He held my face in his palms. He does that when having my attention is of
utmost importance. He learned about eye
contact in school. Most of us just get
it--when you want to show someone that you are paying attention, you make eye
contact. But my son was not prewired like that, Finn had a specialist who
taught us all to say, “find my eyes.” He
practiced so often, that he learned—finding eyes is what you do when something
is important.
He held my face. He found my eyes. He asked me, “Your cancer is not going to make you die, right?”
The gap between hearing his question and knowing how to
respond was as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon. In a mere second, a rush of thoughts flooded
me. I have stage IV lung cancer—the
number one killer of all cancers. I know
anything is possible. I also know this
is a crappy diagnosis. This is an
important moment. I know what I say next
matters. This feels like hell.
I thought I was sick all day today. To be honest, I’ve been sick a lot lately.
I started coughing last week. Not very much, but when I do, it is a cough like
I am a smoker.
My hip hurts again. I
get out of breath easily.
I tell myself that this could all be because I am more
active. I tell myself that this could be
an emotional manifestation of fear because it is the week of my bi-annual brain
scan and quarterly chest scan. No matter
what I tell myself, I also know, I might be dying of cancer.
At the same time, something profound is happening to
me. I am living. Feeling love.
Saying yes. Showing up. Making art.
The joy of repeatedly having the freedom to say “fuck it,” and, “Yes!” I
am blessed with living so actively present in the moment that I spend very
little time pondering the future.
I want to believe beating cancer and miracles are
possible. I just don’t want to be a fool
full of false hope. I want to answer honestly, but this is so
complicated.
There are many paths out of hell. If you aren’t careful, most of the lead you
right back. The problem is, there is no
way to know what is the best way to go when hurt, deception, and false hope,
are the only choices you can think of. I’m
not sure if this is right, but I choose hurt.
“Some day I will probably die from cancer.”
When Finn gets sad, his eyes fill with tears before finally falling. After they came, he sobbed and sobbed. I held him and gave this shitty information
time to be felt. I tried to comfort
him. I told him that I might live until
he is a grown up. I told him that some
people believe in miracles. I was back
peddling. He was so solid and so broken at the same time. He said, “Have you been keeping this secret
from me all this time?” That hit me.
Maybe playing everyday and having fun and only sometimes
stopping for homework—is just what you say it is—secret keeping. Finn, you deserve as much or more than anyone
to be going through this with me.
Instead, I tell you a little and let you watch Tom and Jerry (far more
often than you should).
Honestly, I can’t remember what he has been told
exactly. I know that we have been
committed to telling him the “truth”—but the only thing I know about the truth
is that it doesn’t really exist in our human construct. We are all telling stories that hold nuggets
of truth to map together our mythology.
What I have learned about cancer (much like life) is that we
all have to build a story—a mythology for survival. Cancer has shown me that my mythology is
different and does not work for many others on this same path. I am engaged with the prospect of death. I am here with my beloveds as they sob over
the possibility even though it might not be true. This might not be the easiest path out of
hell.
The next morning, Finn sat as close to me as his body could
allow and said, “I want to sit close, because some day you might die.” In this
solid, broken moment I feel grateful to put my arms around this precious soul. I am sorry to cause this hurt, but I am glad
to be here in hell with him.