Love, in a time of strangeness and contradictions

(A mutated carrot, in the shape of a heart, pulled last weekend from the dark soil of the garden.)

It is strange to think that the body makes cancer cells all the time. Cancer develops when there is a mutation in the genes of a cell, such that the cell doesn't die, as it normally would. Instead, it starts to multiply out of control. Generally, the body's immune system recognizes abnormal cells and destroys them. But in the development of cancer, there is a failure of the body's usual mechanisms to stay healthy. A betrayal of what is usually invisible, and completely taken-for-granted.

According to dictionary.com, the word "betrayal" means:

- the act of exposing or delivering someone to an enemy through treachery or disloyalty

- the act of disappointing a person's trust, hope, expectations

- failure to keep or honour a promise or principle

Thinking about cancer as a bodily betrayal prompts me to wonder the converse: how I betrayed my body. How often did I betray my body-self, by not taking good enough care of myself? (I'm having trouble with the idea of body as object, as separate from self, but that's a diversion for another time.) The rabbit hole of "how did this happen?" and "what if I had done things otherwise?" is too deep and too dark, with too many twists and turns, to enter. And ultimately it leads nowhere. So far, I have more or less resisted it.

It is also a strange thing to voluntarily sign up to poison oneself, especially when feeling so well. Of course, it is for the greater good. As my Dad likes to say about home renovations, "things have to get worse before they get better." But still. There are some inherent contradictions.

So, I've been looking for metaphors to help with how to think about the chemotherapy treatment. The best one I've come up with so far is a gardening metaphor (big surprise!)—that the cancer is a weed that needs to be eliminated. I am hopeful that this cancer weed in my body is relatively easy to eliminate with treatment and won't return (unlike the goutweed in the backyard).

In the meantime, I have been floating in a warm sea of love. Friends have stopped by, with gifts of flowers, food, and more. Others have sent email, texts, cards, or phone messages. One local friend has organized others to deliver meals for Claire and me. Other friends have offered to drive me to and from the treatments, or to walk with me, which is important to reduce side effects. A long-time friend, a naturopath on the west coast, directed me to an integrative medicine clinic in Ottawa, so I could discuss which vitamins, minerals and supplements really need to be avoided, and which ones might be of benefit.

And I got the last spot in a zoom support group for women newly diagnosed with breast cancer. The ability to participate by zoom in such a group, which is Ottawa-based, is definitely a great gift of the pandemic. We had our first meeting last Thursday.

The support group facilitator is a yoga therapist, who uses movement for healing. She is a gifted facilitator and clearly loves this work. We will meet for 6 weeks; the format is part support group, part education, and part practice. In our first meeting, she spent some time talking about how a cancer diagnosis puts us into shock, with a "fight, flight, freeze" response. We don't process information or emotions very well when in that state, so one of the goals of the support group is to ease us out of shock. The facilitator gave us some very simple but effective movements to do to help the body out of shock. Things like moving the eyes to the corners, upward and downward, slowly, and having the head follow the eyes. Also bending the head slowly to one shoulder, then the other ....slowly, slowly. And then bending the torso side to side, slowly. These are very comforting. As the facilitator said, these are all movements that you would not do in an emergency, and they let the body know that you are safe

There were ten women in Thursday's session. The youngest is 37, with an 8-year old at home. Several are in their 40s, with teens at home and a couple of women are older. There is something quite sacred —that is the only word I can think to describe it—about being heard so deeply by others going through a similar experience, and to be witness to their stories. I am so grateful to be part of the group.

My beloved Iyengar yoga teacher, Barbara Young, also in Ottawa, spent an hour with me on Friday, over zoom, demonstrating supportive asanas (poses) with many props, for chemotherapy. The asanas are so supportive, comfortable and comforting.

I feel deeply held, deeply loved, deeply nourished.

Surrounded by so much love and support, I figure the cancer weed in my body doesn't have a chance.