Changing reflections

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Today is my follow up appointment with my surgeon. I am nearly two weeks out of surgery, ten days out of hospital. I am making the journey to Auckland alone, the kids in school, Michael at work. I think this is the first visit I’ll have to the breast clinic without being terrified.

First day of school

It is also the first day of school for my kids. Today Naomi begins year twelve, and Aidan begins high school. They dressed in their school uniforms, Naomi with a jaded ease and Aidan with the flutter of anxiety that marks his new beginning. Aidan has been most traumatized by the fact that his brand new backpack didn’t arrive in time for his first day of school. As I tried to help him make sense of this (“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better about this?”) he turned to me in disbelief. “Mom, you know that the thing I’m really anxious about isn’t really my backpack. The thing I’m really anxious about is starting high school! The backpack is just the focus of my attention right now.”

This story is ironic for so many reasons. Perhaps it is most poignant because a speech I’ve given to thousands of people across three countries focuses on a trip I took the Grand Canyon, when my attention was totally captivated by Aidan’s backpack as he made his way down the treacherous trail. Then too, it wasn’t the backpack that was the point; it was the uncertainty, the unknown, the fear of disaster.

Dawn from my study window

I’ve been reading the fantastic book Anticancer. This is really worth your time to read it, no matter who you might be and what your relationship might be to cancer. It’s poignant and lovely and hopeful, in addition to being really well-researched about the best ways you can keep cancer from taking hold in your body. The author, a PhD/MD with brain cancer, offers us all a sense of the gift cancer has to offer to each of us, whether we have it or not. If the numbers stay consistent (and they have been rising), one in four of you reading this will die of cancer. All of us will be touched by it in some way. And all of us can learn from it, to reshape our present and our sense of a future.

I watch me do that now. I caught a glimpse of my face reflected in a window last night as I was bringing chocolate soufflés to Melissa and her family (back from walking the magnificent Milford Track). My first thought—totally reflexively—was to focus on the deepening wrinkles I see first when I notice my reflection. (Why is it that the voice in my head is still self critical after all these years—I’d have divorced a man so critical of me, but my own self critical voice gets free reign.) But almost instantly, so fast it has to be reflexive too (only newer), I had a thought wondering how deep those wrinkles would get—how old would I get, anyway? Suddenly, the wrinkles were totally different, a measurement of the delight of more time on the planet rather than a mark of decline.

Why did I need fear and tumours and surgery to bring me to a place where I would see wrinkles as a sign of maturity and the delights of age? I’m an adult developmentalist for goodness sake! (For a great article about how maybe we’ve been misguided in our thinking about decline and age, try this). How odd the many mirrors—physical and psychic—we catch our reflections inside. Cancer seems to be a powerful reflector.

I am back from Stan now as I write. Stan was delighted with my healing and I had the bonus of spending some extra time with two dear friends in Auckland who picked me up at the airport, took me to the clinic, and brought me back to the airport to fly home. I was not terrified at the clinic, and I had such deep sympathy for those women who were terrified, who sat, ashen faced while waiting for their names to be called. I feel you, sister. I felt like giving these strangers a hug and also felt delighted to be on the other side of that particular mountain. When the receptionist told me there was no fee for my visit I laughed. "That's the first piece of good news I've ever gotten at this clinic!" I said. She smiled ruefully. It is not a good news sort of place, especially for those of us they know by name. I deeply honour those who work in places like that.

moonset

Now I am back at the beach having had dinner with Melissa and Ayla and listened to the excited conversation about the first day of school (which went really well for all). We grown ups had a long conversation about death and dying and living and purpose and richness in life. Another beautiful thing that cancer is bringing—the depth of conversations with friends and even clients about (literally) the meaning of life. Then, after Melissa had bundled Ayla out of the house (tomorrow is a school day), Michael and I sat in our bedroom in the dark and watched the sliver of a new moon turn orange and slip into a silvery sea.  We are all very lucky to be alive.