Equilibrium | Aug 12 2023

I’ve been working on a post about resilience and how it can help us lung cancer folks– anyone, actually– keep building a rich life. In the meantime, I learned that one of the members of our local lung cancer group had entered hospice, then, a few days ago, that she had died. Inspired by my friend, Dann, I’ve put aside the resilience post for a moment to write about this.

H. C. lived and dealt with lung cancer for five years before she died. By the end, her cancer had spread to the lining of her brain. It affected her hearing, her balance, and towards the end, her capacity to understand complex information. She could not keep on weight. Ultimately, she could not leave her bed. She was also warm, genuine, creative, and concerned about others. Her last text to me was warm and heartfelt.

H is the third person I’ve known who has died of lung cancer this year. When I shared her death with a few people, they murmured their condolences. Meanwhile, I wanted to shout at them, “No, you don’t understand– she died.”

It hits hard when someone in the lung cancer community dies. First, because their amazingness as a human is lost to us forever. Then, alongside sorrow, a kind of unease settles in. It’s tainted, ever so slowly, by a deeper grief. A recognition of the parameters in which she resided, where I currently live: a disease that can’t be cured and can eventually sneak around any treatment that’s unleashed upon it. An acknowledgement, once again, of how profoundly life has already changed, and how unpredictable the requirements will be for living in the future. And then, suddenly remembering that dwelling unceasingly on this unease, dawdling in grief, is a waste of time.

Getting to this point has taken many months of meditation, conversation, writing. In one regard, reality is very simple: if I want to be fully alive now, there isn’t room for any extra weight.

I said simple, not easy.

Because I’m still thinking about H. I’m also thinking about another member of our group who we haven’t heard from and can’t seem to reach.

This reminds me of a recent light bulb moment. I was looking back at my life, ready to tally the losses, the what-might-have-beens, when suddenly, I realized what a rich, even amazing life I’ve had. Adventures, fun, hard work, opportunities– and even the hard parts, have brought me to this exact place. I held gratitude and sadness in equilibrium, like two streams of water running over my hands into one.

Grief is like the threat of bad weather. You hear the forecast and you hem and haw– should we make plans? Should we head out? But what else are you going to do– sit around and wait for it to rain? You know if you choose that, it’ll never rain.

Even if you go and a deluge catches you by surprise, you’ll still have the moment where the wind surges, the thunder rolls in the distance, and you count one two three four…as you watch for where lightning will shatter the sky. You’ll still have the sweet smell just before the rain lets go.

Remember when I told you, Frank Ostaseski says to welcome everything? I’m not there yet, not by a long shot, but I am learning to sit with what comes. To let grief and fear and all their little friends flow through me, alongside gratitude, joy, the peace of being in a time and place.

And even as I mourn for those who have passed, I get on my bike. And when somebody rides past me on a hard hill, as they did this past Tuesday, I curse, then I remember, I’ve had lung cancer. I’m a friggin’ miracle.

A cycling update: one 62 mile ride a week ago; 3x up the back side of our little volcano just before that; a tough ride in the west hills overlooking the city this past week.

Forgive the muddle of metaphors in this post, and thank you for reading. I hope you find yourself in moments of equilibrium this week.