A new true north points toward the redwoods

 

Precise directions are lost, somewhere on the far edges of my mind, as I can’t seem to remember the exact location of where I’m heading on this frosty February morning.  Google Maps remembers.  When I add the first few numbers of the address, a full location pops immediately: Cancer Partners of Nebraska.

I am heading for a cancer checkup, marking a year since I first quietly approached my physician with a few troubling questions. Ten months since a full hysterectomy, eight months since the grand finale of radiation – and perhaps six since I believed I had conquered my demons.

After all, in these past months I had determined to wake up every single morning, feeling the wild abandonment of life. I created a gratitude list and an always-say-yes agenda. smoked my first cigar, painted shades of the rainbow into my hair, savored as much lemon ice cream as possible, danced with summer fairies, ocean tides and even a sky filled with Northern Lights. 

I had lived life passionately, darn it.  I had done everything right. Yet these last few appointments – billed as quick examinations and check-ins – unpredictably gobsmacked me.  

Bottom line, the checkups arrived without fanfare, and all seems to be dandy inside my body. The same familiar medical folks greeted me with smiles and hugs. The examinations passed quickly and I was blessedly proclaimed “Cancer free.”  Everyone wished me well. They told me to go live my life.  And this time around they set up an appointment for six months ahead – not three.  

Six months, sigh. 

“Did you need something sooner?” one of the health care workers asked, gently.

“Yes, please,” I replied.  “Could you please come to my house every single morning and assure me that I’m cancer free?” 

We all laughed, of course, and I headed on my way.

Except that something has clearly shifted.

One of my favorite projects over the past year has been helping with the first Nebraska Storytelling Festival – therein meeting and listening to a glorious, 29-year-old breast cancer survivor named Madison.

“The thing about cancer, you can’t wave a magic wand and get your life back,” this young storyteller wisely explained.  “You lost the life that you had before, and you lose the person that you were. And there is so much grief in that realization.”

As Madison described constant and futile attempts at hanging on to the life she had left behind, I considered the comfort of a Mary I had created and nurtured for more than six decades – a cheery, positive person who believed everything would always be ok.  Yet ultimately, also, a solitary woman fiercely proud of her independence. 

In fact, I’d spent much of my life successfully avoiding unnecessary entanglements. Lately I’ve been wondering why.  Perhaps I didn’t want to disappoint.  Look silly.  Get trapped.  Depend, rely, lean on anyone.

“I worked really hard to become the person I was before, and it’s been really hard to say goodbye to her,” storyteller Madison said. “But time has been healing a lot of my wounds. Every day I feel better and better … The magic in me is powerful, and it’s what helped me crawl out of that hole … has helped me push on for the life I want … This new woman, I’m still getting to know her.  But I think I like her.”

This weekend, I’m off to go camp in the redwoods, and I’ve been reading up. Although they are the tallest trees in the world – reaching heights of 375 feet – redwood root systems only extend a measly six to 12 feet into the ground. Their secret?  Growing together in forests of other redwoods, their indomitable roots interlock with one another, creating the strength to withstand powerful winds and floods.  

Yes, cancer sucks.  But it also holds the promise and sweet surprise of transformation.  

I found an extraordinary village when I experienced cancer, a forest of friends and family that – indeed – held me up through powerful winds and floods … held me when I was crying uncontrollably … loved me when I was thoroughly unlovable … delivered sustenance and faith to my door. 

And when I look back in honest reflection, the greatest moments of joy came with those connections.  Those unpredictable, out-of-control moments of vulnerability when I actually managed to share the reins of my life. 

This new Mary, I’m still getting to know her.  I suspect she is not any better than the old one.  She’s just different.  Perhaps a little wiser, strangely calmer and gentler with the world.  Not nearly so solitary and independent as the old one.

And for all of this I say to cancer: Thank you.

This coming week, when I greet those redwoods, I’m gonna hug a few trees. I’m going to bow below them, accepting that I will never truly understand all the forces beneath me shaping my life. Accepting that my body will never be the same.  Proudly wearing the scars that surgery has left behind, while understanding cancer is now woven into the fabric of me.

Perhaps that’s where I find my new true north.  

Future storms and drought are certain.  But by tending to my roots – the friends and family who surround me – I find my best hope of resilience for tomorrow.