WHAT WE CARRY
Unaccompanied Cello, Suite No. 1 in G major.
The strings weep but there exists between the notes no indication of sorrow, only this sweetness that reverberates in both instrument and soul.
Unaccompanied.
Despite the poured-out goodness of others, there are some journeys we must take alone. This one pulls me in like a page-turner. Despite the often difficult phrase, it's impossible to put down.
There is no one to rescue me from what is inside of me or ahead.
This adventure was designed with the intention of teaching me to run to myself.
This week I made my choice. Curious that when I shared it with my would-be oncologists, I was more concerned about disappointing them than standing my ground.
Sometimes we must forsake the need for pleasing others if we are to have any chance at saving ourselves.
In this moment I am certain of the direction I must take. You are wrong if you think I am rejoicing for leaving chemotherapy behind. There was a time it saved my life and in that moment I was as certain that it was as imperative as I am this time that it isn't right.
What we carry is the burden of knowing ourselves—
of listening to the inside voice, coaxing it to yell if it's the only way to hear,
of looking hard at every option, letting go of what we think we know,
of reconciling there is an active part that often comes before the being still,
of being willing to do the thing that feels most right when others have a differing view.
The truth in all of this is that nothing merely mysteriously appears.
To agree I am the victim gives power to this disease.
This is how I am determined to live my life...The power is within me.
There is this wisdom there. Waiting. A lifetime of intricately connected moments—all the little parts of who we are, like cells multiplying and dividing, have much to share…if we are brave enough to listen.
WHAT LISTENING LOOKS LIKE—
This week, my team of doctors asked me to write everything I can remember that I believe has contributed [in some way] to my health and well-being today.
The idea is not to limit my story to medical concerns or interventions [although there were plenty of those], but to listen and regard those things that in some way, big or small, were memorable, even traumatic, in my life or in the lives of those I love.
After eleven hours writing, off and on, I ended with nine pages of intricate details.
I thought you'd be interested in hearing how those pages begin—
[Before I share, let me say that not enough emphasis can be placed on the idea that what we deemed traumatic as children may not be something we would even marginally consider important as adults. The imperative thing to heal the body, is to acknowledge the significance of the injury to the child...because that which is ignored and buried never goes away]
EXCERPT FROM MY LIFE CHRONOLOGY
~My mama tried eleven years to conceive. Neither she nor my daddy ever used birth control or fertility treatments to promote pregnancy. She desperately wanted a child and felt “left behind” by her peers whose children were well into their grade school years when I was conceived.
~My parents adopted my brother in the 11th year of “trying.” He had been severely neglected and my mother devoted herself to giving him a loving and secure home.
~Two months after adopting my brother, I was conceived. My mother was 33. She had an uneventful pregnancy however; my birth was traumatic. After two hours of pushing, with the doctors believing they were seeing my head in the birth canal, it was discovered that a cyst the size of my head was blocking me. My mother has shared that my birth experience was not only terribly painful and frightening but also humiliating as the doctors paraded a group of male interns into the room to observe her unusually difficult labor.