THE SUPER MOON: SOMETIMES ALL YOU CAN DO IS CARE, NOT CARETAKE

 © 2014 Photo Courtesy of Tom Parr

When I was first diagnosed with cancer my family and close friends rallied around me.  They built a fortress of love that gave me confidence that I could get through the rough times to come.  I was touched beyond measure and it was absolutely what I needed.  But as time went on and all the necessary practices were put into place I heard from some people less and less and I started to feel as if I'd faded into the woodwork.  

You see, I prided myself on being strong so I often downplayed my needs.  I'm good at that.  What I'm not good at is asking for help.  It's one thing to have people volunteer it, it's another thing to put yourself out on a limb and say you need it.  So I didn't.  I put up a great front of strength and people followed right in step by thinking I was handling everything, but I wasn't.  

One morning I woke up and saw postings all over Facebook (yes, I am one of "those" people) about the super moon that had been out the night before.  Dramatic photographs of a swollen globe hovering above the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, and the entire cityscape. The super moon?  Why, I hadn't even known that there was such a thing.  I felt cheated. Why did I have to be sequestered in my basement apartment in Brooklyn where I wouldn't have known about it?  Why had no one called and told me to step outside?  Sadness washed over me and I had a good cry, but after some harsh self-examination I started to realize something -- that it was necessary for me to take more responsibility for letting people know what I needed.  And what I needed was a connection to the outside world.

Often people who are going through a major health issue feel as if they can't reach out because they might be pitied or they don't want to be categorized as "sick" or "ill" or "disabled."  They want to be seen as themselves and not a statistic.  Take me, for example.  From the get-go, there were things I "didn't want."  I didn't want to join a breast cancer support group or hear stories about a friend of a friend who'd survived.  I felt as though it would diminish my unique experience.  To this day it's still how I feel, but after several months I see that this kind of behavior can lead to a misunderstanding on the part of the people around me that being left alone is just fine.  It is not, not at all. 

Then there's the little matter of not knowing how to help.  I can't tell you how many people have told me that they didn't call or write because they "didn't know what to say."  In an effort to do the perfect thing, they let more and more time pass until they felt embarrassed to get in touch with me at all.  I think it's important to remember that there's no way that you can fix the big picture.  That's up to the doctors and nurses and health professionals.  So there's only one perfect thing to do and that's what you're capable of -- a call, a visit, an e-mail -- to let the person going through it know that you're there, that you're thinking of them.  It's worth more than you think.  

Every little text and phone call helps me get through the day.  Yes, I may have cancer, but I still love life, so when a girlfriend calls me and we can talk about the latest shoes in the Anthropologie catalog or laugh about some silly TV show that we both happened to be watching, it takes the heaviness away.

Just this morning I received a beautiful message from a woman with whom I've been friendly for a while.  She and I haven't had the opportunity to spend time together, but we've always known that there was something simpatico between us.  She wrote me that she'd included me in her meditations and that she wished me well.  It was the perfect tonic for a morning when I was needing to know that someone was thinking of me.

So it's as easy as that.  Nothing big.  Nothing profound.  Don't think you have to solve the problems of the world.  Just be there for the person you care about and do what you can.  St. Francis of Assisi is quoted as saying, "Be great in little things."  Little acts of kindness go a long way. A caring heart is like the super moon.  You may not always see it, but when it's out there, it's huge.  

THE BIRD AND THE SCENT OF SUMMER RAIN

"Like a bird on the wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free." Leonard Cohen

First let me say this: I love summer.  I love everything about summer. Roses in June, heirloom tomatoes and sweet corn, crisp white wine and tart Cosmos at sunset.  I love sitting on a porch and talking late into the night as candles flicker and burn low, concerts under the stars, flea markets and farmer's markets, fresh figs, watching the NY Yankees play a home game, and open-toed sandals. I think there's nothing better than peach juice dripping down my chin after a first bite, the smell of newly mown grass, and bike rides along the ocean.  But summer storms are the best. I get a thrill when I see clouds start to gather in a stark blue sky and hear the rumble of thunder. Most of all, it's the scent of the warm earth after the first few drops of rain that makes my heart thrum.  But I was dealt a detour this summer and had to spend a good deal of time away from what I love.  No matter: I understand that this was my season of getting well and it's a full time job.  So instead of splashing in the surf or having cocktails at a tiki bar I filled my time writing.  It was my way of tuning my senses to a higher note, to something sweeter and more positive.  

Before this experience of cancer I didn't really know how much I loved all the things of summer.  Yes, I felt them, yes, I experienced them, but I didn't understand that my soul craved them.  It wasn't until I had a conversation with a nurse who worked with patients who'd overcome life threatening illnesses that I started to understand more about what I was feeling.  She told me that it was as if these people had become more attuned to the life experience.  It makes sense, right?  Who wouldn't?  But here's the thing, it's an almost inexplicable difference. You don't just wake up one morning and become Julie Andrews singing on an Alpine mountaintop.  It's much more subtle. From the first moment you're dealt "the news" to when you're finished, it slowly becomes part of you.  I'm not quite sure what that "it" is, but I know it has something to do with gratitude.  Gratitude for getting the opportunity to see what life looks like on the other side.

As for me, I may actually be grateful to my cancer for allowing me to see that I was too wrapped up in the wants of life.  I wanted to own a house, but that house didn't make me happy because I worried too much about how to pay for it.  I wanted to live in a city again, but when I did the city seemed more foreign than I'd remembered.  I wanted to travel the world, but when I was away I often felt homesick.  These wants went and on and on.  I guess I was suffering from The Grass Is Always Greener Syndrome.  What a waste of time.  Now I've learned that time is not a currency you spend without consequences.  If my illness hadn't been caught, I would have run out of time way too soon. So for me time is now as precious as the rarest element, but life seems so much simpler.  My daily life has been whittled down to the little things.  The get-up-and-do-the-day-right things.  These things may not be sexy, but they're satisfying.  I revel in a good cup of Stumptown Coffee, I photograph a rich blue morning glory in my garden, I celebrate sunrises at the ocean.  There are so many small things in the day that make me grateful, and each every one of them is brilliant and beautiful.

When I was younger I was on a search for a connection to the universe.  I found myself at an ashram in Upstate New York getting up at four in the morning so that I could chant for hours while sitting on a cold marble floor with five or six hundred other seekers. I would look around and see people with their hands to the heavens as they experienced the ecstasy of chanting and wonder why I wasn't having the same feelings. I was numb. Why were they able to connect to the great universal "I am" when I couldn't?  I felt like such a failure.

One day I took a walk with a friend through a beautiful wooded section of the ashram.  It was the peak of fall and the trees were awash with color.  We got into a deep, or so we thought, existential discussion.  It all felt very important.  Hadn't we come to the ashram to discover the answer to this complicated question?  As we talked we wandered into a clearing.  There, standing tall and majestic in flowing robes of orange, was one of the guru's monks.  My friend and I were quite literally stopped in our tracks.  The monk greeted us and asked what we were talking about.  "Oh, nothing important, " I responded.  "Ah," he said with a smile that curled at each corner of his mouth, "you must be talking about life.  And have you come to any conclusions?"  Well, I don't remember who, but one of us launched into an extremely serious regurgitation of what we'd been speaking about.  "It is good that you delve into these questions," he told us. "But see that bird in the tree?" Both of us looked up to where the monk was pointing and saw a small brown bird perched on a branch.  "That bird wakes, finds food, builds its nest, flies, and sings.  It does not question why it does these things. There is no ego there.  No need to know why.  It just is.  Enjoy your day."  The monk then turned and walked up the path leaving my friend and I dumbstruck.  Was it that simple?

I can tell you now that that explanation has stayed with me for all the years since, but never have I comprehended it more than at this moment of my life.  I'm not trying to preach; everyone comes to their own understanding in their own way.  But for me, it has been my cancer that has given me some of the clarity that I was seeking. Sure, I'm prepared for more questions to come flooding in when I'm done with my treatment, but I no longer ask why this happened to me.  And for right now, I am that bird.  I get up in the morning, I tend to my nest, and I sing.

Photo/Text Copyright 2014 Diane Garisto