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Hi friend,
A few weeks ago, at a medical appointment, I was discussing my mindset around resuming chemo with one of my favorite nurses—one who cared for me when I was diagnosed with leukemia at twenty-two, then again two years ago, and now a third time—and she said, “You seem weirdly calm.”
I replied, “I feel weirdly calm.” And it’s true. At first, I thought I was in shock or maybe even denial—and sure, there’s probably a little of both. But mainly, I think I feel calm because I’ve accepted my circumstances. It’s taken me a long time to get here. Over the last thirteen years, I’ve raged against the realities and limitations of illness. I’ve stewed in self-pity. I’ve fallen into the comparison trap, envying others who don’t have to endlessly deal with such health conundrums. I’ve numbed myself to my reality, binge-watching bad TV and indulging other means of escape. But the fact is, that illness and its imprints have been a constant specter in my adult life, and as much as I may want to, I can’t look away. Illness and its attendant complications—everything from doctor’s appointments to uncertainties about the future—are simply here. It is what it is, and no amount of avoidance gymnastics will change it.
That’s not to say I don’t feel fear—of course, I do. But strangely, the anticipation of pain can be far scarier than just being in it, actually confronting it. After my first transplant, in the years when I was cancer-free, I felt hijacked by the prospect of a recurrence and afraid that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. When it actually happened, I faced it. Knowing that, I have been trying to practice a kind of radical acceptance of whatever comes up, responding with whatever the situation calls for.
Take last weekend, for example. On Saturday, I had to go in for my last infusion of my second round of chemo. The side effects compound day-to-day, and afterward I felt awful, and I knew I’d be spending the day in bed. It had been a rainy morning, but on my way home, the sky began to clear, and I beheld a spectacular rainbow. For a moment, I glimpsed a sense of wonder. When I got to my room, I said to myself, “If I have to be in bed all day, so be it. What can I do to make this a little less miserable?” I took some anti-nausea meds and got a big glass of water. I put on my favorite face oil, wrapped myself a heating pad, gathered my pups around me, and queued up some favorite old movies to watch. Did I still feel awful? Yes. But instead of fighting it, or lamenting all of the things I wouldn’t be able to accomplish that day, I accepted it. And it turned out that staying in bed all day felt almost luxurious.
Then came Sunday, and I felt a little better—good enough to get up for a couple of hours and spend some time in the sun. My mom was visiting, and my friends Cat, Jonny, and Liz came over to pick peppers from our garden and make homemade hot sauce. It was a perfect early autumn day, with all three dogs snuffling around outside the fence of the vegetable patch. (Outside because Sunshine seems not to understand that peppers are not a suitable snack for a pup.) Afterward, everyone got to chopping the peppers and jarring them for fermentation. By the end, I was so tired that I didn’t make it to dinner—I went to bed hours before everyone else—but I was sated by the good hours I’d spent.
Earlier this summer, days after I learned I was going back on chemo, I was drinking coffee on the porch with my dad. He said that somehow he felt there would be a miracle—that someday all this would be behind me and I would be well. I understood the impulse, especially for a parent. And would I like a miracle cure? Sure. But I can’t anchor my sense of well-being in some future unknown, be it a miracle or something else. It doesn’t bring me comfort to hope for something that’s so far out of my control. I need to stay within what I can control, and what’s in my control is how I feel right now, how I live my life right now. And my life right now is good. It’s good despite illness. It’s maybe even good because of it—because of how it has clarified what I value and rerouted my priorities.
I’ve been thinking recently that the people I admire most are not those who bend reality to their will, but who accept it and find creative ways to engage with it. I think that’s my definition of resilience: to accept what’s happening moment to moment, and to allow for necessary adjustments, to pivot, to find relief, to cultivate small joys. And in that same vein, I try to plant seeds for future joys, for things to look forward to—like next weekend, when our tabasco peppers will be ripe for the picking.
With that, I’ll turn to today’s essay and prompt, called “The Wisdom of No Escape” by the inspiring Laura McKowen. It’s a powerful meditation on what happens when we stop running from discomfort, when we summon the courage to stay present—to welcome whatever the day, the hour, the moment will bring.
Sending hot, hot, very spicy love,
Suleika
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