The stuff of life

Tonight was interesting. We sat with other patients and family members at a workshop at the Cancer Institute in Winter Park. There was medical information, guidance from the social worker -- all useful in one way or another. Certainly just knowing there are people who are available to answer questions is helpful.

But at the end of the session there came a period when everyone started to connect on a deeper level. They shared some of their difficulties and fears. They also shared their hope and determination. Some were facing the early stages of cancer themselves. Some were in the process of dealing with the terminal condition of a spouse. Some were in recovery. Different stages, but all involved in the struggle for survival.

Isn't that all life ever really is? A struggle for survival?
In our modern world we don't fend off wild animals, search for food, build our own shelters or wonder why we fall ill. Many of us, with luck, live to a fairly advanced age. But ultimately, each of us faces our mortality while trying to keep it at bay as long as possible. We speak of death rates as if any of us can ever truly conquer death. Survival is measured in months and years. Although we are all made from the dust of stars -- we are far from immortal. Even stars eventually die.

Cancer, and other life-threatening diseases, force us to face up to our mortality. It reminds us that life is fleeting, precious and fragile. It challenges us to confront our beliefs and pulls us out of the mundane and the routine.

Strangely, it replaces some of those things with an odd rhythm and routine of its own. Radiation, chemo, scans, blood work, appointments, medicines. Rather than taking out the trash or cooking dinner life becomes a series of appointments. We watch. We wait. Then we wait some more.

We ask questions. "How do you feel?" (Please say ok.) "Can I help?" (Please say yes.) Someone else must take out the trash. Someone else must cook dinner. The job of the patient is to live.

Say that again.

The job of the cancer patient is to live.

"Then what is my job?" I ask myself.

The job of the cancer patient's spouse is to love unreservedly. To behave normally. To help when needed. To stay out of the way when required. To ask questions. To be silent. To let him sleep. To encourage him to eat. To do as many things together as is possible.

The job of the cancer patient's spouse is to live. For him. With him.

That is the job each of us has in this brief life of ours. To know that we are mortal. To fight to live as long and as well as possible. And, during that time, to love and care for each other. To enjoy the mundane and the sublime.

We are stardust. We are a part of the universe. We share life and death. Cancer can't take that away from us. Nothing can take that away from us.