I had lunch today at the Pita Pit restaurant where, roughly a year ago, my Coach found me weeping over a sandwich as I tried to deal with the knowledge of my cancer and my fears about the upcoming treatments. And my fears of dying.
(Some of you may recall that my Coach was someone I knew just casually. But she recognized me as I sat in the window of this very same restaurant, came in, and asked me what was wrong. After I said, "I've got cancer," she told me that she was a cancer survivor herself, and that she wanted to know everything about my situation. After I told her about my condition and my fears, she gave me an inpired and inspiring pep talk. One that helped me find the courage to face the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, and most importantly, my fears associated with all of that. She then designated herself as my personal Coach for the indefinite future. For whatever I needed and whenever I needed it. And her presence has been with me ever since.)
I wanted to be at the Pita Pit today, because I finally found what I needed to read a pamphlet about cancer survivorship -- a pamphlet given to me by (who else?) my Coach months ago. I've looked at the cover of this pamphlet dozens of times and been unable to open it. Something inside me said "Nope, you're not ready yet." But today that voice was silent. It was time to read about the path ahead. The one that may be cancer-free forever.
So there I was, chewing my sandwich -- and weeping yet again -- as I read about the stages of transition between being a cancer patient and being a cancer survivor. (In a nutshell, it told me that there is no single way to make this journey. That you need to find your own path, and that no one can tell you if it's the right one or not. )
Oh, and I got a small bag of chips with my sandwich. The first chips I'd eaten since my treatments started. I'd declined to even try to eat chips because I was afraid that my limited saliva production would make the experience unpleasant -- and maybe even painful. But I ate them all. All the chips. Emptied the bag. (This may not sound like much of a deal to you, but for me, it was Another Step Towards Healing. I cannot express how good this felt -- to eat a bag of chips again.)
But that's not why I'm posting tonight. Here comes the story:
After lunch, I decided to ignore all the work that has piled up over the last twelve months. The paperwork. The yardwork. Everything. And take my canoe out to the lake. Something that I haven't done in more than a year. It was the perfect day -- and (I told myself) yet Another Step Toward Healing.
I loaded the boat onto the car and drove a mile or so, then pulled off to the side of the road to make sure that the racks and the boat were still safely secured. (See photo.)
I stopped the car in front of someone's house, got out, and started pushing on the rack fixtures and pulling on the web straps. In the middle of this exercise, I heard a voice behind me -- coming from the front lawn of the house -- that said, "You'd better make sure that boat is firmly tied down! If it fell off, I would have to keep it! [pause] Boy, that's a beautiful canoe!" It was the owner of the house, who had been working in his front yard garden. His pants were covered in dirt, as were his heavy work gloves. But he was wearing a dark purple shirt that looked clean.
We talked small boats for a while, then I invited him out to the street to examine my canoe more closely, explaining some of the more unusual features of the craft. I'm not sure how much he understood of the esoterica I was ladling out, but he was an excellent listener and seemed to appreciate the break from the gardening. I told him, "I'd invite you up to the lake for a quick paddle, but it looks like you're pretty well tied up here." And he confirmed that, yes indeed, he had his day's work cut out for him. And so we parted friends.
As he turned around to walk back to the garden, I had a chance to read the back of his shirt. In large letters, the shirt read " SURVIVOR" across the top. Then underneath: "National Insititute of Cancer" and some other stuff I couldn't read from that distance.
Should I have called out to him and invited him to share stories of survivorship? Maybe. But he had his gardening work to finish up. And I had a canoe I needed to get wet.
And so we both had and have our lives to live. Him on his journey and me on mine.
Surviving. And prospering.
(Some of you may recall that my Coach was someone I knew just casually. But she recognized me as I sat in the window of this very same restaurant, came in, and asked me what was wrong. After I said, "I've got cancer," she told me that she was a cancer survivor herself, and that she wanted to know everything about my situation. After I told her about my condition and my fears, she gave me an inpired and inspiring pep talk. One that helped me find the courage to face the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, and most importantly, my fears associated with all of that. She then designated herself as my personal Coach for the indefinite future. For whatever I needed and whenever I needed it. And her presence has been with me ever since.)
I wanted to be at the Pita Pit today, because I finally found what I needed to read a pamphlet about cancer survivorship -- a pamphlet given to me by (who else?) my Coach months ago. I've looked at the cover of this pamphlet dozens of times and been unable to open it. Something inside me said "Nope, you're not ready yet." But today that voice was silent. It was time to read about the path ahead. The one that may be cancer-free forever.
So there I was, chewing my sandwich -- and weeping yet again -- as I read about the stages of transition between being a cancer patient and being a cancer survivor. (In a nutshell, it told me that there is no single way to make this journey. That you need to find your own path, and that no one can tell you if it's the right one or not. )
Oh, and I got a small bag of chips with my sandwich. The first chips I'd eaten since my treatments started. I'd declined to even try to eat chips because I was afraid that my limited saliva production would make the experience unpleasant -- and maybe even painful. But I ate them all. All the chips. Emptied the bag. (This may not sound like much of a deal to you, but for me, it was Another Step Towards Healing. I cannot express how good this felt -- to eat a bag of chips again.)
But that's not why I'm posting tonight. Here comes the story:
After lunch, I decided to ignore all the work that has piled up over the last twelve months. The paperwork. The yardwork. Everything. And take my canoe out to the lake. Something that I haven't done in more than a year. It was the perfect day -- and (I told myself) yet Another Step Toward Healing.
I loaded the boat onto the car and drove a mile or so, then pulled off to the side of the road to make sure that the racks and the boat were still safely secured. (See photo.)
I stopped the car in front of someone's house, got out, and started pushing on the rack fixtures and pulling on the web straps. In the middle of this exercise, I heard a voice behind me -- coming from the front lawn of the house -- that said, "You'd better make sure that boat is firmly tied down! If it fell off, I would have to keep it! [pause] Boy, that's a beautiful canoe!" It was the owner of the house, who had been working in his front yard garden. His pants were covered in dirt, as were his heavy work gloves. But he was wearing a dark purple shirt that looked clean.
We talked small boats for a while, then I invited him out to the street to examine my canoe more closely, explaining some of the more unusual features of the craft. I'm not sure how much he understood of the esoterica I was ladling out, but he was an excellent listener and seemed to appreciate the break from the gardening. I told him, "I'd invite you up to the lake for a quick paddle, but it looks like you're pretty well tied up here." And he confirmed that, yes indeed, he had his day's work cut out for him. And so we parted friends.
As he turned around to walk back to the garden, I had a chance to read the back of his shirt. In large letters, the shirt read " SURVIVOR" across the top. Then underneath: "National Insititute of Cancer" and some other stuff I couldn't read from that distance.
Should I have called out to him and invited him to share stories of survivorship? Maybe. But he had his gardening work to finish up. And I had a canoe I needed to get wet.
And so we both had and have our lives to live. Him on his journey and me on mine.
Surviving. And prospering.
Hi Randy,
ReplyDeleteLike running into a friend at the PA Turnpike stop...only more powerful! Your post gave me the kind of goose bumps I get with a really important event that touches me deeply. Thank You!
Love to you and your Friend,
Diane