I Am An Imperfect Meditator

I meditate. It is a daily habit that I engage in with the best intentions, but I am a victim of my wandering mind. Some days are better than others, most days I struggle with distractions.

Often, I can be halfway through a sit before I realize that I’ve been clenching my jaw or tensing my brow or gripping some other part of my body, thinking I’ve been relaxed but I’ve been kidding myself.

There are times that I’ve managed to stay with my breath, and then start getting excited that I’ve stayed with it that long, and then start imagining how I might look, staying with my breath…and of course, then I’m no longer meditating.

Yep. Welcome to the noise in my noggin’.

So it goes, day in, day out. Everyday, once or twice a day, or maybe even more. Some days feel like a complete waste, like I’ve got a freeway running through my head and have no idea what I’m doing.

But once in a while, I get a few moments of golden light. They may just flicker in and out, but when I look back at those moments I know everything flowed.

And those mindful sessions make all the other ones worth the effort. Every time I pause before reacting. Each time I recognize my body’s physiological response to a stressor. When I remember that I don’t have to respond with anxious energy. That I get to chose what happens inside my head. That I can just say, “Sh-h-h-h.”

That I can stand back and observe the storm without getting sucked into the whirlwind.

I meditate and often don’t do it well. But I still meditate. As of this posting, 1,380 days in a row, originating with the most frantic breaths shortly after my cancer diagnosis. Even through chemo, when I thought I wouldn’t make it through the night. Sloppy meditation sessions that seemed to be going nowhere.

Change doesn’t require force, it requires consistency.

Those imperfect meditation sessions have changed over time, imperceptable on a daily basis. Perhaps they have worn away a few rough edges the way constant drops of water oh-so-gradually wear away a stone. And just as an indentation forms where the drops hit, so meditation has molded a little basin for me, a bit of extra space in my mind that provides just that much more breathing room.

I am still at the very start of my mindfulness journey, so imperfect and stumbling. But even with the little that I have achieved, I am light-years ahead of who I was before I started, wide-eyed with fear and not knowing how to stop the rush of emotions.

It was terrifying then because I didn’t realize what was happening. Now I know, and that makes all the difference.

“The Gun Show”: Assessing Biceps Muscle Loss Due To Endocrine Therapy [PHOTOS]

In my last post, I whined about the repercussions of taking aromatase inhibitors (in my case, letrozole) as a way to diminish the amount of estrogen in my body, for the purpose of reducing the risk of breast cancer recurrence.

While I also mentioned letrozole’s effects on my exercise habits, in this post I wanted to drill down on one aspect in particular: muscle loss.

Before I go further, I need to add a disclaimer. Since the time the first photo was taken (the morning before my first chemo infusion), three and a half years passed and I went through menopause. Notably, the menopause was pharmaceutically-driven, starting with tamoxifen and then, after my hormone levels were low enough, continuing with letrozole. However, my body now is dealing with the same aging effects as someone who had transitioned naturally.

Except that my transition came before its time.

The below photo is from April 27, 2017, before I headed to the infusion center for my first dose of chemo. I had been training as normally as I could, under the conditions of lumpectomy and port placement that I wrote about here, and finding work-arounds for exercises that I’d been told not to do.

This is my 51-year-old biceps muscle, before I started the pharmaceutical portion of my breast cancer treatment.

While I lost some size and strength throughout my chemo infusions (here are all the photos), I was able to bounce back and had a particularly strong 2018 (sorry, don’t have good photos of that). But as the endocrine therapy with tamoxifen continued in 2019, to be replaced by letrozole in 2020, I could feel the effects of low estrogen.

On December 11, 2020, I struck the same pose again for sake of comparison.

Is something missing? This is my 54-year-old biceps muscle, struggling to keep up. Note: I am still working out as hard as I can!

As far as muscle appearance is concerned, I have experienced a slow downhill slide. My shoulder is not as peak-y, the biceps itself has decreased in size and I even find it more difficult to hold this muscular contraction. In addition, there’s more looseness in my skin, particularly at the back of my arm, which in part may be due to loss of collagen, also affected by estrogen levels (nice dermatological review by Shah & Maibach, 2001, Am J Clin Dermatol).

I’m busting my butt trying to increase the amount that I’m lifting, but I’m not making progress. Not surprisingly, the decrease in estrogen plays a role in this. As stated by Chidi-Ogbolu & Baar (2019, Front Physiol), “estrogen improves muscle mass and strength, and increases the collagen content of connective tissues”.

It makes sense then that lack of estrogen is going to be detrimental to maintaining muscle. To that point, Kitajima & Ono (2016, J Endocrinol), working with animal models, have found that “estrogen insufficiency leads to muscle atrophy and decreased muscle strength of female mice.”

Not just mice, obviously.

This information comes as no surprise to any woman who’s gone through menopause, I’m sure. But the experience of being slammed through menopause instead of having the opportunity to transition more gradually is yet another frustrating way that having cancer pulls the rug out from under you and reminds you that you are not in control of your life.

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Slowly, yoga is becoming more important in my life and my view of fitness is changing. Good thing too, since I can’t keep beating myself up like this.

Understanding Clinical Research

If you’ve had cancer, you know that the information presented to you following your diagnosis is like a crash course in medicine.

All of a sudden you’re hit with explanations of complex bodily processes, unpronounceable medicine names, and a deluge of statistics. You need to digest all of that and agree to a specific treatment plan, of which there may be several for your type of cancer. It can be overwhelming. But then again, what about cancer isn’t?

Okay, but what does it all mean?

Making the “right” decision for you can be difficult. Many of us gravitate to the Internet for information, but that can be a minefield of questionable value. With some luck, we eventually get to PubMed, which is Ground Zero for medical information. PubMed is the National Institutes of Health’s (NIH) database of published research on a variety of topics. These articles focus on biomedical fields, but the range is quite broad.

There, you can find the background information for the treatment decisions that your oncologist has made about your specific situation.

I would venture that bringing a relevant scientific article to your oncological appointment beats mentioning an ad for a new medicine where the announcer says, “ask your doctor if [insert med name here] is right for you”. But of course the commercial is easier to understand, while the research article is written in “science-ese”.

So, if there’s something that can serve as a true ally as you navigate through your cancer experience, it’s being science-literate. That doesn’t mean you need a PhD in some medical research field. But it does mean understanding how researchers set up experiments, what they’re actually studying, and whether those results are valid for your situation. And then being able to search through clinical studies and see whether they can inform your decisions on cancer treatments.

For digging deeper into the specifics surrounding clinical research, I highly recommend Coursera’s free class, “Understanding Medical Research: Your Facebook Friend Is Wrong.” I use PubMed at work and have studied research design in Psychology, but I realized that I needed a crash course in evaluating clinical studies if I wanted to use scientific literature to make informed decisions about my health. “Understanding Medical Research” is an excellent survey of the types of studies out there, basic research design, terminology, relevant statistics and how to judge whether the study is useful for your personal situation, not to mention warning flags to watch out for.

Dr. F. Perry Wilson teaches the Coursera class, “Understanding Medical Research: Your Facebook Friend Is Wrong.”

The course is free if you don’t need the Coursera certificate. And the instructor, nephrologist F. Perry Wilson, MD from the Yale School of Medicine, is entertaining and occasionally silly, making what could be a dry subject much more palatable.

This might not be the first online class that you’ll want to tackle right after your cancer diagnosis. For that, I would highly recommend seeking out a mindfulness meditation class. But after you’ve gotten relaxation skills under your belt, learning about how to access medical literature and decipher the results may be one of the most important things you can do for yourself.

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If you’re not ready to commit to a course on understanding medical research, below are two informational links that can still get you on your way to figuring out what all the research means:

The National Cancer Institute (NCI) has a blog that explains findings from the latest cancer studies in lay terms, called “Cancer Currents”. The sidebar on the right allows you to zero in on more specific topics. This is the most science-based information that you can get on cancer, keeping in mind that studies can only speak to what they have specifically been designed to research.

For some general information on clinical studies, NIH’s webpage on “Understanding Clinical Studies” is a good place to start. This is a one-page easy read with a infographic that explains basic facts about clinical studies.

Inviting Gratitude, Gently

Since this week is the Thanksgiving holiday in the US, it’s a good time to revisit the practice of gratitude. I wrote some time back about my nightly practice of writing down three things for which I was grateful. It was a lovely way to close the day on a positive note, as I would always be able to jot something down, even if my day was difficult.

Nightly gratitude journaling started feeling forced, certainly not the point of the practice.

However, after a number of weeks of this, I found it harder to be consistent. I would skip days, and often on the days that I could find something to write in my journal, the process would feel forced. The more I had to work to pull out little things to be grateful for, the less meaningful they became. Eventually, and regrettably, I stopped the nightly practice altogether.

Apparently, this is to be expected. Psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky and colleagues from UC Riverside found that journaling once a week was more effective for boosting happiness than doing so more frequently. I can see why this would be. Everyone has stressful days that can wring any semblance of happiness out of us. Yes, while I found something to be grateful for any given day, if the overwhelming feeling was that of negativity then I was simply going through the motions of trying to find something–ANYthing–to write down. For me, this waters down the effectiveness of the exercise.

But writing on a weekly (or less) basis allows me to focus on the most powerful feelings of gratitude, and those have a stronger uplifting effect on me. They last longer and evoke a joy that daily journaling couldn’t.

In my life, there have been times that have felt very dark and heavy. In the moment, I have not always been able to find anything positive in them. Take, for example, cancer. Those weeks around my diagnosis were literally the most terrifying of my life, because I felt that this situation could actually cost me my life.

Quite frankly, if someone had told me then that I should stop and think of all the things I was grateful for, I might have told them to go to hell. The intensity of what was taking place right then–the shock and disbelief, the despair, the sheer fear–was too great to let in any light. For someone to have suggested that I should essentially “look on the bright side” would have felt like they were dismissing the reality of what is cancer.

For me, the process of letting gratitude come to me was far more effective than trying to snatch it out of darkness.

But as I passed through those worst weeks, I noticed things that bobbed up to the surface that I could be grateful for, so much so that at times I was overwhelmed with gratitude for how events had unfolded compared to how things could have been. I still had cancer and my life was still upended, but I felt a sense of grace about it all.

So if were to give one piece of humble advice to someone going through desperate times, it would be to remain open to the possibility that no matter how dark things may seem right now, when you finally have a chance to take a breath, you may see that glimmers of hopeful light have been shining through all along.

Sleep Peacefully, Sweet Aira

“[A pet is] a little tuft of consciousness that circles around a person like a moon around a planet, and completes their energy field making them more whole.”

Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen quoting a spiritual teacher, as related by Dr. Nancy Novak on the Nancy’s List email newsletter, November 1, 2020.

There are few reminders of impermanence as poignant as life transitions. I experienced this over the weekend as we said goodbye to our beautiful Siberian husky, Aira. I knew the time was coming and that it was right to let her go, just a month shy of her 15th birthday.

Retirement: living the good life in her “golden years”, in her own room. Lots of naps and loads of love.

Aira’s transition was gentle. My mother held and stroked her as she lay on her favorite rug in her bedroom in my parents house. She fell asleep quietly with the first injection, and after the I.V. drug was administered, passed into peace, surrounded by the people she knew and loved in familiar surroundings.

She now lies beneath the window outside her room, one of her favorite places in the yard to sit during the winter, as it was almost guaranteed to have a snow mound. She loved that. As the days became warmer, that mound was one of the last to melt.

In her younger days, bright with husky energy.

I remember the silkiness of the fur on the backs of her ears. And the unbridled joy she exhibited when she would get loose and start tearing around the neighborhood. And how she would roll around in freshly fallen snow in ecstasy. And how wonderful she smelled after rooting around in a rosemary bush. And how we would find a dog treat hidden in a shoe, under a pillow or anywhere else she thought was a safe spot that she could return to later for a snack.

Everything changes. Aira matured and calmed down. She followed us from Chicago to California, then due to stifling housing constraints in the Golden State, was welcomed by my parents in Connecticut, where she got a beautiful yard, lots of snow and unbelievable amounts of attention. Years after their three kids had left, my parents and Aira formed their own little family unit and went almost everywhere together.

My father’s health faltered and Aira, too, started showing her age. The last year brought on the most striking changes. Aira sprouted a fast-growing mast cell tumor on her shoulder. By the time it was removed, the mass weighed almost five pounds, and her prognosis was guarded. That was in April of this year.

Some weeks ago, my mother noticed a hard spot in Aira’s belly. As with the previous tumor, this one grew lightning fast. And unlike the tumor on her shoulder, this one was among her organs and taking a toll on her. This one was not coming out.

I would lie away at night, wondering how this would end. Had I known how blissfully she would transition out of this world, my heart would not have felt so heavy.

Newly arrived at my parents home in New England, looking forward to the cooler air and, after years of California warmth, SNOW.

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I am Roman Catholic. When I was young, I remember a humble missionary priest speaking of how anyone could baptize someone with the sign of the cross and holy water. So, logically, I pilfered some holy water that my grandmother kept on a shelf and baptized our dog at the time, a good-natured chihuahua named Rudis.

Several decades later, when Aira was part of our family, I was already an adult (so I have no excuses), and as I was holding a small vial of holy water brought back from mass, Aira came to sniff at it. I thought, “Why not?” and baptized her.

I’m sure that I’ll be punished for this brazen transgression. And you know what? That’s okay. I hope that I’m banished to the place where animals go after they die, because I’d rather give up my spot in Heaven to spend eternity with my dogs.

There Goes Another Cancer Milestone…Big Deal

On October 23, 2017, I finished radiation therapy for my stage 1, triple-positive breast cancer. That was three years ago. At that point, I imagined myself being through all the “tough stuff”. I’d already had surgery that March, spent the summer enduring chemo infusions, and then six weeks of radiation in autumn.

October 23rd seemed like a “marker” day. I rang the gong in the radiology waiting room, with all the staff present and smiling. It was a day that I knew I’d remember.

Except that it didn’t end up being a very important milestone. At that point, I didn’t fully realize that the treatment doesn’t really end. I can only say that it’s been three years since I finished chemo and radiation. But the truth is that a few weeks after that I started tamoxifen (surprise!), which came with its own worries. And I still had more than half of my infusions of Herceptin (trastuzumab, a monoclonal antibody) left, which stretched into April of 2018.

I guess next April, I’ll mark THAT as another milestone.

This coming December I can mark a full year of taking letrozole (aromatase inhibitor), which came after two years on tamoxifen. But I’m still supposed to be on that stuff for “a few more” years – it’s funny that my oncologist has not been specific about that. And I’m not very interested in asking, unusual for me.

I really thought I’d have said “goodbye” to all things cancer by now, but its spectre still seems to follow me around.

What once seemed like a very clear treatment plan, a definite path through the cancer jungle, now seems fuzzy and gray. In one of my first posts here, I talked about being able to put everything behind me, with the more time that passed after “finishing” chemo and radiation. Who was I kidding?

When mammogram time comes up, there’s that familiar rush of anxiety, knowing that I’ll be sitting in that comfy robe in the quiet waiting room, pretending to enjoy a cup of tea, but my tummy will be floating and I’ll try to not to think of much. That’s the work of cancer.

When I wake up in the middle of the night with my hand aching and fingers painfully stiff, medication side effects that are deemed, by the medical community, to be “worth it”. That’s the work of cancer.

When I wonder whether my 18-year-old daughter should be doing breast self-exams now. And whether she’s be hurt by whatever “mistake” my body made in not cleaning up some tumorigenic genetic defect. That’s the work of cancer.

So it makes all those “milestones” a little less fun and exciting.

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But I have to be honest — I still note the time that’s passed by. For my breast cancer, the two-year mark is most important, followed by the five-year mark and then the 10-year one. Each year cancer-free makes me more cocky. But the truth is, one “bad” scan, and I’m back to square one: cancer patient. And then I’ll regret not having appreciated those milestones more.

How Mindfulness Helped Me Enjoy Cleaning

Full confession here: For years (ahem, decades), I disliked cleaning. I understood the importance of keeping things clean and tidy. But I never connected a positive feeling with it. Even as an adult, I would put it off. And off. And then someone would want to stop by and I’d be filled with dread. Never was the disheveled state of my home as apparent to me as when an outsider walked though the front door. Suddenly, I saw everything with fresh eyes, and it didn’t look great.

My approach to cleaning changed when I did one small thing: I noticed that my life was not one big overwhelming mess. It was a series of little challenges. So, too, my home. I stopped looking at everything as a whole. The whole was overwhelming. The whole meant a day spent cleaning and organizing. It didn’t have to be like that.

Just as life is in flux, so is the order in your home. Think of is as a wave, never, standing still. Things fall out of order and then are put back in order. Consistency in effort is what gives music to the dance. So you never have to “miss it”.

When I started looking at the work as distinct items, it was so much easier to take care of things. A small pile of papers. Scrubbing out the kitchen sink. Cleaning three windows.

It was that simple. I stopped thinking about “all the stuff I need to do”. Instead, I thought, “Oh, look! This is done already.” The boost of positivity that I got from taking care of the finite tasks was infinitely rewarding.

Most importantly, I made this a working meditation. My focus was on “now”. Scrubbing this spot of the bathtub. When it was done, I went to another spot. And that way traveled around the bathroom and out to other rooms until I was done for the time being. The rhythm made the day bright.

My personal strategy for cleaning mindfully:

  1. Set a timer for a reasonable amount of time, say, 10-15 minutes — you will quickly find a time that’s right for you based on how much you bristle when it’s time to start. Pick out a manageable “project” (or perhaps several) that you can get done during that time. Start when the timer starts. When the alarm rings, you’re done.
  2. Whatever you are doing, do it with a focus on the present moment. Give your full attention to what you’re working on. This is not the time to worry about what else needs to be done — stay with what you’re doing now, just as you would stay with your breath during meditation.
  3. Decide to do it again tomorrow. That stuff you did today? It’s done and no one can take that away from you, so whatever you do tomorrow only adds to the satisfaction of moving forward. Consistency is what makes this strategy work.
  4. Bring lightness and joy to the task. Play music, run an essential oil diffuser. Mark your success with staying on task by bringing in fresh flowers, even just foliage clippings in a colorful vase. Help yourself feel positive through the process. THIS IS NOT A PUNISHMENT.
  5. Pick up after yourself throughout the day. There is great power in putting things away right after you’re done with them. It feels so silly to even have to write that, but trust me, it’s a useful reminder, and one that I needed until it became a habit. (Who am I kidding? I STILL need the reminder.)
  6. The corollary to #5 is not to procrastinate on starting. If you start now and recycle five papers that you don’t need, there will be five fewer papers cluttering your desk. If you do that again tomorrow, that will be ten. Do it now. I have missed out on so many wonderful opportunities in my life because I put things off, a clean home being the least of them.
  7. Notice how good it makes you feel to invite order into your life.
I feel unsettled simply looking at this image. The disarray elicits anxiety, like I’ve lost something important, with little hope of easily getting it back.

I’ve found that the state of my surroundings is representative of my emotional state. And my emotional state likewise responds to the environment around me. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my world crumbled around me, physically and emotionally. Everything felt out of control and my surroundings reinforced that sense of despair. It took months for me to finally get a grip and move past the overwhelm.

Bringing order into my life was like an anchor that helped me recover, in many senses of the word. When I focused on what was good in my world, I spent less time worrying about what was wrong.

I’m betting you have 10 minutes in your day…

Maybe It’s Okay To “Overreact”?

After cancer, overreaction may be called for.

So it’s Saturday and I’m sitting in my general practitioner’s waiting room, having been able to secure an emergency appointment. That morning I started seeing light flashes (photopsia) in the outer periphery of my left eye. Very weird, sudden and striking, like little comets whizzing up and down along the curvature. I know I shouldn’t immediately rush to the uncurated internet for information, but who can resist when you need answers fast? After a quick search I saw some of the possible causes, including retinal detachment and Vitreomacular Traction Syndrome (VMT). My symptoms were pretty spot on as I realized I had some significant floaters in my eye too, more than usual.

Further reading pointed to aromatase inhibitors (the estrogen-squashing medication given to breast cancer patients with hormone positive tumors, after they’re done with surgery/chemo/radiation) as a potential contributing factor. As explained on the American Society of Retina Specialists’ website: VMT syndrome is most common in older adults and women due to age-related vitreous changes and vitreous liquefaction associated with declining post-menopausal estrogen levels, respectively. 

Great. I am taking the aromatase inhibitor, letrozole. And so far, it’s been highly effective in dropping my estrogen/estradiol to basement levels. Like, 80-year-old granny levels. Except that I’m 54 years old.

I do NOT want to wait on getting my eyes checked out! I learned from cancer that procrastination turns an easy fix into prolonged treatment.

So now I’m waiting to see whether what I experienced really does have to do with my unnaturally-low-for-my-age estrogen, or if it’s nothing to worry about. My GP’s office couldn’t do a retinal scan, but as soon as I get approval from my insurance, I’m jumping on the first ophthalmologist appointment I can get.

Before cancer, I would have brushed the symptoms off as just some passing oddity. I doubt I would have taken action unless the symptoms had persisted, and even then, it might have taken weeks. I wasn’t primed to react.

But now, while I am *not* panicking, I’m also not waiting. Like it or not, cancer taught me that when it comes to worst-case scenarios, the worst is a distinct possibility.

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If this does end up being VMT syndrome or similar, and if it can be reliably linked to medically-induced estrogen suppression, I’ll be deciding between risking loss of eyesight vs. risking the return of cancer.

But maybe it’s nothing.

Not A Cancer Superhero? You Are Still Enough

After reading about the tragic passing of actor Chadwick Boseman at age 43 from colon cancer, in addition to his nothing-short-of-heroic efforts to persevere with his career and charitable acts while facing cancer treatment and a worsening prognosis, I was moved with emotion. First, for the loss of an immensely talented actor who would have had a long and bright future. Second, because knowing how society looks at cancer sufferers, he would not have gotten the roles he did had he been open about his diagnosis. 

And, third, for the rest of us run-of-the-mill cancer patients. When I was going through treatment, I wasn’t a hero. I was scared. I didn’t keep my illness a secret so that I wouldn’t be viewed as “uncastable” like Mr. Boseman might have been, or so I would be unhindered in my drive to achieve great things, as other notable cancer patients have. At least the ones who are written about in the media.

Me? I was barely holding on.

Everyone knew about my diagnosis, especially those who saw me on a daily basis. I didn’t want people to speculate about my condition once I started losing my hair and missing work, so I made sure to get the word out. But the real battle I fought was much more personal and invisible. My nemesis was anxiety, and I entered that fight ill-equipped to win it.

It may not feel like it when you’re hearing about the accomplishments of others, but just showing up is an achievement when it comes to cancer.

So while I was dragging myself around to doctors’ appointments and cancer treatments, I was churning inside. There were days I wanted to numb out and curl up in a corner. But I went to the office. I smiled at coworkers even when I was nauseated by anxiety. That’s it. No great feats, nothing that others could remark favorably on or report in the news. I didn’t feel strong or brave and certainly not like a hero. I simply existed. 

It would have been so cool was to have bravely fought cancer while still racking up amazing accomplishments. To be the one about whom people would say, “And she did ALL THAT while undergoing treatment!” No, not me. Not everyone is in a position to be that superhero.

So the point I want to make is that you will hear of the cancer patients who are truly inspirational, and I, along with everyone else, am awed by their strength of character and ability to continue in the face of a life-threatening illness. But there are also many of us that limp along day by day, trying to keep our lives together after they’ve been torn asunder by a cancer diagnosis. We’re not going to get accolades for making it back to work after five days of nausea. But we persevere in our own inconspicuous ways. Perhaps you’re one of those.

And that’s enough. 

What I Learned By Feeding Virtual Fish

I wrote my previous post about Zen Koi 2 so that I could write you this one.

You’d think that with a lovely mindful smartphone game where there’s limited stress and little competition, I’d be able to sink into peaceful bliss every time I played. Oh, but no. After I fell in love with Zen Koi 2, I found myself engaging in rather unmindful behaviors.

No stress? I’ll create it! All I needed to do was swim my delightfully colorful koi around and nab a little morsel here and there. It wasn’t long before that turned into frantic darting around the pond, frustrated by the prey I wasn’t fast enough to easily catch, annoyed by lack of maneuverability (these abilities improve as you level up), incensed when a spiny pufferfish blocked my path or spikey plants slowed me down. Instead of creating space between myself and the game, I was sucked into it and treading virtual water frantically.

Mind you, there’s no time limit on playing this game, no detriment to your koi if you spend a lot of time in one area. The prey items never run out. All you need is patience…and a little perspective.

I needed more zen in my Zen Koi 2.

I had trouble releasing newly hatched koi, wanting to keep them in my separate, personal pond (which has very limited space), so that I could play with them again. All this, even though once a koi is hatched is it in your collection permanently, and if you release it, you can easily clone it and swim with it once more. So there’s absolutely no need to hold on. But I was grasping, unable to let go. My behavior didn’t make sense.

It really wasn’t until I found myself clenching my jaws and gripping my phone that I dawned on me that I wasn’t enjoying this. I was striving for the next level. What I had at the moment wasn’t good enough, I was always trying to increase my koi’s abilities or get to the next sigil. I wasn’t enjoying the beauty of the little fish I had now. As soon as a mating fish appeared, I started drawing Punnett squares in my head, calculating what color combinations would result, and whether I potentially needed the hatchling to complete a collection.

Clearly, this sort of behavior is *not* what I’m going for when practicing mindfulness. In fact, it is completely antithetical to it. The striving, grasping, inability to focus on “now” was very telling. These are, of course, digital creatures, color pixels on the screen. It was my mind that made them real, my mind that created the anxiety around the game. It was my mind that gave the game so much emotional power over me.

So much grasping. I can’t get back what I lost by holding on to things that can’t be.

So I was thinking. Isn’t that kind of like my relationship with my fears? They too are not real, and it’s likely that a majority of them will never be real. And yet I attach to them and let them drag me around, frustrating me, agitating me, and in general, making me miserable.

For me, my cancer “story” was about loss. Loss of hair, loss of energy, loss of hope, loss of time to do more in my life. And the more I had felt I lost, the more I clung to how I wanted things to be. But they couldn’t be like that. I had already realized that, but it wasn’t until I played that innocent little smartphone game that I saw how powerful my attachment was to the things I really needed to release.

So, the next time I played with my fish, I gave myself distance. When I found myself clinging, I took a deep breath and let go. I let go of the newly hatched koi, I let go of the need to be more than I already am, I let go of the fears about tomorrow. And nothing bad happened. My koi was still peacefully traversing its little pond. I was still sitting on the couch, phone in hand, just like before. It was a pleasantly grounding realization.

Spiny pufferfish be damned. I think I can do this.

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My need to hold on is like my cancer journey: still a work in progress. I don’t know what the future holds. But if I can make this moment a little more pleasant instead of mourning all my losses, then I will consider that a victory.