This afternoon I called my surgeon's office and spoke with her assistant, Jean. I asked if my MRI results were available. Jean bent the rules and let me know that they were clear! We became quite friendly last fall. I brought her flowers one time. She was so kind. She remembered me. I so appreciated that she let me know. There is still an "enhancement" in the left breast but it's the same size so it's fine. I will go back in 6 months, rotating between MRI or mammography. Whew. That was a huge relief.
My long-time friend Julie Vogel is a writer for the Lexington Minuteman News. She does a column entitled "View From the Van". She told me today that she wrote a story about my cancer, and her relationship to it. She called the story "How To Love a Sick Friend". It was published last week and was part of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. The edition was published in pink.
The image is by her friend Meg Landers. Those are Julie's hands.
When I read it this afternoon at work, I cried for a while. I had to shut my door and take a few minutes to process what she wrote. I'll let the piece speak for itself.
"I had a conversation with a candleholder that changed my life. And since my exchange with this flickering talisman — which spoke like a wise, old friend — I understand more clearly than ever how to support those who struggle with incurable illness.
We met last fall at a gathering involving mutual friends of Laura, my best friend from high school. Laura, a tall, striking Scandinavian beauty, strong as an ox since I had known her, had spent summer weekends hiking in the Berkshires. But one afternoon, while pressing her skin to see if she had gotten too much sun, her fingers grazed across an odd lump.
After two months of more medical procedures than she had had in her entire life, she was told she had metastasized, Stage 4 breast cancer. Statistically, 40 percent of people with this diagnosis survive three to five years. The other 60 percent don’t make it that long.
As this inconceivable news unfolded, I struggled to find ways to be helpful. “Bring more soup?” I wondered. “Call? And if so, at home, work or cell? Leave a message? E-mail articles about promising new clinical trials?”
Every attempt to reach out seemed to be shrouded with self-doubt, angst and ambivalence.
One day, while Laura was in the hospital, an e-mail found its way to me announcing a silent prayer circle being organized by some friends to send blessings to her in whatever way one chose: prayer, metta meditation, tonglen. Although I wasn’t sure I was the prayer circle type and had never heard of “tonglen,” I wanted to be supportive so I decided to go.
The night of the fall gathering was cool and dark. As I drove, my insecurities overtook me. Although Laura and I had remained close over the years, we had moved in different social circles: I with my suburban family friends; she with her child-free, experiential city professionals. I realized I didn’t even have a meditation pillow to bring — and wondered if my 7-year-old’s car seat would do.
The hostess, Tasha, greeted me warmly, and guided me into a bare, darkened room where I took a seat among a handful of people sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, around a large, woven mat. In the center of the mat was a teacup-sized, stained glass candleholder, shaped like a lotus flower, embracing a single, flickering candle.
Tasha, sensing my inexperience, gently suggested I close my eyes and imagine with every in-breath, pulling hardship and worry away from Laura. With every out-breath, I might envision sending peace and freedom from fear.
My breath eased into a slow, steady, calming rhythm. I don’t know how much time passed: maybe five minutes; maybe 45. I began to become aware of sensations of connection and strength from others in the circle. I could almost hear our silent voices wrapping together in a sweet a cappella harmony, the rich timbre of our wishes resonating on their journey to Laura’s receptive ear.
Yet somewhere in my mind, questions swirled. Why was my beautiful friend sick? My Laura, a social worker who mastered Portuguese so she could better help area immigrants; an accomplished, exhibiting oil painter; talented gardener; a yoga teacher who had traveled the world to pursue a deeper understanding of existence.
“What does this mean?” I wondered. And more importantly, “What do we do?” Tears began to well behind my closed lids, surreptitiously finding their way out.
I opened my eyes to blot them, and they rested on the candle holder. I watched the flame wave and gyrate in response to the natural currents in the room. It rose and fell, bowed and straightened, arched from side to side. It seemed full of life.
The candleholder’s multi-layered, angular petals reached toward the sky, like the perked ears of a questioning cat. In this blurred image I saw a timeless circle of women, draped in shawls, huddling over … something; their backs fending off the wind. I saw a tight community, perhaps doting over a newborn as it draws its first breath; or a birthday child blowing out her candles; or a newly married couple; or even — yes — a loved one as he draws his final breaths.
Then I understood its message.
We can never truly know the most correct, precise way to support those who struggle. But what matters more is that we surround those we love through all the stages of their lives, sharing in the delight of seeing their flames dance and burn strong; and being there when the flame starts to falter.
This is what sustains us.
I then realized how I could best help my friend: I will be one of the petals that encircles her, shielding her from the wind and tending to her flame, for as long as the current blows."
Julie Vogel is a Lexington mother of four who shares views from the van she drives in circles around town. She can be reached at javogel@rcn.com.
image: Meg Landers
Wendy and I are staying in this fabulous hotel -- thanks to her step-daughter's recommendation. It is on Broadway and 29th street. We got a room upgrade for some reason and it is quite spacious. Plenty of room for yoga which is a passion of both of ours.
