A New Tune

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson

With only five sessions of radiation therapy left to go, I had to take a break this past week. This was a painful decision, as I really want this part of my treatment to be over. However, that pain was easily trumped by the burning pain in my esophagus, which the doctors had warned me was going to be an unavoidable consequence of radiation.

The time off allowed me to soothe the area with various concoctions made up by the pharmacy for just these side effects. It also gave me time to think about this phase of my treatment and I came to the stunning realization that I'm anxious about ending the treatments. Before you think, "My God they've radiated his brain too," I'll explain. This past week I realized I have become attached to the hope that the radiation will kill off any stray cancer cells that might have escaped the surgeon's blade. As long as I keep going, I can stay in "It's going to work" mode. When it's over, I shift into the unsteady "I hope it worked" mode. This type of mental transition is not always easy for me, which is why I find mindfulness training to stay in the present moment so important and necessary.

This got me thinking about hope and its role in the life of anyone facing a serious health crisis. Over the past several months, I have found hope to be a fickle companion. At times, it stands sturdy with Obama-like audacity, while at other times, it seems to be as fragile as a soap bubble, bursting at a mere breath. On one level, hope is a deal that the mind makes with itself. The agreement is something along the lines of "I'll keep thinking things will turn out ok so that I won't think about the things that will happen if they don't." I term this "surface hope" and the cause of mental gymnastics as the mind tries to contort itself to accommodate reality. This goes something like "Ok, I was hoping it wouldn't be cancer but now I hope that it won't require surgery but if it does, I'll hope that the surgery takes care of it and I won't have to go through chemotherapy but if that happens then . . . "

On a much deeper level hope is, as the French proverb says, "the dream of a soul awake." This hope is the thread that weaves its way through life's ups and down, victories and defeats, and triumphs and tragedies creating the safety net one falls into when reasoning fails and the mind is at a loss for words. This hope has a different look to it and I often see it on the faces of the people I sit with in the chemo room, radiation waiting room, oncologist's office and, strangely enough, every once in awhile, in the express checkout lane at the grocery store.

Contrary to the dreamy, "I hope I win the lottery" expression, this deeper hope is marked by a look that mirrors the real world where pain and pleasure, suffering and joy, and health and illness trade places with alarming regularity. The expression says, "I know that I don't know what's coming next, just bring it on." Daily, I sit with these folks who are heroes, not because of their fight against cancer, but because of their courage in facing the inner demons that all crises stir up. Whenever I find myself struggling to hear the tune of "the thing with feathers," I think of them and I find my hope for better days returning.