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.

Pardon My Begging

A friend just wrote to me that she has been reluctant to go to India because she couldn't handle the poverty. Well, the poverty will be there whether you go or not. It’s a question of do you want to deal with your feelings of guilt, outrage, helplessness, confusion, despair and wonder?

I can’t get the image of a little girl pressed against the car window. She was gesturing to us to give her something to eat. Then she put her hands together in namaste on her forehead and pressed them against the window. And there were those dirty, little brown fingers pushed against the glass. And we didn’t have any rupees. We didn’t have anything. She wasn’t angry, she was smiling and inviting. I wanted to give her something. I wanted to put her in the car, take her back to hotel and give her a bath.

Then the light changed and we went another mile and there was another group of kids. This time Wes dug around and found a few McVitie’s biscuits in the bottom of his pack. A little boy was pounding on his window, not as sweet as my little girl. The light changed. Wes rolled down the window and gave him the biscuits. He looked at the biscuits and threw them back into the car.

I swear to God here was my first thought: Beggars can’t be choosers.

Wes turned to me and said, "I think he wanted money."

A few days later I’m back in Seattle getting crown work done. It’s a two hour job so I asked for the nitrous oxide. The assistant put the mask on my face and I said, “Oh, I don’t remember nitrous having an odor.”

“It doesn’t. That’s our peach-scented mask!”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

After a minute it became clear the mask was too big. “I’ll give you the pediatric mask,” the assistant said. “It’s grape-scented.” Then she opened up a tube of lip balm and said, “This is your lip balm, it’s yours to take home, but I’ll be applying it on your lips because your mouth is going to get stretched out.”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

I just heard last night that Mitt Romney spent 40 million dollars on his campaign. I pay three dollars a can for dog food. The dentist gives me a grape-scented nitrous mask and my own lip balm.

Here’s the thing about going to India and seeing all the poverty: you don't come home with answers, but it makes you question.

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

A Dutiful Wife

So we just returned from India. We were gone only ten days which is short considering it takes about two and a half days to get there. Wes taught for four days at a science conference held at the Indian School of Business in Hyderabad. As a Dutiful Wife I was forced to go along with him and spent most of my time swimming and reading, "A Suitable Boy" by Vikram Seth. It was only 1, 474 pages. The title of my next book will be, "A Dutiful Wife" and it will be 1,475 pages.

We secretly ate in the student cafeteria whenever we could. It was fun being with the students and I liked being able to refill my own coffee. The Faculty Dining Hall had white table clothes and I was forever trying to remember if my bread plate was the one on my left or my right. Plus there were all these waiters whisking things away. I was acutely aware of the beggar children just a few miles from campus, so I was very uncomfortable with all this formal dining. In fact, I was uncomfortable dining at all. (More on that later.)



And here is the amazing Taj Mahal at sunrise. I thought it was a palace, but it's really a mausoleum. Yes, that's right. When you finally get inside, the actual room is the size of a large McDonald's restroom and there is the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal ("Chosen One of the Palace") and her husband Shah Jahan ("He Who Builds A Really Amazing Mausoleum For His Wife").

It turns out that Mumtaz was the love of his life, soul mate, friend, lover, first wife. And yeah, sure he had a harem but I'm assuming they were for when Mumtaz was hugely pregnant or having her period. She bore him fourteen children in seventeen years.

So she dies giving birth to their fourteenth child and he is bereft. Despairing. Since Porshes weren't yet invented, he decides to build--big time. But here's my question: Shah, why did you wait until after she was dead to build her this breathtaking place?

Why wait to say, "I love you"?

I saw a patient last week who when her husband left the room told me, "My husband has been so attentive and concerned. He insists on coming to every chemo with me. I know he loves me, but he's never been so out there with it."

He's scared witless, I thought. And sure enough, when we prayed together at the end of my visit, he was holding my hand so tightly my fingers had indents from my rings. He whispered, "Amen" after me and tears rolled down his cheeks.

As Wes and I walked back from the Taj Mahal to our hotel, he asked me, "Well, what did you think?"

"Don't wait until I'm dead," I answered.

Power Outrage

The other night my friend Lisa had dinner with us. She was talking about an elderly woman who told her, “My sixties were my favorite decade. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought and I felt totally empowered!”

I said, "Wow, that's great to hear! I can't wait!"

Wes said, “If Debra gets any more empowered she’ll be a sub-station.”

Which makes me wonder: can someone be too empowered? Does Wes think “empowered” is synonymous with “bossy?” And exactly what is a sub-station?

Flashback to June 12, 2005: It was four days before my first chemotherapy and the impending taste bud destruction. For my “Last Supper” I chose Lola, a modern Greek restaurant. That means you can get grilled octopus and dolmades, but you can also get high-tech martinis and wild Pacific prawns.

Our server was young and beautiful and her dark hair was rinsed cherry red. She cheerily explained the specials and asked if we had any questions. Having just had a mastectomy, all I could think was, “Have you had your mammogram?”

Instead I blurted out, “Of all the restaurants in Seattle, this is the one I chose for my last meal before chemo.”

She blinked for a few moments and then smiled and said, “I’m so glad you chose to come here.”

Since I was feeling like I was about to be sacrificed, I considered the lamb for my entrée. But I pushed away the dramatic mental images of my martyrdom and reminded myself, “Cancer is the enemy. Chemo is the defense.”

So I chose something I thought was symbolic of my new attitude: goat; cider braised with honeycrisp apples, roasted shallots, and celery salad. It was divine and I say that as an ordained minister and experienced foodie.

Our awareness that this was our last dinner out before six months of unknown chemo side-effects made every bite, sip, scent and sound sublime.

“This is the best dinner I’ve ever eaten,” I said holding hands across the table with Wes. He could only nod since his mouth was filled with chickpea fries, but I saw his eyes well up.

Our server came back to ask if we wanted dessert. “Just the check,” Wes answered.

She gave us a big smile and said, “You’re welcome to pay next time you come in. This one is on the house.”
We didn’t leave for another twenty minutes because we couldn’t stop crying.

So this December was our 22nd wedding anniversary and the next day was my two year end-of-chemo anniversary. “Let’s go to Lola!” I said to Wes.

I made the reservations and then, after a moment’s hesitation, told the hostess our experience from two years before. “I know it’s crazy,” I said. “But is she still there? She had cherry red hair.”

“Hold on.” I was on hold for a few moments and then someone picked up.

“I remember you,” the voice said.

It was her—Sabrina our server who is now a manager! We were coming in Friday night which is the only night she managed at Lola. Coincidence? I think not!

We were a party of six and Sabrina bought our appetizers and desserts. I gave her a copy of It's Not About the Hair. We ate, we drank, we laughed, gratitude flowing faster than wine. I ordered the goat and it was as delicious as I remembered.

Before we left I hugged Sabrina and said, “You just don’t know how many times I’ve told that story of my Last Supper.”

“I’ve told the story too!” she said. “I understand about the eating because my mom had chemo.”

I was stunned. “Gosh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that. How is your mom doing?”

She hesitated a moment. “She died—when I was little. But I still remember.”

I gave her another, longer hug. Clearly, in the few years they were together, her mother had taught her about love.

No wonder that night had felt like the Last Supper:

Do this in remembrance of me.

And she had.

He Lives!

Max lives! He is going to be okay and apologies to those of you who thought he died because I hadn't posted in a while. It took over our lives for three weeks, but yesterday his wounds healed up enough to take off the hateful Cone! It will take a while for his hair to grow back, but we can live with that.

Here he is in his Christmas outfit, a gift from my boss Stephen and his family. The shirt is perfect--it hides his scars and keeps him warm.

The first few weeks after his surgery we let him sleep on the bed because he was wearing the hateful Cone. But that meant he slept on me. On my chest. On my belly. The first week he wanted to be anywhere on my core. Maybe because I felt as if I had a piece of my heart torn out. And a piece of my soul. Some people thought he was afraid. But I think he was healing me.

Max has had the Fentanyl patch on him for three days now. You could say he's acting either like an angsty teenage stoner (staring out the window, sighing and whimpering) or a love-sick hero trying to snap out of it (staring out the window, then vigorously shaking himself and whimpering).

This had been so, so hard for us. One thing that helped immediately was a suggestion from Max's teacher Judi. "Don't talk to him in a 'Sympathy Voice,'" she said. "He'll hear the distress in your voice and that will compound his own distress."

Honestly, I'd been talking to him in Baby Talk the whole time and I just stopped and he was a little better. Well, I know I was. I keep saying in an optimistic tone, "Well, Max, we'll get through this. And then you can tell the story of how you survived the pit bull attack!" It's doesn't erase the pain (either physical or emotional) but it proves to me once again, that's it all about on what we choose to focus.

I can't very well pretend this is no big deal as I apply hot compresses to his oozing, bloody wounds. I've been forced to think hard about forgiveness in regards to Max's attacker, or more correctly, the attacker's owners. So I'm forced to take my own advice: "Feel your feelings, give them a voice and then move on."

Max seems to be processing this whole thing pretty well in spite of the fact that he is on major narcotics and wearing that hideous plastic Cone on his head. I give him a break from The Cone when I can be around to make sure he doesn't lick and pull out the stitches.

Yesterday was the first time we left him alone (with Cone on) because I officiated at a funeral. It was a bright, crisp, achingly gorgeous day. The burial was at a small cemetery in Mt. Vernon and the memorial service at a beautiful little church in Conway. In my homily I talked about how when all is said and done, the most important things in life are not things at all, but the quality of your relationships. Who loves you, who have you loved and more importantly, who have you forgiven?

After the burial service we walked back to the car through the cemetery. I looked at all the different gravestones. Did any of these people take their anger or bitterness to their graves? If they did, it didn't matter now.

Just then a sharp wind cut through the trees and blew leaves and sticks across the gravestones. And at that moment I let the wind take all my anger and fear around Max's attack. I didn't want to carry those feelings to my car, let alone my grave.

Attack!

A terrible thing happened last Sunday night. Max and I were out for our usual evening walk and he was attacked by a pit bull terrier.

We have walked past that house hundreds of times and I have never seen this dog.
I found out today that he was in the garage and his owner opened the garage door and he shot out. He didn't growl or bark, but I heard him coming, turned around and he attacked. It happened in a heartbeat.

The next thing I know, he has got Max in his mouth and OFF THE GROUND. Of course scrappy little Max is fighting like crazy. I did not know what to do. Honestly, I'm great in an emergency. I can do CPR. I took life saving and could probably rescue someone from drowning. But Sunday night was different. And I remembered what Max's teacher Judi said about how terriers will fight to the death. (Max and Wes and I are in a class for him to be a Therapy Dog.)

It was like two Tasmanian devils and all I could do was scream. And I screamed and screamed and screamed. I was afraid to let go of the leash because I thought then he could run and I wouldn't be able to find him. After a while I couldn't even watch any more. I was sure Max was being killed. This was one of the most horrible and violent experiences I have ever had.

I screamed so loud and so long that a couple on the next block leaped in their
car and drove over. Finally a young woman came out of the house, pulled her dog
off Max and punched her dog in the face and shouted, "What are you doing?!"

I have NEVER in my life been hysterical. Until Sunday night. I picked up Max and was sobbing uncontrollably. All I could say was, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God," over and over again.

By that time lots of neighbors came out and one of them screamed at the woman
about the dog. The dog owner said, "This dog is going to the pound tomorrow!"

One of the neighbors said, "That's what you've said before!"

I walked under a street light and put Max on the ground. He could walk and everyone said, "Oh, he's okay." But then we saw all the blood. Janet and David, the nice couple from the next street over took us to the emergency vet on Lake City Way. The pit bull owner never even came out to see if we were okay. She just disappeared.

I called the police and they came took a statement from me. They went to the dog's house and talked to the owner. Gulp.

Max spent the night in the hospital. Poor Wes arrived around midnight to all this craziness. But I had a sexy hoarse voice from all that screaming! So you know what we did? No, no, we were way too upset and exhausted for that. We opened a box of chocolate truffles and began eating them one by one!!! So therapeutic. Life saving, actually.

When they brought Max out to me the next afternoon I almost fainted. Thank God Judi was with me. He was shaved from the shoulders down and had five Penrose drains in him. I had no idea how many lacerations he had. He looks like someone took a knife to him.

He is such a little trooper. He never made sound, not a whimper. I'm happy to tell you that today is he is doing well. Well, right at this moment he is okay because he is sitting in Wes's lap. Yesterday was another story.

He was shaking and shivering and crying and we thought he was septic. We went back to the emergency vet and they thought his wounds looked fine but that his pain was out of control despite the meds I gave him. So they put on a Fentanyl patch and now he is totally stoned, but feeling no pain. I'm still applying the hot compresses every three hours to let the wounds drain.

Animal Control came over today and had me write down what happened. While I was doing that they went and took the dog. Then came back here and I had to go out to the truck to identify him.

Oh, my God, I had no idea how upsetting that would be! First of all, it was creepy to see the dog, but then I felt so bad for him because he was scared and whimpering and pooped in his cage and had bad owners who didn't train him.

But you know what? They told me that both this dog and their other pit bull already have one report on them. They got out and attacked a dog in it's yard. That is so sad!!!! The owners would not voluntarily let this dog be put down, so I asked Animal Control to issue a citation. I'll go to court to keep this from happening to anyone again. My guess is that once owners realize that they have to pay kennel fees to animal control while we wait for a trial, they will agree to euthanasia.

So we have LOTS for which to be thankful. If Max hadn't fought back, he'd be dead. If I had let go of the leash, the pit bull would have carried Max off and killed him. He had puncture wound right under his eye, but not in his eye.

And, oh, yeah--the next day I went to see my oncologist and found out that my MRI was clear, my osteoporosis is a teeny-weeny bit better and that my Amazing Boss was incredibly understanding about me taking the week off to stay home with Max.

We are blessed.

Well, all this book stuff is great fun and I love walking into bookstores and putting a stack of my books on the counter.

The salesperson asks, "Would you like to pay for those?"

And then I say, "No, I'd like to sign them!" Hee-hee! I wish I could be more dignified about this, but I tell you I'm practically wagging.

I'm also having fun speaking everywhere which I usually do for free, just travel and lodging. I said to my friend Carla, "I feel like such a whore because I'm saying, 'Yes!' to anyone who asks me to speak."

She said, "Whores get paid. You're more of a slut."

So there you have it, I'm a Speaker Slut--but only until the end of 2007. That will end the first trimester of my book's existence, which as many of you know, is the most important time period for the growth and development of a book.

After that I must cut down on the speaking because I do have a job I love at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. And I will have to be professional and ask for money.Wednesday I leave for Houston to speak at M.D. Anderson. I love looking at all these other cancer centers and see how they compare to the SCCA.

I went to a big cancer center in central New York. They had a gorgeous lobby with a pianist playing a grand piano. The gift shop was huge. Beautiful art everywhere.

The infusion suite was small, dark, cramped and strung with cheesy Halloween decorations. There were no windows. I don't remember seeing any beds. How could you fit a supportive friend or family member in these little cubicles, let alone a chaplain?

One last word about my central New York speaking tour: here is actual quote from the organizer of one of these luncheons: "Many felt that the subject of death and dying was not appropriate for a group of survivors and supporters."

Then who is the appropriate group? I must tell you that I'm not a downer cow when I talk about death. It's actually pretty funny and entertaining. And when you get a cancer diagnosis you always think about death. I gave a similar talk here in Seattle and they loved it. Go figure.

In other news, my MRI last week was clear. Woo-hoo! However I still have osteoporosis in my hips, but in my spine it's been downgraded to osteopenia.

No sky diving for at least another life time.

On The Road

Susan, thanks for your kind comment. It was an honor to marry you and Rich.

And now for the news: I've just returned from a nine day speaking tour in upstate New York. It was eighty-five degrees the whole time and my friend Carla and I thanked All That Is Divine for air-conditioning.

We drove from town to town and I spoke at three different Susan G. Komen events. They were all lovely, but the most fabulous was in the tiny town of Elmira, New York. They have no paid staff, only volunteers. The event was magical: organized, beautiful, well thought out. The people were kind, warm and generous.
I'm just now getting feedback from all these talks and I've managed to piss off a lot of people because I wasn't "preachin' Jesus" and I talked about death. The folks that loved my talks, loved it for those exact reasons.

Yes, of course I know that I can't please all the people all the time, but there is still this little kid in me that feels a bit stunned. Especially when I read a comment from a woman who is praying that I get back on the straight and narrow, quit using "shit" in my writing (oops) and stop talking about Buddhism.

Here's how it's shaking down: Those Who Have Never Had Cancer: didn't want to hear about spirituality or death; Cancer Survivors: loved hearing about both; Newly Diagnosed: Scared Shitless. (oops) Everyone agrees that my talk was unforgettable and that people are still talking about it.

New York state is fifty percent Catholic unlike my own state of Washington which is the most "unchurched" state in the nation. (And proud of it!) I realize what an amazing liberal bubble I live in here in Seattle. I'm speaking at the Komen Event here on October 27th and will rethink my talk--but not much.

If my goal is to sell books, then I have to tailor my talks so that people will like me. If people like you, they buy your books.

But you know what? That's not my goal. My goal is to get people thinking about death and dying and get comfortable talking about it. Talking about does not bring it on. If talking about something brought it on, I would have lost five pounds long time ago.

Being able to talk about death is freeing. I think that's why cancer survivors loved my talk--because cancer forces you to think about death. They've all had to think about it and it was refreshing for them to hear someone speak publicly.

As more responses come in, I'll share them with you. Tonight is my first reading at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park. Wine and cheese at 6 p.m. Reading at 7 p.m.! I can't wait.

Another Wedding

When the invitation came it sounded like a blast: a family wedding in Cambridge, Maryland in the beautiful home and garden of our cousins. We knew the celebration would be fantastic. But when it came time to go, all I could think was, “If only I could stay home this weekend, I could get so much done.” I felt frazzled, thread-bare, worn and unfocused. If only I could stay home and catch up.

I would tell you all things I wanted to do, but frankly, I’ve totally forgotten about what I was frazzled. All I can say is that I went from a world where I felt it was “all cancer, all the time,” to one where we were eating crabs with all the cousins and spraying one another with flying shells and laughing and drinking and proposing toasts and reminiscing about the generation before us which is all gone now and realizing that we, yes, us, were up now as the “leaders” in the family, the older generation, but we all felt like lost children and wanted so badly to have another line of family in front of us.

But it was not to be.

I think about death a lot because I work in the cancer field and I’ve had cancer and I’m starting to promote my book so people are asking me questions about dying and death. But this wedding (which was a family reunion of sorts, as all weddings are) made me think about death in a nostalgic, wistful way as opposed to a medical way. Perhaps it is because the elders in my husband’s family did not die of cancer, but died at pretty ripe ages of pneumonia, Alzheimer’s, a heart condition. So far no one in his family has died of cancer. How refreshing. I actually forgot that people do die of “old age.”

So our flower girl is now a married career woman and a mother of two. Her daughter was the flower girl in this wedding. Time seems to circle back on itself and I found myself thinking a hundred times throughout the weekend, “How can this be?” Because of course I still feel like I’m thirty-two, the age at which I entered this family.

But when I sat in our hotel room putting on my make-up in the bright sunlight I realized with a shock that I did not have the face of a thirty-two year old. And I had to remind myself that this is what is supposed to happen: you age.

The fountain of youth is in Seattle because it is usually overcast and without all that nasty harsh sunlight, you can’t see how old you really are.

But one of the great things about aging is that you just don’t care so damn much about what everyone thinks. How else can I explain why, after working out at an Orlando hotel last month, I jumped into the pool in my athletic bra and panties? There was nobody there and my panties were brightly colored and just how different are they from those nearly transparent Speedos that men wear?

I rest my case.

Labor Day of Love

Yesterday afternoon we went to a wedding in the Rose Garden at the Zoo. I have officiated at many weddings, but never one in the Rose Garden, and we dearly love this couple so both Wes and I were excited to attend.

An old friend of the bride and groom, the officiant had just gotten his license off the Internet. He was so eager that he started the wedding without the bride. Then he stopped and we all stood up and waited for the bride to come down the aisle. He forgot to tell the people to please sit down after the scripture reading. So we looked around at one another and just sat down.

Later, at the reception, he bragged about how it took all of forty-five seconds to get his license and it takes three years for most people to go through seminary. His girlfriend said to us, “Yeah, wasn’t he great?! You know how you go to most weddings and it’s not at all personal and the minister is just reading something? This was much better.”

Kudos to me for just sitting there with my mouth shut. As Wes said, “I didn’t want to make him feel bad.” I didn't say anything about how the only personal thing he said was that he introduced the couple to each other. And then he read some stuff about marriage. And both Wes and I noticed he got off on saying, “By the power vested in me by the state of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” No one says that anymore. It’s so unnecessary.

What he didn’t get was that you don’t go through three years of seminary just so you can officiate at weddings. You do it because you feel called by God to serve as a minister. Weddings are such a tiny part of it. If you work in a church, there’s putting together the Sunday service which means picking the scripture, the hymns, getting the readers to read the scripture, writing the sermon, gathering the announcements, practicing your sermon. That’s just for Sunday.

Monday through Saturday there are the committee meetings, the counseling, visiting the sick, praying for your congregation, helping with the youth group, dealing with any personnel and building maintenance issues, meeting with community clergy and taking part in various walks and demonstrations. Then there are the funerals and the weddings. It’s unbelievably hard work.

I never felt called to parish ministry. As a hospital chaplain, ministering to patients, families and staff means that I concentrate on just a small portion of a parish minister’s job. Perhaps I do more funerals than a parish minister.

And yes, I officiate at weddings, but only for close friends. That way the service is very personal. I refuse to be paid because this ceremony is my gift to them. I know I can give them something nobody else can.

I also know that at a wedding, every married couple there relives their ceremony. And every couple there, married or not, thinks about their relationship. So it's an amazing opportunity to offer words about love, forgiveness, spiritual growth and calling forth the best in one another.

I wish I had asked this Universal Life minister if he was going to start doing funerals now. But of course you don’t need any power vested in you by any state to officiate at a funeral.

The Seat of the Soul

A couple of weeks ago Wes and I went on a three day silent meditation retreat. It was at a Buddhist retreat center. The schedule was basically this: up at 6:15 a.m., 45 minutes of sitting meditation, 30 minutes of walking meditation, 45 sitting, 30 walking, meal. It went on like this until 9 o'clock at night.

Wes sat in a chair (as did many people), but I chose to sit cross-legged on a meditation pillow and then switch off and sit on my meditation bench. I sit half-lotus all the time in yoga, no big deal. However I have never sat like that for 45 minutes. It was brutal.

Cross-legged was brutal on my ankles and my knees. Meditation bench was brutal on my butt and my knees. By the end of the second night, I thought I was going to die. So I thought for the last sit of the night, I would be in a chair.

There were these green plastic lawn chairs that cost about 25 cents to manufacture. I was a little late getting in and everyone was in place so I quickly grabbed a chair and sat down in the back.

Instant nirvana. It was like sitting in the lap of a lover; like sitting in a hot fragrant bath; like sitting on a heavenly throne. Why had I been torturing myself for two days? Why this was the most comfortable chair in which I had ever sat! I felt embraced by the chair, loved by the chair.

We were supposed to be doing vipassana meditation which is being in the present moment and simply watching your thoughts arise. Here were my thoughts:

I love this chair.
I want one of these chairs.
Could I could put it in the living room?
I would meditate every day if I had one of these chairs.
I wonder if they have them at Fred Meyer?

You can see this was not keeping me in the present moment. So I decided to do metta meditation which is "loving kindness." You think of someone and then send them unconditional love.

May you be peaceful and happy.
May you be safe and protected.
May you be strong and healthy.
May you live with ease and joy.

So I started with that, praying for myself first, which is what you are supposed to do. I couldn't help thinking how peaceful and happy I'd be if I had one of these chairs.

Stop thinking about the chair! And then I thought, "Ah, Grasshopper! What you resist, persists!" So I did metta for the chair.

May you be peaceful and happy. You would be in my house.
May you be safe and protected. I would never leave you out in the rain.
May you be healthy and strong. May you never break a leg. Or your back. Or your seat!
May you live with ease and joy. I would give you your own little corner.

I couldn't stop. At the end of the sit I realized that it was my physical pain that kept me in the present moment. For the rest of the retreat I was either on my pillow or on my bench. Brutal, but focused.

Enlightenment eluded me that weekend. And I've never found those chairs. But I'm keeping my eye out for both.

The Parent's Reaction

Spray-paint around the bumps? Did I say someone should spray-paint around my parents? How about a giant CAUTION sign and then red flashing lights?

My mom is so mad that she couldn't even speak to me just now on the phone. My dad however, spoke to me and explained. "She thought you used too many cuss words. And she didn't like the part about sex. She's not even sure now that she wants anyone to buy it. "

Let me just say here that ANY swear words would be too many for Mom. In 256 pages I use maybe ten swear words. But to tell you the truth, I breathed a sigh of relief because what I thought she would be mad about--my writing about estrangement in the family--he never even mentioned.

Phew!

So I explained to Dad that patients tell me all the time that no one ever talks about sex after cancer and no one is writing about it, so that's why I thought it important to write about it.

"Well, I see your point, honey, but your mother's so upset she's been snapping at me all week. She's like an alligator with PMS."

I thought that was pretty funny, but felt bad that she was taking it out on him. It made me wonder about what she thought I was going to write. Sigh.

I believe I have to speak my truth with love and compassion and then let the chips fall where they may. I'm not responsible for anyone's emotions but my own. At the same time I'll confess there is this little girl in me asking, "Mommy doesn't like it?"

How To Handle The Bumps

So I've been riding my bike to and from work every day since May. I take the Burke-Gilman trail because it goes along the lake and there are no cars allowed on it. It's about seven miles each way.

There are lots of big bumps on it caused by tree roots and some kind soul has spray-painted around many of them so at least you can see them coming. Here is my latest observation about that, which of course, I find to be a perfect metaphor for coping with life.

One way to approach on-coming bumps is to hold tightly to the handle bars and just coast over them. This makes you feel as if you have more control, but it transmits the force of hitting the bump right up into you arms and shoulders. It also hurts your butt.

The other way is to keep pedaling and sort of post, like on a horse. You rise up just a tiny bit from the seat and loosen your grip on the handle bars and hold them lightly and gently.

It is somewhat counterintuitive, but after riding for the last three months I can tell you that the latter approach is superior. It hurts way less.

I think this goes for things like test results, performance evaluations and your family's reaction to your new book. Our tendency is to brace ourselves and rigidly hold on for dear life. We would be better served by relaxing and holding the situation lightly and gently.

So I continue to move onward and breathe as I wait to talk with my parents and my sister about their reactions to It's Not About the Hair. I sent them advance copies last week. My sister e-mailed that she liked it and liked reading about my patients. She didn't say anything about what I wrote about our family.

I'll call my parents tomorrow and let you know how it goes. I wonder if someone should spray-paint around them?

In Good Taste

I just read that as some people age, their tongues lose the ability to taste bitterness. I think that happens in our emotional lives as well. So the older we get, the less bitter we are about life.

But of course this doesn't happen with everybody. I'm always shocked and saddened when I meet patients in their seventies and up who have been carrying a grudge for some fifty years or more.

It seems that having cancer can make old grudges float to the surface like so many dead goldfish. I recently saw an elderly man who said that forty years ago he found his wife with his best friend "ten toes up and ten toes down." He recounted this experience with such anger and venom, it was as if it had happened yesterday.

After a while we got around to talking about what it would be like if he could let go of his bitterness. He looked shocked. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because then you wouldn't have to carry around that poisonous anger."

He shook his head and muttered, "Ruined my life."

It was as if he was carrying around a little old ratty blanket covered with filth and burrs. He didn't want to give up the familiarity of the blanket in exchange for the release of his pain.

He didn't have many friends and had successfully alienated his kids. As his son later told me, "Who wants to be around a toxic waste dump?"

I don't mind losing my ability to taste bitterness because it increases my ability to taste the sweetness of Life.

I like to think that it's a gift of aging.

Just So You Know

Mingle² - Online Dating

Monday Morning

I know my neighborhood pretty well so I can tell when sod has been laid down, or a fence put up, or flowers planted. I love walking my dog Max on Monday morning because I get to see the fruit of the weekend labor.

This morning I saw a woman start to get in her car to go to work, but she paused and stood there looking at her newly planted garden with a kind of awe and appreciation for the work she had done. You know how you do--you sort of stand there and think, "How the hell did I ever do that?" Then, with a groan, she got in the car. (Sore muscles are always the most painful a couple days after the labor.)

As a chaplain I get to be with cancer patients as they are doing hard personal and spiritual work. Going through chemo and surgery is like laboring all weekend in the garden. But unfortunately for me, I don't often get to see patients on "Monday" after they have done the work and experienced the transformation.

But once in a while, I'll run into someone a year later and that's when I get to have the "Monday" experience. I get to see the fruits of their labors. Their hair has grown back, perhaps they have a new appreciation for life, perhaps their family has a new appreciation for them. Maybe they've discovered who they really are. It's a gift for me to see how they've grown.

But this growth doesn't happen all at once. In the same that way planting a shrub doesn't necessarily mean that it's taken root; having cancer and all the realizations that go along with that doesn't guarantee personal growth. You have to water, weed and feed your new self.

And just so you know: I don't allow Max to pee on any new plantings. It just doesn't seem right.

How Did I Cause It?

Although I am a graduate of the Shit Happens School of Cause and Effect, when I got my cancer diagnosis, I did exactly what everyone does: I tried to figure out how I got it. I regularly exercise, am in a happy marriage, and eat well. But here are the things that immediately came into my mind:

Too many protein bars! That summer when low-carb was all the rage? I ate chocolate/peanut butter protein bars all day long. I also ate those low-carb fake candy bars that contain artificial sweeteners such as acesulfame potassium and neotame. Frightening to pronounce let alone ingest.

Not enough meditation! I had a good meditation practice going for a while, but, well, things got busy—um, yeah. Maybe meditation would have calmed down any abnormal rapidly dividing cells. Or perhaps the Divine was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t there to listen.

I should tell you that I use these words interchangeably: God, the Divine, the Universe, the Presence, Mr. Martha Miyagi. I’ll explain that last one. I don’t have a visual for “God.” She/He/It has always been an inner voice for me—a combination of Mr. Miyagi from “The Karate Kid,” and Martha Stewart—before she became a felon.

I figured that Mr. Martha Miyagi said, “Well, cancer ought to slow her down. That will give her time to meditate.” I got very zealous about meditating right then because I was afraid that if I didn’t the Universe would cut off my legs.

Didn’t take a real lunch! I had a bad habit of working through lunch. This was usually because a lot of patients came in between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. If I took lunch then I’d miss them. Then in the late afternoon, I would eat lunch at my desk while charting. This is not considered good self-care. But I thought, What if the patients who don’t see me this week die? It gradually dawned on me that if they did die, it would probably be because of their cancer, not because they didn’t see me.

Fired from my job! Seven years before my diagnosis I was fired for a book I wrote, and I was devastated—much weeping and gnashing of teeth! The stress of that must be what caused it.

So those are all the reasons my mind provided. But I know that I can never trust my mind. So I meditated and went deep within and asked my heart, “What caused my cancer?”

My heart said, “Shit happens.”