Life and Death

Cancer used to be a dirty word. For the past several years, I have noticed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in people I know. Cancer. All kinds of cancers, A-Z. Cancer seems to be occurring almost as much as the common cold. My way of dealing with the unfathomable is to look for causes. It's a knee-jerk coping mechanism, my way of trying to control the uncontrollable. I frequently succumb to the delusion that if I know what causes something horrid, I can probably avoid it in my own life. Until now, that is.

Many years ago I read Rabbi Harold Kushner's controversial bestseller, "When Bad Things Happen to Good People." At the time, I found it interesting; it appealed to my logical mind and gave me a certain amount of comfort. But it scared me too. I was raised to think if we live a good life, we'll be rewarded. If we do bad things, we'll be punished. If we pray with indisputable fervor and conviction, God will listen to our prayers and come through for us. This duality is, after all, what underpins Judeo-Christian belief. Lately, however, the notion that bad things happen randomly, without regard for our good deeds or kindnesses, seems not only a possibility, but a reality that gives me little comfort in the middle of the night.

Dad was diagnosed with a rare cancer last November. Multiple Myeloma is a bone marrow cancer that attacks certain white blood cells. Defined as a "blood cancer," it accounts for 1% of all cancers. After many weeks of countless blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, bone scans, a bone aspiration and a biopsy, it was clear it wasn't a back problem causing Dad's severe pain, but a systemic malignancy that continues to grow daily.

For two months Mom has crusaded for stronger pain meds, spent endless hours on the phone with Dad's health insurance provider, endured dozens of hours in doctors' waiting rooms, waited for weeks while the insurance company considers whether or not to approve the prescribed (and staggeringly expensive--$400/day) oral chemo drug, and watched Dad's condition deteriorate daily. We had all grown to believe nothing bad would ever happen to this strong man who always presented the picture of health, a person who lived a life of service to others, a man who was, quite simply, a good person who most assuredly has a very comfortable spot reserved for him in the afterlife.

The hardest part is watching him gradually lose his independence and mobility, as he suffers with indescribable pain that worsens each day. In the wee hours, as I lie awake night after night, I run through my mental inventory of reasons why this happened, when in fact none may exist. My obsessive thinking replays like a broken record. Is this a consequence of environmental toxic assaults? Was it the DDT he used in the 50's when he worked in my grandfather's greenhouse? Preservatives and artificial ingredients? Processed food? Pesticides? Or maybe there's an emotional basis. Louise Hay's "Heal Your Body A-Z: The Mental Causes For Physical Illness and the Way to Overcome Them" sits on my coffee table as a semi-permanent fixture. My left brain is reluctant to abandon its relentless search for an explanation for this wretched illness.

A monk asked [Zen Master] Tozan, "How can we escape the cold and heat?" Tozan replied, "Why not go where there is no cold and heat?" "Is there such a place?" the monk asked. Tozan commented, "When cold, be thoroughly cold; when hot, be hot through and through."

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know if the chemo will work, if this is Dad's last year on the planet, or whether he'll live to a ripe old age. The only thing I know with certainty is that I can't change anything, despite my desperate wish to magically make him well again. When I'm hot, I'll be hot through and through, and when cold, I will be thoroughly cold. And...I'll hope for a miracle. It's the most I can do right now, and--paradoxically--probably the only thing that makes logical sense. The words of Ram Dass, "Be here now," become a touchstone as I wrestle with doubt and fear.

I thought I knew a lot about life, healing, and prayer. It's pretty obvious there's a lot more to learn, as I watch my old beliefs explode into nothingness. Everything I've learned so far has brought me to this point--a place of unknowing and surrender. My journey is, in some ways, just beginning. It's about transcending duality and living fully in the present moment. Wherever we go, there we are. It's that simple. I'll never know the specific reasons or causes for Dad's cancer. I'll never know why a good person suffers with a bad disease, and I realize that living a good life doesn't necessarily guarantee good health. Life's a mystery, and it's really not about the journey--it's about how we respond to it.

N.B. Dad was to begin his chemo on January 3. Today he started one of his two chemo meds. He has still not received the second drug. We trust it will arrive in the next several days. This morning it became abundantly clear that he needs a personal care attendant. Mom quickly arranged for a nurse to visit daily. Mom is the unsung hero in this drama, negotiating, advocating, working tirelessly to attend to Dad's needs, and doing everything he can no longer do for himself.