I’m three-quarters through chemotherapy… hopefully. Nine cycles down, three to go. Then an MRI will dictate if I can go for liver surgery or if I need to pursue another course of treatment. My cancer responds to the chemo very well, so the surgery seems likely, and I am thankful. This is the persistent crush of uncertainty. It’s not something particularly new for me to manage, but it is still tricky.
Each round of chemotherapy seems to bring different issues. I don’t know why. Currently, tiny islands are forming on my hands as gravel-sized pieces of skin peel away. It’s beautiful in a strange way (and, thankfully, not uncomfortable), but also most definitely gross. Fatigue fluctuates. Nausea comes and goes. A dry mouth seems likely. A random bloody nose. Intense tingling reactions to the cold seem constant. At least half of my days see me feeling in relatively good shape, though, and I can freely sing and dance and pursue projects. Yay!
I’ve been keenly navigating these ups and downs. The invisible virus plaguing us for two years adds to the uncertainty. Even the weather—perhaps giving me the chance to spend time outdoors—is uncertain. I’m strengthening my skills to accept what I can’t control, adapt for what I can control, and fertilize the stories I want for the future. It’s been like this for years and requires an adaptive and aware way of seeing.
Adaptation and awareness are skills like any other; they require building and work. I’ve known intimately how fragile life is and how quickly things can change. This awareness I’ve carried with me for some twenty years has given me a specific approach to time management; An approach especially helpful as I’ve been navigating this journey. It’s an appreciation of the moment and gratitude for what I have. A short-term outlook to what’s within my reach—a seize the day kind of way filled with joyful hope and dreaming and doing. And a long view of how intricately interwoven our lives are with this planet and all people. A vast expanse of possibility that my precious life feeds and manipulates even at this tiny, human-sized scale.
I have had to adapt so much these last few months. I sense that our society will have to become accustomed to adjusting in the years ahead. If I could offer advice from my experiences, I’d say it starts small (“small is all,” as adrienne maree brown would say). It begins with gratitude for even the tiniest things: laughter, kind words, a ride to the hospital. Enjoying the small actions I can do: volunteering, helping a friend. A both-eyes-open awareness and consciousness help offer a perspective of what is beyond my circle of control and what is in it. It makes me aware of the vast unknown that is constantly expanding, and approach it with curiosity. It helps make informed decisions, even difficult ones. I allow myself to grieve my losses even if the loss is temporary. I adapt: my workouts move into my living room, volunteering moves online, I make movie nights in the den a festive event, I video-call my husband nightly, and we share a secret virtual hug ritual. I don’t put an end to hope. I keep moving and nurturing the stories I want to see unfold and the communities making them happen. I bathe in the abundance of life around me. For if one cannot find the joy of life in the most difficult moments, what kind of joy is to be found when things get better?
I’d like to acknowledge here the work of adrienne maree brown, who’s informed my thinking about intentional adaptation, resilience, and so much more. Her book Emergent Strategy outlines much of this in the context of strategic social change, and is a delight to read with a dedicated group of friends.
Kat Dornian 