Making It

A couple weeks ago a guy comes to my door and says, "Hi, my name is Gabriel."

"Oh, sure," I think to myself. "Next you'll have some Important Message for me."

But that really was his name and it turned out that he was here to take away our woodpile which we had been trying to give away for months. So he was angel!

He took away all the wood, but accidentally left the rails to his truck in our driveway. I called him to let him know. I got his answering machine which said, "Hi, this is Gabriel. Leave me a message and make it a nice day!"

Make it a nice day. Not have a nice day. Take some responsibility for how you receive what life gives you! Make it, don't just take it. I love that.

So he really was an Angel with an Important Message for me.

The Cat Lick Church

I recently received this e-mail:

Dear Debra,

I am having a small religious crisis and need some help. I was raised in the Catholic Church. When I got married we had our marriage recognized by the Catholics although my UCC minister friend married us. It was more important to us to be married by someone who knew us than by some random priest.

When we were going through the pre-Cana process the priest had me sign a piece of paper saying that I would raise my children Catholic. I thought that I would probably do that at the time. It was also to satisfy my parents and my husband's mother.

Now I am thinking that I would like the choice to go in a different direction. I might end up with the Catholics but I have some problems with their stance on abortion, gay marriage, well, actually homosexuals in general, in addition to other political things. And I was really turned off by the whole priest sex scandal.

I also have difficulties with the Pope and the Vatican as a whole. I do, however, really sort of love the religion itself. It is the people that bug me.

The Old South Church has made a good home for me over the past few years but I don't know that I am going to stick with the United Church of Christ. I think faith is important and I need to do some exploration.

Is signing a piece of paper really a contract with God?

--M



Dear M,

I totally get your feelings about the Catholic church. In 1984 I was in Rome, staying at a monastery with a Catholic priest friend and I nearly converted. Why? Because I loved the liturgy and how the Catholics really appreciate and the Mystery of it all. And then there was that really cool art. And the incense. And of course the to-die-for vestments! Although I don't care for the Pope's hat. However I like the staff/sceptre accessory.

But like you, there was the issue of all that THEOLOGY that I just couldn't stomach. I realized I could take all the good stuff about Catholicism and use that as a Protestant. So that's why I get how you feel. So I don't think it's the people who bug you--I think it's their theology.

No, you did not sign a contract with God and I think Jesus would be laughing his long-haired bearded head off to hear that a group of folks devoted to Him (the Catholic church) could demand that you raise your child to believe exactly what they believe about Him.

I say wherever your soul feels fed is where you want to be. Wherever you are fed, comforted and challenged. If you feel that way at Old South Church stay there. Go to Mass at Christmas and teach your child an appreciation and acceptance for a different denomination. It will please the relatives as well.

If you say that you feel God is leading you to a different denomination (emphasizing that we are talking about the same FAITH here for Chrissake, excuse the pun), who's going to argue with the Voice of God? And nobody can argue with your feelings--you feel what you feel.

Happy Advent!

Debra

Proud To Be An American--At Last

For the first time since I was a little kid, I feel proud to be an American. Seriously. Wes and I were in Europe a few years ago, just after the Iraq war started. Every time we showed our passports we said, “We didn’t vote for George Bush. We’re so sorry.”

Often I felt like lying and saying I was Canadian. I was so ashamed of my country.

But all that has changed now that Barack Obama is president elect. We stayed up Tuesday night and watched the returns and I wept and drank champagne. Yesterday morning I got up, read the paper and wept again. I was deeply moved and little hung over.

But most of all, I am hopeful.

Signs and Miracles

I think sunsets are miracles. And sunrises too. Even when it is cloudy in Seattle, the very fact that it gets lighter tells me the sun is out there somewhere and that seems miraculous to me. This particular pic was taken in Alaska, but sunsets are not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about miracles and signs. Of course it's possible to read something into anything, but other times it is so clear. Here are two examples.

My 23 year old friend Charlie died a couple weeks ago. I had met him fifteen months ago when he came in for treatment of his recurrent Ewing's sarcoma. He had a face like an angel and was one of the sweetest most engaging young men I've ever met. He always asked, "How are you doing?"

He received lots of chemo and finally had a stem cell transplant. He was in a coma in the ICU when his father called me and said, "Deb, Charlie is dying. His heart is giving out. If you want to come say good-bye to him, that's okay. But don't come because of me. I'm fine. All this time it's pretty much been just me and Charlie and it's seems only right that it is just the two of us at the end."

I had already said good-bye and I love you to Charlie and I knew his dad wanted to be alone with him. So I went down to our little creek where there is a water fall. And I stood there with my hands out and prayed for Charlie. I said, "Charlie, I'm sending you the sound of this rippling, rushing water and I hope you can follow that sound and find your way out. Follow this clean, refreshing, renewing water and you will be okay." I stood there praying like that for about fifteen minutes.

I went back into house and the phone rang. It was Charlie's dad. "You're the second person I'm calling," he said. "Charlie died about fifteen minutes ago."

Through my tears I told him about praying for Charlie and he said, "Well, I believe it. He probably heard you."

You could say it was a coincidence, but it was a miracle to me. But there's more.

A couple days later I called to check in and see how Charlie's dad was doing. "I have amazing story to tell you," he said.

He explained how when Charlie got a recurrence fifteen months ago, his dog, a Husky ran away. "We looked all over for that dog," he said. "We drove around and posted signs and checked the animal shelters--no sign of him.

"So my wife and I came home after making all the funeral arrangements for Charlie. And who is sitting at the front gate? His Husky dog! Fifteen months later! And I knew that it was Charlie saying, 'Dad, I'm really okay. Don't worry about me.'" It was the ultimate comfort to him.

I just don't think you can say that was a coincidence. Well, I suppose you could but then I would worry about the kind of person you are.

Me--I live in a state of perpetual wonder.

Pooped But Recuperating

I feel as if I am recovering from an emotional/spiritual marathon. So this is my new morning routine: back to bed with a book, a latte and Max.

I'm definitely recovering but I found that just because I resigned from a job, didn't mean I could just resign from everyone's life. So in the three weeks after I officially left my staff position, I visited folks in the hospital and officiated at two funerals. In between that I tucked in a lecture and workshop in Denver. And a reading San Jose. And a reading in Seattle.

It's all glorious work, even the funerals--especially the funerals because I know how different it is to have an officiant who actually knew (and loved) the deceased. One of these people was a woman I visited the very first week I worked at the clinic. She was amazing and fun and I looked forward to seeing her every week. It's still hard for me to believe that she is dead.

I promised her years ago, that I would do her funeral and just because I was no longer officially working, didn't mean I would break a promise. After she died, another long-time patient died and then I felt as if all the loose ends were tied up. And last weekend was my last speaking engagement and I am grateful for that.

So Monday I went to a mandatory "Boundary Training" that is required of all UCC clergy. My initial attitude was quite whiney, "W-a-a-h, why do I have spend an entire day learning that I shouldn't sleep with parishioners. I already know that and besides, I don't even work in a church!"

But I decided to change my attitude precisely because I couldn't stand myself being such a brat for eight hours. Instead I said to myself, "There is something in this for me. I'll go into it expectant with my palms up and my hands outstretched." I think this is a pretty good way to go through just about anything because it changes your perspective immediately. Instead being petulant (which feels good for about ten seconds) I became curious, wondering what piece of wisdom I would bring home.

ANYway, the most important learning for me was that clergy are very good at running on imitation energy and we are very bad at saying, "No." They talked about how we can appear to be very energetic and present, but actually be completely empty inside. And how if we continue to do this, we are heading for destruction.

I so related to that. There were times when I was asked to see a patient and I just didn't have the energy but I would do it anyway. Because it's hard to turn down a nurse. Because this is my calling. Because I didn't want to ruin my reputation of being responsive. Because I'm a pleaser, etc.

But now I see how dangerous that was and how I was getting quite crumbly around the edges, like the last cookie in the bag. So now I'm in the recuperation phase, hence reading in bed with Max and a latte. What's even better is that Wes makes the latte for me.

I'm also happy to report that I've said no to two things that I really did not want to do. I was asked by two different agencies to do "The Ask" at their fundraiser luncheons. I hate asking for money. I really do. I really support both these agencies and even offered to be the keynote speaker at one. But in a very healthy and definite way, I absolutely refused.

Yay! for me.

Gone But Not Forgotten

For two weeks now I've been trying to think of a witty way of saying that I resigned from the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Nothing comes so I'll just have to be straight about it.

For months now I've felt an ever-so-insistent nudging from Spirit. The message was, "Hey! We've got other things for you to do. But you have to leave the SCCA." Unthinkable! I loved my job and had always seen myself working there well into my eighties at which point I would be taking a cab to and from The Seattle Home for Really Old Chaplains.

I knew that to ignore the urging of the Spirit was at my own peril, nevertheless, ignore it I did. But the Divine always wins. I have the Happy Problem of having many speaking engagements all over the country. In the past, I used Leave Without Pay to do this. But there is a new rule at the SCCA that doesn't allow that, so I found myself using all my vacation time to give talks until I got to a point in September where my boss said, "I can't approve this trip because you have no more vacation hours."

How could I not go to Dana Farber and Massachusetts General? My boss and I discussed the possibilities: keep my job by changing my status to per diem chaplain. I would lose all my benefits, but it would give me the flexibility to travel.

So I could do that or I could actually . . . resign. My boss and I agreed to think about it over the weekend.

All day Saturday I tried on the decision of staying on and somehow working out all this travel. I felt tired and anxious.

When I woke up on Sunday I said to myself, "Now I will try on the decision of resigning from the clinic." I instantly felt as if I lost twenty pounds. I felt a heaviness leaving me. I heard the angels singing in their firmament,"What took her so lo-o-o-ong? We nearly had to kill her-r-r-r!"

Which was true because for the past two months I hadn't been sleeping and my heart would pound at night as I thought of all the things I had to do and then I was cursed with a Job-like gastrointestinal problem. Let me just say that if bathrooms were bars, I'd be considered an alcoholic because I was in one five times an hour.

So I resigned and cried my way through the week, including a very nice Good-Bye Tea that my boss arranged. I hated leaving the staff, my patients and especially my colleague Mia because we had Big Plans to redecorate that horrid little office we share. Even more important was that I was so looking forward to working with her and so we sat and just wept for a good hour in our office with the lights low so that it felt like a funeral parlor but without a dead body present. I realized that just because it was absolutely the right decision didn't mean it was not going to be hard as hell.

Then my sister arrived and we flew off to Boston. I did a reading and three talks and we walked the Freedom Trail and saw Paul Revere's grave and the Old South Church. But most magnificent of all was the historic Filene's Basement at which I found three beautiful bow ties for Wes which were marked down to $19.00. From $50.00!

I still can't believe I resigned as it hasn't felt like I'm not working because I returned from Boston and gave two more talks and have three more to go before the end of the month.

But here's the thing: just because I resign my job, doesn't mean I resign from people's lives. So I'm still in touch with many patients. More about that later.

And no, I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do next . . .

Crazy Rich White People

From August 29, 2008

Today we continue our discussion of fashion, moving on from Crabby Rich White People to Crazy Rich White People. Please see the photo above.

As matriarch, we have the still attractive Lauren Hutton, she of the gap-toothed smile. Her clothes say what she’s thinking, “I’m comfortable with who I am—especially since they upped my Wellbutrin.” She is looking with great fondness at a miniature pony.

Behind her is her husband who is cooking corn and lobster on the grill. Clearly he works out. There is a big bag of charcoal near the grill which leads us to the obvious conclusion: the pony is next.

Two of Lauren’s grandchildren are wearing fairy princess dresses with wings. We can only hope they are her granddaughters because God help them if they are her grandsons. But that is not what makes them crazy—way over on the right is a kid with a trumpet. (Oh, sorry--he got cut off) Have they lost their minds? You’re giving a six year-old a trumpet? Why don’t you just give him a Howitzer?

The real mystery is the kid in the foreground with the black T-shirt and red devil horns. Is he the bastard son of one of those dudes in the back? Or of the patriarch??! Quelle horreur! Maybe he’s just one of those lonely kids from a neighboring estate whose parents are into Satan worship.

The fairy princess with the knitted Thug Hat is sitting on her mother’s lap. Clearly her mother is looking enviously at the pony’s bangs and thinking, “Oh, crap, I wish I’d had my highlights done.”

And you probably didn’t know this (how could you?) but that same woman always has a child or a dog or someone on her lap when she is being photographed because (I hope you’re sitting down) her hips and thighs are enormous. Seriously. Had all those kids and the weight just shifted. Pretty face—but truth be told, she’s built like a bass. (The musical instrument in front of which she is sitting—not the fish.)

And since I mentioned it—why does anybody but professional burglars and perhaps people who work on boats in freezing cold wear Thug Hats which I believe are also called Watch Caps? The only way they could be more unattractive is if the Thug Hat is way too big and then folds over and you look like one of the Seven Dwarfs. It’s a Fashion Don’t in my book.

Also—I have to ask—where are the black people? Are there no crabby or crazy rich black people? What about Michelle and Barack Obama? I’m not saying they are crabby or crazy, but I bet they are at times. Who isn’t? But I am saying they are rich. My prediction: after he is elected, we’ll see ads with more black people. You read it here first.

In fact, there was no one of color in Vogue. Honestly, I turned up ONE ad in Vogue with a black woman and she was with a white woman advertising Payless shoes! Those are cheap shoes!

So ends the lesson for today.

On Vacation!

08/28/08

Normally I strive to write something on this blog that is thought provoking, poignant or inspiring. But guess what? I’m on vacation, so the hell with that!

On Labor Day vacation we go to a funky, mildewy (but cheap) set of cabins on the Olympic peninsula. We started going here about 15 years ago because they take dogs.

Every year on this vacation I buy the gigantic hernia busting September issue of Vogue magazine, which after reading it, I use to work out my upper body especially after seeing all those pix of twig-armed models. And I don’t mean they are armed with twigs. But that is an intriguing image . . .

So today we leave behind the world of spirituality, cancer, existential meaning and discuss something really important: fashion!

More pointedly, models posing as Crabby Rich White People. Please look at the above photo and you will see what I mean.

What is wrong with these people?! They are wearing up-to-the minute fashionable clothes, they live in that mansion in the background, they appear to be in good health, and for god’s sake—they have dogs! Eight dogs! Seven Labrador retrievers (one is cut off) and what appears to be a Springer Spaniel.

How could you not be smiling with all those dogs? Especially the Spaniel. Those dogs can be nuts and totally hilarious. See how that guy is holding him with both hands? Probably because the Spaniel was jumping around like he had a chili pepper up his butt. I, myself, have seen Springer Spaniels run around like this and it’s very entertaining.

But do these people looked amused? No. They look angry, serious, snooty, smug and oh-so-bored with life. Maybe the tags on their panties are poking them. Perhaps they picked up a little giardia from drinking that pond water and they’ve got to get to a bathroom!

The grandmother has got the Queen Elizabeth thing going with the plaid coat and the head scarf, but you can tell she was a hottie in her time. She’s thinking, “None of these little bastards are getting my money. I’m leaving it to the Spaniel.”

And there are two horses! Everyone knows horses can be fun! But maybe they’re just visiting and that’s got everyone pouting and thinking, “If we only owned our own horses, then we’d be happy.”

What family is this? I do not think they are from Seattle although there are Canada geese in the pond and God knows we’ve got zillions of them here. Well, I don’t care who they are. I don’t like any of the clothes in this photos except for the fur coats.

And I like the one on the Spaniel the best.

Radio RVOG

Last weekend I flew to Colorado to celebrate the 70th birthday of a friend of mine. It was a six a.m. flight out of Seattle. It was a four hour car trip to the mineral springs. We pretty much all agreed we would not do this again for one weekend.

But all the travel gave us plenty of time to witness the Random Voice of God (RVOG). Like a "found" poem the RVOG is everywhere. We first encountered it at a toll bridge where we read the sign, PROCEED WHEN CLEAR.

That is good spiritual advice. We all noted it accordingly. Don't proceed if you have no clarity. Just wait. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.


Trudy's birthday party was held at a spa famous for their mineral hot springs. One of the pools accidently got up to 120 degrees and we considered poaching chicken in it. But that was just another sign from the RVOG: STAY OUT OF HOT WATER.

That night as Trudy was handing out pieces of birthday cake, some edge pieces with lots of icing, some not, she asked Stacey, "What would you like?"

Stacey replied, "I'd like an inner piece."

"Wouldn't we all!" I shouted. But it was really the RVOG at the food fest reminding us that an inner peace is desired by everyone.

So I suggest put it out there to the Universe: I WANT AN INNER PEACE.

Where have you witnessed the RVOG lately?

Sand Through the Our Glass

Last month when my dad called to tell me my mom was in the hospital getting blood I just froze. I thought, "This is the beginning of the end." My stomach was in a knot the whole time I was on the plane.

I was surprised and relieved when I walked into her hospital room and she swung her legs off the bed and said, "When can I leave?" I forgot how getting blood perks you right up. But I did notice she looked older and a bit tired and I couldn't deny that she wasn't moving quickly.

My parents still live in the house in which I grew up. So of course I sleep in my old bedroom. But it no longer has the fabulous orange walls and flocked wallpaper I chose on my sixteenth birthday. And now there are picture frames for my mom's paintings all over the floor and there are paintings on every square inch of wall. Seriously, there is no space on the floor to put my carry-on suitcase. It's like sleeping in the storage room of the Metropolitan Museum.

I intensely dislike all of the paintings except one, and ironically, that one is hung behind the door. The one I like is a knock-off of a Thomas Kinkade. I like it because the colors are bright, like am Impressionist painting. All the others are these dark, Dutch Master-type paintings that she did while under the tutelage of one particular instructor who made everyone paint like him. I laid there in bed and looked at those paintings and thought, "If she dies before me, what am I going to do with these things?"

So in some ways it didn't feel like my room because of the hideous paintings, but when I turned off the lights, I could smell the jasmine that was growing just outside my window and when I woke up in the morning, before I opened my eyes, I heard the same birds chirping and it felt just like my old room and I felt just like the teenager I was when I left.

Then I got up and looked in the mirror.

Now I know that as humans, we are supposed to grow old and die. I talk about this with patients all day long. So you'd think I wouldn't be so shocked to see serious crow bars (they are way past crow's feet) and a downward droop to every part of my body. Tick, tick. Time marches on. If my parents are aging, that means I'm aging too. The sand is flowing through the hour glass--it's not just theirs, it's ours.

The beginning of the end? Or the end of the beginning? Perhaps there is no beginning and no end.

I'm going to go with that for now.

Grace Under Pressure

It's almost impossible for me to believe that I have not posted since June. But there was Wes's bike accident. My mom's GI bleed which required three pints of blood. My dad's prostate cancer diagnosis. My mom's surgery.

Every day during the entire month of June I whispered to myself: "Grace under pressure." I said this as I drove to the Emergency Room to be with Wes. Someone opened a car door as he was riding his bike. The corner of it went through his chest, broke some ribs, bruised his lung.

He had called me from his cell phone and I could hear the ambulance sirens in the background. "Oh, here they are," he said cheerfully. "I'll call you from which ever ER they take me to."

I had a great dinner ready: nice wine, marinated chicken ready for the grill, cheese and bread to start, fresh vegetables. He was five minutes from home when he hit the door.

When I got to ER I asked, "Oh, honey, what were you thinking about when this happened?"

"Dinner."

As many of us know, the ER ironically has a reputation for the slowest service in the world unless you have chest pain or are seriously bleeding. Wes said they made a big fuss over him at first and then nothing for hours. Finally a CT scan. "You have to stay overnight," they said.

I went home at 1 a.m. and behold! Someone left me a nice assortment of cheese and fresh bread! I had forgotten to put it away. So I ate some cheese and bread and opened the wine and drank a glass of that too. The whole time the dog is looking at me like, "What's with the new hours?"

It turned out they wouldn't suture the wound because it was considered "dirty" so Wes had to pack it twice a day with saline-soaked gauze. He was in a world of hurt for a few weeks, but yesterday, for the first time he went without any kind of bandage.

It's a miracle how the body knows how to heal itself.

More in another post about the urgent trips to California.

An Onion For Your Thoughts

I saw the onion goggles hanging on a display in the produce section of the grocery store. They promised maximum clarity and protection and would keep you from crying when you chop onions. But I saw them as potentially perfect bicycling glasses.
And I was right! When I arrived at work the next morning, my eyes weren’t teary and bloodshot. I was thrilled!

But a colleague asked, “Well, now what are you going to do when you chop onions?”

“Cry,” I answered, “And pray.”

I have always rejected any attempts to protect myself from onion tears—chopping them under water, burning candles or matches, freezing the onions before cutting. I don’t want to avoid the tears because I use that time to tap in to the pain of the world.

I imagine all the people on the planet besides myself, who are crying right at that moment. And as I chop, I cry in solidarity with them. I open myself to take on a little of their spiritual pain and I lift them up. I lift them up. This means I don’t pray anything specifically, I simply see all those crying eyes surrounded by a healing light.

So the other night as I chopped onions to sauté with my Swiss chard, I prayed for the people killed and injured by the cyclone in Myanmar. I lifted up the people running their military junta who are refusing—refusing!—international relief efforts.

I cried and prayed for the families in China who are suddenly homeless; whose children have had limbs amputated, whose loved ones were crushed to death.

I wept in awe at the woman who after days of being trapped, told her husband, “We must stay alive. There is a reason that we are spared.” Such strength and wisdom in the midst of so much pain.

My tears were also about the kindness, the generosity of international medical teams who are there struggling to provide care—in a foreign country. And suddenly I stopped praying in general terms.

I imagined myself there unable to speak Chinese. It wasn’t the goggles that gave me maximum clarity, it was my tears. So I prayed for the aid workers, that their lack of language skills would be supplanted by their ability to speak the language of love and compassion.

I prayed that they would have new reserves of patience, wisdom and understanding. I prayed that their hands would be strong and sure and gentle.

Ats we ate, my husband and I talked about these world disasters. At the end of dinner, he turned to me and said, “I loved the chard, but it was a little heavy on the onions.”

The Closer

Today I was the Closer.

In baseball the Closer is called in to clean up the mess of a game or to keep any gains from being lost. In medicine, the Closer’s job is similar—smoothing over sticky situations or tying up loose ends and saying good-bye. This can happen before a patient is discharged home to get well or before they are discharged home to die.

In the latter case, the Closer is not necessarily the doctor. It turns out to be the person who has the closest relationship, the most credibility with the patient. And sometimes the Closer is me, the chaplain.

The doctor, the nurse and the social worker had all told the patient she was going home to die but she didn’t believe them. I ran into her family in the waiting room.

“You have to tell her there is no more treatment left,” her daughter said. “Tell her the cancer has spread everywhere.”

But I knew that is not what I needed to say to make the patient understand she was going home for the last time.

I had known this lovely woman for the six years she had been treated for angiosarcoma, a rare vascular tumor. I never saw her without her wig and make-up. The first couple years it was easy for us to talk about dying and death. But as it happens with many patients, the less hypothetical death gets, the harder it is to talk about.

I sat down next to her bed and took her hand. “I have an agenda,” I said. This is exactly what I was trained not to do. A chaplain should never come in with an agenda and the focus should be on the patient’s needs and not the chaplain’s.

She squeezed my hand and smiled. “You’ve always been honest with me,” she said.

I knew that I didn’t have to talk about the futility of treatment, the extent of her cancer or multiple organ failure. She looked right at me so I seized the moment. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

She was shocked. “Good-bye?”

“Yes. Years ago you and I talked about this day coming and it’s here now. So I want to thank you for all our wonderful conversations.”

She blinked, still unbelieving. “But I wanted to die vibrant and kicking.” Ball one. This was going to be harder than I thought.

“I know. But people with cancer don’t usually die that way. If you want to go out vibrant and kicking it’s best to have a massive heart attack while doing the cha-cha.”

She smiled. Don’t think it’s easy to say stuff like this. But as the Closer you know what your job is and you have to do it. The only reason I could say it was that it true and not saying it would hurt her even more.

I continued my farewell. “I always looked forward to seeing you in the clinic for chemo. I loved talking with you and your husband. But I know it sucked for you.”

“No, no! It didn’t—it wasn’t bad for me! I looked forward to seeing you too!” In spite of all the pain meds on board, she was still the gracious hostess. “I loved talking about books, and wigs and jewelry and praying with you. Thank you so much for being there for me.” That sounded like a good-bye. Strike one.

For every chemo she received, I had laid my hands on the chemo bag and prayed over it. My prayer was usually something like, “May this chemo help her body remember how to heal itself.” Her body had healed itself for six years, which is pretty good for angiosarcoma.

She adjusted her wig and said, “I just don’t want to give up hope.” Ball two.

What does this mean, “to give up hope?” I hear this all the time, as if accepting reality is some moral failing. As if it’s not possible to both accept the reality while hoping for a miracle healing.

“What are you hoping for?” I asked.

Silence. For a long time. Strike two.

“Perhaps what you’re hoping for has changed,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to hope for a peaceful death, or comfort for your family or hope that you’ll be able to let go gracefully and gently.”

I waited a moment before saying, “I think it takes more courage to let go graciously—“ I opened my palms gently, “than to hold on tightly.” I clenched my fists until my knuckles were white.

She stared at my hands and tears rolled down her face. “All right. But I’d rather be doing the cha-cha.”

Strike three—and my turn to cry.

Sisters Are The Best Medicine

I'm sure my I.Q. is lower because my sister was just here and I laughed my brains out for five days straight. Seriously. I looked like this photo 90% of the time. Well, okay, maybe I didn't look quite this good. (David Belisle took this as a possible cover photo for the paperback coming out this Fall.)

Lynie accompanied me to a breast cancer conference in Denver. We had a blast eating dinner in the hotel, shopping, drinking tea in bed and talking at night, drinking coffee in bed and talking in the morning.
I really cannot explain why I feel so refreshed and renewed. I've come back from other conferences tired and sick of cancer. So I can only guess that it was because Lynie was there.

I was really losing my mojo for work: sick of all the technological changes that were adding hours to our days and fed up with administrative duties that made me want to scream. When I received an e-mail telling me that I needed to come in for my annual TB test, I thought perhaps I should burn down the employee health building. I felt as if I just couldn't fit one more thing into my day. When was I supposed to see patients?

I missed my happy self. And yes, I suppose it was also because a month before I went off all my hot flash meds which are really anti-depressants. Like many cancer survivors, I was just sick of taking pills. Besides, I was, as my oncologist said, on "homeopathic" doses: 37.5 mg. of Effexor XR in the day and 25 mg. of Trazodone at night. Since the doses were so tiny I simply stopped taking them. I couldn't believe the sadness and rage I felt a few days a later.

I now know that I should have taken them every other day for a while. But because I was taking them for hot flashes, it never occurred to me that they might be affecting my moods. Because when you take an antidepressant for hot flashes, how does your body know? While I was on them, I would have told you that I perfectly fine---well, maybe not quite as sharp as I used to be. But who is?

But once I stopped taking them, I realized that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and I can't do a thing about it. And did I mention all the reckless morons on the Burke-Gilman trail who are trying to run me down on my bike? And horrible lighting in my hole of an office?

Funny I never noticed any of this before.

So it took a good month to get those drugs out of my system. And then I got a good whopping dose of Lynie and every since then I've been right as rain. I knew I was back to my old self when we were on the plane home and the guy in front of me had his armrest up, with all the volume buttons staring me in the face, taunting me, tempting me.

I poked Lynie. I silently pointed to the buttons. Her eyes widened. Then I pushed the volume button all the way to twelve, which is the highest it can go. We were laughing that kind of wheezy, silent laughter that made us weep and jerk like widows keening at a grave.

The guy never put his headphones on, but every time we looked at the armrest we fell apart laughing. The flight attendant came down the aisle and I expected her to say, "You girls go to your rooms right now!"

But she just said, "Seat belts?"

I would have answered, but a hot flash came on. Yes, the hot flashes are back, but so is my mind. They are not as bad as they were a year ago, so I'm just going to deal. And if things get really bad, I'll go visit my sister.

Report Card

"I can't believe all these people who have just come out of the woodwork to help us!" This coming from a young mom with breast cancer.

"Well," I said, "Getting a cancer diagnosis is like getting a report card on how you've treated people, on what kind of person you've been all these years. So it sounds like you and your husband are getting straight A's."

She smiled and then asked, "But what about the people who seemed like our friends and now suddenly aren't there?"

I just hate it when one of my brilliant analogies falls apart.

Dumbledore To The Rescue

I’m always looking for new ways to talk about death. The latest was given to me by a patient named Elizabeth who, like myself, is a big Harry Potter fan. She also is the mother of two small children and has an aggressive type of breast cancer.

I’m sure by now you all know that Harry’s mentor Dumbledore died in the next-to-last book. Both Elizabeth and I agreed that what we found so moving and inspiring was Dumbledore’s influence on Harry after Dumbledore’s death.

“You know,” she wrote in an e-mail, “Even though Dumbledore really did die, he continued to “exist” for Harry, not in a supernatural way, but in whatever knowledge, insight, wisdom and courage he gave Harry before he died. I think it’s the same way for us. We can set so much in motion by affecting the way people will think and act as they move through the world. And if you listen hard enough to know who they are and what to give them, people will figure it out without you.”

Of course the “people” to whom she is referring are her children. Elizabeth and I have talked about death before and as she said, “I’m perfectly okay with death, whenever that happens. I suspect I’ll have the easy part. But thinking about my kids without a mommy/protector/secret keeper scares the living crap out of me.”

“What helps you with that?” I asked.

She answered, “When I start to freak out about my kids losing me, I can chant the ever-so-comforting mantra ‘Dumbledore.’ And I think about all the Sirius Blacks, Molly Weasleys, and Remus Lupins who would love and care for my kids because I convinced them to love us, and even the reluctant Snapes and Aberforths who would help them because I'm going to convince them they must. And course my husband would be pretty reliable too.”

Almost every parent I meet considers their kids to be special. Harry Potter is special and he is also an orphan and that is the fear of every parent with cancer—that their kids will be without a mom or without a dad.

I want to comfort other patients and explain to them about Dumbledore “existing” after he died and that they will too. I want to urge them to look for the Molly Weasleys and Remus Lupins in their lives.

But many people haven’t read Harry Potter.
So I’m thinking Harry Potter should be required reading for every parent with cancer.

Or just anybody.

How Not To Be

I've been watching, "What Not To Wear" while I work out on my exercise bike. It's mildly entertaining, but here's the show I'd really like to see: "How Not To Be."

Voice over: Welcome to, “How Not To Be!” On today’s show we have a woman who is disgruntled, whiny and indignant. The gift shop at her clinic won’t carry her book because she is an employee! Today’s hosts are Guatama Buddha and Jesus from Nazareth.

Jesus: We’ve been filming her for the past week. In this clip we see her in the gift shop talking to the managers.

Debra: Hi! Where’s my book? You don’t have my book here!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Debra: Wow—I can’t help but notice that you’ve got five other books from my publisher. One of them is even a book by a doctor at Harborview! And you didn’t order mine? It's about cancer! Patients love it! It will help them!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Buddha: Jesus!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: No, I just meant—well, she certainly is persistent. In this next clip we see her talking to her boss.

Boss: By the way, the rules are that they can’t sell your book in the gift shop because you’re an employee.

Debra: Criminy! It’s book about cancer, about this very place. In fact, it’s a great big valentine to this clinic. If they should ever make an exception, it should be for this book!

Boss: (shaking his head) Those are the rules.

Debra: You know, Boss, I know the chain-of-command and I understand that you are my direct supervisor, but you know what my dream scenario is? It would be that several administrators over you would call me in and say, “Debra, we love your book! And we’re so sorry we can’t carry it in the gift shop.”

Boss: I’m sorry.

Buddha: Well, cue the violins!

Jesus: (sarcastically) Yeah, wow, my heart is breaking.

Buddha: In our final clip, here she is complaining to one of her fellow chaplains.

Debra: So they said everyone wants the gift shop to sell their stuff: jewelry, cards, etc. If they did it for me, they'd have to do it for everyone.

Chaplain: But this book can help our patients! Do you think any of the administrators even read it?

Debra: I doubt it. I even gave one of them an advance copy, a bound galley and I didn’t hear a word. Well, you know, a prophet has no honor in her own country.

Jesus: Hey! That’s one of my lines! Funny how people seem to remember only the scripture that supports their position.

Buddha: Tell me about it! You should hear how people bring up “non-attachment” when they’re dumping someone.

Jesus: (laughing) I thought that was the only kind of file that Buddhists will e-mail—you know: non-attachments. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Get it?

Buddha: Jesus Christ!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: So let’s go find Debra and see if we can break up her Pity Party.

[Cut to Debra dozing on the couch while waiting for her husband to come home. There is a half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table.]

Jesus: I see the wine, but where’s the bread?

Debra: (waking up) Huh, wah? Oh, you guys!

Jesus and Buddha: Yes, dear, we’re here from “How Not To Be!”

Debra: Oh, man. Who nominated me?

Buddha: Your No Self.

Jesus: Your Inner Soul

Buddha: Your Spacious Awareness

Jesus: The Holy Spirit

Buddha: Pure Consciousness

Jesus: Seraphim and Chera-

Debra: (interrupting) Whatever. What’s the problem?

Jesus: What’s the problem? Well, first of all, how much wine have you had?

Debra: Just half a glass. I mean you know, “Drink some wine for thy stomach’s sake,” and all that.

Jesus: (to Buddha) See what I mean about scripture? (to Debra) I didn’t say that—that was that boozer Paul writing to Timothy. Anyway, let’s take a look at what’s hanging in your Anxiety Closet. Buddha?

Buddha: Oh, my God! So much of this went out in your twenties! Righteous indignation, self-pity, anger, unappreciated, arrogance, vengeful.

Debra: Wait--that’s not really vengeful. That’s wait-‘til-I-win-a-big-writing-prize-then-they’ll-want-my-book-in-their-stupid-gift-shop.

Jesus: Well, clearly Buddha you haven’t mentioned childish, juvenile and deluded! Listen, honey, it’s all gotta go!

Debra: What? Can’t I just keep righteous indignation?

Buddha and Jesus: No!

Buddha: Okay, we’re giving you five thousand years of sacred scripture to go through. And you’ve got to come back with things that replace all that crap in your Anxiety Closet.

Debra: (grumbling) Fine!

[Cut to Jesus and Buddha watching a video of Debra on their laptop.]

Buddha: (happily) Well, there she is reading about the Four Noble Truths.

Jesus: And yes, I see she has the Gospels open and next to that the Bhagavad Gita. But wait!

Buddha: Oh, Lord!

Jesus: Yes?

Buddha: She's reading her own book! We told her sacred scriptures!

Jesus: Do you think she believes her own book is a sacred?

Buddha: We’ll find out after this!

[Commercial break featuring the show "Project Fun Day" in which people compete to inject a little fun into the day of a down-trodden person. Hint: provide food, water, clothing and shelter first!]

Jesus: We’re back! Let’s bring Debra out and see what she’s found!

Debra: First of all I had to find compassion for myself because once I started thinking about it all I realized how unevolved I am and then I felt ashamed of myself.

Buddha: Yes, yes, compassion for yourself—very Buddhist.

Debra: And I saw that staying angry is getting me nowhere. In the Psalm 37 I read,

"The angry ones draw their swords, the angry ones aim their bows
To put down the poor and the weakened and to kill those who walk on the path of righteousness.
But their sword hits their own heart, their bows will be broken.
With his poverty, the righteous one is richer than all the angry ones in their abundance."

Jesus: (grinning and high fiveing her) Shut up! Love those Psalms.

Debra: Then I read about the Eight Wordly Conditions: Gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute and we’re all grasping after gain, praise, pleasure and fame 24/7.

Buddha: Yes, you go girl! Very important to understand.

Debra: Then I read: "To be angry is to let others' mistakes punish yourself. To forgive others is to be good to yourself.” So I’ve forgiven them and that's good for me!

Buddha: And we have to ask why you were reading your own book It's Not About The Hair.

Debra: In the introduction I do go on about being whiny and tragic and stuck. So I’m taking my own advice and letting go.

Jesus: So you’re letting go of this whole book-in-the-gift shop thing?

Debra: I’m letting go of my emotions around it all. The Bhagavad Gita reminds me that I’m entitled to my actions, but I have to let go of the fruit of my actions.

Jesus: Does that mean that you’re going to take action around this?

Debra: Stay tuned!

Buddha: Good God!

Jesus: Yes?

Take Note

Just when I think I'm all totally grown up and able to clean out my closets and basement and purge my life of extraneous crap, I run into something I've been saving since sixth grade. And I can't throw it away. It's a note that was somehow intercepted by my friend Russell who got it from his friend Mike.

Background: I had a huge crush on Dan (the subject of the note) since fourth grade. We were good friends because in spite of the fact that I talked a lot, I also listened. So that made me the confidant of almost all the boys because they could tell me with whom they wanted to go steady or were going to ask to go steady (whatever that meant!) and up with whom they were breaking. (I'm pretty proud that I did not end that sentence with a preposition. Where are you Mr. Scheckler?)

ANYway, Katy and Martha were two girls in my class who were best friends. What I remember about Martha is that she talked about how she put her pubic hair in doll hair curlers. What I remember about Katy is that she had beautiful handwriting. They too had a crush on Dan until THIS NOTE.

In case you can't read it:

Dear Mike,

Don't tell Dan Our dreams. You can tell him we are loseing [sic] interest in him because he doesn't like us anymore and he loves Debbie Jarvis. We would like him if he liked us. (Tell us what he says!) We would tell you more but its [sic] embarrasing [sic]("forget it" is crossed out). Don't show any body [sic] this note, please.

From, Martha and Katy F.

I remember getting such a thrill when I read that. He loves Debbie Jarvis? He loves me? He loves me?

Of course everyone saw this note including Dan and that's when he stopped talking to me. He mostly talked to me about "loving" Nancy G., but now he didn't want anyone to think he "loved" me. But for one day I believed that I was the object of his affection. I read that note over and over. And in a very weird way, reading it now still thrills me, but for a different reason.

It thrills me because I can see how from the beginning, as far back as I can remember, kids, people liked to talk to me about their secrets, their desires, their hopes, their fears. This is pretty much what I do now, just be a friend and listen. I hated this in Jr. High because I wanted a boyfriend, not a "friend" friend. Thank God I went to a different high school from my childhood friends. Nobody at the new high school knew I was the girl who was "just a friend" to all the guys---although that's how High School turned out too.

This note takes on a special poignancy because a couple months ago I reconnected with an elementary school friend who let me know that another boy on whom I had a crush was still living in the area. He married his high school sweetheart and she had just had a recurrence of cancer. I immediately sent them a copy of my book. But last night I found out that she is dying and has just entered the hospice program.

How can this be? I can only see him and his wife as Jr. High school students and Jr. High kids don't die of cancer. News Flash, Jarv: You're not in Jr. High school anymore. My friend requested prayers for them. So of course I will pray for them, that they would have courage, and peace and comfort and ease.

I'm keeping that note and I love that forty years later I can still be a "friend" friend and offer up prayers. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Undetached

Leap year! I'll take this extra day to tell you about a question I got asked this week. I had just given a talk at the University of Washington and an audience member asked me how I stayed detached from my work.

"I'm not detached," I said. "I don't mind going home and thinking about all the people I've met in the clinic."

I just figure that there is something for me in every encounter and it's up to me to mine that experience for all it's worth. If I don't think there is something for me in every patient encounter then I'm going to get burned out pretty quickly. So that means I think about my day at home.

My model is Mr. Jesus who was never detached. Talk about no boundaries! He was eating dinner with whores and IRS men; letting little children climb all over him and going out fishing with the guys.

Doesn't seem detached to me.

I know this model isn't for everyone but I don't think I could do it any other way. That also means I've had "patients" over for dinner and selectively given out my home phone number. No regrets so far.

McGreedy

A couple weeks ago I heard Jim Wallis of Sojourners magazine says something like, "We don't lack the resources for there to be enough for everyone in the world. What we lack is the will and the incentive."

Right on, Jim! It's all about greed, isn't it?

It's a pretty well known concept that having some measure of inner peace is just as important as advocating for world peace. You know, peace begins at home. Which got me to thinking about my own greed--at home.

How is the desire for a huge company to make profit, any different from my desire to have biggest piece of cheese on the plate? Or one more piece of cheese despite the fact that my belly is full? (But my mouth wants more.)

I don't think it's all that different. But here's the thing: it's not as if only developed nations have greedy people. The poor are greedy too. Humans are greedy and the continual challenge is to overcome our own greedy natures. Or decide to be greedy in a different way.

I, for one, am working on being greedy for silence, for peace, for laughter, for justice, for God.

I'll let you know how this works out.