Today – a tribute to the caregivers. From my vantage point as the patient, this is what I know:
My caregivers are the glue when everything feels broken. They are the muscles when I feel weak, the rocks when I feel like quicksand. They are the stable and constant, holding me while I am swirling in crazy. They don’t need to have all the answers and they don’t need to try and rescue me, but when the waves feel like they are going to overtake me, drown me, do me in, I am grateful that they are there, in the thrashing gale, with me. And I am grateful they love me in spite of and because of my cancer-riddled vulnerabilities.
Caregivers, you matter. It’s hard work showing up to the mess that is cancer, going to battle with the Monster and living forever with the Companion….none of which you saw coming, either. Thank you.
21 days. 3 weeks. :: June 4, 2018
3 weeks from today. 21 days. And I am overwhelmed.
I came home from work today and everyone else in my family was overwhelmed, too. The difficulty of the year is hitting all of us. The challenge of battling cancer…getting through school…having difficult conversations…parenting…heart to heart highs and lows…owning a home just old enough to start breaking…the normal day to day…keeping schedules straight…asking for help…. All of it is hard.
Seeing my family feel overwhelmed is so difficult. Seeing my girls hit their breaking point is incredibly painful. Seeing my husband at his max is heartbreaking. All of it is hard. Purposeful. But hard.
Chutes and Ladders :: June 4, 2019
I counseled one of the most memorable clients I may ever have today. And I am so grateful she is trusting me with her story. She said something that will likely stick with me for forever: Everyone always gets to the end of Chutes and Ladders. This was one of my favorite games as a little girl. The sweet joy of getting to slide waaaaaay down the huge slide in the off chance I spun the right number on the little spinner. And the disappointment when I’d hit the spaces with ladders that made me start all over again and trek the same spaces I’d already passed once or twice or three times before. Interesting that this is such a metaphor for life.
Two steps forward. Ten back. Seven steps forward. 1 back. Forward and upward progress. Setbacks and disappointments that require us to pick ourselves back up and try again. The ease of sliding spaces ahead and the labor of a painful climb backwards. But everyone gets to the end. No matter the route. The easy roads don’t always remain easy. Nor do the hard ones. The setbacks don’t last forever and the smooth sailing isn’t guaranteed. And a spin of the wheel can change everything.
The Cadence Changed. The Tone Turned. :: June 4, 2020
Cancer has taught me much. I choose to learn from it. And daily I can apply it. Grateful.
Specifically: I always have something to learn. I always have something to learn. I always have something to learn.
As I said this to myself, I found that by the third time, I was actually taking ownership of the phrase. I slowed down the words. I more intentionally enunciated them. The cadence of the sentence changed. And the tone turned inward.
Think about it. The first time you read those words you might have been thinking, “sure, that’s true, there’s always something to learn.” And then the second time you read them you maybe thought, “I just read that but yeah, it’s still true.” And then when you realized you were still reading the same words, maybe you were convicted by what the words were actually saying. “Oh, yeah. I do always have something to learn.” And for me, even though I wasn’t actually seeing the words again a fourth time, I found myself saying them again in my head while changing my inflection for each word in the sentence…and in doing so, the sentence took on even deeper meaning and I took even deeper ownership. Try it. *I*….. I *always*….. I always have *something*……. I always have something to *learn*.
If we choose to actually live this way, we will learn what the lessons intend to teach. What would change if we all practiced this? Before every conversation. Before every reaction. Before every response. Before every action. Before every interaction… It would change everything.
But there is a caveat here – nothing will actually change and real learning won’t actually happen if we continue only practicing this when it fits our own agenda or narrative…when we’ve prescribed our own self-preserving answers by manipulating the questions. True humility is hard because it means that you might actually not know everything. And it’s hard because we struggle (and sometimes hate) admitting the vulnerability of not having the answer.
“I always have something to learn” needs to be both universally applied and void of a prescribed answer. Then we will practice true humility.