Words, Words, Words

Take a Deep Breath

by Leora Dowling

Last summer, a week after my 49^th birthday, I got a diagnosis of breast cancer.  Lots of people get that diagnosis every year.  People get diagnoses of things worse then breast cancer.  Or get a breast cancer that was worse than mine turned out to be.  Still, there’s no denying that anytime your doctor looks at you and says “you have cancer,” your life changes forever.

There are lots of possible outcomes when you get cancer.  Nowadays thousands of people survive.  They are cured completely.  Sometimes cancer kills you very quickly, though, like it did my darling Aunt Anne. There was nothing they could do to save her; the cancer was that advanced.  She was dead in two weeks.  Other times you walk with it for years, like another aunt, my aunt Irma did.  There was no hope for her either, it just took a lot longer for her to die.  The disease also took my aunt Dolly, my grandmother McLaughlin, and her son, my uncle Paul.

My mother had cancer twice.  She beat breast cancer but then got the more dreaded liver cancer a few years after that.  Her optimistic but overzealous oncologist gave her one heavy-duty dose of chemo which was too much for her 76 year-old body.  She lived for only eight days.

I don’t know what was in the minds and hearts of any of these beloved relatives when they got their diagnoses and faced the mystery of death.  I don’t know if they had come to a place of acceptance or not.  I don’t know if they were afraid or angry.  I don’t know if they were hopeful or hopeless, in pain and ready to go or wishing they had more time. I can’t be sure if they were confident of heaven or believers in hell.

The only bedside I stood by was that of my mother.  And she couldn’t talk to tell me. 

I remember I was surprised that her body wasn’t emaciated, it had swollen up instead.  And at the time I didn’t know anything about mouth sores.  Because of them she couldn’t speak or eat.  Every once in a while she’d make a feeble attempt to communicate by sitting up and reaching her arms and her fat, swollen fingers out into space.  I had no idea what she wanted. Was she grabbing for death?  For a Jesus or a God she had never indicated she believed in?  Did she want a cigarette, a hug, more pain medication?  Was she seeing visions of her long dead father or her mother?  Or did she just want to say something?  Something that she couldn’t get out now, something she had never articulated in life. 

I’ll never know.

On the last day of her life I followed her gaze to the shelf on the wall. There were flowers and cards on it. Smiling cards with upbeat messages.  (As far as I know there aren’t any cards that say, sorry you’re dying have a good trip.)  And the cards that don’t talk about getting well soon—well, most people don’t buy those.  At least I didn’t see any pray-for-acceptance cards in her room on that September morning.

There was, however, a big bouquet of flowers my father had ordered to decorate the room.  I suppose he can be forgiven for forgetting that my mother had never been fond of bouquets.  She was an award winning floral designer and her specialty was the spare elegance of the Zen-inspired Japanese style.  Three flowers, a curvaceous twig, some foliage, moss, maybe pebbles.  Her work had always had a simple beauty.  It had conveyed a serenity that I knew she didn’t feel.  But she had a good eye, and good taste, and creating those deceptively simple-looking arrangements had given her immense pleasure. 

In any case, there was a bouquet on the shelf and I knew she loved flowers.  She, like her mother and her grandmother before her, was a great gardener.  She was happiest in her garden.  Or so I like to think.  I believe she found peace and joy when she was quietly weeding, listening to the bumble bees, and smelling the fragrance of the lilacs or the peonies as it wafted through the air.  I know she wasn’t happy being a mother.  Or living in suburbia.  Or getting older.  And I also know that despite what she may have thought, she wasn’t happy with a drink in her hand or a Parliament cigarette either; she just needed them.  A lot. 

Like she needed her gardens. And, as I discovered, those flowers that day in the hospital.

That morning she sat up suddenly and, staring straight ahead, raised her arms out in front of her.  Her useless hands were open as if to grasp something.  Although I knew she couldn’t answer my questions I instinctively asked, “What do you want, mom?  What can I do?  Are you in pain?”  

She reached forward again. I saw the flowers and I debated with myself for the briefest of moments. Could these be what she wants? Could it just be the flowers? 

I took the bouquet off the shelf and brought it over to the bed and put it directly in front of her.  She leaned into it and took a long, slow, complete breath. She buried her face in those purples and pinks, those whites and yellows, those roses and irises, and in the babies breath too.  She smelled deeply and long.  It was if she was remembering every aroma, every beauty, every moment of her life that had brought her pleasure.  And also committing the beauty of this earth to her memory.  Just in case there was nothing else, nothing comparable ever again.

On the day I received my diagnosis of cancer I did the same thing.  I stared at the trees and the flowers in an attempt to remember.  I took a deep breath, many deep breaths.  All autumn long and with each winter snowfall I made it a point to try to appreciate and imbibe everything I could see, hear, smell and taste 100%.  Just in case. 

And even now, cancer free, this is my way.  And that was my way before cancer too, which was a good thing.  Although I didn’t practice really living as often or as well as I should have.

I must admit that being fully present was not always the way I approached life. Far from it.  For years I was consumed and distracted; seduced and angered; frustrated and confused.  And selfish.  Very selfish.  And I was fearful too, although I would never have admitted being that to myself or anyone else.

I was caught in all the cultural, familial and societal traps.  I was a slave to my ego and a prisoner of the definition of Leora I had crafted over the years.  Pick a synonym for cynical and I was that too.  And I was tired.  Tired of auditioning myself, and tired of auditioning people, places, and things to see who and what would satisfy me. 

For years I looked everywhere to find the answer to my questions: who and what will make me happy; how can I find fulfillment?  I looked at my life and my trials and felt sorry for myself.  If only, I thought, if only things were different, if only I were different.  If I could be someone else somewhere else I might be happy.  Then I might be enough.

Of course I squandered a lot of opportunities and friendships in my futile search.  Booze, drugs, sex, relationships, money, fame, Jesus, academia, fitness, youth, beauty, therapy—nothing that came from the outside worked for long, none of the compliments or applause was enough.  I knew youth and beauty were ephemeral.  I knew love and passion could fade.  I was in a horrible, grasping bind. I was vainly trying to hold on and push away all at the same time. 

And once I managed to understand that the answer to my questions, and the validation and peace I sought in the outside world, would always remain elusive because living life well is an inside job—I still had a long way to go.

Knowing something intellectually is one thing.  Memorizing teachings and techniques means nothing if you can’t apply them daily.  That takes practice.  And to make things even more challenging, it’s pretty easy to be patient, feel acceptance, or be full of gratitude when everything is going well in your life.  It gets harder to be accepting, patient, or grateful when things are going wrong.  When your mom is dying or you get a diagnosis of cancer.  That’s when it’s tough. That’s when all that practice comes in really handy.

I know it did for me. 

If  I boil everything down, if I look closely at how I managed to make it through these past few months (really, the past seven or so years), with a modicum of serenity and lots of love and joy, I think it all comes down to maintaining a sense of perspective. 

I have somehow learned to look at my life and the world I live in differently.   I no longer put myself in every picture, which is very, very freeing. 

But maintaining a realistic and honest sense of perspective takes real work.  Knowledge of self and an historical sensibility is crucial.  I didn’t just snap my fingers and get happy.  I found it must be cultivated, daily.

And I also discovered that sustaining a sense of perspective about myself and my real and rightful place in the world is not something that is valued in 21^st-century America.  We gloss over history and focus on the shallow and the disposable—like celebrity.  Success is defined by paycheck.  Feeling less than wonderful 100% of the time is a sign that we need medication.  If we are quiet and alone we are losers.  If we show wrinkles or get sick we have failed.  If our schedule isn’t packed we aren’t living up to our potential.

What an exhausting and un-winnable game we play.

Fortunately, I had wise teachers who punctured these myths.  They helped guide me in the right direction—off the playing field.  They were teachers who knew history, had read literature, who had studied martial arts and the ancient teachings, and had found perspective in their own lives.  They spoke of acceptance and oneness, egolessness and kindness.  They preached forgiveness, gratitude and honesty.  They encouraged me to slow down.  To be quiet.  To get centered.  To use my energy and the energy of others well and rightly.  And my teachers encouraged and inspired me to keep learning and really seeing not just what was true for me but what was true for others too. 

They taught me I was not alone in my suffering and fear.  And that by accepting my reality—life on life’s terms—that I could be relieved of the suffering that comes from self-absorption and a desire to control.  Help someone else, they said.  And I began to try.

And somehow I made it this far, which is far enough for this moment. 

I am cancer free and I feel terrific.  I don’t have all the answers—far from it.  But I do know what worked for me during the long winter of treatment and healing.

I know that I met my diagnosis with as much equanimity as I could on that day.  I know that I wasn’t angry at my body, although I was surprised.  I know that I believe that heaven and hell are right here on earth and I can choose to live in either place depending on my attitude—my perspective—at any given moment.

And I also know that there is so much I don’t know.  Cancer was good in that I learned so much; now come the post-cancer lessons—whatever they may be. 

I love being a student.  And I’m grateful that I can see all of life’s experiences as my teachers, and be thankful for them.  I’m grateful that I was taught the power of perspective.

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