I died in October. I literally walked myself through the process of dying while being guided by my mentor to do so. We focused on death that weekend. And, I died.
Since then, the fog has lifted from my eyes. I'm beginning to see so clearly now and... WOW! I had no idea what I had been refusing to see before. No. Idea.
I'm just... wow... ye-eah... I'm blown away. My vision is painful and heartbreaking.
Let me be really clear here… I commit to being fully alive, to living in my love and to doing whatever it takes to accomplish that.
AND… what I’m discovering is…
For far too long, I've tricked myself into believing that others knew more or better than me.
I'm seeing that I've given away my power in such subtle ways that I had no idea I had done it.
I'm seeing that when I feel something and someone says it’s the opposite, I believe them instead of myself.
I'm seeing that I really DO know when something is off, but I've surrounded myself with people whom I thought I could trust so they are able to convince me otherwise and consistently prove to me that I don't know what I know or sense or feel.
I'm seeing that I'm far too willing to believe that "that feeling I feel” is just me “being silly” and that I can’t possibly be right because, of course, past proof shows that I’m wrong so just knock it off.
HOWEVER…
“That feeling I feel” is always right, no matter what anyone says.
I'm really angry at myself for selling myself out, far too often.
I’m really angry that I’ve given away my power.
I’m really angry I’ve loved and trusted people with the core of who I am, only to have the fog lift and realize that most of my doubt, confusion and “clipping of my wings” was coming from these very people.
I’m really angry that I’ve trusted, been vulnerable and have fully showed up and now I’m seeing the destruction that was visiting me while in that space.
I feel abused.
I feel angry!
I’m seeing that I’m the creator of my life.
I’m seeing this as an opportunity to get REALLY, REALLY clear about what is acceptable in my space and what is fucking not.
I’m seeing that I am brilliant and wise and I DO KNOW WHAT I KNOW.
I’m seeing that I’m not EVER going to allow another human being talk me into being less than who I am.
I made the commitment in 1998 that I would never deny my gifts and intuition again. I feel angry that I have subtly slid back into that pattern all in the guise of trusting those who I am discovering did not deserve it.
I’m appreciating that I’m getting the lesson this time.
I’m appreciating that my wings are spreading and there ain’t gonna be anything or anyone to fucking hold me down. EVER. AGAIN.
Yeah. I can see now. I can see really clearly. AND I’m grateful I can because I need to see to fly. Get out of my way.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Friday, April 03, 2009
Death
How many years must go by before I stop remembering?
Before I stop looking at the calendar and remembering the events?
Before I stop marking time from March 31st until April 3rd?
How many years must go by before I forget her sitting there all proper and tidily coifed and polished?
Before I forget the baby blue and powder pink?
Before I forget the sound of her tick-tick heart and the feel of her small hands on mine?
How many years will I silently weep on this date and remember that it was this time "so many years ago" that I got the call?
I'm a grown woman and, yet, I feel like a small child during this week and I miss my Grandma so.
I miss the sound of her voice singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir that blasted forth from the stereo or the television.
I miss the mischievous and progressively less proper things she would do and say as she got older.
I miss the way she would let me lay my head on her lap while we relaxed on the slippery brown leather couch.
I miss the smell of coffee and bacon, sugar cookie dough and minestrone soup and her famous tomatoe-garlic-cucumber salad.
I miss the sound of the birds in her trees, the vision of pink chiffon curtains floating on the morning breeze and the menagerie of knick knacks on every possible horizontal space.
I miss my Grandma...
Before I stop looking at the calendar and remembering the events?
Before I stop marking time from March 31st until April 3rd?
How many years must go by before I forget her sitting there all proper and tidily coifed and polished?
Before I forget the baby blue and powder pink?
Before I forget the sound of her tick-tick heart and the feel of her small hands on mine?
How many years will I silently weep on this date and remember that it was this time "so many years ago" that I got the call?
I'm a grown woman and, yet, I feel like a small child during this week and I miss my Grandma so.
I miss the sound of her voice singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir that blasted forth from the stereo or the television.
I miss the mischievous and progressively less proper things she would do and say as she got older.
I miss the way she would let me lay my head on her lap while we relaxed on the slippery brown leather couch.
I miss the smell of coffee and bacon, sugar cookie dough and minestrone soup and her famous tomatoe-garlic-cucumber salad.
I miss the sound of the birds in her trees, the vision of pink chiffon curtains floating on the morning breeze and the menagerie of knick knacks on every possible horizontal space.
I miss my Grandma...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Holding Space
Please hold space for me and my friends. Many of us are at the hospital with one of our beloveds. Their six-week old baby stopped breathing early yesterday morning. I have been at the hospital with her since they got here. There is no brain activity and she is on a full ventilator. Please send love, peace and healing to Natalie and Joe Read, the parents of Adrianna Read in this time of grief.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Tearful Goodbye
It's a quiet morning here. For that, I am grateful. Tears fall slowly down my face and I feel full of love and... sadness.
A good friend died this weekend. A friend who believed in me. A friend who helped me grow and become a lot of who I am and supported me to get to where I am on my journey as a healer. A friend who saw in me all that I could not see for myself. A friend who trusted me, loved me and strengthened me. A friend who opened her heart to me and let me in. A friend who, after a thirteen-year journey with cancer, died quietly and peacefully in her sleep, at her home, with loved ones around her.
Susan Porter was my friend. She taught me so much about trusting myself and my gifts. She was the first person willing to get on my table - and keep getting on my table every other week - and take on full healing from within. She was the first person able to see in me that which I could not see in myself, yet knew, somehow, was there as a gift to bring to other's lives. She was the first person that, even though the work I do is so powerful and sometimes frighteningly overwhelming, she kept coming back.
She taught me love of myself and she taught me that I do have the ability to change another's life. She showed me that, when working with me, she was pain-free for over a year. She showed me that, through working with me, we could extend her life and get beyond the clutches of cancer and have her live a strong, beautiful life for awhile.
After a three-month break last autumn, wherein I came back to life from the Nile and she tried to recoup her strength from a strenuous project at summer's end, she got on my table in January of this year and I knew that this would be the year that I laid one of my warriors to rest. I cried then and I cry now because the world is less one brave soul who knew how to lead others into the light. I cry now because my friend is no longer here for me to physically touch and hug and laugh with. I cry now because... Sue is gone.
I love you, Sue. I am grateful for the impact you have had on my life. I am thankful for all that you brought into my world and for what I gained in knowing you. Thank you for believing in me, loving me and encouraging me to continue forward, even when I didn't know how or couldn't see the way. Thank you for allowing me into your heart and sharing with me your wisdom. And, mostly... I thank you for sharing our journey.
Blessed be, my friend. Blessed be.
A good friend died this weekend. A friend who believed in me. A friend who helped me grow and become a lot of who I am and supported me to get to where I am on my journey as a healer. A friend who saw in me all that I could not see for myself. A friend who trusted me, loved me and strengthened me. A friend who opened her heart to me and let me in. A friend who, after a thirteen-year journey with cancer, died quietly and peacefully in her sleep, at her home, with loved ones around her.
Susan Porter was my friend. She taught me so much about trusting myself and my gifts. She was the first person willing to get on my table - and keep getting on my table every other week - and take on full healing from within. She was the first person able to see in me that which I could not see in myself, yet knew, somehow, was there as a gift to bring to other's lives. She was the first person that, even though the work I do is so powerful and sometimes frighteningly overwhelming, she kept coming back.
She taught me love of myself and she taught me that I do have the ability to change another's life. She showed me that, when working with me, she was pain-free for over a year. She showed me that, through working with me, we could extend her life and get beyond the clutches of cancer and have her live a strong, beautiful life for awhile.
After a three-month break last autumn, wherein I came back to life from the Nile and she tried to recoup her strength from a strenuous project at summer's end, she got on my table in January of this year and I knew that this would be the year that I laid one of my warriors to rest. I cried then and I cry now because the world is less one brave soul who knew how to lead others into the light. I cry now because my friend is no longer here for me to physically touch and hug and laugh with. I cry now because... Sue is gone.
I love you, Sue. I am grateful for the impact you have had on my life. I am thankful for all that you brought into my world and for what I gained in knowing you. Thank you for believing in me, loving me and encouraging me to continue forward, even when I didn't know how or couldn't see the way. Thank you for allowing me into your heart and sharing with me your wisdom. And, mostly... I thank you for sharing our journey.
Blessed be, my friend. Blessed be.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
One More Candle
I received an email from a friend today that went something like this:
Dear God, I pray for the cure of cancer. Amen
All you are asked to do is keep this circulating.
Even if it's to one more person.
In memory of anyone you know that has been struck down by cancer or is still living with it.
A Candle Loses Nothing by Lighting Another Candle.
Please Keep This Candle Going!
It had a different picture, but you get the point.
At any rate, I was quite surprised by my somewhat cynical and disbelieving initial response to this email. I angrily typed away and sent it off to her before it sank in to my head: My prayer is that they RELEASE the cure for cancer. I believe it's already here and the government is withholding it... how's THAT for conspiracy theories?!
I could feel the venom seething through my veins as I wrote it. As of late, I have been around WAY TOO MUCH death at the hands of fucking cancer. I feel angry that gazillions of dollars are wasted on rescuing other countries rather than focusing on the really important stuff like curing cancer and HIV, etc. Actually, I truly think that the cure is there and the FDA is blocking it.
Yeah... I feel angry right now.
And, at the same time, I still choose to support this prayer that was started with good intents by someone, somewhere.
Dear God, I pray for the cure of cancer. Amen
All you are asked to do is keep this circulating.
Even if it's to one more person.
In memory of anyone you know that has been struck down by cancer or is still living with it.
A Candle Loses Nothing by Lighting Another Candle.
Please Keep This Candle Going!
It had a different picture, but you get the point.
At any rate, I was quite surprised by my somewhat cynical and disbelieving initial response to this email. I angrily typed away and sent it off to her before it sank in to my head: My prayer is that they RELEASE the cure for cancer. I believe it's already here and the government is withholding it... how's THAT for conspiracy theories?!
I could feel the venom seething through my veins as I wrote it. As of late, I have been around WAY TOO MUCH death at the hands of fucking cancer. I feel angry that gazillions of dollars are wasted on rescuing other countries rather than focusing on the really important stuff like curing cancer and HIV, etc. Actually, I truly think that the cure is there and the FDA is blocking it.
Yeah... I feel angry right now.
And, at the same time, I still choose to support this prayer that was started with good intents by someone, somewhere.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Tears...
They fall. Quietly and persistently. Saying goodbye... or the knowledge of that impending word stills my heart at times and I bow my head. Grateful for the time. Wishing there was more. And holding on for all I am worth.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Phone Call
My phone rang. It was my good friend, Jen. We had talked earlier and it had been a bubbly, peppy talk so I wasn't prepared for the quietness in her voice.
"Have you talked to Mary recently?"
I went on alert. I had thought I had more time with Maret. I had thought that the doctors had lied. I had thought that, since we had passed the seven day mark that we were golden. Even though I reminded myself that we all are on borrowed time and Maret more than ever, I still thought we were home free.
"Not since earlier today, before she went to the eye doctors. Is it Maret?"
"No." She choked for a moment and my heart crashed. This much emotion and it's not Maret? Oh. My. God.
"What is it, Jen?"
"Mary's doctor has scheduled her for an MRI brain scan tomorrow. There is a possibility that she has a tumor."
My world crashed down around me as the tears exploded out of me with such a force that I was certain my lungs would collapse. "NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"
We cried together and I sniffled into the phone, hiccuping and saying, "I wasn't prepared for that news. I feel like I have been blind-sided."
And then we laughed together because, somehow, my choice of words were ironically poetic and hilarious. Especially since it was Mary's narrowing line of vision that had caused her concern enough to go to the eye doctor's. I spoke with Mary later on last night. I heard the fear and the sadness and the anger in her voice. I could hear her asking questions in her mind, the same questions I was asking in mine, I suppose.
In the quiet of the night last night, while I tossed and turned in bed finding no respite from the sadness in the depths of sleep, I stared into the darkness and wondered... what am I to make of all this? I feel scared and sad and angry. It feels like too much. This week feels like too much.
I will go to Mary on Friday, in the quiet moments of the afternoon, and lay my hands upon her head. In the stillness we will find some peace and, perhaps, a miracle or two.
"Have you talked to Mary recently?"
I went on alert. I had thought I had more time with Maret. I had thought that the doctors had lied. I had thought that, since we had passed the seven day mark that we were golden. Even though I reminded myself that we all are on borrowed time and Maret more than ever, I still thought we were home free.
"Not since earlier today, before she went to the eye doctors. Is it Maret?"
"No." She choked for a moment and my heart crashed. This much emotion and it's not Maret? Oh. My. God.
"What is it, Jen?"
"Mary's doctor has scheduled her for an MRI brain scan tomorrow. There is a possibility that she has a tumor."
My world crashed down around me as the tears exploded out of me with such a force that I was certain my lungs would collapse. "NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"
We cried together and I sniffled into the phone, hiccuping and saying, "I wasn't prepared for that news. I feel like I have been blind-sided."
And then we laughed together because, somehow, my choice of words were ironically poetic and hilarious. Especially since it was Mary's narrowing line of vision that had caused her concern enough to go to the eye doctor's. I spoke with Mary later on last night. I heard the fear and the sadness and the anger in her voice. I could hear her asking questions in her mind, the same questions I was asking in mine, I suppose.
In the quiet of the night last night, while I tossed and turned in bed finding no respite from the sadness in the depths of sleep, I stared into the darkness and wondered... what am I to make of all this? I feel scared and sad and angry. It feels like too much. This week feels like too much.
I will go to Mary on Friday, in the quiet moments of the afternoon, and lay my hands upon her head. In the stillness we will find some peace and, perhaps, a miracle or two.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Death
Death has arrived at my doorstep in a way for which I was not prepared. After doing my own war with it ten months ago, I feel uncomfortable to be staring it in the eyes again. Too many of my friends, close friends, are dying. Some slowly with the on-going, exhausting battle of inevitably terminal cancer. Some are staring right into the face of death as they fight against their brand of cancer and defiantly declaring, "It is NOT my time."
And while all this has been happening, someone who has been a huge influence on how I have experienced life in the last 17 years has been wasting away into nothingness. None of us knew.
My former mother-in-law died early this morning, alone in a nursing home at the age of 48 from complications of a lifetime of immense mental illness. The torture that she put her son through until he became a man at age 14 and left to walk the streets alone - feeling safer there than in her domain - created a wounded, damaged man whom will I love to the end of time. To hear him crying with remorse and guilt and anger and joy and every feeling piled on top of the other breaks my heart.
I don't know how I feel in this moment. I don't know what it looks like to be there for him. For me. For my daughter, who barely knew this woman, but knew her nonetheless. I don't know if I am sad or relieved. I don't even know if I feel at all about this.
Perhaps this is the "numb" stage of grief...
And while all this has been happening, someone who has been a huge influence on how I have experienced life in the last 17 years has been wasting away into nothingness. None of us knew.
My former mother-in-law died early this morning, alone in a nursing home at the age of 48 from complications of a lifetime of immense mental illness. The torture that she put her son through until he became a man at age 14 and left to walk the streets alone - feeling safer there than in her domain - created a wounded, damaged man whom will I love to the end of time. To hear him crying with remorse and guilt and anger and joy and every feeling piled on top of the other breaks my heart.
I don't know how I feel in this moment. I don't know what it looks like to be there for him. For me. For my daughter, who barely knew this woman, but knew her nonetheless. I don't know if I am sad or relieved. I don't even know if I feel at all about this.
Perhaps this is the "numb" stage of grief...
Monday, June 02, 2008
Waxing Religious
The father of one of my bestest friends was recently diagnosed with cancer far advanced in the fourth stage. He died peacefully a few days ago and today was his funeral. My friend is one of the most amazing people I know, who exhibits genuine kindness and love. He was born and raised in a Mormon household but has since departed the church. He and I have talked occasionally about our feelings about the church and usually, even though he is a gay man, he has had very little to say negatively about the religion's views. I have always known my friend to be a gentle soul who is true to himself.
In the last two months, I have attended two funerals, both of which have been Mormon funerals. It is the only time I have been back inside a Mormon church building. As I was also born and raised Mormon and the majority of my society were in the same boat, there was only one funeral I attended that was not a Mormon funeral. That service was warm and full of anecdotes about the person whom we were there to remember. It was such a stark contrast to what I was accustomed to.
Lately, with these last two funerals, I have become achingly aware of the insidious nature of Mormon funerals. Each time, I have walked away feeling empty and drained from the experience. Today, it is laced with anger. My friend spoke in honor of his father and also played a most beautiful piano piece which he had written just for him. Being no longer Mormon, his talk was heartfelt and sincere, devoid of any of the preaching that followed.
I feel angry that the church views a person's funeral as a moment to educate and, possibly, convert a captive audience. I was there to support my friend (as I was at the other funeral I recently attended). I had no desire to hear about the Plan of Salvation or the Three Tiers of the Kingdom of Heaven or that only those who have been Sealed will be one of the fortunate couples who receive exhaltation in the highest level of the highest kingdom. I don't care. I am not there for a Sunday school lesson. I am imagining that others who are also not Mormon don't care much either. And those who are Mormon have already heard the entire song and dance a gazillion times before, so they probably know it by rote and don't care much either. This person's funeral is just not the appropriate place to be waxing religious.
I have experienced these last two funerals, afterwards, in about the same light as I experienced Amway meetings or any other MLM meeting I have attended - and I have attended a lot of those. I realized today, as I drove away, that the reason Utah is the MLM capital of the nation is because there are so many Mormon's here and they are used to this insidious behavior. Hey, I have this great opportunity for you... that could be followed by two men in ties and white shirts with short haircuts knocking upon your door and holding up a Book of Mormon for you, or it could also be easily followed by two men in ties and white shirts, maybe with short haircuts, standing in front of you with a white board drawing circles and talking about how a rut is simply a grave with the ends knocked out. (For those of you that don't get that, don't bother. For those of you who do, I wanna know if you ever said the words "I'm goin' Diamond!" or "I'm all fired up!")
Funerals, in general, are not the most pleasant of things. Perhaps wakes are, but I wouldn't know because the society of my origin did not believe in that. Today, though, was especially aggravating for me. This funeral could have stopped after my friend's tribute. It made sense to that point. It was about the person we were there to remember. Following his beautiful piano piece, in my humble opinion, we all went to hell in a hand basket via the Celestial Kingdom.
In the last two months, I have attended two funerals, both of which have been Mormon funerals. It is the only time I have been back inside a Mormon church building. As I was also born and raised Mormon and the majority of my society were in the same boat, there was only one funeral I attended that was not a Mormon funeral. That service was warm and full of anecdotes about the person whom we were there to remember. It was such a stark contrast to what I was accustomed to.
Lately, with these last two funerals, I have become achingly aware of the insidious nature of Mormon funerals. Each time, I have walked away feeling empty and drained from the experience. Today, it is laced with anger. My friend spoke in honor of his father and also played a most beautiful piano piece which he had written just for him. Being no longer Mormon, his talk was heartfelt and sincere, devoid of any of the preaching that followed.
I feel angry that the church views a person's funeral as a moment to educate and, possibly, convert a captive audience. I was there to support my friend (as I was at the other funeral I recently attended). I had no desire to hear about the Plan of Salvation or the Three Tiers of the Kingdom of Heaven or that only those who have been Sealed will be one of the fortunate couples who receive exhaltation in the highest level of the highest kingdom. I don't care. I am not there for a Sunday school lesson. I am imagining that others who are also not Mormon don't care much either. And those who are Mormon have already heard the entire song and dance a gazillion times before, so they probably know it by rote and don't care much either. This person's funeral is just not the appropriate place to be waxing religious.
I have experienced these last two funerals, afterwards, in about the same light as I experienced Amway meetings or any other MLM meeting I have attended - and I have attended a lot of those. I realized today, as I drove away, that the reason Utah is the MLM capital of the nation is because there are so many Mormon's here and they are used to this insidious behavior. Hey, I have this great opportunity for you... that could be followed by two men in ties and white shirts with short haircuts knocking upon your door and holding up a Book of Mormon for you, or it could also be easily followed by two men in ties and white shirts, maybe with short haircuts, standing in front of you with a white board drawing circles and talking about how a rut is simply a grave with the ends knocked out. (For those of you that don't get that, don't bother. For those of you who do, I wanna know if you ever said the words "I'm goin' Diamond!" or "I'm all fired up!")
Funerals, in general, are not the most pleasant of things. Perhaps wakes are, but I wouldn't know because the society of my origin did not believe in that. Today, though, was especially aggravating for me. This funeral could have stopped after my friend's tribute. It made sense to that point. It was about the person we were there to remember. Following his beautiful piano piece, in my humble opinion, we all went to hell in a hand basket via the Celestial Kingdom.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
TT - "Behind Those Eyes"
As I have mentioned before, I am a Reiki Master, trained in the art of facilitating others in their healing. Just after I completed my internship and Mastered, I took on a regular client in a business trade arrangement. We have been working together for almost two years now. When we began, she was in the beginning phases of her third battle with cancer.
She lost her right breast first to cancer about thirteen years ago. Five years later, she was diagnosed with a much more aggressive and completely different cancer in her left breast. They said they got it all. Five or so years later, she started feeling ill and went in for a check-up. That visit revealed that the aggressive cancer was back. It had settled in her hips and skull. Since then, it has spread to her legs and spots have shown up in her liver.
In the beginning of our work together, we were able to eliminate her pain and drastically slow the growth of cancer. Her tumor markers dropped to astoundingly low levels and her oncologist kept saying, "Whatever you are doing, keep doing it." She continually expressed her gratitude that she was completely without pain. I was grateful to be working with a client that was so firm in her resolve to get well and to live. I appreciated watching her physical and spiritual presence grow and her voice become strong. I loved hearing her stories and feeling her energy and supporting her on her journey. Our intention was clear from the very first session when she stated, "I am going to beat this cancer. I am determined to live my life as a healthy person."
Last fall, she took on a huge project of moving her aunt into a rest home. This entailed cleaning out her aunt's residence of many, many decades. For a month straight, they toiled and labored to clean out the home. I noticed that she was showing signs of fatigue. She accepted responsibility for not caring properly for herself and for working too hard on the project. Just as her project was wrapping and her energy level was at its lowest ever, I got bitten by that bug and ended up wading through the West Nile for over six weeks. I was unable to work for almost three months.
When we got back together just before Christmas, I was startled to see the stark difference. I felt tears burn my throat as she whispered, "I can't beat this cancer. It's not going to go away. I have accepted that." Her entire outlook had changed and I felt the desperation run through her body. She was so tired of the battle. So tired of the struggle. The pain had escalated. Her markers had shot up. Her energy level was completely drained. Her life force was strained. Her body was being ravaged by a weed that had not been properly tamed.
I reverently placed my hands upon her body that day, praying that I could do something to bring her back. The rhythms of her soul were so slow, they were almost undetectable. I wanted to pull my hands back and yell at the universe. I wanted to be angry with her. I wanted to hold her here, make her live.
At the beginning of this year, she came into my office for her first Reiki appointment this year with tears streaming down her face. This beautiful, 5'10" warrioress stood before me defeated and deflated. A physically diminished woman, her clothes hanging from her shrinking frame, her eyes haunted. And, behind those eyes, the message of the warrioress was clear: the journey has taken a turn we were not prepared for. I watched her and intuitively knew it was time to help the warrioress lay down her sword and shield and prepare her to be laid to rest. My heart sank to the floor and I cried with her. I wasn't ready to let her go. I wanted to hold on for forever. I wanted my beautiful, strong friend to be with me throughout life. I wasn't ready to release into death another one of my deeply-loved friends.
In the beginning, our appointments were every other week. This year, though, I switched her to every week because her life force was so weak. She had things she wanted to finish before she walked off the earth. She wasn't ready to go either. Our sessions were about refilling her reserves so she make it from week to week.
She started chemo again, as per her doctors assurance that "this will help you feel better." This morning she called me to say that she wouldn't be here for her appointment. She was going back to the doctors. After one dose of chemo, her system is completly shot. She went in yesterday and they told her they would need to give her four rounds of stuff (I don't know what) to boost her system before they could even get her strong enough for the next chemo dose. Something has gone seriously wrong.
I feel sad to know that the world is going to lose this amazing woman. I feel sad that I am going to lose a best friend. I feel sad that cancer is rampaging through humanity at alarming rates and we are seemingly at its mercy. The problem with that is, cancer has no mercy. It is not a respector of class, race, education, age or sex. It takes where it can. There are gifts in cancer. I know this. She has taught me this, as have several other people in my life. The sadness, though, of knowing that I am literally watching my friend die is intense beyond belief.
She lost her right breast first to cancer about thirteen years ago. Five years later, she was diagnosed with a much more aggressive and completely different cancer in her left breast. They said they got it all. Five or so years later, she started feeling ill and went in for a check-up. That visit revealed that the aggressive cancer was back. It had settled in her hips and skull. Since then, it has spread to her legs and spots have shown up in her liver.
In the beginning of our work together, we were able to eliminate her pain and drastically slow the growth of cancer. Her tumor markers dropped to astoundingly low levels and her oncologist kept saying, "Whatever you are doing, keep doing it." She continually expressed her gratitude that she was completely without pain. I was grateful to be working with a client that was so firm in her resolve to get well and to live. I appreciated watching her physical and spiritual presence grow and her voice become strong. I loved hearing her stories and feeling her energy and supporting her on her journey. Our intention was clear from the very first session when she stated, "I am going to beat this cancer. I am determined to live my life as a healthy person."
Last fall, she took on a huge project of moving her aunt into a rest home. This entailed cleaning out her aunt's residence of many, many decades. For a month straight, they toiled and labored to clean out the home. I noticed that she was showing signs of fatigue. She accepted responsibility for not caring properly for herself and for working too hard on the project. Just as her project was wrapping and her energy level was at its lowest ever, I got bitten by that bug and ended up wading through the West Nile for over six weeks. I was unable to work for almost three months.
When we got back together just before Christmas, I was startled to see the stark difference. I felt tears burn my throat as she whispered, "I can't beat this cancer. It's not going to go away. I have accepted that." Her entire outlook had changed and I felt the desperation run through her body. She was so tired of the battle. So tired of the struggle. The pain had escalated. Her markers had shot up. Her energy level was completely drained. Her life force was strained. Her body was being ravaged by a weed that had not been properly tamed.
I reverently placed my hands upon her body that day, praying that I could do something to bring her back. The rhythms of her soul were so slow, they were almost undetectable. I wanted to pull my hands back and yell at the universe. I wanted to be angry with her. I wanted to hold her here, make her live.
At the beginning of this year, she came into my office for her first Reiki appointment this year with tears streaming down her face. This beautiful, 5'10" warrioress stood before me defeated and deflated. A physically diminished woman, her clothes hanging from her shrinking frame, her eyes haunted. And, behind those eyes, the message of the warrioress was clear: the journey has taken a turn we were not prepared for. I watched her and intuitively knew it was time to help the warrioress lay down her sword and shield and prepare her to be laid to rest. My heart sank to the floor and I cried with her. I wasn't ready to let her go. I wanted to hold on for forever. I wanted my beautiful, strong friend to be with me throughout life. I wasn't ready to release into death another one of my deeply-loved friends.
In the beginning, our appointments were every other week. This year, though, I switched her to every week because her life force was so weak. She had things she wanted to finish before she walked off the earth. She wasn't ready to go either. Our sessions were about refilling her reserves so she make it from week to week.
She started chemo again, as per her doctors assurance that "this will help you feel better." This morning she called me to say that she wouldn't be here for her appointment. She was going back to the doctors. After one dose of chemo, her system is completly shot. She went in yesterday and they told her they would need to give her four rounds of stuff (I don't know what) to boost her system before they could even get her strong enough for the next chemo dose. Something has gone seriously wrong.
I feel sad to know that the world is going to lose this amazing woman. I feel sad that I am going to lose a best friend. I feel sad that cancer is rampaging through humanity at alarming rates and we are seemingly at its mercy. The problem with that is, cancer has no mercy. It is not a respector of class, race, education, age or sex. It takes where it can. There are gifts in cancer. I know this. She has taught me this, as have several other people in my life. The sadness, though, of knowing that I am literally watching my friend die is intense beyond belief.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Aliveness
There is nothing like a funeral to contrast the aliveness I feel in my life. In supporting my friend, JulieAnn, yesterday by attending her mother's funeral, I realized that funerals are just not my thing. More clearly... church funerals. Having been raised in the same religion she was raised in - and us both having left the religion - I had never known how laborious a religious funeral could be, until yesterday even though her brothers were all very gracious in their eulogies and went sparingly into indoctrination. The one thing I have never understood - and understand it even less now - is that Mormon funerals turn into a time to preach at the pulpit. I have never understood how celebrating one human's life is an opportunity to read scriptures and teach a Gospel Doctrine lesson.
I was appreciating her youngest brother's ability to lovingly open the services with a talk, not of all things Church related, but rather, of his love for his mother and the amazing woman that she was. His talk was gentle and absent of the overwhelming, over-pervasive talk of religion that I have heard in so many other church funerals. And he ended his moment at the pulpit with "Thank you," instead of "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." I am imagining that this brother is the brother who is non-religious. The other brothers, however, touched upon the Church teachings, gaining in intensity and length the older they got and I found myself wondering, "Why? Why does this need to be a lesson?"
I did not know JulieAnn's mother. I had never even met her. However, I felt that I knew little pieces of her, the tender memories and the laughter that she brought into everyone's world. I found myself crying silent tears when the grandchildren got up to sing. They opened with one of the very songs we sang at my Grandma's funeral who happened to die on April 3, 2003, exactly five years to the day of JulieAnn's mother's death. For a moment, it was my Grandma in the casket and I was sad all over again, missing her.
Funerals are a strange thing. Especially Mormon funerals. I get that it is supposed to help the living to say goodbye. Couldn't it be more uplifting, though? Couldn't it be a celebration of who the deceased was? Couldn't it be a time of only celebrating them, rather than some sort of religious agenda?
I think, when it is my time to go, I am going to invite the living to revel in my life. I am going to have there be drums and dancing. I am going to invite them to move and laugh and cry. Because, I believe, that is what I will be doing on the other side.
I was appreciating her youngest brother's ability to lovingly open the services with a talk, not of all things Church related, but rather, of his love for his mother and the amazing woman that she was. His talk was gentle and absent of the overwhelming, over-pervasive talk of religion that I have heard in so many other church funerals. And he ended his moment at the pulpit with "Thank you," instead of "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." I am imagining that this brother is the brother who is non-religious. The other brothers, however, touched upon the Church teachings, gaining in intensity and length the older they got and I found myself wondering, "Why? Why does this need to be a lesson?"
I did not know JulieAnn's mother. I had never even met her. However, I felt that I knew little pieces of her, the tender memories and the laughter that she brought into everyone's world. I found myself crying silent tears when the grandchildren got up to sing. They opened with one of the very songs we sang at my Grandma's funeral who happened to die on April 3, 2003, exactly five years to the day of JulieAnn's mother's death. For a moment, it was my Grandma in the casket and I was sad all over again, missing her.
Funerals are a strange thing. Especially Mormon funerals. I get that it is supposed to help the living to say goodbye. Couldn't it be more uplifting, though? Couldn't it be a celebration of who the deceased was? Couldn't it be a time of only celebrating them, rather than some sort of religious agenda?
I think, when it is my time to go, I am going to invite the living to revel in my life. I am going to have there be drums and dancing. I am going to invite them to move and laugh and cry. Because, I believe, that is what I will be doing on the other side.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Genetics
It's Saturday and I feel lazy. It's a beautiful day outside and I hear myself berating myself you should be up and at 'em, girl. However, I don't wanna. I want to stay inside and hibernate. I want to stay in my pajamas and watch television while cuddled under a blanket. Thing is, I want to do this with only my daughter in tow. Which is possible for the next few hours as dad and his wife have gone to The Funeral uptown. They are missionaries so they got special tickets which delighted the both of them. They will actually be sitting in the Conference Center with the big wigs. One of the perks of serving the Lord.
For me, though, I didn't have any desire to attend the funeral and have found myself surprised by the reaction of thousands of people who seem to be mourning the passing of their lifelong best friend. It is as if they have had a personal relationship with this man, every single one of them. Am I missing something? Am I missing some really important emotional gene that allows me to connect with the death of a prophet like that? It isn't just because I have left The Church that I do not have these feelings. These feelings of mourning the passing of a 97 year old man who lived a good and full life are just absent.
When I was 8 or so, I got to meet President Kimball. My dance troupe was performing for the General Authorities on the 26th floor of the Church Office Building, which was really an honor. Up close and personal with some of Utah's most famous "celebrities." After the performance, President Kimball approached me and my young dance partner. President Kimball complimented us on our performance and shook our hands. He was gentle and kind and smiled a huge smile that I still remember. I was star-struck and felt so connected to him in that moment. Still, when he died nine years later, I did not wail and moan and feel as though I had lost my best friend as it seems all these people are doing for Hinckley. So I wonder... is there some gene that I am strangely lacking?
Mr. Millionaire stated yesterday, "Angie, you just get it. You understand death as being a GOOD transition to a different place." Could that be it?
I don't know. All I know is I want to cuddle under my blankets and be lazy today. Oh. And maybe I will venture out to the house concert tonight of my friends Mary and Leraine. They are amazing musical genuises whom would be reason enough to come out from under the covers!
For me, though, I didn't have any desire to attend the funeral and have found myself surprised by the reaction of thousands of people who seem to be mourning the passing of their lifelong best friend. It is as if they have had a personal relationship with this man, every single one of them. Am I missing something? Am I missing some really important emotional gene that allows me to connect with the death of a prophet like that? It isn't just because I have left The Church that I do not have these feelings. These feelings of mourning the passing of a 97 year old man who lived a good and full life are just absent.
When I was 8 or so, I got to meet President Kimball. My dance troupe was performing for the General Authorities on the 26th floor of the Church Office Building, which was really an honor. Up close and personal with some of Utah's most famous "celebrities." After the performance, President Kimball approached me and my young dance partner. President Kimball complimented us on our performance and shook our hands. He was gentle and kind and smiled a huge smile that I still remember. I was star-struck and felt so connected to him in that moment. Still, when he died nine years later, I did not wail and moan and feel as though I had lost my best friend as it seems all these people are doing for Hinckley. So I wonder... is there some gene that I am strangely lacking?
Mr. Millionaire stated yesterday, "Angie, you just get it. You understand death as being a GOOD transition to a different place." Could that be it?
I don't know. All I know is I want to cuddle under my blankets and be lazy today. Oh. And maybe I will venture out to the house concert tonight of my friends Mary and Leraine. They are amazing musical genuises whom would be reason enough to come out from under the covers!
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
The Prayer
I was just thinking of my Grandma Faye. I have been doing that a lot lately, missing the smell of roses and the color pink, missing the gentle click-click-click of her heart. She died a few years ago and sometimes I just ache with the longing to feel her gentle hands on mine. Today is one of those days.
As I worked, I saw images of her in my mind's eye. I heard her laughter and her sense of humor that got a tad raunchy as she aged beyond her pristine, perfectness. I remembered how it would feel when she held me. I remembered the smell of her house in the morning... bacon... coffee... I remembered the feel of sugar cookie dough under my hands. I remembered the sound of her voice singing triumphantly along with the Tabernacle choir or Broadway soundtracks.
I was really missing her.
Then I stood up to cross the room, all misty-eyed with missing her. As I did, my internet radio started a new song... The Prayer sung by Josh Groban and Charlotte Church.
It was the song that Mom and I chose to play at a private viewing, as the family gathered around to say their fond farewells, before we closed the casket.
Perhaps Grandma is thinking of me too today.
As I worked, I saw images of her in my mind's eye. I heard her laughter and her sense of humor that got a tad raunchy as she aged beyond her pristine, perfectness. I remembered how it would feel when she held me. I remembered the smell of her house in the morning... bacon... coffee... I remembered the feel of sugar cookie dough under my hands. I remembered the sound of her voice singing triumphantly along with the Tabernacle choir or Broadway soundtracks.
I was really missing her.
Then I stood up to cross the room, all misty-eyed with missing her. As I did, my internet radio started a new song... The Prayer sung by Josh Groban and Charlotte Church.
It was the song that Mom and I chose to play at a private viewing, as the family gathered around to say their fond farewells, before we closed the casket.
Perhaps Grandma is thinking of me too today.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Silver Death
I was listening to this song, Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac:
You could be my silver springs
Blue-green colors flashing
I would be your only dream
Your shining over ocean crashing
Don't say that she's pretty
And did you say that she loved you
Baby I don't want to know
So I begin not to love you
Turn 'round, see me running
I say I loved you years ago
But tell myself you never loved me,no
And don't say that she's pretty
And did you say that she loved you
Baby I don't want to know, Oh no
And can you tell me was it worth it
Baby I don't want to know
Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me
Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me
I'll follow you down 'till the sound
Of my voice will haunt you
(Give me just a chance)
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman who loves you
(Was I just a fool)
I'll follow you down 'till the sound
Of my voice will haunt you
(Give me just a chance)
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman who loves you
(Was I just a fool)
You could have been my silver springs...
Blue-green colors flashing
I would be your only dream
Your shining over ocean crashing
Don't say that she's pretty
And did you say that she loved you
Baby I don't want to know
So I begin not to love you
Turn 'round, see me running
I say I loved you years ago
But tell myself you never loved me,no
And don't say that she's pretty
And did you say that she loved you
Baby I don't want to know, Oh no
And can you tell me was it worth it
Baby I don't want to know
Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me
Time cast a spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you
But you would not let me
I'll follow you down 'till the sound
Of my voice will haunt you
(Give me just a chance)
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman who loves you
(Was I just a fool)
I'll follow you down 'till the sound
Of my voice will haunt you
(Give me just a chance)
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman who loves you
(Was I just a fool)
You could have been my silver springs...
As I listened to the haunting sound of Stevie Nicks' voice, I heard death, for some reason. I had chills running through my body and tears in my eyes.
I am wondering... if someone who loved you found out they were dying and shared that with you, would you act differently? What if it is someone who had loved you longer than life itself but wasn't the person to whom you are married? What if it is someone you consider to be a dear friend, perhaps even someone who you could have gone far with and created an amazing life together, had the circumstances been different? What if you discovered that "maybe later" is never going to be around the corner? What would you do? Would you take a chance? Would you disrupt your life to discover if it truly is as magical with this person as you imagined it could be? Would you throw caution to the wind and say "to hell with the rules"? What would you do?
Life is so short.
And I have spent much of it loving those who are unable to love me back. Loving those who leave because they cannot withstand the pressure of being in love with me. Loving those who want to find an "easier" way, someone who is less "challenging" and less "difficult". Loving those who want someone else to make their decisions for them, rather than stand on their own feet and face the fire of their own conviction. Loving those who would turn their back to save their face. All the while, those people cannot quite let go of me. They know a good thing, although a difficult one at that, when they see it. Something about me haunts them... will not leave them be.
And so I wondered about this silver spring... and what it meant to me. And I felt an emptiness inside as I pondered my death. Would these people regret not having the strength to endure the difficulty of me? Would these people miss the joy that I am?
I wonder...
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