[2021-02-21] 200th post
There's something strikingly symmetrical about today's date and post title—[2021-02-21] 200th post—with all its 2s and 1s and 0s. The harmony in the numbers matches the serenity I am feeling.
I'm content and proud that I have reached 200 posts. Some have said to me, "Why don't you take a break?" instead of writing every day. This is a generous question; I imagine the speaker thinking, "Jenesis readers will survive a day without a blog post." But I've come to realize that, as much as my writing is helping others, it's helping me more. How else could I feel happy about spending a day (in fact, an unknown number of days to come) on the couch, feeling tired and slightly nauseated?
As I wrote to a friend this morning, over the course of the past few months, aided by the introspection my writing permits, I have gotten stronger and stronger mentally. That may be helped by the seemingly good news I'm getting on my physical health. But I think it's just as much a function of the thinking that I do when I put fingers to keyboard. My daughter believes in the power of positive thinking and the body's ability to heal itself if the will is there. Whether or not that's true, I've always felt that being positive is just a nicer way to live—for me and for those around me.
My days on the couch (as opposed to my days puttering about the house) also give me time to read, which was something I had little time to do while working full time. The combination of reading and writing has been my therapy throughout my life. Reading a text that moves me and then reflecting on it in my own words has helped me to see truths that were previously hidden.
An example is this quote from poet and historian Jennifer Michael Hecht:
We could stop being lost if we were to just stop trying to get out of the forest. Instead, we could pick some blueberries, sit beneath a tree, and start describing how the sun-dappled forest floor shimmers in the breeze. The initial horror of being lost utterly disappears when you come to believe fully that there is no town out there, beyond the forest, to which you are headed. If there is no release, no going home, then this must be home, this shimmering instant replete with blueberries.
Being diagnosed with cancer can make one feel lost, alone and frightened. It would be easy to want to fast-forward through all the suffering that follows such news. I remember when the oncologist explained my treatment plan to me in August—surgery in a couple of weeks, followed about a month later by chemotherapy every three weeks for six rounds—I thought, "OK, just get to February."
In fact, if cancer treatment is like being lost in the forest, I'll be there for more than six months. What my oncologist couldn't know in August is that the BRCA2 gene mutation would be found in my tumour, which would open up another treatment phase (medication), with its own time frame for adjustment. I'm glad that he didn't mention this possibility last summer, as the future might have been too overwhelming. Perhaps to stave off that feeling of not being able to see the forest for the trees, healthcare professionals seem to focus on the next one or two steps only. Beyond surgery and chemo, there was no discussion in August of maintenance therapy or of the time needed to fully recover—physically and mentally—from all the treatment.
But a funny thing happened on the way through the forest: I stopped focusing on when the trees would begin to thin and I would see the light beyond the woods. As Hecht says, I stopped trying to get out of the forest. Metaphorically, I picked some blueberries, sat beneath a tree and started describing the sun-dappled forest floor.
I discovered that I wasn't alone in the forest: day or night, I was surrounded by loving family and friends, like familiar flora and fauna. I learned that the forest was not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. I came to see that there was much beauty in the forest, especially in the faces of the many people who took care of me. I met others who had also spent time in the forest and gleaned helpful information from their journeys with cancer. I heard that the lessons I had learned and shared were helping people who entered the forest after me. I became less fearful of the forest and less fixated on whether I would one day emerge from the woodland. I understood that I could live and be happy in the forest without giving thought to life beyond the trees.
For now, this forest is my home. It turns out to be an enchanted place in which to read and write, to reflect under a tree, and to share descriptions of the beauty I am finding on my journey.
