The other day I had a rare moment of solitude after I dropped my husband off at the office, and drove back home All By Myself. I took the long way, the scenic route along the length of Lake Washington. As I drove, with the water and sun to my left, and mansions to my right, I pondered the week ahead and how I would spend the luxury of down time that would accompany the recovery from my upcoming surgery.
I would get caught up on my correspondence, do my taxes, get a number of blog posts prepared in advance, organize our finances, get started writing a series I’ve been plotting, edit a few thousand photographs, work my way through a stack of books I’ve been longing to read…
My head was racing as I pondered all the projects I’d finally have a chance to tackle, when I saw a big fat bald eagle sitting on a tree branch along the side of the road. I had to drive quite a ways ahead to find a place to park the car, then grabbed my camera and walked back to his tree. He sat there waiting, and watching me walk between the lake and the road. He waited and watched till I pulled my camera up to my face, then took off before my first click. Three clicks of the camera and he was gone.
But the stop was good for me.
It slowed me down.
I meandered back to the car. I stopped to watch birds play. I kicked a rock around for a while. I sat down and studied moss growing out the side of a stone wall.
It’s been three weeks since that drive, and nearly 3 weeks since my surgery. In that time, I have not done one of the things on my list. I rested. I watched a lot of movies. I colored in coloring books with my daughter. I snuggled. I let more than 2000 additional emails accumulate in my inbox. But, it’s all ok. I needed a rest.
Maybe, one of these days, I will get caught up on my correspondence, but it wont be today. Today, I’m going to snuggle on the couch with my little girl and watch Tinkerbell, and maybe we’ll sing some songs, and make up a few stories.
“Just breathe,” I thought, as I sat up all night, listening to the ragged breaths growling and gasping in and out of my feverish little girl. I had plenty of time to contemplate how the most intimate, profound, and intense moments of my life have centered around breath.
I was young when I learned that people could die in their sleep, about 5, I think. I would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to do bed checks, making sure my family was safe and well. The snorers were easy. I could listen for my parents’ snoring from my bed. My grandfather snored, too, but not Grandma. I’d watch her low profile for signs of movement, but I had to be stealthy; she was a light sleeper, and still had mothers’ ears. I’d check on each of my brothers, as well, before I could let myself settle down, and go back to sleep.
When I got older, and couldn’t sleep, I’d sync my breathing with that of my parents’ snoring. It worked better than warm milk for sending me off to dreamland. Something about that snore meant “situation normal,” and the cadence was hypnotic and soothing.
Sometimes, I find myself in situations where I hold my breath. My large family stood around my brother’s bed in the ICU, each of us reaching out to touch him; a hand, a leg, I held him near his left elbow. The doctor turned off the life support, and I held my breath, hoping for a miracle. I held my breath for so long, but he was gone.
A few years later, in another ICU of another hospital, I held my breath as my mother was extubated after weeks on a ventilator. This time, it worked. It wasn’t easy, but she took a breath, and then another. Eventually, she made eye contact, and squeezed back with the hand I was holding. And soon, she was back to her old, talkative self.
I exhaled when my husband said, “I do.”
I held my breath through the frequent, and impossibly long pauses in my father’s breathing during his last weeks.
My breath gets away from me during a panic attack; I often hold my breath when I’m hopeful, and I use my breath to blow away eyelashes, and blow out candles to make a wish. Exercise, excitement, engagement, even lovemaking are all tied up in breath. Breath is life.
“Breathe,” my husband coaxed, as he counted through my contractions.
“Breathe,” I silently willed the air in and out of my newborn’s body.
“Breathe,” I commanded an empty room, wishing I could send my strength to my husband, who was in the midst of a medical crisis in Istanbul. “We can deal with anything else, as long as you keep breathing.”
I think of my newborn niece, just 3 weeks old, and she’s spent most of that time connected to machines that help her breathe, or breathe for her. Each time I pray for her to breathe, I imagine her mama has prayed a thousand times more. And she is improving, needing less and less assistance each day. Enough equipment has been removed now for her to cry – how beautiful is the sound of a baby’s cry? Especially after this.
Our breath is completely tied up in crying. And laughing.
I’ve experienced joy so overwhelming that I momentarily forgot to breathe. I’ve experienced pain so intense the entire world disappeared. There was nothing left but me, and the pain, and my breath. The slightest movement had to be orchestrated; rest on inhale, exert on exhale. Each breath is painful, yet each breath is progress.
Sometimes all we have left is our breath. Sometimes breath is all we need. One more breath, to take us to one more moment. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. A slow, quiet meditation on now, until our strength returns, or a renewed hope, even if just to get through another day, and we’re able to slowly start incorporating the rest of the world back into our reality.
If the only thing left to do is breathe, then breathe.
As long as you have breath, you have this moment.
P.S. The little angel is feeling much better, and had more energy than me today. As usual.
I am happy. Right now. This minute while I’m typing these words.
It’s a little odd, I think, how seldom I recognize my own joy in the moment. I remember having been happy, but I seldom stop and think: “Wow. I’m really happy right now.” For me, the camera plays into the equation. I can really get lost in a moment with my camera, light, shadow, colors, movement, texture, and a certain twinkle in the eye. I can get lost in my happy little image world and have a perfectly lovely time. Hours, days, or even weeks later, as I’m editing the photos, I discover just how awesome the event really was.
Embracing Right Now
Life is full of beautiful moments, moments where the beauty is not in the image, but in the experience. Sometimes I let myself think that a moment must be documented to be real or precious. Not true. Building memories is important, but the initial experience is more important than each time it’s remembered.
Sometimes, I have to just put the camera down, and join the party myself. Even better – hand the camera over to someone else and let them capture me in the moment.
I still enjoy photography, but I have to remember not to let it replace interacting with my friends and family.
What about you? What can you do to embrace right now?
I was selected for this opportunity as a member of Clever Girls Collective, and the content and opinions expressed here are all my own.
On the way to the Halloween party, she started to have second thoughts about her costume.
“But, I don’t want to be a dinosaur ballerina.” I assured her that she didn’t have to wear her costume.
“I want to be a camel.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have a camel costume.”
“Do you have a crocodile costume?”
By the time we got to the party, and she saw that all the other kids were wearing costumes, she was thrilled to be a dinosaur ballerina again.
This was the annual Halloween party for the kids at Gilda’s Club. Gilda’s Club is an amazing supportive resource for people whose lives have been impacted by cancer: the patient, and their family and friends as well. Their kids program is wonderful. Events like this kids party allow kids to make friends with other kids who have cancer in their lives, and build a support network of peers who understand what they are going through. The get a chance to be in a situation where having a mom with cancer is normal, and they’re not the weird one.
Gem is flourishing in this environment.
She loved the craft station, and is so proud of the mask she made.
After a thorough consultation with the make-up artist, she finally decided on whiskers to complement her ensemble.
Sitting still for the face painting was the hardest part. It tickles.
The best sight of the evening was watching her perform an interpretive dance to the Halloween music. Then she upped the bar and performed her dance inside the haunted house.
This is the first time she’s really gotten into Halloween, and she LOVED it.
It’s checkup time for me again. This time, it was with my radiation oncologist.
Gem has spent most of her life going to the doctor with Mommy. She’s an old pro.
She brings one of her “friends” – today, we brought Tolee, the Koala Bear.
Get him all comfortable, and make sure he feels safe.
And since doctor visits mean a lot of waiting, we pass the time with a little dance.
And a little more dancing.
Maybe we’ll just rest a bit.
And then while the doctor talks to Mommy, Gem borrows her tools to give Tolee a thorough examination.
And me? I’m still improving. The doctor said I look fabulous! I’ll take that. I need to wear my lymphedema sleeve more. I already knew that. I need to get back into physical therapy. check. The fatigue is normal, and should continue to decrease over the next few years. Sigh. And, unless something comes up, we’re going to go a full year till my next radiation checkup!
Cancer didn’t make me stronger; it sapped my strength like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
You know what made me stronger? Having to make tough decisions and stand by them. Calling bullshit on bullshit. Moving forward despite the fear. Getting up every single day to be a mommy to my little girl, no matter how crappy I felt. Showing up for every treatment, even when I wanted to hide under the covers. Being a part of a support network for other young women with breast cancer.
We don’t get through this alone; we are all so interconnected. There is strength in numbers, in solidarity, in community. We take turns having bad days, and on our better days we lend our strength to others. There is strength in knowing I am not alone. Others have traveled the road before me, and my experience will provide strength to those who come behind me.
There is strength in helping others, in standing up and fighting for a cause. There is strength in giving back, and paying it forward. There is strength in understanding, and being understood. And there is a great deal of strength in our collective knowledge of how to survive and thrive despite this nasty and devastating disease.
This is why I am so passionately supportive of my support network for young women with breast cancer, the Young Survival Coalition.
A week ago, YSC Seattle held it’s annual fundraising event. Instead of the usual party and auction, this year we held an athletic event. Tour de Pink indoor was our first cycling fundraiser, and it had a completely different kind of energy than the party. We packed the room with spin cycles, great music, and awesome people. Perhaps it wasn’t the same fun as partying, but there was collective energy of focus and determination that was quite different from what happens on the dance floor.
Energy builds on energy, focus encourages focus, and it’s hard to give up in a room packed with that much determination.
We raised $11,000.
Up next is a bigger, outdoor ride. Tour de Pink West Coast is a 200 mile ride from Thousand Oaks to Foothill Ranch, CA, to benefit YSC across the nation, and it’s less than two weeks away. I won’t be riding along, but I will be with them in spirit, you can, too.
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