I attended Christ Church this morning for what I fear, will be the last time for a long time. Starting the second round of "punch-u-in-the-gut" treatment, I am heading in with a full awareness of teh "guidelines" that will be put in place. Unfortunately, while all for my own well being, 5 is a very small number. And, call it instinct or an irrational fear, but I have this horrible feeling that the times of isolation and desperation will not disappear any time soon.
I am in favor of beating Albert once and for all and while the odds for six weeks of fun are next to nothing, should this be the last battle, I wish to go down fighting for what I believe in: faith, hope, love, justice, and life; Winnipeg in the Spring, Spain and Taize in 2008 and seminary somewhere by 2009.
As I sat and cried for what seemed like the millionth time since the middle of November this afternoon with one of those people I can always be myself with - tears, fears and all - I squeaked the words, "but I'm scared."
Ah! I just said them again.
I am scared of being here, in what seems to be the most dense and closed in forest of all time, wondering if I will again feel the sun on my face and hear the songs of the animals the same way I once did; I am scared of being alone and lost, not knowing enough to get myself to the open valley or field. I am scared that while I hold my breath, exhausted and following where the more knowledgeable lead, this could be where the journey finishes; I am scared of the words from the most knowledgeable that just continue to echo off each leaf, branch, and stone: 'if six weeks of the chemotherapy that you would receive does not bring a period of remission, then at least we know that we have done our best in fighting the cancer and can then focus our energy on making you as comfortable as we can... before you agree, you need to understand that the cancer cells have multiplied and migrated. This is a whole new ballgame Angela, in which without treatment, could only reach the top of the second inning, but that even with treatment, may very well not reach the bottom of the ninth.' I am scared.
Then again, how could I not be?
At 21, hearing the word "death" and my own name in the same sentence, I have a right to be scared, don't I? After a long day of being out and about in the morning at a meeting and then meeting up with my scrap-booking goddess friend planning a trip to visit some friends in Toronto March and setting plans for the Camino in 2008... my body aches beyond comfort. It feels as though certain cells have already taken over parts of me, so how can I possibly be brave and not scared? When unable to stand or even sit through an entire service of Holy Communion without seeing white patches and feeling faint, for a Church marathoner, how could the fear not be rising? Cringing at the very thought of stairs or long distances, lying awake in the darkness of the night when I no longer need to be strong for everyone else, how can I stop myself from being scared? The fear of hearing the fire alarms go off and panicking insanely for the leg to stop cramping so that I can move it and rely on it to get me to safety, is a fear like no other, even when the alarms manage to stop before my leg does.
I can not pretend to know the answers or even that the answers are to be had, but I shall clutch (ever so tightly) to the words I heard this afternoon from that one person whom I trust so very much, "this too shall pass."
I have been fortunate enough to be reminded numerous times, both in my RC upbringing and my beloved Anglican family that my love of God, my desire to serve, and my innocent yet joyful faith... set me apart. And in some backward sort of functioning, as faulted as I am, have brought inspiration or spunk to one or two along my journey thus far.
And so, even though I am "do-er" and am scared out of my wits, there are a few things that I need to remember and if I forget, am counting on someone to remind me that I have said this and make me re-read or simply stand behind it. Ready?
I am, first and foremost, a child of God. A well loved, supported, guided, very dear child of God and what an honor that is... like in the gospels when Jesus meets up with the rich young man and we read, "and Jesus loved him"... God loves me. That's right... I am loved and God is always there in that love.
Secondly, although I can not feel that warm blanket embrace right now, God (and God's love) are not always tangible - but that doesn't make them any less there.
Thirdly, God communicates in so many different ways. Sometimes in dreams (Joseph), words (Jeremiah), experiences (Paul), silent-sitting-under-the-fig-tree moments (Nathanial), and sometimes, if we are truly blessed, through others: angels (Mary). Through those people who (each in their own way) lift us on their wings when we can not lift ourselves, who carry us when we can not bear to walk and who comfort us when we can not dry our own tears.
And finally, this too shall pass. In God's timing (not mine), the very wings of the Spirit shall come along and we will together, soar out of the forest - however that shall play out or look like for onlookers.
Until then, even if only moving my lips to the words or allowing my prayer to be two single words of "Lord Jesus" because that is all I can muster up the courage to say, I will remain faithful for that is all that God is asking. God will do the rest. And leaning (literally!) on "what God hath provided" I shall crawl into the heart and shelter of the Holy Mother Mary and her infant son (as described best by P-M type) and rest there awhile.
A place where I don't have to worry about "doing" but that place where I can just "be."
(Hopefully....)
I am in favor of beating Albert once and for all and while the odds for six weeks of fun are next to nothing, should this be the last battle, I wish to go down fighting for what I believe in: faith, hope, love, justice, and life; Winnipeg in the Spring, Spain and Taize in 2008 and seminary somewhere by 2009.
As I sat and cried for what seemed like the millionth time since the middle of November this afternoon with one of those people I can always be myself with - tears, fears and all - I squeaked the words, "but I'm scared."
Ah! I just said them again.
I am scared of being here, in what seems to be the most dense and closed in forest of all time, wondering if I will again feel the sun on my face and hear the songs of the animals the same way I once did; I am scared of being alone and lost, not knowing enough to get myself to the open valley or field. I am scared that while I hold my breath, exhausted and following where the more knowledgeable lead, this could be where the journey finishes; I am scared of the words from the most knowledgeable that just continue to echo off each leaf, branch, and stone: 'if six weeks of the chemotherapy that you would receive does not bring a period of remission, then at least we know that we have done our best in fighting the cancer and can then focus our energy on making you as comfortable as we can... before you agree, you need to understand that the cancer cells have multiplied and migrated. This is a whole new ballgame Angela, in which without treatment, could only reach the top of the second inning, but that even with treatment, may very well not reach the bottom of the ninth.' I am scared.
Then again, how could I not be?
At 21, hearing the word "death" and my own name in the same sentence, I have a right to be scared, don't I? After a long day of being out and about in the morning at a meeting and then meeting up with my scrap-booking goddess friend planning a trip to visit some friends in Toronto March and setting plans for the Camino in 2008... my body aches beyond comfort. It feels as though certain cells have already taken over parts of me, so how can I possibly be brave and not scared? When unable to stand or even sit through an entire service of Holy Communion without seeing white patches and feeling faint, for a Church marathoner, how could the fear not be rising? Cringing at the very thought of stairs or long distances, lying awake in the darkness of the night when I no longer need to be strong for everyone else, how can I stop myself from being scared? The fear of hearing the fire alarms go off and panicking insanely for the leg to stop cramping so that I can move it and rely on it to get me to safety, is a fear like no other, even when the alarms manage to stop before my leg does.
I can not pretend to know the answers or even that the answers are to be had, but I shall clutch (ever so tightly) to the words I heard this afternoon from that one person whom I trust so very much, "this too shall pass."
I have been fortunate enough to be reminded numerous times, both in my RC upbringing and my beloved Anglican family that my love of God, my desire to serve, and my innocent yet joyful faith... set me apart. And in some backward sort of functioning, as faulted as I am, have brought inspiration or spunk to one or two along my journey thus far.
And so, even though I am "do-er" and am scared out of my wits, there are a few things that I need to remember and if I forget, am counting on someone to remind me that I have said this and make me re-read or simply stand behind it. Ready?
I am, first and foremost, a child of God. A well loved, supported, guided, very dear child of God and what an honor that is... like in the gospels when Jesus meets up with the rich young man and we read, "and Jesus loved him"... God loves me. That's right... I am loved and God is always there in that love.
Secondly, although I can not feel that warm blanket embrace right now, God (and God's love) are not always tangible - but that doesn't make them any less there.
Thirdly, God communicates in so many different ways. Sometimes in dreams (Joseph), words (Jeremiah), experiences (Paul), silent-sitting-under-the-fig-tree moments (Nathanial), and sometimes, if we are truly blessed, through others: angels (Mary). Through those people who (each in their own way) lift us on their wings when we can not lift ourselves, who carry us when we can not bear to walk and who comfort us when we can not dry our own tears.
And finally, this too shall pass. In God's timing (not mine), the very wings of the Spirit shall come along and we will together, soar out of the forest - however that shall play out or look like for onlookers.
Until then, even if only moving my lips to the words or allowing my prayer to be two single words of "Lord Jesus" because that is all I can muster up the courage to say, I will remain faithful for that is all that God is asking. God will do the rest. And leaning (literally!) on "what God hath provided" I shall crawl into the heart and shelter of the Holy Mother Mary and her infant son (as described best by P-M type) and rest there awhile.
A place where I don't have to worry about "doing" but that place where I can just "be."
(Hopefully....)
5 comments:
The other thing we'll be constantly reminding you of, Angela, is that we love you a lot. And if you let us, we'll show you that love in support and prayer and all the other ways we can.
You can't tell, but I'm hugging you!
More hugs...
Dear Angela ... I am so saddened to hear that "Albert" is alive and well. I send you greetings from Vietnam (an amazing, noisy, lively, extremely crowded country). You have been much on my mind lately. Yesterday I sent my prayers for you as strongly as I could over the tumultuous waves of the South China Sea. I think there must be a kind of Indra's net of prayer spread across the entire planet for you. It's easy to get angry at God (especially if you are Italian!) about the way things are going. And, no, I do not have any snappy rejoinders to somehow soften the blow of that idea.
... Rabbi Heschel was convinced that "the wanton will fail in rebellion against the good."
... yes, I'm rambling ... sorry. Just want to reach out and offer my ongoing prayers and hugs.
Don't know if prayers from a stranger help, but they are headed your way. I wish strength and healing for you on this most difficult journey. Peace and blessings...
Ditto to Tim....You are such an amazing person. I thank God for the gift that you are. Love and prayers for you
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