I was diagnosed with a rare form of lymphoma twelve years ago. After one year of treatment, I was handed a certificate. It said something along the lines of-Congratulations! You've completed your treatment! and the date next to the doctors' signatures was February 1st. At the time I was told I could not be guaranteed a diagnosis of being in remission. My cancer was rare, I had a horrible time with the treatments and I was told that what looked like scar tissue on the MRI's could be cancer immune to the chemotherapy. So for a year after my last radiation treatment, I had to see the oncologist every three months for a series of tests to determine if I was okay to live a somewhat normal life until the next appointment.
For several years, I lived my life one day at a time, from one appointment to the next, feeling awash in a feeling of gratitude when the doctor would announce that I was cancer-free and then, almost immediately thereafter, overwhelmed by the possibility of a different diagnosis the next time.
Looking back, I'm not sure how I handled all of that fear. I developed a meditation practice, drank excessively, got into yoga, ran up my credit cards and wrote. Each year the necessary appointments became fewer and fewer. And then, before I knew it, I had passed the five-year mark, an important date for cancer survivors. The possibility of a recurrence after a five year remission is significantly lower and this is when I began to celebrate February 1st as my remission anniversary.
This year, my fiancee and I spent our anniversary in Austin, Texas. As we were walking along the riverwalk, we began to talk about our dreams for the future. G. wants to run his own investment business so he can get paid to do something he loves for something he already does quite well. I'm training to be a life coach and began sharing my grandiose plans for international recognition, a healing center and a huge income. Then G. said, "Even if we become millionaires, I don't think I'd want much to change. We have such a great life."
I was quiet then, for quite some time, because his words held a kind of peace that I didn't even realize I was longing for.
The Christmas before I was handed my much coveted certificate, I was hospitalized for a week. My cancer had been stubborn so the doctors upped my dose of several chemo drugs and my body reacted as a body should when it's being poisoned way beyond its capacity. And although I had spent a large amount of money on Christmas gifts for friends and family, they lay unopened underneath the tree in the living room as I lay in a third story hospital bed.
The doctors had been frank with me. The chemotherapy treatments would have to stop or else they would kill me. If the cancer did not respond to radiation, there was nothing more they could do. So I lay in that hospital bed in Chicago and watched the snow fall from a velvet black sky and realized, with a deep understanding, that I may soon die.
A wise voice from somewhere inside me spoke then. "Yes," it said, "But, also, you may live."
I spent that Christmas night pondering the possibility of getting my life back, a hope that seemed dangerously close to not happening. If I live, I remember thinking, what would I do?
The answer came in a series of mental images. A flash of me spending a snowy afternoon sledding with friends and then coming inside to a warm drink near a fireplace; a spring hiking by myself up a mountain when flowers were blooming; an autumn riding my bike with someone who loved me and appreciated the changing tree colors as much as I did; a summer doing yoga with a beach sunrise. Prayer in a temple filled with candles, good fresh food, the warmth of sunshine.
These were the visions that came to me when I contemplated what I loved about life.
More than a decade later, I'm cutting out a picture of a multi-million dollar house near a lake and writing my name on a "pretend" New York Times Bestsellers' List and posting all of this on a vision board. Don't get me wrong; I'm not taking these down. These dreams are as important to me as breathing.
But while thinking of the possible future (of which I've been doing a lot lately), I need to make sure I stay grounded in the present, in the simple things I have already that bring me joy. Like holding G.'s hand as we walk by a river, and the thirty minutes I make for myself each morning to drink homemade chai and to journal, and the sound of the fountain outside my bedroom window that lulls me to sleep. This year, Year 12, I would like to remember that happiness really is this simple.
I would love to hear from you. You can leave your response as a comment, or, as some of you have done, email me personally.
*Name the simple things that bring you happiness.
The simple things that bring me happiness are the early hours of the morning when it's still chilly and quiet, the smell of airplane hangars (reminds me of my dad), the first cup of tea in the morning, a clean room, reading at a coffee house, walking around the neighborhood, the neighbors cat meowing at me every time I open the front door, dogs, my boyfriends voice, and so much more...
ReplyDeletea good book, outside, with wine. Scooter asleep in my lap. The smell of my husband. Working through a difficult project analysis and nailing it the first time. Watching my nieces play. Admiring my home after I spend all morning cleaning it. The smell of salt air and fruity cocktails. Crisp, clean sheets on the bed. The laugh of an old friend. Waking up to sunshine in the room.
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