Believing in Impossible Things

This weekend, we watched a terrific movie called The Dawn Wall. It tells the story of American rock climbers, Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson, who drew worldwide attention as they attempted to free-climb a 3,000 foot rock face on El Capitan in Yosemite National Park.

El Capitan is very popular with climbers and many routes up the rock have been explored over the years, but the face known as the Dawn Wall was considered much too difficult to free climb.  Free climbing is where a climber can use ropes and equipment to protect themselves from falls, but not to actually aid in the climbing itself.  Free climbers use only the strength of their bodies to make the ascent. The Dawn Wall is particularly difficult to climb because it really is a wall with sheer rock faces that provide almost nothing to grab onto.   This photo from the movie gives you some sense of how truly difficult this climb is. It's pretty much a straight wall with some little bumps in it. Even Spiderman would have some challenges with this wall.



To make things even more complicated, this is not a one-day climb. They would need to complete 32 pitches (sections) to reach the top.  Some days they could do several at once, but some difficult pitches required days to finally get through.  To make the climb truly count, they had to do it all without coming off the wall. They lived in a porta-ledge for the duration of the climb, never coming down to the ground but hauling up everything they needed to live for days on end as, each day, they banged up their bodies and tore up their fingers on the rock, moving careful precise inches at a time. Sleeping and living life from a piece of nylon and tubing hung against a rock thousands of feet above the ground, in the middle of winter, is not a recipe for achieving peak performance in most situations.

The fact that they both achieved their goal is a marvel of human achievement. But that isn't even the half of it. You see, not only were they attempting this impossible climb, in the winter, with no comforts at the end of each grueling day, but Tommy Caldwell does not have all of his fingers on his left hand. He accidentally cut off his pointer finger with a table saw many years ago. Everybody said that he would probably never be able to climb again. You kind of  need all your fingers to climb, right? But the thing is, he didn't want to find a new career. He wanted to be a climber. And so he worked at it, and worked at it, and developed his own ways of climbing to compensate. To do this climb with ten fully functional fingers is super-human.  To do the climb with nine fingers?  I don't even have the words for how amazing that is.

There is something deep in the human psyche that looks at an impossible problem, and then says, "I wonder."  I wonder if we can climb this rock face?  I wonder if a person can run a mile in less than four minutes? I wonder if we can fly across the ocean in a plane?  I wonder if we can send a human being into space? I wonder what is at the bottom of the ocean?

When we humans start to wonder, some truly wonderful things can happen. Seemingly impossible things can happen. They may seem miraculous, but they are the result of trying, and failing, and trying, and failing, and then trying again and then failing again.  The miracle, then, is not really in the achievement. The miracle is in the never giving up. The miracle is in opening our eyes in the morning, getting up and trying again, and again, and again. And some days it does seem like it might just be impossible as setback after setback occurs. But then one fine day, something clicks into place, and the impossible becomes possible.

We've all been told that certain things we might want to achieve are impossible. Almost every human achievement started out with somebody saying, "it will never work."  "It can't be done." "Don't even try."  But, I think we all have that sense of wonder within us. Maybe we stop listening to the doomsayers, and start believing in impossible things. Maybe we start to take those first unsteady steps towards finding out that nothing is really impossible. Maybe we commit to the daily miracle of trying. And then trying again.

Nothing is impossible. Impossible is an opinion, not the truth. Audrey Hepburn stated it beautifully.  "Nothing is impossible. The word itself says I'm possible".

I'm possible. And you are possible. Anything is possible. Isn't that wonderful?

Amazing and Awful

Today was a hard day. I went to the Midwest Metastatic Breast Cancer Conference. It was a well organized conference, with some great speakers and presentations, and I heard a lot of very valuable information. I met some really lovely people. 

But it was also really hard. It was hard to hear about one of the valiant organizers of the conference who succumbed to this disease just a few weeks ago. It was hard to hear about the difficulties that so many people with this disease face.  And it was hard because it was an acknowledgement, a reminder, that I am still dealing with this disease.

It was hard because we lost a dear family member yesterday. My kind and gentle aunt passed away from complications from treatment for lymphoma. It's a devastating loss for my uncle and cousins, and she will be so deeply missed. I was thinking about them all a lot today.

It was hard because I also found out this past week that a very good friend of mine was just diagnosed with breast cancer. And I hate to think about her having to go through it. I thought about her a lot today and the many other dear people I know who have had to face a cancer diagnosis or who have lost a loved one to cancer. It is too high a number.

It was hard because I was reminded of how cancer has stolen so much from so many and caused so much suffering. And today, it is breaking my heart just a little bit.

But this is what it is to be human. And those broken places in our hearts somehow get filled up again. I don't know how it happens, but if we allow grace in it just does. The breaks, of course, can never really be repaired to their original state. But those cracks, they remind us that we can break, and then we can be put back together again.

One of the best things that came out of the conference today was the quote that I shared at the top of this post. It is so beautifully and tragically true. Life is, indeed, amazing, and then it's awful, and then it's amazing again.

Life is full of suffering. But it is also full of overcoming it. And that gives me hope.

Wish upon a Power Port

Do you know what a Power Port is?  It is not anywhere near as exciting as it sounds. If you are not familiar with these little devices, you should consider yourself very lucky because that probably means that neither you nor someone you care about needed one. They are also called port catheters and they are used primarily for people who need chemotherapy drugs or have need to frequently access the veins. The port is placed under the skin (usually in your chest) and is attached to a thin tube that is threaded into the superior vena cava vein above your heart. They make it so much easier to get infusions, draw blood, or be injected with contrast solutions for CT or PET scans. They help protect the skin and tissues from potential leakage of caustic chemotherapy drugs, and they also mean you don't get poked in the arm a million times by a nurse trying to find a good vein to use for an IV.  They make infusion day so much easier.

But they are also a huge annoyance. The seat belt runs right across where the port usually goes and rubs against the skin.  You can't really wear certain types of necklines or the port is exposed and the bump under the skin is not particularly attractive. But mostly, it is a daily reminder that something is wrong with you. I had my first port back in 2007 during my first go-round with cancer, and I was so glad when I was finally able to be rid of it after my treatments were done. When I had to get another one after the cancer had spread, I had to face the realization that this time there would probably not be an end to treatment and the port would be a permanent part of my life. I wished I could get rid of it, but didn't see any way that would happen since I couldn't imagine my doctor being OK with me removing it.

But sometimes we get what we wish for in the most unexpected ways. 

The port catheter tube that goes into the heart is just underneath the skin and right by your neck jugular vein. They have to make a little incision by your neck so that they can guide the tube into a vein. The incision heals, of course, but it's hard for it not to be brushed against all the time and irritated.  I am guessing they also don't really expect people who have Power Ports to be out backpacking a lot. Unfortunately, with all of my activity this year, my incision site started to open up and the tube became exposed.

It's kind of a big problem when a tube that goes directly into a major heart vein is exposed to a world full of germs.  My doctor declared that it needed to come out as quickly as possible. And since my cancer is staying stable, and I don't need chemotherapy drugs, I would NOT have to replace it.  My wish was coming true!

I still go to the clinic every three weeks for infusions of Herceptin and Perjeta, the two drugs that are instrumental in keeping me stable and preventing the cancer from growing. That isn't going to change anytime soon unless something new comes along or those drugs stop working for me. But my port?  I had it removed today! Yes, it means I will have to have my arm poked a bazillion times, but I decided I would rather have a few minutes of annoyance every three weeks than the daily annoyance of a port.

Psychologically, it is also really wonderful to have the port gone.  It's hard to really see yourself as a healthy person when you have a constant physical reminder visible every time you look in a mirror or drive your car, or change your shirt. And we are so much a product of our thoughts.  I have been learning over these past two and a half years that the body achieves what the mind believes. If I place limits on myself and what I can do, that doesn't really serve me in any way. 

My last scans showed that everything was stable. This is fantastic news, and I don't mean to diminish this at all because it really is exactly what we all want to see.  But I can't help believing that there is possibility for more. I can't help but believe that there could be a day when I get to read a report that doesn't just say I am stable, but that there is no sign of any cancer anymore.  I know this is rare. I know this is unlikely, even. But we must believe that something is possible in order to achieve it.  If we don't believe it is possible, we won't even try to wish for it. Yes, wishes don't always come true. Sometimes, we are disappointed.

But sometimes wishes do come true.  And I don't have a port anymore.

A Walk in the Woods

This weekend, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time at our friend's cabin up on the North Shore of Lake Superior.  It's in a beautiful spot, heavily forested with birch, cedar and pine, a short walk to the lake, and a cascading river running through the forest providing a sound backdrop that manages to mask the sound of the nearby highway. It also lacks internet.

While I could occasionally get a cell signal, it was spotty and very slow, so we spent a lot of time outside. I can resoundingly say that this was a much better way to spend my time. We went on long walks in the forest and up to the ridge lines overlooking the lake, we kayaked, and we explored some nearby trails.

On one of our walks, we followed the river upstream to a beautiful waterfall surrounded by tall rock walls. Large boulders provided the perfect spot to sit and watch the water pour from above into the pool at my feet. As I sat there, I had no thoughts of the daily dramas of life. No thoughts of work, politics or war. No thoughts of pain, illness or suffering of any kind. I didn't have a phone with me or camera to try to capture just the right image. I was simply there. Everything fell away except that moment and the pure sensory experience of hearing the water, feeling the cool air, seeing the deep green, and smelling the intoxicating scent of the forest surrounding me.

As we continued to walk I found my senses becoming nearly overwhelmed by the heady scent of of the trees and the simple beauty of the spring wildflowers just coming into bloom. Each inhale was like breathing in pure, sweet joy. With every step, I was filled with gratitude such that I nearly burst into tears a few times. With every step, I began to offer thanks. Thank you to this tree. Thank you to the leaves and pine needles beneath my feet. Thank you little purple flowers for being so delicate and lovely. Thank you wild strawberry blossoms that I know will yield flavorful fruit in just a few weeks. Thank you to the sun for providing the warmth and light that made these trees grow.  Thank you to the powerful forces beneath the earth that created these rocks I step across.  Thank you to the rain and clouds for the water that feeds this river and that provides life to this forest. Thank you to the people who came before me who created these paths that I follow.  Thank you for my friends who so willingly share this beauty with me. Thank you for my son and husband who walk with me. Thank you to my parents for bringing me into the woods at a young age and kindling that spark within me of a deep love of the natural world.

It was a deeply satisfying walk, and I found myself full of energy despite the many miles I had walked that day.

There are many problems in the world, but sometimes we need to step away from them all. It was enormously helpful to have a news hiatus and to get back to the simplicity of the world that goes on without the artificial human drama that we create.  When we are always focused on the things that make us upset and angry, on the the injustices of the world, we will always be supplied with examples. Seek and ye shall find. If you look for problems, you will find plenty of them. That does not mean we ignore the problems. But when we spend so much of our energy focusing on all the problems, we have no energy left for solutions. We don't realize that most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in our own sunshine. I forget this sometimes, even though it's the name of this blog. It's good to be reminded.

Turn around. Turn away from the computer and the news. Turn away from your work. Turn away from your worries, your self-doubt, and all the shadows that you see in front of you.  Turn around and face the sun.  Let the sun shine on your face and let the shadows fall behind you. Walk in the woods and smell the pines. If you can't walk, take a drive into a forested area and open up the windows. If you can't do that, step outside after a rain and breathe in the air.

And if you can't do that, close your eyes and imagine it. Imagine the wind blowing gently through the trees. Imagine the water tumbling over the rocks. Imagine butterflies hovering over new blossoms, and imagine your heart full of gratitude.

And breathe.

Sadness

I had a lot of plans for this evening. I was going to do a little bit of work to get ahead of things during a busy week at the office, and I was going to spend a couple of hours working on the rather mammoth room painting project I embarked upon last weekend. 

But I am finding that I do not have the energy or drive to do any of that tonight. I am sitting here contemplating happiness and sadness.  You see, a very dear colleague of mine passed away today.  We were the same age. Indeed, we started working at our company within weeks of each other. I'm not really sure which one of us started there first, but for as long as I have been there, she has been there too. We spent the greater part of our lives working together, and we shared many stories of our triumphs and tribulations over the years. We both loved music and singing. We both adored our families. We both loved books and reading. We both loved the outdoors and the beauty of the natural world.

We also both shared a history of cancer. She and I talked often after our first brushes with cancer, me with breast cancer and her with melanoma. We both felt so fortunate to have made it through the fires and come out the other side. We held so much gratitude for all the wonderful people and experiences in our lives.  And we both understood that life is fragile and that every day is a miracle.

When my cancer returned, she was among many who provided love and encouragement to me. She told me I was strong and that she was rooting for me. She smiled with me at each positive scan report, and we marveled at how far we have come with cancer treatment. And then about 18 months after my cancer returned, so did hers. It was my turn now to encourage her and to be certain that all the advancements in treatments would work for her too. Only, they didn't work for her, and each day became more difficult for her. 

Last week, I received news that my scans show that everything is still stable, and that I have no progression. This is just what we want to see, of course, but it feels a hollow victory today. And while I frequently write about finding the light in every situation, I also know that light is only meaningful if darkness also exists. Happiness can not truly exist without having known sadness. And I am realizing that it is OK to experience the darkness and it is OK to sit in the dark with the sadness and to let the tears come. 

Tonight I sit in the dark and cry, but I do so only because I am so very aware of the light that she was and the happiness she once brought to all her family and friends. Light and dark. Joy and sadness.They are all wrapped up together into this topsy-turvy experience we call life. And so I sorrowfully embrace the sadness tonight. And tomorrow morning I will witness again the miracle of the new day, and I will remember her laugh and her smile, and I know I will smile too.