I had surgery on October 14th. The surgeons removed the tumors in my colon and from the left side of my liver. Recovery has been slow and challenging: Tubes, pokes, and hospital misadventures.
So many tubes. Tubes that send pain relief through my spine, one that carries out urine, another that drains my stomach, a tube for oxygen, tubes delivering nutrition and a tube for medicine. These tubes have stuck around for days and days. Most are gone now, but not all. I make the same joke to the nurses: I’m a meatball in spaghetti.
I’ve been poked with needles so many times. Every night another draw of blood. I have small veins that reject the use of IV tubes. For every new IV placement, there are probably three probing needles. Yikes. The bloody dots mark my arms and hands like constellations. I can count seven dots, forming what may be a dolphin with a ball.
I’ve been in the weirdest sectors of the hospital. Driven into what felt like a closet in the basement where they drained litres of fluid from my lung and belly. Where I nearly held my breath as I stared at shelves of various N95 masks and wondered what was going on.
I don’t feel qualified to write this post. I’ve rewritten and revised it over half-a-dozen times. Despite my hesitation, I’m compelled to share. Why? Because community is an essential part of well-being and deepening community is one of the most immediate actions one can take to improve survival in this world. Bold statement, I know.
One of the greatest helps since being diagnosed with cancer has been community. Community has been a significant part of my life for a long time, even if I didn’t always acknowledge it.
In my teens and twenties, I placed a high value on independence. I got a car shortly after turning sixteen, and loved being able to get myself around. At some point in those years of discovering my independence, I found myself less interested in the clothes and entertainment my “popular” peers were interested in. I would go to the mall, movies and coffee-shops on my own if I wanted. I even read up on living off the land, how to grow soy and hemp, and how to forage. I never needed to ask for help, and thought that doing so was a weakness. I saw it as an asset that I didn’t need to rely on anyone else.
Truth be told, I relied heavily on others. Not just material reliance, but reliance on the acceptance from others too. I didn’t realize it.
But with time has come a different understanding of the world. While I am grateful for those years spent getting to know myself through the search for independence, my values have shifted much more towards community and interdependence. By this, I mean the various clusters of beings who are connected by a common root and grow together. These beings, some of whom I know deeply and others whom I barely know, have helped navigate these difficult and magnificent times of my life.
There are communities of shared interests, like that which I found in community radio and music. Without fully realizing at the time, working in radio was about community more than anything else. Here, a diverse mix of people come together to share something they love. I wouldn’t (still don’t) consider myself a community builder, but moving into this community space at a young age showed me so much about listening, sharing, gathering, and showing up.
There are communities of shared geography, like the beautiful neighbourhoods I’ve chosen to live in. These vibrant communities are home to friends and familiar faces. Like I said, I’m no community builder, but I do benefit from the work others have done to create exciting community spaces where I can participate in building community. I love participating. I love going to my neighbourhood coffee shop and making small talk. I’ve followed the stories of babies being born to starting school, and so much more. I frequently run into neighbours and friends on my walks and it is one of the most magical feelings. Admittedly, sometimes I’m too caught up in my own thoughts to say hi, sometimes it’s just a smile and wave, and sometimes it turns into a half-hour conversation. My body bubbles with joy after even the smallest encounters. I’m amazed at the generosity of people I hardly know extending their help to me this last year.
There are communities of shared struggle, like the cancer community. A close community that allows the sharing of personal stories, struggles, and successes.
As I’ve been appreciating community more and more over previous years, I’ve come to make some observations. I’ve noticed how communities shift, change, and adapt to be what’s needed in the moment. People come, stay, go, and return at different frequencies. Communities form and dissolve, ebb and flow, like tides. I’ve noticed the way everyone contributes in different ways to holding and weaving the space. I’ve noticed the benefits of showing up, and creating a welcoming environment for others to do so too. I’ve noticed that it helps to throw out the scorecard: to give what I can when I can without needing the deed returned, and to accept help graciously. Most importantly, I’ve noticed the brilliance with which communities emerge over time spent caring and sharing together. It doesn’t always have to be heavy, and nor should it be. But it does take time.
I’m heading in for surgery very soon. In some ways, I feel like I’m stepping away from my communities as I recover. I’ve put volunteering on hold and won’t be stopping into my neighbourhood coffee shop. But, in other ways, I am deepening into my community by allowing friends and neighbours to support me when I need help. It’s a very strange feeling for someone who’s valued independence for so long, but I’m doing my best to get more comfortable.
Took a quick road trip to the coast. I wish I could stay, erase the cancer cells in my body, and breathe in the continuous flow of rainforest air forever.
Wild Pacific Trail
Unfortunately, nature doesn’t erase cancer. It does soothe my nervous system. It calms my breathing. It puts things in perspective.
I should be heading into surgery, round one, sometime in September to erase the cancer cells, so to speak. A date is to be determined. Before that, I hope to soak up as much nature as possible in these waning days of summer. Hence, a trip to the magnificent Pacific Ocean and the North American temperate rainforest.
Way Point Beach at sunrise, on Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ territory
Before taking this trip, I wanted to explore some apps that facilitated connections with nature. I played with a few of them throughout my travels. My favourites have been Roots: Connect with Nature (nature meditations and soundscapes) and Seek by iNaturalist (identify and find wildlife). Both offer experiences that seem to enhance time in nature rather than detract from it.
Bigleaf Maple in Cathedral Grove
During my explorations, I thought a lot about abundance. The forests are so rich in life. I thought about how there could be enough for everyone, especially now. Our wisdom, knowledge, and technological advancements can eliminate hunger, poverty, and much disease. Yet, the fear of scarcity is baked into our bones and synapsis. It began before we became humans; from the millennia we spent running and fighting; from the times before we built walls and locks and the times after, up to today. These learned behaviours are ancient. So we hoard and control resources from minerals to the carbon of dead beings to seeds to people. Instead of happiness, the resources require more walls, more locks, more protection, more fighting, more resources… And we never say, “Enough!” Despite all the advances, we’re forcing ourselves back into scarcity. Heat waves are drying out massive rivers. Wars are destroying staple crops. Rapid extinctions are collapsing ecosystems that maintain our (and many others) lives. These are just a few of the issues bearing down on us as we simultaneously have the know-how to stop them and continue to ignore the warnings about what brought us here.
Cathedral Grove
I wish pictures could bring the experience of abundance to everyone. Even the closest facsimiles seem to fall short. (However, I’ve experienced some pretty good ones like iMax nature documentaries and—very oddly—that Avatar ride at Disney.) Luckily, I don’t think one needs to travel to distant places to feel that wonder: Gazing at the night sky, watching the clouds, waking up early for a sunrise, catching the murmurations of birds, enjoying a rain shower, going into a forest near where one lives and just soaking it all in.
Black rocks on Wya Point Beach
Maybe technology can help. So, I’m curious: what technology connects you more to nature?
From the book I packed for the trip: “Dub: Finding Ceremony” by alexis pauline gumbs
Puberty hit me differently than most. I spent the prime summers of my teenage years in the woods. The days were filled with forest games, forging trails, and mud baths. The nights were spent around campfires or sprawled on smooth rocks next to the gentle woosh of the river. I fell in love with nature during these summers. It wasn’t the Taylors or Alexes that I wanted; I longed to connect with the Engelmann spruces and Douglas firs.
Ironically, my love of nature did not drive me toward a career in ecology. Quite the opposite; In the months beyond summer, I would create computer games, design websites, and fiddle with breadboards in my spare time. And that was the passion I followed as I matured.
Nonetheless, I could not sever my bond with Earth. I didn’t have words for it at the time, but I understand this love as biophilia now. The term put forth by Edward O. Wilson is defined as the human’s affinity for other life and the natural world.
When I received my diagnosis, my first instinct was to bathe in wild lakes and forests. I felt the powerful force of life surge through me, the force written into the DNA of every organism that lived to bring me here today. Starting with the single-cell lifeforms that divided billions and billions of years ago to these beautifully complex ecosystems that continue to find creative ways to sustain and persevere another tomorrow. Throughout my treatment, I’ve prioritized time with these incredible systems. I’ve rekindled my love with the natural world into a bright and steady glow.
Alas, with love comes pain. I once heard it said that to give oneself to love is to accept the eventual pain when the day comes for one to leave and one to be left behind—what some take as a worthy price for the most euphoric of human emotions. And so, extraordinary measures are taken to extend and protect life, the seemingly most innate instinct in our being.
In the month I got my diagnosis, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) began issuing its sixth assessment on the science around climate change, its impact on our world, and what we can do about it. Here I was in August 2021: dealing with my own personal health crisis as news poured in about the escalating health crisis of this planet I deeply love.
Since then, I’ve undergone the medical treatments to shrink and eradicate my tumours (I’m still going). Like many interventions, the medicines come with a price: loss of sensation in fingers and toes, fatigue, and lowered immunity. So too, may we need to accept some losses in mitigating the most severe consequences of climate change, or else there may be much more to lose. But technical solutions are not the sole course of action available, so I’ve learned.
There are so much more than technical interventions in healing. I’ve seen presence, engagement, community, meaning-making, and hope work as some of those interventions. They’ve helped me through this time and could serve in confronting even global crises.
“So let’s resolve ourselves to live meaningfully, honestly acknowledging the truth that life is fragile, time is fleeting, and death is certain—and rather than ignore, avoid, or deny these realities, may we engage this time with greater clarity for our values, a deeper sense of gratitude and appreciation for what we do have, in richer authenticity to ourselves and others, so that we might invest in those relationships we deeply cherish and seek to make the world a better place.”
Daryl R. Van Tongeren
Presence and Engagement
“We must reinvent a future free of blinders so that we can choose from real options.”
David Suzuki
There is no use turning away from reality and pushing away discomfort. It seems fine at first, but it is much more painful in the long term. It’s said avoidance “dilutes our lives by robbing us of the urgency of a finite existence.” (Daryl R. Von Tongeren, Ph.D). Furthermore, Buddhist teacher Frank Ostaseski teaches that “Suffering is exacerbated by avoidance. … Our attempts at self-protection cause us to live in a small, dark, cramped corner of our lives.”
Presence is the practice of being in the moment and appreciating the little things. This practice fills life with meaning, purpose, and wholeness. That meaning is so vital in the difficult times. As psychologists JoshuaHicks and FrankMartela have proposed, “We should slow down, let life surprise us and embrace the significance in the everyday.”
From my own experience of practicing mindfulness, I can attest to and offer a different advantage. As I look back over my life, it is filled with these savoured moments and feelings: warm winds on my face during morning rides, rich risotto in a dim and lively restaurant, raucous laughter around a board game table. These gentle memories remind me of the meaning of my life while also giving me comfort that I’ve lived life well.
Engagement starts with presence. It is standing with our problems and reactions. It’s what allows us to choose meaningfulness day by day. Researchers have seen that this focus can allow negative emotions to coexist with action, instead of letting the emotions paralyze us. To do this, psychologist Susan David offers a reminder that “Emotions are data, they are not directives.” And feelings can be explored by investigating the function they might serve, allowing the emotion to be worked with and through. So too, looking deeper into problems we face, even globally, can give more hope and meaning to our lives.
While presence and engagement are excellent first steps, there’s deeper work needed for our planetary healing.
Community
“There’s never a clear point at which a being begins or ends, and that’s why we are all lichens: a being made up of multiple separate symbiotic organisms.”
Donna Haraway
There is a robust community among cancer patients if one should choose to pursue it. I’ve found great solace and connection with these friends. I’ve also been blessed to be in caring communities in my life beyond cancer. The power of community is incredible when others are there to lift and support the glow of each other. It breaks the walls of loneliness, makes connections, and moves us forward together. There’s hope, support, and meaning in the community… if done well.
Paul Born, founder of the Tamarack Institute, offers that we cannot settle for shallow communities or fear-based communities. These are rooted in turning away or against others. We must strive for deep community. Community, where stories unite us, time together is enjoyed, care is taken, and a better world emerges from our work. It is not passive work; it requires diligence and care, but the rewards are vast: connection, joy, and emergent good.
A “raft” of ants can cross a body of water that would be an insurmountable obstacle for one individual. Credit: Tim J. Patterson via Wikimedia CC BY-SA-3.0
Sarah Jaquette Ray, whose interdisciplinary pursuits have made her an expert on coping with climate anxiety, speaks to the importance of community in movements. In a recent LATimes article, she recommends, “We need to start where we are, use the talents we already have, and plug into groups and communities that are already doing the work. Building community around action should be our measure of success, and it can happen right now.”
Building a community cannot wait until the crisis is at the doorstep. Anyone can start today by working with organizations moving action forward and even by just reaching out to our neighbours. It can begin as simply as sharing ourselves, sharing a story.
Meaning-making
“The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love—the more human he is and the more he actualizes himself.”
Viktor Frankl
Meaning-making weaves tightly with presence and engagement. Meaning builds as we appreciate the small things and know how our actions serve greater problems. In challenges as enormous as climate change, it is often more meaningful to focus on what choices and leverage points we do have control of.
Crisis and grief, such as comes with the threat of cancer or planetary extinction, can lead people to find more meaning in life. Grief leads to meaningful shifts in behaviour, such as spending more time with family, being more charitable, volunteering, or deepening spiritual practices. Furthermore, this meaning can surface through community or counselling work with methods such as storytelling (storytelling to cope with grief around climate crisis is abundant).
In his highly popular book, Man’s Search for Meaning, Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl reminds us of the importance of engagement in finding meaning: “What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for a worthwhile goal, a freely chosen task. What he needs is not the discharge of tension at any cost but the call of a potential meaning waiting to be fulfilled by him.” Luckily, Frankl reassures us that simply our actions and responsibleness towards our everyday choices give life that meaning.
Perhaps that worthwhile goal is a liveable planet. Those actions and choices can be as simple as choosing sustainable transport, buying local and buying less, talking to loved ones, and pushing decision makers toward sustainable choices, away from fossil fuels. Add to that the power of community action; Hope for a better world is palpable.
Practicing Hope
“Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up.”
David Orr
Ameme circulates from time to time, saying “When people think about travelling to the past, they worry about accidentally changing the present, but no one in the present really thinks they can radically change the future.” The intervention to this, I believe, is hope.
“Hope is a Discipline” – Mariame Kaba. Credit: @em_swami
For some, hope can feel defeating. But the future exists in the practice of hope. We can begin—today—to live stories of hope; Plantingmetaphoricalseeds for the future we want to see written. But to plant those seeds, we need the hope that they will grow, or else what’s the point?
Whether in the world of cancer or climate emergency, we can practice hope by engaging, choosing our actions with purpose, and becoming active in communities. We can have personal daily practices of mindfulness, presence, storytelling, and joyful connection. We can allow ourselves to fall in love, even though it may be painful. We can fall in love with every precious moment we get to spend among the trees.
Collected Resources
Creating deep community and why that matters: Born, Paul. Deepening community: Finding joy together in chaotic times. Berrett-Koehler Publishers, 2014.
How does meaning emerge from grief and crisis: Brody, Jane E., “Making Meaning Out of Grief.” New York Times, 2019. Lee, Virginia, et al. “Meaning-making and psychological adjustment to cancer: development of an intervention and pilot results.” Oncology nursing forum. Vol. 33. No. 2. Oncology Nursing Society, 2006.
A psychosocial healing strategy offered to cancer patients: Cunningham, Alastair J. Healing Journey. Key Porter Books, 1994.
The importance of meaning in adverse situations (and life in general): Frankl, Viktor E. Man’s search for meaning. Simon and Schuster, 1985.
For more on biophilia, look at the work of Edward O. Wilson: Kellert, Stephen R., and Edward O. Wilson, eds. The Biophilia Hypothesis. Island press, 1993.
How appreciating the little things can add depth and meaning to life: Hicks, Joshua, and Martela, Frank. “A New Dimension to a Meaningful Life.” Scientific American, 2022.
Speaking about different points at which we affect a system and make change: Meadows, Donella H. “Leverage points: Places to intervene in a system.” (1999): 980989.
For lessons about turning toward suffering, welcoming everything, and showing up whole (as well as more on living fully): Ostaseski, Frank. Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully. Pan Macmillan, 2017.
To read more about how problem- and meaning-focused teaching helps youth (and us) deal with climate change: Ratinen, Ilkka. “Students’ Knowledge of Climate Change, Mitigation and Adaptation in the Context of Constructive Hope.” Education Sciences 11.3 (2021): 103.
About dealing with climate anxiety through communities of action: Ray, Sarah Jacquette. “Op-Ed: Is Climate Anxiety Bad For the Planet.” Los Angeles Times, 2021. Ray, Sarah Jaquette. “A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety.” A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety. University of California Press, 2020.
Different ways to look at and practice hope: Tippet, Krista (host). “Future of Hope.” On Being, 2021.
There hasn’t been much change to my routine in the last few weeks. Not much news either, as I find myself in a sort of holding pattern. I am finding it difficult to write about myself amidst all the world’s heaviness. To find focus, I put together a playlist. Let’s start this entry there:
As I said, it’s difficult to focus solely on healing my own body when it feels the larger body of the Earth is also undergoing existential threats. It’s never seemed this heavy before. Is it the fatigue from two years of navigating a pandemic? The sight of love being co-opted and abused—a movement of toxic love-bombing? Is it the magnitude of information streaming from the internet? Countless streams begging for attention? Is it the sheer power of human technology? The exponential growth lines shooting away from our organic presence? The ability of these technologies to wipe out cities? To poison the Earth even more? Perhaps all these factors mark the equation for my current melancholy.
I can make out the reflections between my personal healing work and my response to global issues that threaten life on a much more global scale. So, I strive to choose my actions intentionally with each day I can get up. I balance my tasks, finding both challenges and relaxation. I welcome all my emotions, knowing they are arriving for a reason and that they shall ebb and flow as terrible as it is in the moment. I remember to breathe.
Still, I feel discombobulated. I don’t always get it right. I lose my temper. I scream. I yell cruel words. I make mistakes. I always hope I find my way back to my centre. I’m not seeking any unattainable perfection, no perfection at all. I’m just hoping that my actions result in a net positive, one day at a time.
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.
I’m flipping my format for this post. In the last few months, I’ve struggled to keep myself occupied. There was a series of days in late November where I languished with boredom. I wouldn’t have it though, no more funnelling television into my brain. I needed hobbies. Of course, I must be aware of health-risks in public spaces (Covid and the flu), as well as manage my own abilities brought on by side-effects of treatment. Furthermore, being on medical leave means reduced income, adding limits to certain activities. Nonetheless, there are plenty of distractions.
I’ve compiled a bunch of activities below that I really enjoy. Most don’t require leaving the house, or even much money. Admittedly, I’m a bit of a weirdo and eccentric so they might not be for everyone. But I’m also known to partake in the acclaimed and tried and true at times as well. in the end, I hope my suggestions may help someone who finds themselves languishing on a medical leave or just bored.
1. Watch television:
I’m pretty over television at this point, but it does help to pass the time. Services that offer these shows will vary widely by region. If you’re in Canada, CBC Gem is free and hosts a surprising abundance of quality shows, including the first three on this list. Otherwise, you may have to do a bit of searching to find a (paid) service. Sorry I can’t help more.
Here’s what I’ve enjoyed recently (that’s not too depressing):
Chewing Gum (comedy, offbeat, British)
Pen15 (comedy, for 90s kids)
The Great British Bake-Off (reality, feel-good, baking, British, lots of episodes)
Westworld (sci-fi, drama)
Fleabag (comedy, drama, brilliant, British)
We Are Lady Parts (comedy, music, british)
Halt and Catch Fire (drama, nerdy)
Mr. Robot (drama, great ending)
Atlanta (comedy, drama, music)
Twin Peaks (crime, surreal)
How to with John Wilson (comedy, documentary-ish, new york)
I’m not a huge video game person, but boy do I love Untitled Goose Game. It’s stealth and adventure and a good dose of humour. I just wanted to mention that. You may have to pay a bit of coin, but it is hours of entertainment well worth the buck.
3. Do citizen science:
Find projects on scistarter.org. There are lots of science research initiatives that don’t need you to leave the house, with varying degrees of commitment. None of them require much expertise so you can dive right in, have fun, and help out scientific discovery!
4. Go for walks:
If you’re not completely housebound, AllTrails lists walks you can take even in city settings! They provide difficulty and the community often leaves comments on current trail conditions. I’d be remiss not to caution you to only try for what you’re actually qualified to take on; Too many people overextend themselves and require emergency rescues from not being properly prepared for their hike. That said, as someone on medical leave, I’m personally not taking anything particularly difficult at this time.
5. Or workout indoors:
If going out doesn’t work (read: treatment side effect), here are a few sites I’ve tried that offer accessible workouts that can be done indoors and don’t necessarily need equipment or a ton of space. I’m keeping the list to the lower intensity stuff as there’s enough healing to do when on medical leave that adding the stress of intense workouts needs to be handled carefully.
Walk at Home (light exercise, varying lengths 15-45mins)
First, find a library near you! Books are very accessible. My library has ebook apps as well so I don’t even need to leave the house to have tons of books delivered to me.
These are some books that have really stuck with me over the last few years (in no particular order):
The Gift: How the Creative Spirit Transforms the World by Lewis Hyde (nonfiction, arts, philosophy)
Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino (fiction, fantasy)
Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler (fiction, sci-fi, dystopia)
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (fiction, sci-fi, dystopia)
Split Tooth by Tanya Tagaq (fiction, poetry, canadian, adult)
Life of Pi by Yann Martel (fiction, fantasy, adventure)
Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void by Mary Roach (nonfiction, science, humour)
Far From the Tree by Andrew Solomon (nonfiction, psychology, parenting)
On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes by Alexandra Horowitz (nonfiction, observation)
Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer (nonfiction, nature, science)
Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates (memoir, race, culture)
Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi (fiction, historical)
The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas (fiction, young adult, social justice)
The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski (nonfiction, philosophy, self-help)
The Body Is Not An Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love by Sonya Renee Taylor (nonfiction, feminism, self-help)
The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline (fiction, sci-fi, young adult)
How to See by Thich Nhat Hanh (nonfiction, spirituality)
From The Ashes by Jesse Thistle (memoir, canadian)
Tree: A Life Story by David Suzuki and Wayne Grady (nonfiction, nature, science)
The Break by Katherena Vermette (fiction, canadian, adult content)
7. Learn something:
If you know me, you know I’m a learning fiend! So naturally I’ve tried a lot of different learning platforms:
Coursera and edX have a wide selection of courses and excellent platforms to inspire learning. Their courses are free, with the option to pay for a certificate and other features (like unlimited access). These sites offer courses mostly from universities so focus on the sorts of things you might find in a university: science, business, health, literature, philosophy, etc.
There are lots of resources online to help you learn to code, including the two sites above. There are also dedicated sites like FreeCodeCamp and Codecademy. Also, game-making tools like Unity (used to build hundreds of games like Untitled Goose Game and even Pokémon Go) have tutorials so you can create an app/game in no time at no cost (if you want to get more complex though, you’ll need to start purchasing additional tools and collections) . Compared to Coursera and edX, these are more casual and open ended.
You might have access to kanopy (i.e. through your library); This streaming site has several courses made by The Great Courses on a wide range of subjects from history to cooking, science to self-help. The courses are a little less interactive than the previous suggestions, but they are full of content and if you choose to follow along with their suggested activities in a class like cooking, drawing, or meditation, it can be really engaging.
For more creative-oriented learning there are lots of subscription and pay-per-class sites like Skillshare, Udemy, Domestika, and CreativeLive. I’ve used the first two and turned out some interesting projects from the classes I’ve taken and grown my skills at things like Photoshop, hand-lettering, writing, and storytelling.
8. Socialize:
Even thought it’s challenging to do big events when managing a compromised immune system, not all hope is lost. Sites like EventBrite.com and Meetup.com offer easy ways to find happenings in your area and beyond (seriously, don’t limit yourself to local when the world is available via these amazing wire networks). Both allow you to filter for online and by price. You can even subscribe to hosts that appeal to your interests to get updates when they open a new event.
If you just like chatting with people, the Clubhouse app offers real-time voice conversations around various and wide-ranging topics. It’s pretty cool to both eavesdrop and participate with people around the globe.
9. Do crafts and make art:
There are several relatively low-cost crafts to keep someone busy. Of course, there is some money needed for supplies, whose cost will depend on how much you want to dedicate to it. That said, you can learn almost any craft for free through YouTube and other online resources (see the learn something category above). I’ve tried a lot of these hobbies over my time, and have added what seems to be a good resource for learning each. A quick search online will turn up many results if the one I provide isn’t your jam.
Blogging. vlogging, and podcasting (I use WordPress and they have lots of resources to help get you started)
10. Learn a language:
I’m sure everyone’s heard of this by now, but if you haven’t, get yourself over to Duolingo and learn how to say “I want a sandwich” in Klingon.
BONUS. Volunteer:
I’ve found volunteering has really helped lift my spirits while being stuck at home. It lets me apply my skills to help others without the pressure of it being work. The people I’ve volunteered for have been really understanding and flexible to accommodate my needs. I used a very local-specific platform (Volly) to find volunteer opportunities, but the Canadian government website seems to offer some help in this domain.
The grief that’s been holding me for five months begins to crack. I see more light pushing through where the substance gives way. Grieving takes time. A shrouding. A breaking. A healing. New growth finds purchase within me, reaching into the illuminated places. Learning how to laugh and dance and sing and read again, with joy now. Growing into these lightened spaces where cancer doesn’t hang like a black cloud.
I still think about cancer a lot. There’s always an appointment on the horizon and side effects from treatment reminding me of my condition. It’s a long, persistent presence. There’s the uncertainty of what the coming months will bring. I wonder if it will always be this way—if the grieving will someday fade to an hour a day or a week. I wonder how joy will show up tomorrow or in a month. Settling into uncertainty is challenging but something many of us are learning. Treasuring the present. Dreaming a tomorrow. Taking small steps.
It’s been said many times, but the holidays are challenging for people moving through grief. There are many ways it manifests. For me, the absence of the usual joy that giving brings me and the burden it places on my scattered chemo-brain has been a struggle. Missing holiday gatherings that are too risky for my immune system sucks (not that these are happening with Covid, to be honest). I desperately want to spend time in the warm lakes of companionship. All of this is on top of navigating ever-colder weather that I’m painfully sensitive to because of chemo.
While laughter touches more of my days, I broke down last week. Thursday evening was set aside for card writing and present wrapping. My heart was heavy, and the usual joy these activities bring was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t concentrate, and even the simple task of signing my name felt overwhelming. I hadn’t planned carefully, and I sensed cards were in short supply. It was too much. I found myself shaking and crying. Thank goodness for my excellent partner. Even though it was late, he and I decided to go to the mall before it closed and see Christmas lights. The first display we saw was the twinkling moose standing at least twelve feet high. We marvelled and enjoyed it. After leaving the mall, we drove through the community, catching glimpses of decorated houses and inflatable figurines propped up on lawns and balconies. It was an act so small, but it broke me out of the doldrums this time. I’ve since been to two more malls for holiday decor admiration. It’s silly, but it’s helping. I’m surprised at what aids me to move forward. I hold a compassionate space for myself to explore these salves.
Today, I’m doing good. Despite the lengthening nights of winter, the light is coming through the cracks. I am connecting with friends, dancing, and singing most days. I’m finding more balance. Not every day is this way, but I’ll take it when it comes and enjoy the rays as they come through.
I was in a very different place three months ago. The shifts and changes over this time surprise me. Some expectations unmet, and some exceeded. I find myself in new territory and navigating with determination on my way.
Over the last few months, I have met more and more cancer survivors—seeing the incredible variety of forms this generic term “cancer” contains. The treatments are just as vast and remarkably progressing in their effectiveness. Although we forge different courses on the proverbial map, I see how mine is shaped by those who’ve travelled before me. I think of the leaders of cancer organizations, often cancer survivors themselves, and of donors and researchers who contribute to the journey. Much support and research flourishes, and I’m thankful my path benefits from this growth of understanding.
The tumours in my colon and liver have come exceptionally down in size since starting chemotherapy three months ago. The path set by my medical team has indeed been a good one. Granted, it leaves me fatigued, sensitive to cold, and nauseous. Still, I have visions of a future where there’ll be treatments less brutal as well as more early detection in young people like myself. This journey is tiring indeed. I will continue to chart forward, continuing chemo for a bit longer, and then a high chance of surgery in a couple months.
I have a fantastic support community and a lovely psychologist with cancer expertise. The effects on my mental health are some of the most difficult to navigate. Not having the straightforward tasks of a job make some days feel bleak, but small projects are helping uplift me in that regard. I find myself dreaming more, laughing more, and reminding myself of the value of doing small acts.
That said, the shortening days and colder air have brought on a particular sorrow. The grey of the sky drones with the grey of grief in my spirit. I try to light my candle for brightness, but its light is small and untrained for this ordeal. Although there is much to hope for in my progress so far, cancer is a nebulous threat that looms with fierce uncertainty. I return to the present moment often—the flickering candle and my steady breath—but cancer sits ominously near… and within. It feels heavy, but I am getting to know it better. I imagine my community in my body, clearing the misguided cells and setting them down a river. Healing. This is the best way I’ve found to approach my cancer. I’ve found little gratitude or warmth for it. Do I need to? Who knows what the future will bring.
When I look back at the beginning of this trek, I remember the pervading feeling of guilt. So. Much. Guilt. It manifested in my angry reaction to questions about causes. I’d felt this was my doing and felt the reason was my mistake. That’s the story I’d heard in my life. To avoid cancer, you must exercise, eat greens, avoid red meat, limit alcohol, cut sugar, live in alignment, live in balance, and so forth. And even though I did my best (most of the time), here I am. I wish I’d been more firm with doctors when my concerns were being written off… but perhaps I was scared myself. I find forgiveness. I release the guilt. Some days it is more challenging than others, but when I look back at the path I travelled, I see the burial mounds where guilt was shed. I’m doing better now. I hope others know they can ask for more from doctors, and I hope others know that life plays out as chaotically as the stars overhead and cancer follows these same rules. Whether you did everything right or everything wrong, there is always a chance that the path ahead will be more treacherous than anticipated. We will never dominate the natural world. So, I’m learning how to live with it beyond the longing to control what scares me.
My gratitude for a life well-lived has come to my aid many times. Over the worst parts, I lean on the strengths I’ve gained to ease the turmoil and remind myself how to move forward. Gratitude is definitely one of my strengths, and thank goodness. I know the coming months and years will continue to put me to the test. I learn, and I grow as I go. And keep living well.
A new phase of healing. I’m feeling quite good (after the chemo side effects wear off)—a win I’ll accept. I’ve been able to enjoy some movies in theatres and a wider breadth of tasty foods. I’m finding more energy here and there throughout the days. These are good signs and contribute to a mood of heightened spirits, which I need. I find myself surprised that the drugs could possibly be working when they feel so brutal. I guess that’s the point.
While the cancer moves out of my body, the shift from autumn into winter signals change as well. The excitement of diagnosis has wound down, and I’m turning inward more. I’m valuing time to myself. The last couple of months have been somewhat of a marathon, and it feels like I can breathe a bit more this week. I’m enjoying the space and quiet while I can, although it’s not all easy.
I’m bemoaning the shorter days and colder air. It’s the signal for hibernation, but it brings its own anxiety. Am I ready for the coming months? What is even coming? More rest? More treatment? More fatigue and nausea or some other adventure? I’m a leaf on the wind, not knowing where I’m headed. I’ll get answers soon, but it’s a bit unsettling.
The hardest thing I’ve been confronting these last few weeks is my ablism. I’ve thought of myself as so accepting of everyone and an advocate for accessibility. But until being faced with my own inabilities, I’ve failed to see how much prejudice I hold. I’m seeing how I’ve valued work and productivity so much. I’m hard on myself when I’m not pursuing a challenge. I’ve harboured these thoughts of others too, and now I’m learning it’s necessary to let go. It’s not easy. I’m learning to accept all life in the way I accept the bugs, soil, and streams for just being alive and beautiful. I realize that engaging in joy does not need to be a reward for hard work. I’ve had to confront the scorn I’ve cast on myself and others for not constantly pursuing difficult or challenging things, and it is a tough cookie to chew. I realize the irony that this tough cookie is yet another challenge. It is what it is: necessary. But, I’m trying to be kind with how I learn this lesson.
So here I go into the calm: more healing, more joy, more life.
Kat Dornian 