I Can See Clearly Now

“Our deepest wounds are the lens through which we see the world.”—from my journal May 1994

I sing along with the radio: “I can see clearly now, the pain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. All of the dark clouds have passed me by. I can see bright, bright sunshiny day.”

That is a song that brings tears to my eyes. It’s a song about recovery and healing. And it’s

been a long journey through so many kinds of healing for me. And so I am aware of how my own worries and wounds distort how I see John’s cancer and how I worry in this relationship.

Many people are afraid of cancer and many caregivers have the ongoing fear that their loved one will get sick, sicker, or die. This is not about turning a molehill into a mountain. This is not about turning a stomachache into cancer. But it is about cancer being really scary and threatening. 

But still, but even with that, how much do I lose my --and our --good life to my worries. At what point does reasonable fear become a greased slide into a truly old belief that I will be abandoned? How much do I assume that the worst things will happen because I am not enough?  How often do I set myself aside and wait for pain and grief to descend --and when they don’t I go and shake the fear tree to bring some fears so that I can have the familiar terror? Even on a good day that takes some sorting out.

This is about woundedness and beliefs. I am a woman of faith and I believe in a Higher Power but these other beliefs are something else. It’s a kind of dark belief in a lower power, and maybe this is a kind of blasphemy—but some days I wonder if I have created Gods of Woundedness that I worship and solicit even more than my God of love. Oh lord, I am so ready to relinquish that deity now. I’m ready to see clearly now and keep singing along.

Love Lost in Cancer Land

I found a note in one of my cancer files today. It’s from 2008 when our cancer dance began. Reading it stabbed me—I can recall that pain so vividly, but it also heartened me—in a sense—because I survived and we survived and yes, love survived.

But this old note I had written to myself also reminded me how dam hard cancer is for couples. How painful this worst side effect truly is, and that this is what no one at chemo talks about and what no doctor—or nurse—ever asks about.

There is so much loneliness in Cancer Land. And it is untouchable from the outside. Both patient and caregiver have their own versions, maybe mirror images. But sometimes I think there is much less room for the partner or caregiver to have this acknowledged. Reading this I ache for every couple facing cancer.

Here is the old note I found today:

“I am so lonely. It’s not a lonely that a movie or a meal or a pep talk can fix. The man I love cannot see me or take care of me. He is so sick. What I hoped for is not realized. The relationship is not one of equals. My dreams, my health, my work, my struggles are pushed aside. I am hurt, sad, angry, grieving.”

July 19 2008

Couples Dancing with Cancer Together

Love in the Time of Cancer is all about how couples cope with cancer. We talk about how to keep love, intimacy and sex alive while your partner goes through a cancer diagnosis and treatments. So the article in yesterday's New York Times is a wonderful addition to our conversation.

The only downside is the insistence on the war metaphor...maybe we could start a change here. How about "Dancing Cancer Together" instead of battling? Wouldn't the metaphor of dancing do more to help couples with cancer? And yes, even dancers trip and fall and get out of step but there are also moments of flow and beauty and dancers seek a mutual rhythm.

Let's think more about this idea of "Dancing with Cancer". But for today here is the very helpful piece from the Well at The New York Times.

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/27/facing-cancer-together/?smid=pl-share