Accept what life offers you and try to drink from every cup. All wines should be tasted; some should only be sipped, but with others, drink the whole bottle.
Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant.
“Since when,” he asked,
“Are the first line and last line of any poem
Where the poem begins and ends?”
In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl writes,
‘In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.’
Reflecting on the last eight months since Eva was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer, I’ve thought a lot about meaning. At the ‘start’, we were both adamant that we did not believe there was inherent meaning in her illness. We were resistant to attributing something intrinsically positive to this process of impaired cell turnover. It felt like it would lend the black-and-white process of going from health to illness a rose-tinted facade, something magical or spiritually redeeming. People offered well-meaning encouragements about everything having a meaning; we just didn’t fancy cancer having meaning for our family. We did not think that there was meaning to be derived from a young woman with two young children receiving a life-altering, potentially fatal diagnosis.
However, I have found it helpful to identify meaning through the process of the last months. Perhaps I’ve derived some form of control from this; I have chosen what to attribute meaning to rather than unthinkingly accepting this as a ‘meaningful’ experience. In my childhood, and the religious circle that I was in, there was a sense of everything being predestined and foreseen by an omniscient, but also omnipotent God. However, it was also acceptable to pray to the same God who allowed a disease or disaster to heal or reverse the situation in some way, ‘for his glory.’ As long as anything was contextualised as being done for his honour, it was acceptable. Of course, such thinking is helpful for the believer; if God is God, then me tolerating my suffering is somehow a refining, redeeming process for my soul, and if he heals me then he is honoured. It’s a win-win.
I’m a long way from this type of thinking now, which for me is a relief and gives a much greater sense of freedom. And I think a privilege of this is being able to actively seek for meaningful experiences in suffering. One area of great meaning has been relational. Throughout the last eight months we have both been changed by the love and care of others. There has been meaning in practicing vulnerability and accepting the care of others. It has allowed us to experience this period with some degree of security and a sense of being supported. I’ve learned something about my own capacity to care for my family and went from being terrified at the thought of losing Eva and being a single dad, to feeling that no matter what may happens, this love we have now, and our current family make-up, will provide us all with strength in the future.
I have found the possibility of having six months at home with my family meaningful. There wasn’t really any other way to do it, but still it meant I had to turn down a new job I had worked hard to get, and majorly delayed me completing my training as a psychiatrist. But I had the last two months at home with my daughter before she started school, and spent six months with my son who was only eight months old at the time of Eva’s diagnosis.
I also found it incredibly meaningful that I could be physically present for Eva when she was feeling wrecked by chemotherapy, and in her moments of feeling emotionally vulnerable. It was meaningful that I could commit all my energy to caring for my family and did not have to try to divide my time and energy between them and a demanding job. It was meaningful that I could take her to chemotherapy, and look after her after her double mastectomy. It was meaningful that when she was not able to be present for the children like she wanted to be, I was free to parent. It was meaningful to see how this brought Eva comfort, rather than her having to worry all the time about how she could parent when she was overwhelmed by chemotherapy, or juggling the offers of multiple friends to help out.
It has been meaningful to see how we have evaluated our relationship and our future as a family. It has been meaningful to see how we have learned to live in the present and be less concerned with the future. It is incredibly meaningful that we felt like our family was already complete with these two children prior to finding out that Eva was not going to be able to have children any more. It was meaningful to see how, even on the lowest, darkest days, these two bundles of love and energy could bring a smile and bring us out of ourselves.
It was meaningful to see how Eva and I both made space for each other to deal with this like we had to. Eva was on her own personal and confronting journey of facing her mortality, pre-emptively grieving what could be lost should things not go as she hoped. I went through a process of feeling like I had to hold my shit together for everyone and feeling incredibly worried that I would not be able to. (I don’t know what not holding my shit together would look like. Probably disappointingly un-dramatic. Probably sitting on the couch eating chocolate until I spewed or got so irritated with myself I would go and do some vigorous exercise and feel a whole lot better.)
It was meaningful to see how we displayed resilience and strength that we both very much previously doubted that we possessed. I think we always imagined ourselves as a bit fragile; we often had viewed our successes and ability to overcome challenges as evidence of our anxiety and drive to achieve by fear of failing, not due to any positive character traits that we had developed in life. I see meaning in choosing to slow down, sit through this enforced discomfort, and make friends with cancer.
I found meaning in learning how to be kind to ourselves, and by extension extend our empathy with and compassion for others. I see meaning in learning through concrete practice that being vulnerable takes a lot of balls and pays off through reciprocated connection with others.
For now, Eva is taking time to continue recovering. She has an area approximately 30cm by 20cm of radiotherapy burns across her right chest and into her axilla. In her axilla she has blistering and weeping burns about 8cm by 6cm, which is only now starting to dry and heal. She has redness and tenderness along her scars. Her right arm is in a compression sleeve (at $210 a pop, thank you very much) to combat the swelling, which cannot be diagnosed as lymphoedema until three months out from surgery and radiotherapy. She has seen the oncologist, and will soon see the surgeon and the radiation oncologist, and then the gynaecologist to discuss having her ovaries removed. Her body is still weak and she is tired easily and short of breath. And every few months she will see a doctor from her team, and there will be blood tests to check the tumour markers to watch for signs of recurrence. ‘Hopefully, fingers crossed, there’s a 60-70% chance of it not coming back,’ the oncologist said. We try and absorb these figures but all it essentially means is that there is a significant chance of recurrence…but not as significant as the chance of her being in remission. Two dichotomies to hold in our heads at once; the possibility of living until she dies of something else apart from cancer, or of receiving a terminal diagnosis of recurrence.
So the end is the beginning. It’s a new period for Eva and for our family. She is not yet recovered from treatment, and the oncologist said she shouldn’t expect to be until the end of the year. And we have so much to enjoy and to be thankful for, but our lives are irrevocably changed. Our future will be forever tinged with questions around Eva’s cancer. We will have to continue making friends with this discomfort. I want to attribute meaning to that process, although I would rather that I didn’t have to do it through this situation. Eva has not made a ‘sacrifice’, as Frankl put it, but she has been an incredible example of adjusting to massively changed expectations. She has, in a sense, sacrificed the vision of her life that she had nine months ago and has adopted a new perspective with bravery and forthrightness. Yesterday we walked past the tree we sat under a few minutes after she was diagnosed in November, and she has remained true to her promise that ‘I am not going to become a fucking saint just because I have cancer.’ It has been suffering, and she has not suffered it like a saint or a warrior or a trooper, or any other trope that calls to mind idealistic virtues and characteristics. She’s weathered it with humanity and depth and genuineness, and pure love for her children. She’s faced it head on, learned better how to be kind to herself, and not let herself fall into a pit of self-despair or hopelessness. She had moments of fear that life was pointless and meaningless, but she persisted (and frankly I think that awful week or two was largely driven by changes in her mood caused by chemotherapy). She’s not reframed this as a purifying, redemptive process; just to be clear it was and still is TOTALLY SHIT. But she’s refined her values and lived by her principles, and is a wonderful example of living through hardship with gratitude and realism.