Healing

I'm amazed at how quickly Patty is healing. How can
an eight-inch incision through skin and muscle knit in
just a few days? The body is truly miraculous.

On Saturday she got from her bed into a chair then
shook for 10 minutes, teeth chattering in exhaustion.
Four days later, we were able to take a 10-minute
walk. A week after surgery we walked around the block.

The first surgeon we saw told us to treat this as
cancer, "99 out of 100 polyps like this are cancerous,"
he said, "and the ones that are not cancerous don't
look like this." We ended up with Dr Allen, a surgeon
who's been doing this for 25 years. When he looked
at the images, his assessment was different: "Well,
you might just be lucky with this one."

We were. We are.

Tuesday morning Dr Allen woke us up to share the
news. While there are cells beginning to become
cancer, they found no active cancer in the growth or
the 5 lymph nodes they checked (still some more
nodes to check, but looking good). He said that in
weeks or months, this would have become cancerous.

We're both incredibly relieved, and also feeling
almost-guilty. Over the last week so many people
have written us about their battles with cancer and
serious illness, triumphs and tragedies, truly epic
struggles of our human condition. Some have happy
endings, some are still being written, but most have
been long and grueling struggles. We seem to have
skated by, glimpsing through the portal of darkness
but avoiding the terrible depths. As you know from
my earlier messages, that was plenty scary. I think
I have not even given myself time to realize we're
not there.

We're home now with a fire burning cheerily and music
playing, the sun peeking out between bursts of rain.
The world is so alive around us, the incredible green
of the California winter. We've just been sitting,
looking at each other smiling. Wrapped in a blanket
with just her face visible, she is wreathed in joy.
There is still a lot of healing to do, and a lot of
challenge to overcome, but now it seems totally
manageable.

We're overcome with gratitude -- that she is alive and
well, that so many people have reached out to help
and encourage us. I told Patty earlier, "It's not a debt
to pay back," but I know both of us feel we've been
given so much -- maybe more than we should. Patty
said it's like "survivor's guilt" - this sense that maybe
we don't deserve to be so lucky.

With Patty recovering so well and being free of cancer,
I also feel embarrassed to have been so scared -- and
to have told so many people. While embarrassment is
a little unpleasant, it’s also valuable. For example, I
feel embarrassed about many of the articles I write,
but those are the ones that get the most response.
Embarrassment is part of vulnerability, which is
connected to authenticity and intimacy. Again, two
sides of a coin. This emotion is telling me I’ve invited
a lot of people into my life, I’ve taken a risk to be
honest. Not something to avoid.

I guess we've always prided ourselves on being "the
ones who help." On being independent, self-reliant,
dependable. To accept help requires humility. Many
people have said, "Please just call if you need
anything," but I find it difficult to call. For example,
Saturday night when I was home with the kids and
falling apart, I just didn't know who to call or what
to say -- or maybe I was just too proud.

On the other hand, we both feel that these gifts of
love and support are what's made this go so smoothly.
We've received these incredible emails and messages
from friends and strangers all over the world. It's
not measurable, it's not scientific, but we attribute
much of this smooth sailing to the support and
love that's directed our way.

At the hospital, around 5 am three days after the
surgery, I was trying to get back to sleep. I lay on
the cot next to Patty's bed, holding her hand for
awhile. Then I started imagining all the connections
of love and support bolstering her and us. I
visualized us within the complex shining web made
from all these links of care.

I began to imagine that strength flowing into her as
streams of healing light. As I let myself feel this
nearly overwhelming appreciation, my vision changed
from threads of light to a lightning storm. I imagined
this healing energy just flowing into and around her
like Saint Elmo's fire (the lightning that sometimes
would course around the mast of an old sailing ship).
When I woke up an hour later it was the best sleep
I’d had in over a week.

All these positive thoughts have been made real in my
heart, and also, I believe, in her flesh. The hopes and
prayers offered from so many people are now a part
of us. We can choose to feel this as a "debt of
gratitude" to be repaid. Or we can choose to carry
these gifts as a banner of light, reminding ourselves
to see and speak from love. I'm confident that
learning these lessons is the best "repayment" we
can offer. Acting from appreciation each day, letting
that add up over years, is the only real proof of
true gratitude.

So now I can say a heartfelt thank you. Thank you
for thinking of us, for sending some of your
boundless strength, for sharing your stories, for
offering to help, and for giving me a chance to
share my fears.

Sometimes people talk about surviving something
potentially fatal as a second chance at life. As I look
back over the last weeks, I feel like I've been given
a second chance at love. The I've had a serious
wake-up call about being the kind of husband and
father I mean to be. About co-creating a family
that is truly nurturing and connected.

It's so easy to squander this second chance. Patty
is doing so well it's easy for me to tell myself the
crisis is past. Which means I can slip back into those
comfortable old habits. To get re-absorbed in being
busy, in being right, in focusing on my own surface
wants. In fact, it's more comfortable to do that --
to forget how afraid I was, to forget that I thought
we might really be saying goodbye.

Then I think about this incredible moment last week
-- when they took Patty off the IV and the pain
medication, and she looked really alive again. I lay
down perched on the side of her hospital bed. She
leaned her head into my chest and whispered,
"Your girl's back."

How is such a triumph possible? It truly feels
miraculous. And maybe all love is?

Yesterday Max and I went to the mall, we'd been
there one week before just after the surgery; Max,
Emma, and I all tossed pennies into the fountain
and wished for Patty's health. This time, Max
found another penny and wanted to wish again.

As we walked away from the fountain, he slipped
his little hand in mine and said, "I wished for Mama
to be better."
"Isn't that what you wished for last time?" I asked.
Max nodded and looked at me with that four-and-
three-quarter-year-old seriousness and said, "No
monsters trapped the love, so she is getting
better. Sometimes wishes come true. "

Several of the emails I received over the last weeks
talked about finding new strength from these
challenges. Our friend Cath Corrie summarized it
well, "I always see these huge times as initiations,
taking us through to yet another level of humanity
and closer to our soul."

I've experienced that, and I see that it's easy to
slip back to the status quo. So I'd like to throw
another penny into the fountain and make a new
wish and commitment to remember. I wish to
remember to give time to what's important, to
love with enough strength to let weakness show,
and to keep seeing those streamers of light
supporting me to live from gratitude.

Gratefully,
- Josh

--
Joshua Freedman
Director of Programs
Six Seconds Emotional Intelligence Network
http://www.6seconds.org
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