Miss Mandie

One thing about my life – it’s never dull. This morning the lawnmower man discovered a tombstone in my backyard.

Backyard Tombstone

No kidding. It was hidden behind a tree, in a patch of grass that is not normally mown. I haven’t yet managed to speak to the owner of the house to find out the full story. In the meantime, I did what any person in the 21st century would do when they want to know something – I googled it. And discovered this:

Hoping to Live, Preparing to Die

Alia Kazan

High up here in my oak tree. Strong. Solid. So unlike me at this time… so small and frail… here in my sacred place I am nestled in giant branches. Held… like I am never held by anyone. High above them all, I am safe, without a care in the world… except perhaps I wish mom and I saw eye-to-eye more often. But here I am with my reverie. Free to dream and plan the life that lies ahead… the children I’ll have, and how happy I’ll be, and of course how healthy.

Twenty years fly by like the pages of a book turning… all the plans, schemes, hopes, dreams… loves and losses… I am happy with my life and have found joy and creativity working in theater with disabled adults, and music therapy for children. But I have no children of my own.

Then things change. A lump in the breast, but I’m only 32! And I’m a vegetarian, and I meditate, and pray!

Two men in white coats enter the ward, looking at the ceiling. Wringing hands. Shuffling feet.

“I, er, don’t know how to say this.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, “I think I know what you’re trying to say” (always ready to comfort others.) “Am I going to die?” (My heart is pounding but I don’t flinch.)

Silence.

“It’s a tumor,” says the other man. A lump rises in my throat, thoughts compete for space in my head.

Tumor…? I don’t know this means cancer!

The night before surgery I dream. I fall over a cliff into a raging river fearful… but I am swept to safety.

“Well, I would plan three to six months at a time,” he speaks bluntly. “There are cells in the bloodstream.”

“Cells?” (Aren’t there meant to be cells there?)

Agonizing silence. They turn on their heels and leave. I think about yesterday. An eternity passes. I feel numb. A nurse arrives. She looks young. Embarrassed. She takes my hand and I collapse into tears. Tears of self pity, tears for every loss I’ve ever known. I fear that others may treat me differently, or tiptoe around me.

I’m told I have a two percent chance of living three more years without treatment. Perhaps five years with it! It’s too late for anything but chemotherapy.

Of course I ask, “Why me?” And a thousand other questions… I hear of miracle cures and think, well why not me?

I decide that cancer happened to a particular “me,” so I’ll simply change that “me” and it won’t be appropriate any more. Naivete, perhaps, but the doctors could offer little optimism….

The days that follow are a blur. Domenic, my new partner, is calm. He’s my anchor. He’s only twenty-six. He doesn’t let me see that he’s terrified! His dad died of lung cancer a few years ago.

Would he still love me if I lost a breast? Other stresses were too much for a new relationship anyway, but our friendship continues to deepen.

Twelve long years pass… years of solitude and contemplation, then times of torment and pain. Days of stillness… nights of terror… until the breath was leaving my body and life slowed down enough for me to appreciate the simple turn of a leaf.

Do I still have cancer? Yes. Each new tumor stealing the future, finally robbing me of both breasts. Active in the bones now for seven years, betraying the part of me that still wants to be in control. So many questions without answers. So much gratitude for each new day.

I live my life like a prayer, learning to let go of trivial concerns… each pain-free day a bonus. Focusing on quality, rather than quantity. One day at a time. I refused chemotherapy. Maybe it could have helped. Really, life has become a process of learning to trust my own decisions. Making choices from instinct, not out of fear. Honoring the “me” that is spirit, the part the doctors rarely address.

Now I endeavor to say “Yes.” To remain open… listening to my body’s signals, moment to moment… trusting in God’s plan, the unfolding of my destiny. Finding the faith and courage to continue to live with uncertainty. Asking “What really matters?”

I believe that a significant factor in my increased well-being and the unexpected long term survival could be attributed to several “transformational conferences” I have attended run by Richard Moss, MD. The energy generated in large groups of people cannot be underestimated when this is gathered and focused in sacred attention.

Gradually I have learned to see myself as far more than simply a physical body with a named set of medical symptoms. To be able to see oneself as larger than a structure limited by a very bounded and defined self-perception can be the most important tool in self-transformation.

Although I have not healed bodily, I can say that the degree of healing in my heart, relationships, and life in general has been far more than I could have imagined possible.

To me, a life well-lived embraces and accepts the gifts and challenges that life brings. I can choose to live with dignity. Truly live, not just endure, rather than handing over responsibility for my decisions to family and doctors and becoming “the victim.”

Having cancer allows me the privilege to sit with others during their time of transition… able to relate to their suffering and help them feel less alone. Suffering teaches compassion, and while I hope to live, I prepare to die! For what is death but a process of letting go? One which we all face sooner or later.

My mother too has had cancer for many years—a form of leukemia. She’s a survivor like me. One of us might die soon. It could be me—her only daughter. I’ve been in a Palliative Care Unit for over five months now… strange how this illness can heal the wounds of our past. Like sisters now, we’re on the same journey. In a dream we look out of a huge window onto a shining sea which stretches to the horizon. A procession of boats sails toward the sunset. The masts and sails are black. Now I pray for a little more time, so that I may be there for her when her time comes. Perhaps then she will become the little girl and I the mother. I know I will speak to her the words that are left. The words that come from the place in me that holds the potential for the spirit of the oak….

In my heart I feel a tiny acorn gradually beginning to awaken slowly, steadily as the light starts to reach it!

Publisher’s Note: A couple of weeks before we went to press with this issue, we learned that Alia had died.

Mandie’s Note: The bizarre thing is that I was thinking of Richard Moss just yesterday and considering looking at doing his free e-course on The Mandala of Being. Using a simple mandala, Richard illustrates the four places humans go when they feel threatened, uncomfortable, or aren’t fully centered or grounded in the present moment. This course helps  draw you out of your mind, and back to your centre – “tracing the path back to the authentic self” as they describe it. I believe there are no coincidences, so today was the day Alia was meant to cross my path, perhaps to help pave the way for me to find my way back to my loving, centred Self.