I'm lying in a narrow hospital bed, looking out on this grey, misty day. My window, on a top floor, looks out over a quiet town; the traffic far below, flocks of pigeons swirling around and landing on roofs. The days go slowly by, the sky finally darkens, and down below Christmas trees in parks light up. At night I watch the moon set slowly, and wait for the day to return.
I'm a long way from home. It feels like an eternity ago I was brought here by a silent ambulance. I was in terrible shape, and the blood transfusion bag dangled above me in the darkness and the slowly flashing lights. Gradually, though, I've crept back to the land of the living, and now I'm the patient they just can't let go of, since they don't really want me dying on the way home. Another day, the doctor says, and then another, until I'm ready to scream. But here's the thing: I'm not the person I was when I first heard the words.
Everyone who's ever had cancer has the story of how they found out. The moment they found the lump in the breast, when the doctor walked in and sat down, when they heard the words over the phone. Sometimes there's no warning - it comes like a bolt from the blue. You get an x-ray and the doctor puts it up and says, "Huh. That's weird." Or you get the colonoscopy or the mammogram and - boom. Come on back in, they say, and they give you the news.
But sometimes it creeps up on you. It did for me.
What's wrong with me, I found myself asking. I was losing weight. I couldn't seem to catch my breath. Walking into a store, I'd have to stop and lean against the wall. I wasn't tired, I just couldn't get a good deep breath. So I called to try to get an appointment, only to be told I couldn't get in for months.
Finally I ended up in the ER, and the machinery of tests and exams sprung into gear. And then the doctor came in and said those words: You have cancer.
With those words, everything changes. It's a seismic shift, a personal earthquake that upends your life. Nothing will ever be the same. Your life road suddenly veers off, leaving all your plans and your busy life behind you in some distant past.
Suddenly your life is no longer your own, and you watch in dismay as one by one things you always took for granted are taken out of your hands. Your privacy. Your strength. Your hair. Your assumptions about life, death, and how long you have on this earth. You're not the person you were only a few months ago.
And so it begins. Your new life, with new and powerful lessons and truths that you, in the old days, would never have been open to.
You know, all my life I've been one of those busy people, full of plans and proud of my independence. On too many committees, happily dabbling in a dozen hobbies, offering help proudly, and most of all, focused on being useful. And I was never good at receiving. No, thanks. I can manage. I'm fine.
So here's Lesson Number One for me in this new school: receiving.
In these past few months I've begun to learn what it's like to accept the love and care of others. To humbly reach out my weak and trembling hands - my empty hands - and receive their gifts. I'm learning the holiness of kindly acts: hands laying a blanket on my shoulders, home-baked, hot meals given with a smile and a friendly word, cards in the mail, prayers said by people who are holding me in their hearts. Friends, family, church members, nurses and doctors who are keeping me alive. The power of people carrying me when I cannot walk on my own.
I've learned that empty hands, reaching hands, are nothing to be ashamed of.
To all of you who have been so loving and supportive, I only have one thing I can give in return: a heart full of gratitude.
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