Saying "You" to the waves

Well, today was another surprise – my white cell and platelet counts are too low to get my chemo treatment. Everyone expected, I think, that after a week off of chemo they’d be fine. Perhaps it was that I also took three weeks off of acupuncture, due to a combination of missing an appointment because of my hospitalization, my acupuncturist being away, and then me being away…. I’ve called to try to get in to see her this week before Friday, when we will try again. If it works on Friday, they will switch me to Fridays instead of Tuesdays for the remaining two treatments; if not, we will go back to Tuesday…. Sigh. As if I weren’t already complaining about the difficulties of scheduling… I guess it’s another reminder to let go of the illusion of control.

I’ve been musing a lot in response to Randy’s comment on my last post: “Interesting that you say you "didn’t want to go home and re-enter the reality of having cancer." And yet, clearly, you brought your cancer with you to camp--you thought about it and conversed about it and of course you still had it. So there was something else that made cancer different at camp. Is that a difference you can/want to have at home too?” Good question!

On the face of it, there are some very concrete and inevitable differences between life at camp and life at home, like: Not having to do chemo while at camp (and not having to do the shots I have to administer at home on days 3-5 or 6 after each chemo treatment to stimulate the white blood cell regrowth); being fed every meal at camp; no stairs (which I hadn’t noticed till I got home! Quadriceps use a LOT of oxygen!); and having my daily choices about how to spend my time whittled down to a very few: eat, sleep, meditate, swim, play in the mud. (Of course there are lots of sub-choices within each of those basics: Nap today or not? Hand-building vs. wheel throwing with the clay? Functional or sculptural? Which lake to swim in? Sitting meditation or jo kata practice? Go back for seconds or not?)

But Randy’s question, along with a coaching session I gave someone yesterday, has led me to think, perhaps the essence of the difference is what story I am living in. The week at camp, I was living in a story that was something like, “I’m here to enjoy life to its fullest, and see how much I’m capable of despite having cancer,” whereas returning home felt like returning to a story that was more like “getting through chemo and preparing for surgery, and learning as much as I can from this experience, while trying to maintain my strength and keep nurturing important relationships and projects.” A little more complex, not as much fun. More about being sick, less about being well.

Yesterday, inspired partly by the lake swims at Governor Dodge while at camp, and partly by wondering if I could have that “enjoy life as much as possible” story running more at home, I swam all the way across Lake Wingra for the first time this summer. When I say all the way across, I mean, beginning at the Vilas Park boat launch and ending at the Wingra Park boat launch. As it happens, I was swimming against a pretty strong wind, and as it turned out at the end, pushing a little to get to shore before the approaching dark clouds arrived. This was a little bit worrisome, and it was a great opportunity to practice with where my attention was and what story I was running.

I noticed that, especially during what I figure was the 3rd quarter of the distance, I was spending a lot more time worrying about what could go wrong than I was enjoying the bright sunshine, puffy clouds, wind, and waves. The brief moments when the sun went behind a cloud and/or the water plants enveloped me were particularly scary. I used a couple of different techniques to try to corral my attention in a more positive direction. One was to simply remind myself to notice the beauty around me, and my own strength. Another was to encourage myself not to rush. These helped some, but my mind kept reverting to worry; “What if I get a foot cramp? What if I get tangled in the plants? What if lightening strikes suddenly? What a stupid way to die!”

I then used a practice I developed last year after re-reading Martin Buber. Buber is the philosopher known best for the concept of relationships of “I-Thou” rather than “I-It”. The basic idea as I understand it (and Buber is pretty opaque), is that when we treat each other, or animals, or God, or anything, as though we are conversing with another thinking, feeling subject, we can have a much deeper, more sacred connection, than if we treat the other as an object or thing. The practice I made up at the time is to simply regard whatever or whoever is in my presence and mentally address it or them as “you.” Mostly, I just think that one word, “You.” It feels quite amazing, actually; it brings me quickly to a kind of presence in myself, as well as feeling present with/to the other.

So, in the middle of Lake Wingra yesterday, I began saying “You” to the waves, to the wind, and, eventually, to my own fear. This helped a lot. I remembered how at a meditation retreat once, I realized that the wind blowing my hair and the leaves of the tree near me, was the same wind touching everyone and everything else. The fear didn’t go away, but I was able to come to a place of realizing, “Well, even if I am about to die from a lightening strike, I want to and can enjoy this moment right now, and these next few, before that happens.” I made it to shore before the sun was fully behind the clouds, and made it home just as the rain and thunder began. Though I didn’t have a watch with me, it was a longer swim than I’ve done since shortly after my diagnosis. I’m a bit tired and sore today, but otherwise fine. And I’m thinking, it was good practice for the fear of dying of cancer.