Working Through It – Page 13

Who Let That Monkey into the Courthouse?

My right heel has been hurting — for the past week I contemplated
claiming plantar fasciitis to get out of jury duty.

Okay, I knew that excuse wouldn’t fly, but I was stressed about getting pulled out of everyday life, with an already overfull plate, to do my civic duty. The more I thought about it, the more I worked myself up into a lather.

Mindfulness couldn’t cut through the noise in my sleep-deprived head. This agony of anticipation made several things crystal clear:

My nemesis. This monkey will pull your lungs out through your nose.

I ruminate enough to rival a massive herd of cows. Hello, monkey mind! I’d been thrashing through all the unknowns, unfettered irritation and unfounded fears in my head. This was the monkey-on-my-back, screeching madly.
My physiological reaction to even the anticipation of potential stress is out of control. Granted, this reaction was lubricated by a hefty pint of caffeinated coffee from the courthouse cafe. But when the voice over the loudspeaker called out names in alphabetical order, my heart pounded as the list approached where my name would be. I knew what was happening and that it was ridiculous, but simply couldn’t stop.
Instead of patiently waiting to see what happens, I really really really want things to be a certain way. I punished myself by clinging too tightly to expectations. I mean, tight enough to turn my knuckles white (knucklehead that I am).

All of this opened the door to a boatload of suffering. Great. So much for being mindful. My morning as a prospective juror was fraught with anxiety.

Even after several years of daily meditation and mindfulness bells and “take 5” reminders, even after trying to be all zen about it, I was still a mess. Disappointing, by my judging eyes. But also, very human.

Things didn’t improve until I started pacing at the back of the jury lounge briskly enough to feel conspicuous. The motion soothed me, like rocking a baby. It was self care, which is the first casualty of my anxiety.

It was the only mindful thing that I could manage, but it kept the monkey busy as we zigged and zagged around other people to avoid a collision.

Once I racked up a good 3000 steps and a bunch of odd stares (don’t care, don’t care, don’t care), the pressure released a bit. Okay, that and the fact that I’d made it through the first two rounds of juror calls without hearing my name and it was already time for lunch. That combo was like the “pffft” from a fizzy bottle of kombucha. I was feeling better.

I returned from a long lunch break with my reasoning mind in charge, calculating probabilities. Three sections of seats, fifteen rows each, a minimum of three people per row…not counting the folks at random round tables and working on laptops along the walls…hey, that’s a LOT! Safety in numbers! The odds were in my favor, otherwise known as, “if your group is being chased by a hungry leopard, don’t worry about outrunning the cat, just outrun your friends.”

So the reasoning mind wrestled the crazy monkey mind into a half nelson. But alas, the reasoning mind was still a slave to expectation, with its own monkey-on-the-back. It was a tenuous peace, unstable and easily shattered by the voice over the loudspeaker, but it enabled me to approach the situation with less reactivity even if temporarily.

Guess how this messy day ended: a thousand deaths later (around 2pm, to be exact) the voice from the loudspeaker released us from service, giving me a year’s reprieve and kicking the monkey to the curb. And it was at that moment that I realized how tightly worry had gripped me, and it wasn’t even real. Everything had taken place in the space between my ears.

I thought about how my agony had been self-generated. And that’s a topic for another post.

Mindfulness and the College Admissions Scandal

As an alumna of one of the universities involved in the recent U.S. college admissions scandal, I’ve been following the details of this story with great interest. My eldest will be completing college applications this autumn. She is a remarkable student; however, unlike many of my fellow alumni, I have not had the means to put her into every imaginable extracurricular activity.

Yet, I had impressed upon her the importance of always doing her best and getting into a “good” university to improve her choices for the future, particularly since there will not be a windfall waiting for her when I die.

But the recent events have left a sour taste in my mouth. Particularly since my cancer diagnosis, I’ve been rethinking the stressors that are placed on students in the hopes of getting them into the “best” schools.

So much anxiety and lost sleep. Pressures to compete. I can no longer say that it’s worth it. The recent admissions scandal broke open the “secret” that many of us already knew. There is great iniquity in our society and college admissions reflect that.

I do believe that education is very important. That has not changed. But the artificial ways that we twist ourselves to fit a mold, to be granted confirmation of our worthiness of being one of the chosen few, is unhealthy.

I have served as an alumna interviewer for prospective students and become increasingly frustrated by the opportunities that wealthier applicants are given, when in fact they may work no harder than their less fortunate counterparts. If anything, I’ve seen relatively poor students do so much with what they have, sometimes as they deal with complicated home situations and an inordinate amount of responsibility.

But one thing seems to hold true for all students, regardless of income: competition for college acceptance teaches them that they’re never “good enough”. Having good grades and high scores is insufficient — they must do more: sports, clubs, musical instruments, volunteer activities, other distinctions, all at nosebleed-high levels of accomplishment. Nothing less than perfection is expected.

And always planning, planning, planning. There is little time to appreciate what is taking place now.

I don’t want the exquisite beauty of now to be sacrificed for some plastic promise of tomorrow.

I have bright children, but my wish for them is not necessarily to attend my alma mater. That is not what is important. I want them to be good people. Compassionate, empathetic and not so much in a hurry to get ahead, particularly not if it means treading on others. We have the ability to define our own success and we can do so mindfully and with grace.

This is not something that money can buy, nor that a particular diploma can offer. This is something that comes from within. The greatest gift that I can give my children is to teach them mindfulness, to show them how to still their thoughts and calm their worries. That lesson will serve them for the rest of their lives.

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What I would like all those students who tried so hard and still weren’t
“accepted” to know:

You are enough. You don’t need an acceptance letter to prove your worth.

You are bright and resourceful, inquisitive and engaged. And no matter where you go to school, you will do well. I see the sparkling light in your eyes — don’t let the heaviness of worldly expectations douse it. You, not some musty ancient institution, are who defines yourself.

Strive for what you feel is important, but do so mindfully and with kindness. That is what will make this world a better place for all.

Passing Days One Pill at a Time

I have beside my bed a 7-day pillbox. Since I avoid taking pills whenever possible, opting for alternatives to medication, there is only one lonely but mandatory pill in each little box corresponding to the day of the week.

That’s tamoxifen, a final remnant of breast cancer treatment that I’ll be taking for years to come.

I observe the passage of time by the disappearance of the daily pills. They mark the days that I work and the days that I don’t (weekends and Wednesdays). Sunday mornings the pillbox is full. The work week looms before us bringing early mornings and sleepy heads. Wednesday provides a brief respite with an extra hour of sleep and a day crammed with personal errands at home rather than office work. When Thursday rolls around and I return to my job, only the Friday and Saturday pills are left until it’s time to refill the box again.

Days melt into weeks, weeks into months. Make them count.

The weeks seem to go by more quickly as I get older. Time feels slippery and days fuzz into the background. Weeks pass into months as pills are consumed. I’m unsettled by the possibility that when my decade of tamoxifen ends, I’ll realize that I spent ten years waiting the pills to finish and missing what was going on in the moment. It frightens me into wanting to distinguish this week’s row of pills from the next, to make next week different from the last.

I pause as I plop a fresh row of pills into their designated boxes. Could I be kinder to those around me? React more calmly? Sleep better? Support the needs of others more? View my shortfalls with compassion?

Every morning I am able to get out of bed and place my feet flat on the Earth. That is something to be very grateful for, no matter how difficult my week. I represent the fortunate ones who have been given the opportunity to remain alive and present in “now” and appreciate every precious day more than the one before.

Catching Lost Thoughts

The glorious part of meditation is the opportunity to still my swirling thoughts and focus on breathing. At those times when my mind is still and the brain noise settles, my creative voice speaks most clearly.

This would be wonderful if not for the fact that, whether due to chemotherapy or my daily tamoxifen, my memory has been affected, rendering fleeting thoughts truly ephemeral. I can have a brilliant inspiration…and then *poof* it disappears. There is no guarantee that it will circle back around, and if it does, it may take a long while.

I try not to focus on these thoughts while meditating, but unlike other people who may easily remember their ideas once the session is over, I will not. This is problematic, as there are things that I must recall (like relaying important information or completing a task that I’d forgotten).

I can still seeeee yoooooou, little fly…

This can be distressing. In an unconscious effort to not forget, I find myself gently rolling the thought around in the back of my head during the session. I become like a spider, with the thought being a fly that I’ve caught. As I sit, I spin silk around my prize, gently holding it with spindly legs, trying to keep the thought away and yet not forget about it. Breathing is my focus, but that little fly is in my periphery and I keep glancing at it.

Obviously, this still interferes with my meditation. I don’t want to let my morsel go, and yet keeping it in sight is disruptive. I hold on too tightly.

So I have decided that given my current situation, I will make the best of it. If a critically important thought comes up, I will honor it and stop the meditation briefly…and write it down. This way it is secure and I can release the stress of possibly forgetting what it is and go back to meditating fully. In the event that my “great ideas” keep coming, perhaps that’s an indication that completely releasing focus on my thoughts is not the best idea at that time. And I honor that, too. This way, my meditation sessions remain about being in the present rather than losing parts of my future.

I’ve accepted that flexibility is necessary to respect both my individual needs and my meditation practice.

Transitioning from “Frantic” to “Shanti”

I’ve been juggling two parts of myself.

The original “me” is the Frantic part. This was the side that fed on anxiety and didn’t learn to rein in my runaway emotions. While Frantic didn’t interfere with academic success as I was growing up, it did stifle my future prospects as I let fear drive career decisions.

Frantic is the “me” that struggles with where I am and how I got here. It’s the competitive “me”, the perfectionist “me”, the self-critical “me”. It’s the one that’s never satisfied and always trying to improve. It’s frightened and frustrated. And it’s still angry about getting cancer.

Frantic hobbled me during the times I should have run free. It followed me home from work, woke me up in the night, poked at me on the weekends. And as long a shadow as it cast on me, I was oblivious to its effects.

But there is another side. The evolving “me” is the Shanti part. It holds the world in a single breath…and then easily lets it go. It stays present and grounded. There is a sense of calm about it, and ample space to hold emotions and observe them without being overtaken by them.

When I make a mistake, it asks gently, “Might it be okay that you did what you did based on the information you had?”

It reminds me to be compassionate, that everyone is worthy of love, including me. When things feel bleak, it holds me until the darkness passes.

When these two “me”s appear, Frantic has often been first, rushing in breathless and disheveled. Shanti arrives after and gently takes over. But on those occasions when Shanti is first, Frantic stays away and things feel a little more peaceful.

I’ve been “Frantic” and I’ve been “Shanti”. The latter is a more pleasant houseguest.

Lately, Shanti has been present more often. I’ve been able to scoot Frantic into a corner where it passes time aimlessly twisting itself in knots, allowing Shanti to spread out inside my head.

Frantic is still welcome, as long as it behaves, which isn’t often. It does keep me moving forward, never resting on laurels. But Shanti tempers its blustering when it threatens to get out of control.

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Nervous energy, even anxiety, has been a driving force for most of my life. It kept me productive and lean. But as much as it propelled me forward, ultimately it held me back. It wasn’t until my cancer diagnosis that I realized how detrimental it had been. I was spent. It was time to stop.

Peace arrived with my meditation practice. Cancer forced me to slow down and be mindful of the present, to sit with uncertainty. It is a beautiful change that has brought a new dimension into my life. I only wish I’d discovered it sooner, or that it were stronger, but that will come with time.

I have not completely shaken that Frantic side of me, but Shanti has brought emotional space and a sense of gentle control. Getting that balance to shift has taken work. It is, however, the most fruitful work imaginable.

Another Hairy Situation

It wasn’t until almost a year and a half after my last chemo that I finally got a professional, high-caliber haircut. After an adult life filled with boring medium-to-long hair in a ponytail, this was an about-face: a short and very stylish ‘do.

I don’t think I would have ventured to try this if I hadn’t been pushed into it by chemo. Then again, cancer pushed all my boundaries further than I would have gone on my own. I’ve always played it safe, but with cancer, there was no “safe”.

When chemo took my hair, I had no say in it. As the hair grew back, it did so slowly and in a pattern that was not attractive. Nothing I could do about it but be patient.

Front shot of my awesome new pixie cut! The hair on top is full and feels thick. I love the look!

Back view. This was the part of my head that unnerved me in the middle of the night. It felt so bare and brought back all sorts of scary feelings.

But in 2019, I was in charge and could decide at what length I wanted to keep my hair. I’d been surprised by how much I liked the new “me” with a short style, so I thought I’d be adventurous and go even shorter. My hairstylist happily obliged and this past week I got a full-on pixie cut that was absolutely adorable. It felt great to be calling the shots and reclaiming myself and my look.

But something unexpected happened that night. I woke in the darkness, unsettled with a touch of panic. My head felt bare, like my hair had crossed the threshold between short and “omigodthatisTOOshort”. For a split second, everything felt out of control again.

It took a bit to calm myself down in the pre-dawn hours of the day. I had wanted to be brave and cut my hair shorter, but it elicited those old feelings of the unknown. Wait, I reminded myself, all of this was “known” now. I knew my hair would grow back again. Add to that, several days before, I’d had a mammogram that confirmed I was in remission. So there was no need for the fears.

Be that as it may, it wasn’t so simple to let the feelings go. My hair carried powerful associations that had been seared into my unconscious mind. Losing locks to chemo meant relinquishing a part of me. While I thought I already understood its importance — I’ve written about it in a number of posts — it wasn’t until that night that I realized how tightly my hair was wound up in all those memories and sensations.

You’d think that once the hair grew in, everything would return to normal and there’d be nothing more to say about it. Not so, I’m finding, as I get hit in the face by these unexpected reminders of exactly what having cancer meant to me. Sorting everything out seems to get more complicated the further away I get from treatment. Who knew survivorship could be such a head trip?

View from the Waiting Room

I am weirdly at ease.

Today is my 3-D mammogram, the one that will either confirm that I’m in breast cancer remission or that I’m going to have another rotten year (or more). Two years ago, around this time, I was completely racked with anxiety in preparation for the diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound that would detect my cancer.

I feel placid. Granted, I do self-exams on an almost-weekly basis (it’s a survivor thing) and was checked out by my oncologist early last month, so I know there’s nothing palpable there, although the 3-D mammogram could pick something smaller up. But I’ve also matured in my ability to let go of thoughts that drag my mind away to wild extremes, and instead accept what is happening in the moment.

I admit that I’m holding off on travel and hair expenses until after my mammogram, because if my cancer comes back, the money spent on them would be better put towards treatment. Neither a cross-country flight nor an edgy new haircut would be in the cards for me.

If I could have one superpower, it would be to remain calm in every situation.

Another reason for waiting on making plans? It’s because the agony associated with desperately clinging to the desire to be cancer-free and then having those hopes dashed is excruciating. So for the moment, hanging around in limbo with less emotion invested in an outcome provides more comfort.

I started meditating in an effort to free myself of expectations. Today I am able to make space within myself to hold the possibility of both remission and recurrence, and then to think about neither.

So I sit in a comfy robe as I wait for the radiologist’s assessment, feeling the warmth of the cup of tea in my hand. I am here now, focused on the present instead of potential outcomes. And this is the most peaceful place to be.

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Shortly after I wrote the above, the radiologist came in to confirm the good news. Another year, another clean bill of health.

Last year when I got the “all-clear” I was still finishing up treatments. And the news felt like a huge release.

This year, I felt much calmer. Not gonna lie — somewhere inside, try as I might to release all expectations, I still expected to be okay. But I was able to not focus on the outcome of the mammogram and instead go with the flow of the day. This is a first for me, so my ability to maintain that level of calm may be more significant than being cancer-free.

Oh, who am I kidding? Being cancer-free kicks ass!

Letting Go in 5…4…3…2…

Several nights ago I woke at 3am, my brain abuzz with images of what had taken place that day. In an effort to divert my attention and fall back to sleep I focused on my breath, but I was so groggy that I couldn’t concentrate effectively.

So instead I imagined a beautiful sunny field with chirping birds and various animals coming by to snuggle with me. It was the epitome of placidity and contentment. A darling fawn nuzzled me. Then a purring lion tenderly rubbed up against me. And attacked me.

Seriously??? This is my self-created fantasy and I can’t manage to keep it positive???

But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a few days out from a 3-D mammogram that I’ve managed not to think about because I’ve had such a busy week at work. It will be the first mammogram since completing all my cancer treatments, so it’s kind of a big deal. Somewhere in the back of my mind fears and what-ifs are simmering. It’s scanxiety rearing its ugly head.

People tell me that everything is going to be okay. But how can they say that? This is cancer. There is never a guarantee that everything will be okay. For others to say that to someone who’s been through the full spate of treatments sounds like a brush off. Even when everything is “okay”, it may still not be okay! And sometimes it’s worse.

Sure, Mr. Expectations, you look so cute and peaceful, but if I get too close, you’ll take my head off.

I wrote a letter to myself the evening before my original diagnostic mammogram way back in early 2017, trying to calm myself down because I was an anxious mess. And in that letter I told myself that I’d be able to go back and re-read it after the mammogram and chuckle about how worried I’d been and how everything actually worked out. I tried to reason myself into calm, noting how unlikely it was that I had cancer. That tenuous serenity was blown the next morning by the radiologist who read my scan.

I remember that crushing feeling — it’s what colors my experience right now. I want to believe that everything will be okay, and yet the spectre of possibilities hovers over me ready to potentially ruin my day (and life!). I don’t think that the cancer is back, but I’ve put off making summer travel plan. Just in case.

Gah, is this what the rest of my life will be like? Being fearful of making plans? That’s not a good use of the time I have left on this planet.

Mindfulness as espoused by Jon Kabat-Zinn (drawing heavily on the Buddhist wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh) speaks of non-attachment. Having expectations and being attached to their outcome causes suffering. I can attest to that.

Trying to reason through to an “answer” only increases agony. So I will take deep breaths and stop thinking.

“Random Acts of Kindness” Day

Throughout my cancer treatment, it was the smiles, gentle hugs, kind words and unexpected “going-out-of-their-way” little extras from those around me that made a huge difference and left a lasting impression on me.

Now, as I gradually wind my way through survivorship, memories of those acts smooth over the physical and emotional pain associated with cancer. Those soothing feelings are too powerful to keep to myself. Given the general vibe in the world today, the hyperpolarization of people’s opinions and the resistance to leaning over and trying to empathize with others, we need more kindness everywhere.

“But what if the person doesn’t deserve it?”

Then that is a person truly in need of it.

There is no limit on how many smiles you can dispense, doors you can open and kind deeds you can do. It doesn’t have to cost anything. And if there’s one thing that I’ve found, it’s that random acts of kindness have a two-fold benefit: for the person receiving the kindness and for the person giving it. It’s the ultimate win-win.

There are only so many hours left in this day of kindness. Take advantage of them. And then make every day a “Random Acts of Kindness” Day.

Scanxiety

Yes, “scanxiety” is a thing. And I’m already regretting writing about it because it’s bringing home the fact that in a week and a half I have a mammogram coming up. It’ll be the first one since completely finishing my treatment almost a year ago.

You can google the definition of scanxiety, but any cancer survivor can offer their version. Mine is the unease that increases as I get closer to THE scan, the one that will pronounce me cancer-free for another year. Mercifully, I will have an unusually busy week at work which will keep my mind equally busy, and the rest I will have to power through with mindfulness and focus.

The unsettling thing about this is that for a short while, it’s a Schroedinger’s cat kind of situation. Around scan time, I am simultaneously a cancer patient and a cancer survivor. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. It’s altogether unsatisfying.

This mammogram opens the door to the potential of letting cancer back into my life. And I am so.done.with.it. that having to consider what would happen if I had to go through treatment again evokes feelings of hopelessness and frustration. I don’t want to re-experience the steep let down that came with my initial diagnosis, after trying to reason myself into optimism.

Sometimes I play games with myself. Things like, “If I make it to the intersection before the light turns yellow, I don’t have cancer.” This is ridiculous, of course, but I can guarantee you that if I DON’T make it before the light turns, I’m going to be yelling, “Two out of three!”

Scanxiety differs from most life stressors, like a horrible job situation. I’ve had tough jobs with miserable bosses before. I also had the option of quitting. But I can’t say, “Screw this, I’m going to a different universe with better benefits.” I’m here and stuck living out some potentially nasty stuff, and possibly not making it through. That is simply reality and I have to be comfortable with it.

I struggle with the uncertainty that arrives hand-in-hand with scanxiety. Mindfulness teaches us to release expectations, and that is exactly what I’m trying to do. For me, the next week and a half will be a proving ground for how far I’ve come in my mindfulness practice. Perhaps looking at it as a challenge will put a neutral spin on the process of waiting.

No expectations means no anxiety, no let-downs, no shattered hopes and no “dying a thousand deaths” before I’ve even made it to the radiology department. I am not good at this, but I am light-years ahead of where I was two years ago, and I’m going to have to be content in that for the time being.