What Now

The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it,
move with it, and join the dance.
Alan Watts

I'm now in my third week post-chemotherapy and happy to report that my energy is returning with each passing day. I wish I could say the same for my hair, which has moved into the Chia Pet stage. As a result, I have developed phantom hair syndrome. This is where my hand reflexively moves over my scalp to brush back an imaginary mane. While the current style is perfect for our recent 100 degree days, I'm no longer interested in trying to tan my scalp and I long for the natural cover of my graying hair.

I have also ended my three month "sabbatical" and returned to work. This has been the longest period in my adult life of not reporting to work on a daily basis and I have to say it was a mixed blessing. While I appreciated the ability to rest when necessary, grocery shop during times when it was only me and a few other senior citizens in the store, and plan and cook elaborate dinners for my hard-working wife, the idle time began to wear on my brain. I knew it was time to get back to work when I considered putting together my own world cup soccer team with our pets. It might have worked if it was not for our Great Dane's proclivity toward turning every toy soccer ball into a pile of stuffing.

As Kath and I move beyond the treatment phase, we have developed some new rules. The first rule is that we are no longer allowed to say the word "chemotherapy." Instead we refer to that whole period as the time I was visited by the Dementors, minus all of the Harry Potter wizardry skills. Another rule is that any physical complaint I make, no matter how large or small, must be preceded by the phrase, "I know it's not cancer." A recent example of this was during our trip to Atlanta to see our granddaughter, when I uttered the phrase, "I know it's not cancer, but I've really gotta stop and pee." Another rule is that anytime we find ourselves lamenting over the events of the last year, we have to immediately follow that with a gratitude list of all of the things that have gone our way and the many miracles we have encountered throughout this journey. Finally, we make sure that we routinely review the unbelievable support and love offered by friends, family and strangers and send out healing energy to all.

In addition to the above rules, Kath and I try to make sure we include some form of mindful activity in every day. This will often take the form of a qigong exercise that we find both meditative and uplifting. Other examples include mindful walks with the dogs, formal mediation in our "yoga studio," meditative music before bed, formal yoga sessions, healing bio-energy sessions and, of course, the ever-popular mindful meal with a great glass of wine. All of these serve to break the habitual tendency of the mind to move into the future and the world of "what's next?" This is incredibly important when dealing with cancer or any type of health crisis as the imaginary future extends not only ad infinitum but ad nauseam.

We have also accepted the fact that there is no going back to the "normal" life before the cancer diagnosis. I have only a vague memory of what that was like anyway. (I blame the anesthesia and pain meds for that.) We try to spend as much time in the now as possible and trips down memory lane are mostly about times with friends and family and perhaps some awesome meal shared.

It is with a sense of wonder, awe, and the occasional mini panic attack, that we head into the summer of '10. A summer where I will encounter my first follow up CT scan on July 13th and the epic crossing over to the big 50 on July 25th. But that's another blog.