pain, a little message pops up on one's screen: "Hold it, boss, what are they saying? Just pain control, what's the deal here?" You try to concentrate on what you are being told, but the inner message keeps popping up. What is the meaning of this, really?


Anticipatory grief. There is a phrase for you. Talk about hair on your chest! And what about "life review"? That is another one. How do you process stuff, the memories, experiences,and (yes, even) the fears of years? And what about narrative therapy? And short term brief counselling, and scaling? On a scale of one to ten, how are you feeling? Have you ever felt this way before? What helped you to get out? Where on the scale would you like to be? What do you need to get there?


A wonderful doctor friend asked me an amazing question today: if your loved ones falter about the fact that you don't seem to be fighting as much as they would expect, will they see your attitude as resignation, or will they grow to see it as courage? Where on the scale would I like to be? Hmm.


I am taking both long-lasting pain relief, and medication for the time when the pain breaks through the barrier.  Every 2 weeks I have a break from the oral chemo which I take daily. I am on the "OFF" week now, and it has been wonderful. Tonight we are going to Swiss Chalet for supper. Next week I will not wish to eat a thing, and it will be difficult to persuade my poor body to swallow. Ah well, tonight, this moment, I am well.


That is all for now, and remind me to write you about my walking cane!