A Time of Sorrow

 

 

I wanted to share some good news. 

And I waited until today, out of respect for all of the bad news, the tragedy in Moncton, New Brunswick during the past week.

The funeral services for the three Moncton RCMP officers, who were killed in the line of duty, are over.  But the grief and shock are not anywhere close to finished.  The eerie feeling, the palpable distress that hangs over the city will take time, perhaps a long time, to dissipate and to heal.

I've listened to friends speak of a loss of innocence, a loss of feeling safe and secure.  Perhaps "safe" and "secure" were always just a self-delusion, a necessary suspension of reality that allowed us to hope that our city is a good place, a sheltered haven.

After last week, I can now imagine what it is like to live where gunshots, murder, injury are all around me and where hiding in one's home is necessary to avoid harm.

There are many worldwide who face this reality every day, and for all of their lives.  My heart aches for them, as it does for those in Moncton who have lost colleagues, friends, husbands and fathers this week.

Our world may yet be a place of goodness and of hope, but for now it is a place of terrible loss and unbearable sorrow.

Because of that, I will wait another day to share good news.  It still feels out-of-sync.

My sympathies reach out to those who have been affected by this tragedy. 

I am so sorry for your loss and your pain.

This photo is not mine.  It posted on Facebook as RCMP officers marched to the Moncton Coliseum for the funeral services yesterday.

Spring Squills

 

The first flowers of spring

in our yard

are the squills (scilla bifolia).

 

They pop up in the places we planted them

and in the places

where the squirrels moved them...

always surprises.

 

 

They grow in a circle under the crab apple tree

and in waves though the grass.

 

They don't stay long,

but long enough to comfort 

my heart's hope for spring.

 

Return of the Robins

Could this be spring coming, with the return of the robins, warbling "cheering-cheer-up-cheerio"?

Photos and words copyright 2011-2014 Carol Steel

When Someone Has Cancer

When Someone Tells You They Have Cancer

“I have cancer.”

“What?”

“I have cancer” she said, as I watched her cut and pat and butter the dough she was making into rolls.

“I’m sorry, so sorry to hear that you are going through this.  What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing,” she said, “I don’t know what I’ll need.”

“I love you and will be here for you, whatever happens.”

“Thanks but I don’t know what the future will bring and I don’t know why this is happening to me.  I don’t know why God is punishing me…I’ve lived a good life.  I’m a good person.”

Now, facing cancer myself, I remember this scene in my grandmother’s kitchen.  I remember I was horrified that my Grandmother believed in a God, who would punish her with cancer.  I felt sorry she carried that strange belief, adding to her agony and worry over the disease.  And I don’t remember what I said to her to comfort her.

I hope I told her that I loved her, that she was important to me and that I would be there for her.  I hope I hugged her.  I hope she knew how much I loved her. 

Now, I know how it is...to tell someone, “I have cancer.”  And I have learned hard lessons about how difficult it is, for people who love me, to hear those words.  I have empathy with their sense of shock and worry and grief.   It isn’t easy to know what to say or do because everyone reacts differently and everyone copes differently.

Because of this universal discomfort with talking about cancer and because I have cancer, I feel the need to offer suggestions from my own experiences. 

So, in the hope of shedding light and offering support to those with cancer and to those who love them, here are my responses to the dilemma of what to say or do when someone you care for has cancer.

First, if you don’t know what to say or do, don’t be hard on yourself…it’s a common reaction and a human one.  Acknowledging that the news is difficult for you to hear is better than saying nothing at all.  Saying you don’t know what to do to help is OK too.  The person with cancer doesn’t always know what they need either.

If you can say, “I’m sorry” or “I care about you” or “I’ll help when you need a drive or a meal or a listening ear,” those comments are supportive. 

Don’t worry so much about saying the wrong thing.  Take your cues from the person with cancer.   They may need to talk, or to be quiet within themselves;  they are processing all of this new information, just like you are.

Avoid telling them stories about everyone you know who had cancer and died; do I need to explain why? 

Share positive stories.  Talk about normal everyday life; cancer doesn’t need to be the topic of every conversation. 

Respect their need to not talk some times.  Talking about it out loud makes it very real; makes it frightening.   They'll let you know when they need to discuss what is happening.   Be open to possibilities.

If you want to bring a gift, make sure it is something they want or can use.  Do they have allergies?  Are they having problems with nausea?  Do their cats eat flowers?  Do they like music?  Do they love chocolate?  Are they well enough to make their own meals?  Is there something they need but can’t get out to purchase?  Is there something totally impractical they would love to have?  Would they like to share a bottle of wine, and whine?  And, you don’t have to bring gifts.  Often just being with them is all they need. Yes, just you, really...you are gift enough.

Avoid saying things like:  “Well, you have large breasts anyway, so a chunk missing doesn’t matter.”  It matters, it matters a hell of a lot.  When a surgeon takes ice-cream scoop size portions of tissue from your body, it matters.  Think about it.  It isn't about breast size.  This presents a whole new set of challenges for the person with cancer.  Don't make them feel like they're wallowing in vanity when they are mourning the loss of parts of themselves.

Give hugs, but gently.  Surgery takes time to heal and incisions are often sore for a long period.  For the person with cancer, touch helps.  They are feeling isolated enough already and need all the comforting they can get.

Listen to them.  Let them talk about what the cancer is like for them.  If they cry, that’s OK.  You can cry too if you want.  The situation sucks and crying is an appropriate reaction.  Crying relieves stress. 

Remember to laugh with them too.

Don’t give unsolicited advice about how many pain pills they are taking.  It’s their pain, not yours.  The doctor knows what is happening and is supervising.

If the situation is effing awful, acknowledge that.  You saying, “Wow, that’s horrible!” may be a relief.  You can’t say anything that the person with cancer hasn’t already thought themselves.  Sometimes, it’s a relief to have the situation recognized and named.

Remind them to rest.  This situation is new to them and they may not realize how much the treatments and the stress are wearing on them.  They are struggling to find their way through this journey.

Send email messages or leave phone messages to let them know you are thinking of them.  They may not have the energy for visits or for long phone conversations.  Let them tell you what works best.  If you do visit, call first to see if they're feeling well enough for a visit.

Listen and pay attention to them.  Be patient.

Don’t say, “Cheer up, don’t think about it.”  They can’t stop thinking about it.  Let the person with cancer guide you in what is helpful to them.  Each person responds to their diagnosis differently. 

There is a fine line between giving people space and privacy and protecting yourself from becoming emotionally involved.  Some cannot and some don’t offer support; recognize what you can and cannot do.  Be gentle with yourself.  It doesn’t help the person with cancer if you force yourself to be there for them.  They’ll know the difference.  Again, be gentle with yourself in this situation.  We are all different.

Avoid saying: “I’ve read that women who are overweight are predisposed to breast cancer.”  Where do I begin?  This isn’t helpful; there are other factors involved like genetics and environment.  This blames the person for their disease and sounds like, “Well, you’re fat, so you deserve this.”  It is a nasty comment and you're an asshole, if you say such things.

Last, if the person with cancer is used to being independent, it may be excruciating for them to have to ask for help.  Keep offering and reassure them that you don’t mind helping, as long as you don’t.  If you do mind, it's OK; be truthful.  People who are dealing with serious illness appreciate the truth.

That’s all for now; if I think of anything else, I’ll write more another day.  I hope this helps you to understand and to be gentle with the person who has cancer, as well as to be gentle with your own reactions.

Oh!  And remember, breast cancer treatments have come a long way since my grandmother had cancer.  The sensitivity of the medical system has improved.  The modern equipment and the technology are able to diagnose and to treat cancer more effectively.  It is not the death sentence it once was, in my grandmother's time.

There is hope and there is life.  Every day, there is hope and there is life.

I choose life and I choose to share my own journey.

Yes, I have cancer but cancer doesn't have me.

Photo and words are © copyright Carol Steel.

Dragonfly

Dragonfly

Your ancient soul

is ever becoming

something other.

You begin as egg,

hatch to water nymph,

give up gills, leave the larval shell behind

for air and light and sun.

You transform again and again.

You warm your wings.

You dance on air

in sudden, shocking beauty,

elegant and iridescent.

Jewelled, precious creature,

you warm your cold blood

in the light

and become the light.

You scatter and refract;

you become the rainbow.

Your head, all eyes,

sees in every direction

except

behind you,

where winter and death

are stalking.

Yet, you refuse them.

You live.

You know

your shimmering self

will be reborn,

again and again

to walk the water,

to dance the air,

to feed from the wind.

Words and photos are ©copyright Carol Steel.

Today is a Gift

The heat of the sun, like a warm compress, soothes my skin.  Leaves, crisp, dry and turning brown, rustle a meditation.   Random thoughts follow the sound and ripple out on the breeze.  Cars whoosh, whispering by, far away on the road below.  A neighbour is building, hammering on her deck, getting ready for winter. 

A red squirrel climbs the wrought iron pole to the bird feeders, finds nothing appealing and falls off.  Or leaps to search for fallen rowan berries and the last of the grapes hidden beneath the vine's yellowing leaves.

Last night's rain and the sunlight wink and glisten on the leaves of the wisteria vine, the elm hedge and the sugar maple.  The light plays, creates patterns of shade.  Shadow copies of the leaves dance on the grass, deep greys on green.

Hosta leaves, touched with frost, droop now, brown tinged, wilting into the earth, turning themselves into compost for their winter's rest.  The air is cool, smells crisp and fresh, smells like fall.

The sunlight slants through the dark green, waxy leaves of the saucer magnolia, makes it look different; it becomes a glowing, unreal, lime colour.  The magnolia has had a good summer, has recovered from its breakage.  Tender care and the duct-taped splint are a success.

Autumn changes, touches everything.  Each shrub and tree, every vine and berry turns from one form of itself into another; transitions from one stage of its life cycle into another.

Me, too; I am changing, transitioning.  I await the next change in my life, this new transition into another form of myself.

I hope to pass through this cycle of health challenges, perhaps a little browned at the edges, perhaps dry and rattly for a time.  Like the magnolia, I hope to have a good season.  I anticipate my physical self will look different, maybe it will sometimes seem unreal.  But, I hope with tender care, I too will survive and become stronger.

May it be so.

Words and photo are copyright Carol Steel.

Write a Little Every Day

Write a Little Every Day

“Write a little every day, without hope, without despair,” said Isak Dinesen.  The name Isak Dinesen is the pseudonym for Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke (1885-1962), a Danish author who wrote Out of Africa and Babette’s Feast.

I do write every day.  I write between five hundred and twenty-five hundred words.  That’s not too challenging.  The “without hope, without despair” part is difficult.  I don’t always accomplish that.

I think my writing is improving.  I learn and use new skills. I try fresh methods and practise without fail.  Yet, there are times when I feel…well, if not despair, then…disappointment because it can be a challenge to see any progress.

I look back through my first blog entries, those from last year.  There are differences.  Reviewing them shows me that I have learned to let go of using adjectives everywhere.  But, I’ve learned that a well-chosen adjective around a noun can be useful in limiting the number of associations which can arise in a reader’s mind.  I’ve learned to beat the bushes of any piece I write to flush out the adverbs and then to cull them.  I’ve learned that both adjectives and adverbs saturating the page make the reader tired and confused and limit the reader’s imagination.

The best posts I’ve written are those in which I’ve been honest, shared emotions and refrained from quoting others again and again, in attempts to shore up my insecurities.  My best posts connect with the reader in direct ways, show new ways of seeing, understanding and enjoying the world.  The best are written from my heart; then refined by my head through careful revisions.

Sometimes, most times, it is helpful for me to write a piece; to leave it alone long enough so that it begins to feel unfamiliar.  Not mine.  That helps me to be objective, to see my writing for what it is.  And this helps me to revise without remorse, to hack out the parts that need to go.

What else?  I read every day.  There are stacks of books on the kitchen table, beside my bed and on my desk.  I read poetry, short stories and novels.  I read my thesaurus and my dictionary.  I research about my writing and my topics, at the library, on the Internet and with other writers.  I listen to published (and hoping to be published) writers reading from and talking about their work.   I follow writing courses when I can afford to do so, which is not as often as I would like and not often enough.  All help me to expand what I know and what and how I am writing.  Still, it is slow going.

In my daily 500 to 2500 words, there are ups and downs.  Some days I’m tired, forget the guidelines, and just want to get something, anything down on paper.   Other days, the magic is there and words flow--not perfect, but better.  And, once in a while after studying and writing and revising and writing, again and again, a piece will yield a sentence so lovely that I wonder, is this mine?  Or an image so ethereal and strange that I wonder, where did this come from?  And I recognize intuitively that something unique and new has been created.

These luminous moments keep me going with hope, and for a time, keep me going without disappointment or despair.

And so, I write…

And so, I learn…



 Words in red will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.

Vulnerability

I sit in a wooden chair beneath our crab apple tree.  The sky is blue, blue as my own eyes.   Breezes carry the scent of new mown grass and crab apple blossoms.  The last of the magnolia blooms unfold like pink tea cups on pale saucers.   The day’s only sounds are the far-off drone of lawnmowers, the squeals of children playing in the neighbours’ yards, and the plump buzz of gold and black bees as they heave over clumps of violets.   On the next street, I hear car doors open and close, open and close at a garage sale with “items too numerous to mention”…items now noticed and mentioned and sold.

All around me, life repeats its endless cycles.  And inside of me too, life cycles.  Life happens and changes…everywhere it is the same.   But, I can’t concentrate.   My mind wanders.   I fret.  I worry.  My brain buzzes like the bees.   I can’t stop it.

I am part of this cycle of life.  I began and I will end.  In between, I live and I am.

At 62, I am closer to my end than to my beginning.  I don’t give much thought to the end, to my mortality, not usually.  Perhaps, I believe it is a long way off and so avoid thinking about it yet.

Of late, I am mindful of my age.  I am aware of degenerating discs, of back pain, of decreased energy, of chest pain and aging.  Yes, aging.  

Why? 

Well, on Thursday, I spent the day, eleven hours of it in the Emergency Department hooked to monitors, and received X-rays, three sets of blood tests and ECG’s.   Then, after being so scared, breathes of relief; there was no heart damage. 

The doctor and I both believe the chest pains are a reaction to the anti-inflammatory pills that I am taking for my back.  The chest pains and nausea and weariness and pressure are likely not heart problems.   But just in case, I am booked for a Stress Test on Tuesday morning, first thing.   Just in case a partially clogged artery is sneaking up on me.  Likely, all is well.  But I am a worrier.  So doubts nibble at the edges of my mind.

I will heave sighs of relief on Tuesday after the test, exhale all my worry.  Then, the doctor and I will have to figure out the other possible causes for this chest pain and pressure and nausea.  Perhaps, it is something as simple as indigestion.   But, for now, “What if’s” plow through my head, creasing my mind with fretfulness, make it hard to be calm or to think.

I struggle to see the positives and the bright spots.  I stare at the dappled shade on my page as I write.  I see the shadows of the crab apple tree dance with the sunlight, the dark and the light together on my page.  Dark and light, these opposites are part of the natural world, part of the cycle of life, part of me.

Shadows and sunlight, pain and joy, worry and relief, vulnerability and reprieve are part of me and part of the cycle of my life.  Life happens and changes, carries me along with it…vulnerable and hopeful, frightened and joyful.

I sit in my wooden chair beneath the crab apple tree and I focus on life.  I focus on birdsong and bees, the sunshine and the peace of this afternoon.  I am glad to be alive, to be.  I am glad to be alive now, alive here, on this sun-blessed afternoon, grateful for this gift that is my life. 

And I hope my life, the life still ahead of me, contains joys and sunny days too numerous to mention.

Photos are mine.

Reflections on a Rejection of My Writing

Sadness is a lump
I can't swallow.
This ache of failure
flails my gut.
I falter.

I look to one side and refocus.
Is this who I am?
No, not at all...but naive.

I burn
this swollen leech of hope
and let go.

Look again, slantwise and clear,
look close at the truth,
then vomit the poison and ache.

Transform this failure
into a compost of lessons:
Do the work.
Learn the craft.

Apprenticeship needs a tough skin.

Spending Time With the One You Love

Do we actually spend time?  Or does time pass and we spend our lives “doing stuff”?  Stop a second, how do you pass your time?  What are you doing?

At this season of the year, there can be more chores to do and to get done, than time allows.  I wonder if getting stuff done, completing the dread “To Do” list, working at a job, doing volunteer work, watching TV or working on the computer completely shuts out any time available to “simply pay attention” to the one you love.

I wonder how much time and energy people spend each week in really listening, actually making eye contact, really touching, hugging or holding, truly giving attention to the one they love.  In balancing the one life, we each have to live.

Giving full attention doesn’t mean merely being in the house at the same time as your significant other, or being in the same room as one sews and one does dishes, or as one watches TV and one uses the computer, or as one does bookwork and the other reads, nor does it mean one sleeping in front of the TV while the other sleeps in bed.  Certainly those things are part of life, but they are not all of life.  It’s about balance in relationships.

Relationships flourish with mutual interest and attention, shared love, vibrant lovemaking, intimate conversation and paying attention to one other.  When all one’s time is given to doing, going, running errands, volunteering, working, and almost none is set aside for “attentively being with” the significant other in your life, two things begin to happen:

1.               The relationship suffers;

2.               The relationship dies.

This is something to ponder, especially at this season of the year, a season which traditionally is meant to be about hope and love.

Some questions:

How are you really “spending your time”?

Are you paying any attention to the one you love?

Is what you are doing getting you what you want in life?

If not, what needs to change?