It’s ALL About Everyone Else

I grew up as many Irish children do. I never worried about being grounded or punishments. (Okay, many Irish kids did get punished, but not my point here).

No. What I got was the “Irish guilt” – the constant feeling of how I was disappointing my parents, not doing what was expected of me and/or a whole assortment of ways in which Irish parents make you feel like you’ve committed felony murder. Many times when I hadn’t actually done anything wrong, mind you.

They say there’s a stereotypical “Jewish mother”. Well, Irish mothers are that times 10! Yes, an Irish mother will love her children with every ounce of her being. Yet, don’t ever cross her, or do anything that she would interpret as crossing her. She will guilt you until you bleed – even if you’re sick.

Funny Because It’s True!

Given recent circumstances that arose within my family, I was compelled to write this post.

While this issue has come up countless times, this particular situation truly hurt my heart because as the perceived “sick” person – it’s not about me. It never is. It’s ALL about EVERYONE ELSE!

This unfortunate truth relates to family, friends, work, and on and on. However, this particular post is focused on my relationship with my immediate family.

I cannot begin to count how many times my mother has said, “I’m just worried sick over you” or “I can’t sleep I’m so beside myself over you”. Not once is it ever about how I’m feeling. It is ALWAYS about her. As for my father, he will not visit me in the hospital – absolutely refuses. Apparently, “he can’t handle” seeing me in the hospital. He does not call. He occasionally sends a text of a photo of our dog, which my parents take care of when I’m hospitalized. I may get an email or two, if I’m lucky.

Yet, because he is a doctor he constantly has an opinion on the course of action my doctors take, and it’s usually something I do not agree with.

Just one instance that exemplifies this perfectly is when I consulted with a particular neurosurgeon at the hospital where my prior surgeon had retired. He was the Chief of Neurosurgery and a man I loved and respected. We had a fantastic relationship, so trusting my brain to anyone else was terrifying. While this consult was with someone who trained under my former surgeon, to say he paled in comparison is a huge understatement.

This man really only spoke to my husband and father, while he either ignored both my mother and I, or scoffed at our questions. He proposed an extremely invasive procedure. Admittedly, I ultimately did have the procedure but only after a much less invasive procedure failed to remedy the problem, and I had it performed at another hospital. Anyway, I asked very direct, difficult questions that this surgeon did not want to answer. Yet, when my father asked the same questions, he indeed answered them. He constantly diminished my concerns – the number one concern being that he proposed inserting a shunt into my brain that would drain fluid into my abdomen. Yet, when I questioned him on the fact that we were uncertain if there were cancerous cells in my brain and he was now proposing to drain this brain fluid into my abdomen, I was told, “You don’t need to be concerned with that. It’s unlikely”.

Well, sorry but “unlikely” is not good enough! What if there was cancer in my brain? What then? Oops, we made a mistake! Nope. Just. Nope. Not. Good. Enough.

I say all this to say that my father lit into ME after the consult stating “how obnoxious” I was to the doctor – as if I was to blame for his arrogance, male-chauvinist attitude and total ineptitude! I may not have gone to medical school, but I did earn a law degree, passed 2 bar exams and knew I was asking the proper questions for my own protection. I’m no idiot, especially when it comes to my health. Yet, my father chose to try and make me feel guilty, for some unknown reason, despite how openly disrespected I was by a stranger. He chose to berate me about pushing a doctor on serious issues related to MY health!

My father and this surgeon totally played into one another’s “God complex”. That ish does NOT fly with me though. Especially the male dominant BS. Not to mention, this man had us wait over 3 hours to even get back into the exam room and literally ran out the door with not even so much as a goodbye! The four of us just stood around looking at one another, asking “Is he coming back?” The answer was, No, he did not come back. About 5 minutes later his awful nurse entered the exam room as if nothing had happened. Needless to say, I found another surgeon who is so kind, gracious and much more competent.

Side Note: I did file a complaint with the patient advocate over this doctor’s behavior. He called and apologized, but clearly he did not even recognize how poorly I was treated. How could I trust my brain with someone so unprofessional and unaware of his behavior?

Moving on…

Now my mother has her own unique brand of guilting me because of my sickness. I am reminded pretty much daily that I’ve been sick. The constant barrage of questions: “How are you feeling today?” “Did you have a seizure?” “How is your hand?” “Are you walking okay?” “Any falls?” After 6 straight years of this, it’s gotten pretty old. Despite telling her that I don’t need to be reminded of my condition constantly, all I get in response is, “Well I’m just so concerned about you.” While that may be true, I’m 40 years old, not 4 years old. Also, Irish people LOVE misery. Walk into a local pub back there and there’s 3 topics. The first: Who died. Second: Who is sick, what do they have and a list of 10 other people who had it or have it. Finally: The weather. Always the bloody weather. It’s either “freezin” “roasting” or “lashing rain”. There may be some gossip about this one or that one, but guaranteed it always comes back to those 3 topics. It’s like misery is in our DNA or something.

Not only does my mother’s guilt involve feigning concern but also claiming she’d do anything to help. However, if I actually asked for help, I’d get 300 excuses why she “just couldn’t”. And every 300 of those excuses would ultimately circle back to one thing – work.

What it all boils down to is simple: my entire life, all my parents did was work. I often wondered why they even had a child because in their list of priorities it would be: 1.) Work; 2.) Each other; and, 3.) Me.

Do my parents love me? 100%. Have I ever wanted for anything material? Never. Did they do the best they could? Yes, but the caveat was always and forever will be, as long as it doesn’t conflict with work or requiring that they leave the 2-mile radius of their clinic/home. Yes indeed, their practice is in the home I spent the better half of my childhood in.

My parents are the epitome of the immigrant mentality that “America is the land of opportunity”. Yet, in order to build a successful practice, they’ve worked their fingers to the bone and still have not retired despite being in their 70’s. They do not believe in vacation or days off. And sick days? Forget it. So in a nutshell, this was the environment I was raised in.

Of course, when I was diagnosed with brain cancer over 6 years ago their work did not slow down. In fact, I was guilted into the notion that now, they’d have to work even harder to supposedly support me. I have a husband with a job. I don’t live beyond my means. I get disability. Has their financial support helped? Definitely, but as I mentioned, it comes at the price of constantly feeling guilty that because I got sick, they still have to work.

On top of all this, add my husband’s Irish family and you’d swear I only got sick to spite all of them! It drives his sisters insane that he loves me so much. One is in the midst of a divorce and the other… I could write a book on the dysfunction of that marriage! While my husband will always be a Mommy’s boy, I know deep down they all blame me for being sick and not giving him a child because well, that’s all women are supposed to do. Forget a career or anything except push out some kids. Since I was diagnosed just a year and a half into our marriage, I am once again the guilty party for failing at my “womanly duties.” It’s safe to say his sisters and I equally despise one another, but then again – my sickness is ALL about everyone else, right?

At this point, I’m done with managing everyone else’s emotions, feelings, etc. about MY health! I am no longer going to speak to anyone who I do not trust with my emotions. I will remain silent because as the quote below states: I am tired of fighting. So very, very tired.

“Untamed”

Throughout this whole blogging experience, the majority of my posts have focused on my own personal experiences.

Lately, I kept seeing the book “Untamed” by Glennon Doyle pop up on the Best Seller’s List, and see friends post about it on social media. Now, I’m a sucker for True Crime novels and really didn’t think “Untamed” would be my cup of tea. So, I didn’t look into it until last night.

In the last year or so I’ve been buying audiobooks. Despite my love of holding an actual book in my hand, I cannot focus on those like I can an audiobook. Whatever damage my brain suffered over these last six years, I just cannot read a physical book anymore. It almost pains me, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. So I now have quite the collection of audiobooks. And yes, I have an Audible subscription.

More to the point, I decided to see what all the fuss was about and bought the “Untamed” audiobook. Admittedly, I have not even finished it yet. However, I’m going to buy the physical book because I want to underline, highlight and make SO many notes in the margins!

As I listen to the audiobook, I want to constantly scream out, “Yes!” I purposely began listening to it on my iPad with phone in-hand, so that I could utilize the microphone and repeat quotes into my “Notes” App. Of course, I have to rewind the audiobook multiple times to get the full quote. Hence, it completely disrupts the flow of the book.

Even if I never finish the book, which just simply will not happen, Glennon Doyle has already taught me so much.

I hesitate to use the word “lessons” because I feel it implies that Doyle is preaching to her readers, which I don’t believe she is at all. Blame my catholic school upbringing, I suppose! Nevertheless, the stories and “lessons” about pain have provided me with a whole new outlook.

No spoilers here, I hope.

One thing Doyle emphasizes is to, “Feel it all.” In other words, it’s OK to feel all the “stuff you are feeling”. As she herself comes to realize, “feelings are for feeling-even the hard ones”. As humans, we are supposed to feel everything! Pain is included in that.

Despite the endless pharmaceutical ads that try to convince us otherwise, sometimes we’re meant to feel sad, depressed, overwhelmed, etc. Now, let me be clear-clinical depression and/or a mental health disorder is not what I’m talking about here. With that being said, sometimes we have really sh@tty days or weeks, maybe even months. Although they’re obviously not enjoyable, those days, weeks, and/or months are simply part of the human experience.

Once we realize this, and don’t just turn to a pill or booze (or whatever harmful means people find) to numb the pain, we can fully live. Again, as Doyle states, “Feel it all!” Further, she emphasizes that we need pain “to become”. Now, this may sound totally ambiguous and vague. Maybe even a little hippy-dippy. Yet, she uses two fantastic examples to clarify her point.

One image of the Buddha

Doyle briefly discusses the Buddha. He was actually born a prince. He literally lived like royalty – a very, very comfortable life. However, when he was 29 years old he snuck out of his palace only to find poverty, sickness and death. He had been shielded from this his entire life. So he chose to leave his life of riches to seek enlightenment. After a long search, he went into a deep meditation and found that enlightenment. Thus, he realized that his “conditioned experiences” could not provide lasting happiness or protection from suffering. He had to experience all emotions to find true joy. He even had to experience pain.

Another strong example Doyle points to is Jesus. Regardless of your faith, Jesus is historically believed to have been indeed a real man. Whether your faith teaches you he was our Lord and Savior is 100% yours to feel and believe. I frankly believe that all religions have their validity, unless a religion teaches harm to others. Fundamentalists are present in every religion.

Depictions of Jesus

Back to the point, in discussing pain Doyle states that Jesus walked straight to his crucifixion. He was not afraid of pain, as it is part of our life on Earth.

In utilizing these two examples, her concept that “pain is magic” becomes more clear and understandable.

The concept that truly struck me, given all I’ve been through these last 6 years, is:

“I can feel everything and survive”

She comes to the realization that she can “survive again and again”. After that momentous realization, she naturally became less fearful. Phew! If that’s not an epiphany I don’t know what is!

Now, I’ve read multiple Deepak Chopra, Eckhart Tolle, Gabby Bernstein, Mitch Albom, and other widely respected authors who write about the human condition and our life’s purpose. I listen to guided meditations. I’ve been to wellness events and retreats. Yet, something about how Doyle discusses the purpose of pain (something I’m constantly focused on) just resonated so clearly.

Doyle elaborates on this further, stating that:

“You can survive pain, and feel it all, and still survive…What I thought would kill me didn’t…I was wrong”

In her personal journey, Doyle finds that:

“Pain is the fuel of revolution!”

She further explains that if you know the pain is present, you also know “the rising” will come and welcome you. I understand that to essentially mean:

Always remember the pain will eventually end. You will get through it and in fact, be a stronger, better person for having gone through it.

People constantly ask how I’ve gone through all that I have and continued to remain so positive. I think Glennon Doyle has summed it up pretty darn well in “Untamed”.

Now I’ve got to go and finish the rest of her book.

Living Through A Pandemic, But There’s Enough Talk About That… But I Kinda Gotta Talk About It

I’ll admit, despite being a highly educated person, I had never even heard the word “pandemic” prior to a few months ago. Since none of us can remember what day and/or date it is at this point, I can’t even pinpoint when I first heard it.

Living right outside of Manhattan and with all of my doctors in NYC, these last few months have been indescribable. I run the gamut of emotions on the daily. One minute I’m angry at everything. The next, I’m weeping seeing photos of my doctors on the “frontline” because, Yes, it is a war zone here. If you are one of those, “This is all a hoax” or “We have the right to allow ourselves to die” types, stop reading now. I’m not sorry for refusing to tolerate ignorance. Hearing that kind of talk then brings me back to my manic anger.

I feel frustrated and helpless that I cannot do a thing to change the state of affairs here, when hospital staff have to risk their lives and/or the lives of their families working in hospitals literally full of virus patients. I cannot handle the sight of tents set up in Central Park and other areas in the City, filled with patients because the hospitals are too overcrowded by this pandemic. I cannot handle knowing the millions upon millions of dollars that stream into the hospitals in which I treat. Yet, healthcare workers have to find their own PPE (Personal Protective Equipment) to keep themselves safe. We are applauding the fact that only a few hundred are dying these days, down from 700/800 people per day… per day! Yet, we don’t even know the actual numbers because, well, I’ll keep the politics to myself.

So, as of today, there’s been over 75,000 deaths in the U.S. and over 20,000 in New York alone. Well, that we know of at least. The 9/11 attacks killed 2,753 people at the site of the World Trade Center. Those who have been taken by this virus are mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, etc. They include nurses, doctors, and other hospital staff. Morgues and funeral homes are filled to capacity. So, refrigerated tractor trailers sit outside of the hospitals to load in the bodies. One Brooklyn funeral home was even recently found to be simply keeping bodies on ice in rented trucks due to overcapacity. The owner was quoted, “I ran out of space. Bodies are coming out of our ears.” These patients died an isolated, what’s been described as an extremely painful, horrific death. Then they’re just loaded into trucks, their family and friends unable to honor them with a proper funeral/burial.

One Jewish woman in an Assisted Care Facility, also in Brooklyn, was even buried in a Catholic cemetery despite already having a paid family plot in obviously a Jewish cemetery. Oh, and her estate was charged nearly $15,000 for her “Catholic funeral” that never even took place!

I truly feel like I’m living through the worst Sci-Fi horror movie, ever. As a cancer patient, I’m accustomed to “quarantine life”. However, the few times I’ve actually left my apartment, the sight of (mostly) everyone in masks, wearing surgical latex gloves, avoiding getting too close to strangers on the sidewalk, literally empty Manhattan streets… It really feels like the apocalypse has come and it’s not ending any time soon.

While I was in acute, in-patient rehab at NYU Langone’s Rusk Institute, there were rumblings of the virus spreading. There were very varied opinions at that time in early February. Some nurses and staff were extremely concerned, while others believed like so many of us it would just be like a bad flu. When I was released in mid-February, feeling so strong and energized, ready to get back to my outpatient PT & OT routine, no one advised me to be safe, wear a mask, limit my contact with others. That’s not the fault of the hospital staff. In my humble opinion, they were being kept in the dark, again like so many of us.

Once I was finally released, I had now undergone my 7th brain surgery and had a shunt placed into my brain that drained fluid into my intestinal area. I had spent a full week in ICU plus 2.5 weeks at Rusk. I was obviously immune-compromised, yet I went around NYC to all my follow-ups and to all the appointments I had missed while hospitalized. I didn’t wear a mask. I didn’t practice social-distancing, which is another new term I’ve learned. In fact, I rode an elevator with music-industry legend, Clive Davis, and his entourage. I was continuously told, the virus would not be as bad as some were saying. So, I didn’t worry. I mean, in less than six years I have REALLY been through some ish! How could this be any worse? Oh how wrong I was – how deeply deeply wrong I was. (Cont. on Page 2)

My First “Tuesday Trickles” Challenge – Inner Peace

I just found a wonderful blog,  https://acookingpotandtwistedtales.com/join-the-challenge/ that presents a “Tuesday Trickles” Challenge.  Every Tuesday, Jacqueline Oby-Ikochacan opens her blog up to other writers to “share your very short snippets of positive, inspiring, motivating, health, spiritual, writing advice, clips, posts etc.”  I love this idea!

Today is my first “Tuesday Trickles” Challenge.

I woke up this morning reading an article from Deepak Chopra entitled “4 Ways to Create and Maintain Inner Peace.”  All of the 4 lessons deeply spoke to me, but the last lesson particularly inspired me today.  Deepak teaches that we should expand our experience of peace every day.  We need to stop wasting valuable energy on anger, resentment, insecurity and “baggage” created by our own ego.  Instead, use that energy for love, inner growth, creativity, and so forth.

While these words and ideas may not be my own, I am going to apply them today and hopefully going forward, every day.

I will go out into the world and fully embrace my inner self, my inner peace.  I truly do NOT have the energy for anger or negativity.  My inner peace will shine and by sending out that positive energy, it will be felt by others.  Not only will I benefit from this, but others will as well.

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Thank you, Jacqueline, for this Challenge.  I hope to participate in many more.

https://acookingpotandtwistedtales.com/2016/06/21/tuesday-trickles-my-thinking-corner-27/comment-page-1/#comment-34792

“Everything Happens for a Reason” and the Judgment Zone

“Everything Happens for a Reason” and the Judgment Zone

Throughout the last two years of living with the big “C” and delving into the big “C” world, I’ve met countless other survivors.  I’ve joined several support groups.  I’ve become heavily involved in various cancer charities.  Now, I’m blogging and finding other bloggers opening up about their big “C” lives.  Basically, from the moment of my diagnosis, I pushed myself right through the cancer club door, no questions asked.  I anointed myself a member of a club I never wanted to be a member of, and obviously, I never expected to be a member of.

Within this cancer club sphere, a topic that constantly comes up is the notion that “everything happens for a reason.”  I’ve seen that the reactions to this phrase run the full gamut –  we either embrace it unwaveringly, or it makes us want to punch people in the face.  (See below – this is a card I actually received from one of my favorite snarkiest friends)

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[DISCLAIMER: This is a “judgment free zone.”  I never judge any cancer survivor’s reactions, feelings, etc. to their situation.  Our cancer is our cancer and no two are the same.  While I may personally feel different from others, and I may embrace my experiences in certain ways, neither is right or wrong.]

So, for me, I do in fact believe that things happen for a reason.  After seriously contemplating life and death, and facing a potentially terminal disease, not to mention 3 complex brain surgeries, you can’t help but think, “What does all this mean?”

I was not always a very positive person throughout my life.  I was very cynical, even at a young age, and many times unhappy, really for no legitimate reason.  I frankly had a fantastic life.  Who knows where all that came from?  However, immediately after my diagnosis, everything changed.

I never got angry.  I never questioned, “Why me?”  Did I make jokes about how insane it was that a perfectly healthy person, who had never even been admitted into a hospital before, wound up with one of the most serious conditions you can get?  Hell yeah I did.  Some of the typical phrases I used were, “I can’t do anything simply.” or “Go big or go home.”  Every time I was asked about previous medical conditions, my standard reply was, “Nope.  Just brain cancer.”  My tumor is also so rare that my husband loves to say, “I always knew you were one in a million.”  (turns out I’m even more than one in a million, as approximately only 72 adults are diagnosed in the U.S. every year with my specific type and with all my factors.. yay me!)

I took on an unwavering positive attitude that I was going to beat this no matter what, and despite whether the end would come quickly or years and years from now, I would fight every single solitary day.  I would never ever give up.

[SECOND DISCLAIMER:  Another “hot topic” is the use of battle/war phrases to describe our cancer experiences.  There is a school of thought out there that by using those terms “fight” and “giving up” it implies that those we’ve lost didn’t fight enough, or did give up.  In no way do I believe that!!!]

So, I decided that Yes, this did happen for a reason.  I came to grips with the fact that I very likely would never know that reason.  I believe in God, and I do believe that throughout my life, every stage and every step has led to the here and now.  While I am here, continuing to breathe, continuing to get up out of bed every day and face this, there is a reason.  I mean, if there isn’t, then that REALLY sucks! All of this for nothin’????

So, while I harbor no ill will or judge those who feel differently, I don’t always feel that sentiment returned.  I have actually had relatively confrontational exchanges with survivors who do not in any way see that there is a reason for this.  In a circular-type argument though, those survivors tell me they have felt judged because they don’t embrace the notion “it happened for a reason.”  Yet, in the same breath, they roll their eyes and make slightly nasty comments towards people like me who actually do feel there’s a reason.  Hence, they’re sitting there complaining about being judged, as they’re looking me in the face judging me.

Again, I feel the way I feel.  It’s my coping mechanism.  So, along with that, I tend to distance myself from those who I feel judge my way of thinking/coping.  I understand how they feel.  Cancer is awful.  It’s bullshit.  It can kill us!!!  However, if I’m going to walk along this Earth, for however long that may be, I’m going to continue embracing every moment and believe that Yes, there is a reason.

God gives us only what we can handle.  Apparently, God thinks I’m a bad ass!

Being an “Inspiration”

Inspiring-others

I’ve had countless conversations with fellow survivors on the topic of whether we are an “inspiration” to others through our fight against cancer. Some survivors embrace it, myself included. However, some are almost offended by the notion. (Disclaimer: I don’t believe either side is right or wrong. I always preface any discussion of someone’s feelings towards cancer as extremely personal, which can never be judged as right or wrong).

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The idea of being an inspiration is something I find myself thinking about constantly. For those survivors who do not see themselves as an inspiration, the most common reaction I’ve heard is that she/he believes that they just simply showed up for treatment and did what anyone else in their shoes would’ve done.

 

One particular conversation that stands out was during my First Descents trip. I sat with one of my fellow amazing survivors, overlooking the Rogue River during our lunch break. It was so peaceful. We were relaxing back in Adirondack chairs, sun on our faces, watching the breathtaking flow of the river beside us. I’m not even sure how the topic came up really. Nevertheless, my friend (I’ll call her C. for short), who had been struck by cancer at a young age, began to tell me her opinions on the subject. Like many others, she did not believe that she was any kind of inspiration. In fact, she gave a good eyeroll about the whole thing. She thought that she had simply done what the doctors told her and that was it.

 

In reply, I shared with her my opinion. She was an inspiration. She faced an incredibly traumatic diagnosis, a particularly rare form of cancer especially given her age and her medical history. Yes, she did what her doctors told her, but she did it. Some can’t even face that decision (ex. I’ve met a few patients who refused further treatment). Then, she took her experiences and wrote her own blog. First Descents wasn’t even her first trip with an organization that challenged survivors through whitewater kayaking. Just months prior, she had been kayaking in Colorado with another organization, which she then began volunteering with. She was always smiling and joking. C. just emanated an air of happiness. So, even if to no one else, she was an inspiration to me.

 

As our trip came to a close, during our last group talk, C. told us all that her opinion on the idea of being an inspiration had completely changed. She now embraced the idea, not just in relation to herself and her fight, but in relation to all of us on that trip.

 

Another incredible survivor I met through First Descents felt very similar to C. about his experience with cancer. Again, he felt that he had just gone through the motions of treatment and that was that. Mind you, he suffered three bouts of cancer beginning when he was just nineteen-years-old, resulting in a stem cell transplant and multiple surgeries to remove several body parts affected by the cancer. I can undoubtedly say that he was not just my inspiration, but a resounding inspiration to each and every one of us. He had been through so much, yet he was one of the funniest, kindest, gentlest men I ever had the privilege to meet. To say he was a true gentleman is a huge understatement.

 

In talking with him, I told him that he was indeed an inspiration. In thinking that he wasn’t, I felt that it diminished all that he had suffered and his tireless fight to continue to be so strong. I’m honestly not sure how he felt about my opinion. We didn’t much talk about it further. I certainly didn’t intend to change his feelings on the subject. Again, whatever he felt is his own and there is no judgment towards those feelings. However, I did want him to know how I viewed him and his life, his challenges and his resounding resilience in the face of so much.

 

As for me, yes, I do see myself as an inspiration. Actually, as I sit here today writing this post, I’ve received two emails telling me how inspiring and moving my story is – one person saying it brought them to tears. I am truly honored when someone says that I have inspired them. If you think about it, people consider having cancer as one of the worst things that could ever happen. To see someone fight so hard in the face of such an overwhelming disease does demonstrate the power and resilience of the human spirit. And this is not to say that those we have lost did not fight hard enough, or gave up in any way. The idea that we are an inspiration simply means that someone can look at us, take what we have been through and honor our fight.

 

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The Rope

The Rope Exercise.

During my “Healing With Words” group (for more details about this fantastic program, see my post Helpful Resources and Information I Wish I Had When First Diagnosed), we were asked to contemplate a rope.  Most simply, what is a rope?  What does a rope do?  What are the qualities or characteristics of a rope?  Then, in thinking about those ideas, we were asked to compare ourselves to that rope and specifically, how the concept of a rope applied to our cancer experience.

Although I wrote this piece more than one-year ago, I am amazed by how it still rings so true.

            Others rely on me to be their strength. I hear others comment how strong I am and have been. They cannot believe how I have kept it together through everything, while remaining so tough. They comment how they could never be so strong. They would have just given up and fallen apart. Yet, what else am I to do? I am a rope. I have no other choice, but to be strong.

Was I built this strong? Have I become like this over time, as each new experience and challenge adds one more layer, another strand, making me stronger and stronger? Maybe I have always had this incredible strength, but never knew it until I faced my breaking point, until I was just about to snap?

Time and time again, no matter what I face, I continue to hold on, never letting go. I refuse to break. Yet, I am still afraid I will one-day fall apart, that I will snap. I worry I will lose my strength, and that I won’t be able to hold on any longer.   Even worse, I fear that slowly and painfully my strands will completely unravel and that I will be gone. I am haunted by the thought that I will watch myself unravel that way, and yet, will have no control or ability to make myself strong again. I do not want to just rot away, left alone and forgotten, realizing that I completely lost that strength, which had once so impressed and inspired others.

I suppose in the end, one day every rope will become too worn, lose its might, or just snap. We were not built to last forever anyway. For now, I will just appreciate the strength I have everyday. I will cherish all the other ropes, which are here by my side, adding to my strength. I will continue to serve my purpose in aiding others, who may not be so strong and need my power to help them achieve their goals. That is all I can do. After all, I am just a rope.