Author: Robert

P, keeps pressing me to articulate the partners experience of breast cancer and chemotherapy. The other day I was having a wonderful conversation with a co-worker, a 20 year survivor of lymphoma. And, she has really taken a concern in my well-being, very sweet. The point however, was I mentioned that an essay was tumbling about in my thoughts about exercises that produce mental toughness, emotional resilience and spiritual alertness. In my conversation with M I wondered about partners, unlike me, who after dinner flick on the TV and zone out till bedtime, perhaps they get some golf in on the weekend. How do they handle the intensity of this experience? M pointed out that she had attended a support group during her treatment and that she saw a lot of families breaking up – that indeed the partners couldn’t handle the added stress.

There are certainly people who train longer and harder than I do, and, I salute them, my point in this is not to boast about that, but, rather to examine the unintended consequences, the side effects that exercise offers (or, perhaps, we have it backward and the muscular power is the side effect, rather the mental toughness is the sought after). P, was pressing me a bit last evening as she struggled to deal with her own lack of energy, and general malaise. She asked me how I kept going. I found myself calling upon the dead lift, and a statement that the yoga teacher makes regularly in class – to explain. Coach Glassman of CrossFit, prefers to call the dead lift, the “life lift” since it is such a fundamental movement, picking up a toddler, our car keys, or a bag of groceries. I’m a profoundly lazy man, and so, I look for efficiency in everything I do. The dead lift gives me more bang for my buck than many other movements. Really, if there is a weakness here it is that usually the lift is done with really heavy weights and hence gets done slowly. Its focus becomes strength, rather than power, but one can use lighter weights and jump, or pair it with something explosive, like dumbbell snatch and overcome that easily. To the point, P, said how do you keep going? And I slipped into a metaphor – I just squat down and grab the bar with my right hand, and then my left hand, and then keeping my back straight I stand up – simple, mostly.

Some days, I can do that a lot, others, not so much. But, using the words of the yoga teacher, “Just, observe what you can do, don’t judge it. Make a note of it and then get back to breathing, and working.” I had the concept before, just not the words, and so it is nice to have the words. Some days the emotions make it difficult to do anything let alone to work out, and on those days, I give myself double credit for attendance, but, I make certain that I’m in attendance. I don’t set high goals for those days, but I do try to make certain work gets done and I don’t beat myself up for what doesn’t get done. Mostly for me the emotion I’m experiencing is anxiety: too much energy to burn and no place to point it. I recall this summer waiting for test results and being so anxious, my bullshit meter was pegged. I asked my boss to please shelter me a bit, because, I knew that if some whiney, self-absorbed, dufus got past the safety barriers, I was going to rip their head off and shit down their neck – fairly anti-social — without context. My boss has been a dear about that. The gym is a place to pit that anxiety and aggression against inanimate and indifferent weights, and to re-create myself. The anxiety is probably the same as fight or flight, and remembering back to my friend M and her observation about couples breaking up I suspect the partner ended up with overwhelming flight response – nothing in their lives prepared them for it, nor did they have a way to convert it to fight and then to burn it up. I’m fortunate to have experiences with martial arts and in the gym that give my points of reference and words for what might otherwise just be an acid bath of emotion. Pick’n’um up and put’n ‘m down that’s how I get through.

E and I went camping/canoeing last weekend. It was a grand adventure. With P’s situation I’m afraid I/we lost track of E’s birthday. This losing track is something that I’m struggling with in this situation. Mostly it is anomalous sense of time passing, more than forgetting. I didn’t forget his birthday, I just couldn’t keep it in focus as the time elapsed – I’m not sure I’m explaining the experience. Anyway, I realized around Tuesday, that I wanted time in the woods, and I wanted something special for E. So, I noodled around on-line a bit and talked with a buddy at work and decided to go to Flagstaff Lake. In truth it is 2 lakes, nested crescents divided by a peninsula/island where there is a primitive campsite – about 6 miles from the Stratton boat ramp. Perfect I thought.

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So, we threw our gear together Thursday evening for a Friday morning departure – no school. The plan was to overnight and return late the next day. We had perfect conditions for our paddle out. The Bigelow Mountains filled the horizon to the south; the tops shrouded in clouds, and were dusted in early snow, the sides in full fall color. We arrived at the campsite about noon, set up camp, and then took a long slow walk. We saw partridge, ducks, and geese, lots of moose and deer sign. Our planning had been so punctuated that at the C store I stopped to fill the gas tank, and sent E in to pick out food for dinner – 2 cans of Chile, and a package of hot-dogs, as it turns out. Whatever. Time to cook it and I was up for cooking it all, but, E held me back he insisted he couldn’t eat that much. OK. So, one can and half the hot-dogs – and as we will find out this was a prescient thing. Indeed as the weekend unfolded I found myself trusting E’s misgivings and observations increasingly. He doesn’t have the experience to really articulate his concerns, but he has good gut instincts. Next day, I thought we would paddle out by going around the island on the other side, see some new stuff. We had a slow start, packed and underway, by 10. Cloudy and breezy with brief showers. As we neared the foot of the island we found that with the lake level being down 3 feet or so there were no channels back through to the main lake, just, mud and no real sense of how long a portage it would really be. We were left with the option of paddling back the way we came and the weather was worsening. By the time we got back to the head of the island the wind was howling and the waves were picking up. I in a fit of parental democracy in action I decided that we were done. Back to the campsite for another night, fortunately we had food for dinner. We set up a tarp to shelter the tent from wind and rain and went to bed early. At dark the wind died down, but the rain started in earnest, and poured for 3 or 4 hours. We awoke to silence, no wind, or rain – but, fog. Fog so thick we couldn’t see the far shore. Whatever, as my Grandfather used to say “If it aint one thing tis’a-nuther”. We made breakfast, and packed and by the time we were ready to go, the fog cleared enough that we could see the other shore. So, we paddled across and followed it out to the ramp, and we were home by noon. Refreshing, and exhausting, a good adventure all around, I thought my batteries would be recharged. But, I find myself still struggling with how slow P’s treatment seems to be going and how incredibly fast everything else is going,

A’s soccer season is almost over, responsibilities with the Boy Scouts, and E’s Jujitsu, all seem to explode on me. Work is the same way, minutes drag, and hours pass in kaleidoscope haze of speed. It is humbling to see the generosity of our friends. And I’m sure they would do more, or rather more precisely, if we knew what we needed and how to ask for it. But, that is the rub. I’m not sure what I need. Do I need more time, or conversely, fewer responsibilities? I’ve tried that, sort of, with the Boy Scouts, but, alas, that time is therapeutic, giving it up costs me something. But, I can’t pretend that I’m doing my best with what I’ve kept, again, because I can’t keep the passing of time consistent. I don’t think I’m dropping too many balls, or looking too awkward when I do, but, it is still an unnerving temporal disorder.

Day 1, cycle 2, I think if we were to ask P if she were nervous, or something like it, she would deny it.  But, after these few years, I can detect a layer of subtle anxiety.  I think it is kind of like when sparring and somebody demonstrates that they can land a solid blow on you – at will.  There is a wariness that one develops from that experience.  It doesn’t mean you won’t spar with that partner, but, you have a healthy fear.  I think that is where we are at.  I’m not sure how to create a CowGirl analogy here other than to say that you have to get back on the horse that bucked you off.

The whole hair thing is becoming an interesting issue as well.  It is complex.  I think there are issues of gender identity — many women are their hair in a way like many men are their baldness.  Perhaps it  is a way to obsess over something that doesn’t really matter and so wrangle with the neurosis inherent in poisoning yourself to heal – a distraction.  I think keeping the hair around as long as possible is also a denial – “I’m not really fighting a disease and this isn’t really happening to me.”  Denial and rationalizations are the two sides of the same coin – I think.

From “The Big Chill”:

Michael: “I don’t know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They’re more important than sex.”

Sam Weber: “Ah, come on. Nothing’s more important than sex.”

Michael: “Oh yeah? Ever gone a week without a rationalization?”

P wanted as she does, to turn the head shaving into this big ritual – a circle of family, drumming, probably chanting.  Alas, neither A nor I were really able to accommodate that, E was still in bed, but, he might have been more sensitive.  A dear friend, K,  is taking P and E to Chemo today and another friend, S,  is meeting them there as well.  Full house, therefore, I’m at work.  I suggested to P that she shave when she got home, before the drugs kick her butt – perhaps K and E can help here with that.  I wonder what I will find when I get home?

I have little patience for the Bible, but two stories I like, and they are related, are that of Samson and of the Parable of the Talents – wisdom is where you find it and if you are smart enough to pick it up.

Samson and Delilah Judges xvi, 4-20.

And it came to pass afterward, that he loved a woman in the valley of Sorek, whose name was Delilah.  And the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and said unto her, Entice him, and see wherein his great strength lieth, and by what means we may prevail against him, that we may bind him to afflict him; and we will give thee every one of us eleven hundred pieces of silver.  And Delilah said to Samson, Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherewith thou mightest be bound to afflict thee. And Samson said unto her, If they bind me with seven green withs that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and be as another man. Then the lords of the Philistines brought up to her seven green withs which had not been dried, and she bound him with them. Now there were men lying in wait, abiding with her in the chamber. And she said unto him, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he brake the withs, as a thread of tow is broken when it toucheth the fire. So his strength was not known.  And Delilah said unto Samson, Behold, thou hast mocked me, and told me lies: now tell me,… And it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death; that he told her all his heart, and said unto her, There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother’s womb if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man.  And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines, saying, Come up this once, for he hath showed me all his heart. Then the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand. And she made him sleep upon her knees; and she called for a man, and she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head; and she began to afflict him, and his strength went from him. And she said, The Philistines be upon thee, Samson. And he awoke out of his sleep, and said, I will go out as at other times before, and shake myself.  And he wist not that the Lord was departed from him.

Those of you who know me, know well, that strength is an attribute I celebrate and admire.  But strength for most of us is not magical or a gift of god, but, something we work for everyday.  Strength comes with a high price, exhaustion, pain, workouts with intensity that leaves you near black out, or, vomiting.  Samson it seems not only had great personal strength, but, he was a great martial artist, and a guerrilla leader.  Talents that he took for granted and perhaps even resented.  His Nazerite vow was imposed upon him by his parents as an infant.  In a way this story of Samson and Delilah reminds of the goofy movie cliché where the bad guy has the ultimate weapon of doom and it has weirdly a self-destruct mechanism.  We see this with our Sports hero’s too, they have pre-game rituals and superstitions.  Magic as it were.   Magic, perhaps, to explain extraordinary talent, and magic to explain extraordinary weakness.

The Parable of the Talents Matt 25:14-30

The parable tells of a master who was leaving his home to travel, and before going gave his three servants different amounts of money. On returning from his travels, the master asked his servants for an account of the money given to them. The first servant reported that he was given five talents, and he had made five talents more. The master praised the servant as being good and faithful, gave him more responsibility because of his faithfulness, and invited the servant to be joyful together with him.

The second servant said that he had received two talents, and he had made two talents more. The master praised this servant in the same way as being good and faithful, giving him more responsibility and inviting the servant to be joyful together with him.

The last servant who had received one talent reported that knowing his master was a hard man, he buried his talent in the ground for safekeeping, and therefore returned the original amount to his master. The master called him a wicked and lazy servant, saying that he should have placed the money in the bank to generate interest. The master commanded that the one talent be taken away from that servant, and given to the servant with ten talents, because everyone that has much will be given more, and whoever that has a little, even the little that he has will be taken away. And the master ordered the servant to be thrown outside.

It is ironic perhaps that Samson’s fall is seen rather like the 3^rd servant.   I say ironic because the Old Testament “G”od , a wrathful and jealous one, seemed to love him in spite of his weaknesses, arrogances, and appetites.  And the New Testement “G”od one allegedly of love and forgiveness would seem to cast a person like Samson into darkness and suffering.  Certainly that is the human justice we love to see in our celebrities and reality TV.  The rest of us who have to work hard for strength or insight like to associate ourselves with the hard working servants and imagine fairness and justice in the universe.  Although this story of Samson’s fall fills our minds, we should not forget his success as a leader, a martial artist and a strong man – he led his people for 20 years after all.  Perhaps, he like the first servant doubled his masters’ investment – in spite, and perhaps because of, his human frailties.  Cancer is neither fair nor just and everything about it is ironic –our own bodies run amok against ourselves.

Perhaps it is extreme situations and how we play to our strengths, our unique geniuses, our talents as it were, that we will be remembered for?

So the question becomes how we manage our magic so that it gives us confidence, but, does not replace the thing it is meant to invoke?

If we shave P’s head, what remains?

In truth, I think we are left with a Winnie-the-Pooh, just bald, and for it perhaps all the more Winnie-the-Pooh.  The hair, no more than the disease, describes P – and yet, both are her as well.  I think the beauty of Samson’s story is that there are no lessons to learn, just a life to observe.   A life to reflect mine against an imperfect mirror as it were.

I’ve been trying to make more sense of the Cow Girl metaphor.  Today I remembered favorite songs from a long time ago and far far away.

The last two lines of the refrain was a lot of how I felt when I was 18. 

“‘Cos they’ll never stay home and they’re always alone.
Even with someone they love.”

But, I’m 44 — I didn’t die young, and I’ve seen the power of community.  I’ve seen what people can do when they focus on the goal and the good and not on taking credit or making money.  I see it here too as we … deal with this situation.   I’ve seen how having children changes one as well.  But I think P really hit it on the head in her ruminations about mortality, hers, and watching her father’s passing.  That, “always alone”,  in the end we are strangers even to ourselves. 

Yet, this is different.  Breast Cancer, particularly the kind we have, can be overcome.  Long healthy happy lives can be led.  This isn’t a death sentence.   I’ve recalled watching P deliver both children and the amazing toughness and endurance.   I know the fabric she is made of.  This “bump” in the road will probably take about as long as gestation.  The outcome is a little uncertain, but it will be a new life much like children at the end.

Philosophical horse shit  and weak analogies aside. Chemo sucks;  friends who drop food by and give the kids rides are angels; and I like Cowboy songs.