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Stories and Essays from the Journey |
Through the Looking Glass, by John Shippee In earlier September, we were having a marvelous three-day party in Switzerland. My Cousin Elizabeth was 100 years old. I got to be there with my mother who has been one of her best friends for decades. It was one of the best times of my life. My life changed radically on Friday, October 13 when an optometrist discovered that I had lost right side peripheral vision. One week after that I was pretty conclusively diagnosed with a rapidly growing glioblastoma multiforma stage 4, in the left occipital lobe of my brain. It was about the size of a medium orange and kidney-shaped. On Monday October 30, I was on an operating table in Atlanta, Georgia having a malignant tumor scooped out of my brain. Half of those with such tumors die within a year. One to three per cent survive five years or more. I had just been told that I would probably die within the year. Scary, huh? Having the diagnosis, dire as it was, was a relief. At least we knew something. But, Like Alice, I had gone through the looking glass and entered a new world from which there is no return—the world of those who are radically, unconditionally and daily confronted with their own mortality. Like Paul, I could only see through the glass darkly. I had (and have) no clear idea whether I will continue to live—and live well—for seconds days, months or years, or how that life will be in terms of pain, inconvenience, restrictions or the use of my faculties, talents and skills. Nevertheless, you do what you can. Last October, like Jesus’ friends when the stone was rolled away, I had a decision to make. The disciples had a decision to make. Jesus was gone. So, in all probability, was most of the rest of my life. Do I give in to the fear and possible depression? (Been there, done that.) Or do I make the most of the experience—for myself, for others and possibly for God? Lying in bed, involved in a “near” near-death experience (my brain was severely swollen from a combination of the tumor and excess cerebro, or spinal, fluid), I decided to go for it, have as many good conversations as I could with people who understand this sort of thing and record as much as I could of the experience—hence the small camera you’ve seen me carrying around, a gift from my stepson Stephen and from Margaret. I don’t think I made this decision unaided. Though there were no dramatics, or even much evidence of presence, I believe that this was the direction that was inviting me. Almost everything that has happened since, including this opportunity, affirms that. Hence my decision to drag myself into church the day before surgery and return six days later. Both Kairos and all of you have been tremendously supportive. Everlasting thanks and gratitude. Anyway, it began immediately. On the day of my surgery I brought a Commedia del’ Arte mask purchased in Italy seven weeks earlier to the hospital, intending to wear it over the dressing. When that proved impossible. I hung it on my IV pole. Why?
I came back really well from the surgery, regaining almost all of my capabilities within two to three weeks. I’ve still got them—praise be! Many thanks, Docs. And, again, many thanks, church and all who sustained us. But it ain’t always easy. My decision is one that I have to remake on an almost daily basis, when free-floating anxiety, fatigue, or depression threaten to drag me down. Usually I have to start doing something—anything—meditate, pray or all of the above in order to do what needs to be done and be who I need to be. Got Powdermilk Biscuits? Jesus’ friends may have needed some. Often I do too. Why? Because, though so far, this hasn’t been particularly physically painful or financially devastating, it has been tough. I can never get away from my mortality. Something will remind me many times a day. Or from the possibility that something will go (is going) wrong, either gradually or with great rapidity. Chelsea reminded us earlier of the great insight contained in the medieval spiritual classic, “The Cloud of Unknowing” when she said that she had stopped trying to understand God and now desired to get closer to God. By contrast, I live in a cloud of NOT knowing . That cloud will be there for the rest of my life. There is nothing to be done about this I know that I am not the only one among us who experiences this. I also live with an isolation imposed by the diagnosis—paradoxical because I have almost never felt so much love, especially from this congregation. It’s partly existential. You can’t come back through the looking glass. It’s also how I see myself and how many others see me: “John-with-cancer”, “how long’s he got?” “How are you?” is said differently and has a different meaning. All of this doesn’t usually cause fear. But some times it can, and without warning. As a fellow survivor has said, "You don’t live day-to-day with this, it’s often hour-to-hour, especially if you include the frequent naps that punctuate my day. Some would say this is not so bad. And there’s a lot that isn’t. In fact I’ve been very graced, especially by Margaret, this congregation, my family, colleagues like Lauren and Gary and medical personnel. I’ve got it far better than many, and I know it. I have both time and the ability to use it and friends to help in order to finish what needs finishing and even start a few new things, like a book about my experience and its meaning for me. Many who die have none of these things, and face both relational and financial vulnerability. They face much more difficulty getting through an extremely difficult medical/pharmaceutical/insurance complex. I am relatively symptom and pain free. My treatments haven’t been too bad. I am neither an AIDS orphan, Darfur refugee, disabled or disfigured Iraq veteran or worse, an Iraqi with far fewer resources available. I think about these people as well. They and their earlier equivalents have been matters of concern to me since I was a pre-teen, more than 50 years ago, when I first demonstrated for racial equality in front of a local Woolworth’s (remember Woolworth’s?) I may be John-the-cancer survivor, but I’m still John. So what have I learned so far that might be of use and can help overcome fear? —I have been greatly helped by a sense of calling that began developing as a teenager when I first became involved with peace and civil rights issues, as well as the church. Without it I might well have been lost when my world was suddenly and permanently changed. —We, together, are a “Community of Health.” A community that has learned over the years and through many personal tragedies, as well as national and global disasters, to act as one. We will not be perfect, we will still be fearful from time to time, but we will be there for each other and for others. —We can’t be Easter people without being Good Friday people as well. Amy was right on, as far as I’m concerned, when she prayed to a God of life enfolding death. In order to overcome fear, I’ve found it necessary to face the fact of my own mortality head on and think that’s true for all of us. A part of life is the end of life—in both senses of the term. For me, even before cancer, awareness of the end of life helped me to discern and respond to God’s invitation to fulfill the ends of my life insofar as I have been able. —I am not particularly afraid of death. There are things in life (and possibly in my life) that can be far worse, and that are happening right now around the world. The 1.3 million AIDs orphans and the devastation in Zimbabwe that Henry Mugabe mentioned Wednesday night are only one small example. —I also know that I will go on, in part though you, in part through my family and in ways that I will never know. I may go on in other ways as well, but that is up to God. Thank you for being Oakhurst and being a part of my life and the journey that we are sharing; meeting fear, sometimes head-on, sometimes sideways, but always together and together with God. Dylan Thomas advises us to “Not go Gentle into that good night” but to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I agree with him about not going gentle, but I’ve got some trouble with raging. It doesn’t seem to do much good. So . . . Do not go gentle—go dancing! |