A Life Well Lived

Your strength is awesome, you give encouragement to so many. I'm not sure how you cope with the four month part, how is it possible to wrap your head around that. I'm not good putting the words to paper but I had to respond to your post above. You said there is still options and I hope they can slow things down for you. For me, they can "control" it. I'm 19 months in and doing okay. I wish the best for you on your journey and hoping it is a long one. Best to all.

Denise,

You so eloquently express many of my thoughts about cancer and how it has changed your/my outlook on life, after other experiences have changed it before. I have “no evidence of disease” NED, for now, although my family history keeps me alert and wary of formulaic reassurances.

I have not been an excellent manager of money, although I have tried. I admire you for this! My daughter’s peace of mind and adequate welfare are two of my highest priorities to work toward as I prepare for my eventual end of life, whenever it will take place. Like you, some of my best strategies involve extending a quality life as long as possible.

What I can say to you, because I have become a bit of a rehab— gym “rat” since my diagnosis in order to improve my physical functioning and to manage pain, is that I see folks older than their 70’s who have used diet, exercise, enriched social connections and as much living, with joy, in the now, as possible to achieve that ongoing life well-lived in the face of life threatening injuries and illnesses. I watch Barb, who is in her very late 70’s, walk on a treadmill while lifting weights above her head that would slow or stop me if I was facing forward and standing still, and she does it while walking backwards(!). I see Carol, who shuffles into the gym supported by a walker with tennis balls fitted to the bottom to keep her from falling, then laboriously climbs onto a recumbent bicycle and pedals away for more and more minutes each day. She smiles when she has it in her, asks the rest of us how we’re feeling, tells us of the beauty she’s seen in nature that morning, and listens to others with care as she continues to pedal and pedal. Bill walks in the salt-water pool each day after parking his cane, tells a few well-timed silly jokes and sings, beautifully, taking requests. Denise, whose spine was surgically fused, is able to move in that pool, and laughs with us at Bill’s quips while encouraging others. Jeff, far my senior, hogs a corner of the gym early each morning to re-condition his knees and back and minimize vertigo in spite of severe lung problems secondary to a cancer about which I don’t have specific details. Except, he’s away these next few weeks, co-leading a bicycle tour of Italy, focused on eating amazing food in each province. I could go on and on. At times, it feels to me as if each of my lifetime friends outside the gym have simultaneously faced such challenging experiences that I am the only one with anything to give, and I start to feel overwhelmed and alone as I try to be there for them now. But I’ve got my elders at the gym. At 63 I’m the baby. So much lightness and fun is possible there. This is why, as much as all the other benefits, I spend more and more time there. We laugh, play, encourage and occasionally share some suffering or discouragement. My outlook is uplifted and I leave feeling fed with loving connection.

For myself, on my own, I get outside in the early mornings to listen to the birds’ dawn chorus and to take in the light, either from early morning sun or from stars as we shift toward winter. I take moments to breath in as fully as possible and to breath out slowly and as fully as possible to release tension. Singing, badly, as loud as I feel like it when I’m alone in my car helps with this, too. I try to limit my time sitting by getting up every hour in the workday to walk a bit and stretch. I do my best to reach out to others, spreading further what I have received.

I try to limit pain, which helps me to have less fear. I find that my tendency when pain occurs is to freeze with worry, not knowing what might make it worse. Inevitably, though, it is getting unstuck from the freeze that seems to alleviate some of the pain, allowing me to move more and feel more hopeful.

I think one of the things that makes the emotions that accompany a cancer diagnosis of any severity more difficult to bear is the shock we experience on hearing it. This group, reading the experiences and strategies and hope of others here, like you, as much as anything else, helps me to recognize how shocked I have felt; how difficult it suddenly became to sleep, how tense and hyper-alert, jittery, suddenly hot or cold, or empty and hollow I have felt in my gut. As recognition and this (truly) blessed sense that I am not alone…I have all of you as sisters on this part of my journey, allows me to turn toward my experiences and to just be with the energy of that built-in alarm system that we all have. I can shake, shudder, shiver as it all moves through. After that, my fear, rage and sadness are somehow easier to bear without me becoming overwhelmed.

I am deeply grateful to you, Denise, and all others here who voice, in writing, your experiences and feelings and thoughts as you face what’s so for each of you. I hope something of my shared experiences gives someone a tiny bit more comfort, or hope about some aspect of what they hold.

I wish you the very best with your missions of continuing to live a life well-lived and leaving your daughter with a richness that includes safety and resources for comfort, but also the knowledge of ways you have made her well-lived life a priority for you. She is much blessed.

With deep gratitude,

Gynosaur

Denise,

You so eloquently express many of my thoughts about cancer and how it has changed your/my outlook on life, after other experiences have changed it before. I have “no evidence of disease” NED, for now, although my family history keeps me alert and wary of formulaic reassurances.

I have not been an excellent manager of money, although I have tried. I admire you for this! My daughter’s peace of mind and adequate welfare are two of my highest priorities to work toward as I prepare for my eventual end of life, whenever it will take place. Like you, some of my best strategies involve extending a quality life as long as possible.

What I can say to you, because I have become a bit of a rehab— gym “rat” since my diagnosis in order to improve my physical functioning and to manage pain, is that I see folks older than their 70’s who have used diet, exercise, enriched social connections and as much living, with joy, in the now, as possible to achieve that ongoing life well-lived in the face of life threatening injuries and illnesses. I watch Barb, who is in her very late 70’s, walk on a treadmill while lifting weights above her head that would slow or stop me if I was facing forward and standing still, and she does it while walking backwards(!). I see Carol, who shuffles into the gym supported by a walker with tennis balls fitted to the bottom to keep her from falling, then laboriously climbs onto a recumbent bicycle and pedals away for more and more minutes each day. She smiles when she has it in her, asks the rest of us how we’re feeling, tells us of the beauty she’s seen in nature that morning, and listens to others with care as she continues to pedal and pedal. Bill walks in the salt-water pool each day after parking his cane, tells a few well-timed silly jokes and sings, beautifully, taking requests. Denise, whose spine was surgically fused, is able to move in that pool, and laughs with us at Bill’s quips while encouraging others. Jeff, far my senior, hogs a corner of the gym early each morning to re-condition his knees and back and minimize vertigo in spite of severe lung problems secondary to a cancer about which I don’t have specific details. Except, he’s away these next few weeks, co-leading a bicycle tour of Italy, focused on eating amazing food in each province. I could go on and on. At times, it feels to me as if each of my lifetime friends outside the gym have simultaneously faced such challenging experiences that I am the only one with anything to give, and I start to feel overwhelmed and alone as I try to be there for them now. But I’ve got my elders at the gym. At 63 I’m the baby. So much lightness and fun is possible there. This is why, as much as all the other benefits, I spend more and more time there. We laugh, play, encourage and occasionally share some suffering or discouragement. My outlook is uplifted and I leave feeling fed with loving connection.

For myself, on my own, I get outside in the early mornings to listen to the birds’ dawn chorus and to take in the light, either from early morning sun or from stars as we shift toward winter. I take moments to breath in as fully as possible and to breath out slowly and as fully as possible to release tension. Singing, badly, as loud as I feel like it when I’m alone in my car helps with this, too. I try to limit my time sitting by getting up every hour in the workday to walk a bit and stretch. I do my best to reach out to others, spreading further what I have received.

I try to limit pain, which helps me to have less fear. I find that my tendency when pain occurs is to freeze with worry, not knowing what might make it worse. Inevitably, though, it is getting unstuck from the freeze that seems to alleviate some of the pain, allowing me to move more and feel more hopeful.

I think one of the things that makes the emotions that accompany a cancer diagnosis of any severity more difficult to bear is the shock we experience on hearing it. This group, reading the experiences and strategies and hope of others here, like you, as much as anything else, helps me to recognize how shocked I have felt; how difficult it suddenly became to sleep, how tense and hyper-alert, jittery, suddenly hot or cold, or empty and hollow I have felt in my gut. As recognition and this (truly) blessed sense that I am not alone…I have all of you as sisters on this part of my journey, allows me to turn toward my experiences and to just be with the energy of that built-in alarm system that we all have. I can shake, shudder, shiver as it all moves through. After that, my fear, rage and sadness are somehow easier to bear without me becoming overwhelmed.

I am deeply grateful to you, Denise, and all others here who voice, in writing, your experiences and feelings and thoughts as you face what’s so for each of you. I hope something of my shared experiences gives someone a tiny bit more comfort, or hope about some aspect of what they hold.

I wish you the very best with your missions of continuing to live a life well-lived and leaving your daughter with a richness that includes safety and resources for comfort, but also the knowledge of ways you have made her well-lived life a priority for you. She is much blessed.

With deep gratitude,

Gynosaur