Radical Self-Love
For much of my life, my identity was wrapped up in achieving (more accurately, overachieving) and caring for others. Though neither professional success nor the genuine desire to help others are bad, “Am I enough?” kept popping up. Just me. Not the me who cares for people or the me with a killer C.V., but rather some core part of me that exists at a deeper level than these things I do. What about when I am just being?
My journey from “I am not enough” to radical self-love took me on a solo backpacking adventure through Europe. What better way to practice trusting in my enough-ness than to spend three months exploring my inner landscape (while taking in some beautiful external landscapes)? As I prepared for this trip with intentionality, the old voices fought back: “You’re being too self-indulgent.” “You should be more dedicated to your career.” “You could be doing countless more “productive’ things.” I also feared the amount of time I would spend in solitude: “What if I am unbearably lonely?”
Challenging these voices and setting out alone took courage and an adventurous spirit, as it was no small feat for this recovering overachiever to leave North America without knowing the route she would travel or where she would hang her hat each night. It also took copious amounts of self-love.
Self-love led me to an incredible vista in Cinque Terre National Park, trusting my intuition’s suggestion to finish a hike alone, rather than with some fellow hostellers. Gazing at the Mediterranean, I realized that this moment was no less beautiful for not having someone by my side. I could celebrate and witness it for myself.
Self-love challenged my worship of doing and allowed me to rest in countless funky cafés and gorgeous parks. As I became more self-assured, the old voices needed to find new guises: “Why don’t you study a language or seek meaningful volunteer work?” “Now that you’re in (name of European city), you’ll need a highly detailed agenda.” “You’ll be returning home soon and you haven’t figured out your entire life’s path/attained spiritual enlightenment.” Acknowledging those voices as patterns that no longer served me, I smiled and wished them farewell.
Taking language classes or volunteering would have made my trip more familiar; however, the purpose of this journey was not to be at the top of my beginner Italian class. Nothing needed to be done “when in Rome,” except remain present in each moment and trust it was enough. My journey took me from actions of self-care to a rooted foundation of self-love, a belief system in which I am worthy of the same love that I extend to others. Actions of self-care are nothing but items on yet another “to do” list until prompted by a genuine belief in one’s worthiness of their pursuit.
Before leaving Canada, I wrote myself a letter for each week of travel, reminders of my intentions for solo traveller Liz. It seemed fitting to end the trip in a similar fashion, and so I spent a good part of my final day writing a love letter:
“I am writing to you from a pretentious Parisian café. Life won’t always feel this beautiful and effortless. The joy that is bubbling over within my spirit will at times seem silent. I’m writing to you to tell you about me, and remind you that the me I am today is within you. Remember me, eyes spilling with tears of joy and pride, beaming, overflowing.”
Each day since my return has not felt as effortless as that day. However, my experience of myself while travelling is equally true: empowered, intuitive, self-loving and present. Life invites us to live fully, lovingly, courageously, no matter what our surroundings. I’m inviting you into the spirit of this journey, to remain in the present wherever life leads you next. How will you live fully and with self-love today?
Elizabeth (Liz) Mitchell is a music therapist who works with adolescents with mental health issues in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Curious about the links between musical potential and human potential, she is also a voice and piano educator, and a clinical supervisor and part-time instructor at Wilfrid Laurier University.
Photo credit: la citta vitta
Lessons from a Mustang
Thera is 16 years old. She is small in stature and a rich golden color with black markings on her legs, shoulders and ear tips. Her tail is a long, thick mass of darkness that swirls with the wind. Her black mane has moonlight threads of silver running through it. She bears the government stamp of a mustang on her neck.
Eight years ago, Thera was rounded up by the Bureau of Land Management from her home on the Montana/Wyoming border. She is a member of the Pryor Mountain Herd, the original descendants of the Spanish Conquistador’s horses. Horses in her roundup were bound for the slaughterhouse, but they were diverted by a horse rescue center in Texas. Thera, Greek for “wild child,” and it is a perfect fit for this untamed beauty. Shortly after being rescued, Thera’s new guardians discovered she was pregnant. When her foal was old enough, he was adopted. Again, Thera experienced separation from family. Throughout eight years at the rescue, potential adopters expressed interest, but none followed through — Thera continues to be wary of humans. She has never been ridden, which also deterred outside interest.
When I saw her picture on the rescue website, I was immediately drawn to her. I can’t explain why, but it was the same feeling I had with each horse who has become part of my family. Just that “in your gut” kind of knowing. Meeting her in person validated this, and the adoption process began.
From the beginning of our visits, Thera was adamant about maintaining the two-foot protective space surrounding her body. She is not comfortable with people attempting to touch her and immediately moves away if this is challenged. I began introductions by sitting outside her stall. Slowly, she began to turn and face me.
After we established this space, I entered her stall. I realized very quickly that standing was threatening, so I shifted down to bended knees. This resulted in an immediate response of moving a step closer to me. Slowly, we began to create a new layer of trust. After several days of this, she came to accept carrot gifts right at my feet. Then she accepted hay from my hand.
In my joy of our budding connection, I jumped to planning her move to the ranch. I envisioned pictures attaching a lead rope to her halter, walking together, leading her into a trailer and heading home to meet her new family. I was now on a mission! I brought a lead rope into the stall with me, and immediately, she stepped away. OK, too much. I returned to my kneeling position, and she relaxed. I set the lead rope down on the ground next to me and told her it was a connection line between us. She took a deep breath and looked away. OK, she wasn’t buying that. I gently said her name, and she turned back to face me. I offered a carrot on the ground between us. She took a step forward and accepted it. I touched the lead rope, and I watched her get very still. The light went out of her eyes. She stood frozen, and I realized what happened. It was such a quiet yet powerful reminder: When things are too intense, sometimes the safest option is to check out. I gently said her name again and invited her return to the present moment. She accepted, and I offered another carrot. I left the lead rope on the ground and put carrots all over it. She gladly nuzzled and gathered around the rope, simultaneously checking out the intruder.
I remembered what I ask people when they come for a session with the horses – what are they feeling in their body? I checked in with myself and noticed my heart. I noticed I had retreated and gone internal. This beautiful, courageous mare was standing inches in front of me and I realized I was experiencing fear. What in the world was that about? Then my brain started rambling about the agenda I had created for Thera. My attention was drawn back to my heart. I listened. I experienced my heart open and expand. Thera released a huge breath. She came closer, and I felt her heart energy swirling around me. We were connected in an indescribable moment together. There was a smile in her eyes and pure love radiating throughout. She reached her nose out to my shoe and touched me with her whiskers. Then her whiskers touched my hand. Everything was about this moment between us. Time did not exist. Just this expansive state of being together.
I finally had the wet-mop-upside-the-head moment. I didn’t need an agenda! This powerful being and I would figure it out together. Tears started flowing down my face. I felt a huge release, and Thera stayed right in that moment with me. No need to get all mental about this. Hell, I didn’t have to act like I knew what to do next. Everything would be OK. I said goodnight to Thera, bowed to her, hands at my heart, and thanked her for sharing her powerful wisdom. She just smiled at me through her eyes and looked very excited … and very pleased with herself.
As I was driving home, I had an epiphany. When you stay in your heart, beautiful things happen. My thoughts expanded even more. What happens to any of us when the proverbial rug gets pulled out from under us because of an unexpected event? Whether it is a diagnosis, relationship change, family or personal crisis or any massive life twist, our “idea” of reality is suddenly gone. How do we cope? Do we shut down? Do we reach out to others? Does the head take over and start spinning?
I thought about Thera’s journey of being ripped away from her family and headed God knows where. She didn’t know what was going to happen. Did she question survival? She was rescued, but her child was taken away. No wonder she had perfected the art of stoic dissociation. But in that moment between us, the horrors were removed, and she returned us to the healing heart space. All beings have it. A plan isn’t always necessary. Sometimes the most powerful healing occurs when we let go and move forward in the moment.
Thera and I are on a journey. Her name may translate as “wild child,” but my interpretation is the pure, unfettered state of being: love. Love is about being connected within our heart. When we are in our heart, we allow the total essence of our self, our unique spirit, to fly and be free. When you stay in your heart, beautiful things happen.
Sara B. Willerson, LCSW, is an equine facilitated psychotherapist in Texas. Together with her equine partners, she invites children and adults to experience the healing power of the horse.
Dealbreaker: He Held Me Back
Dealbreaker: He Held Me Back
The Transformation Journey Part 2: The Blessing Called Cancer
From one of my favorite textbooks “Deep Healing” by Dr. Emmett E. Miller, M.D. I can’t speak highly enough of Dr. Miller. The book goes on to say: “I am told that there was great rejoicing on Mount Olympus that day for they realized that, as civilization grew more and more complex, the resulting stresses would generate a state of mind so distracted that few would ever perceive the subtle nature of truth within.” But I didn’t learn this until much later. First came the lesson and the blessing called cancer. It all began in October of 2001. My husband decided to have this “cyst” in his jaw removed. People had been noticing and commenting on his cheek and it appeared to him to be getting bigger and more noticeable. (He had planned to get it removed the year before, but my oldest son had broken his arm completely off, spent three hours in surgery, developed a nerve palsy and spent a few months in physical therapy.) He made an appointment with a plastic surgeon near his office. I asked him if he had checked credentials and recommendations. He said, “It’s just a simple cyst removal.” Evidently, the plastic surgeon felt the same way. He felt my husband’s cheek and told him it was a simple cyst and he could remove it in the office the following Friday. No xray, no biopsy. At the time, I did question the fact that he didn’t biopsy first, but I figured A) He was the surgeon and B) my husband had mentioned to him that he had had the cyst since he was 13 years old–he was now 41. Surely it couldn’t be cancer after all those years. The nurse called and said my husband was ready to come home. When I arrived he was still a little groggy, but he looked up at me and said, “I have cancer. The doctor wants to talk to you.” I said, “Are you sure you heard correctly?” He shook his head yes. I asked the nurse if she could please find the doctor because I had a two year old in my arms, and a nine year old to pick up at school. She said she would try to find him for me and disappeared. My husband was still emerging from that abyss between anesthesia and consciousness so I didn’t ask him any questions and the nurse didn’t say one thing or offer any details. Forty-five minutes later, she apparently was still looking for the doctor. For crying out loud, it wasn’t a corn maze. You tell someone they have cancer and disappear? Deja vu I went to find her. She told me the doctor must have left and he would talk to us on Wednesday when we came back in for follow-up. She gave me one single pack of gauze and said, “They’ll change his dressing on Wednesday, but in case you need to reinforce it, here is some gauze.” I hadn’t met him, but I already didn’t like the surgeon. I can deal with complications, but this shouted coward. During the 30 minute ride home, my husband attempted to recount what the surgeon had told him. He said that when the surgeon opened his cheek he found a little more than he expected and it was cancer, and that he had to remove it in pieces. They would have to send the specimen to a lab and he hoped to know more by the time we went back for a follow-up on Wednesday. Then he left. My husband asked the anesthesiologist to show him what they had removed. He brought him a small container with a bunch of pieces of tissue floating in it. I didn’t tell my husband that the worst thing you can do is remove cancer in “pieces,” because you run the risk of one of them getting into the bloodstream and taking up residence somewhere else. I didn’t have to. It wasn’t good news at all. And then there was the drainage tube incorrectly hooked up behind his ear. By the time we got home, his dressing was soaked and uncomfortable. There was no “reinforcing” it with the one piece of gauze they had generously afforded me. When I removed the dressing, I saw what appeared to be a straw coming out from behind his ear. Every time he swallowed, his saliva would come out of the top. If he smelled something cooking or even thought about food, it shot out of there like a squirt gun. It was genius really, with the mere mention of the word “steak” or “apple pie,” and the correct aim, he could wipe out an entire table full of people with that thing. I gave up on the gauze and just put towels on his shoulder. It was ridiculous. Needless to say it was a rough weekend with little sleep. We didn’t say anything to anyone because we didn’t know what we were dealing with. My husband stared at the fire in the fireplace and slept. On Monday morning, the doctors office called and asked to see us as soon as possible. We arrived and were told the doctor would be with us shortly. And then we waited. And we waited. Finally we were taken back to a small dimly lit room and after another wait, the surgeon and his senior partner came it. They looked like funeral directors about to tell someone their loved one had passed away. Senior partner did most of the talking. It went something like this: Dang, these boys weren’t playing around. My husband and I have been together since we were in high school. He has never been afraid of, or backed away from, anything. Except for a brief stint in middle school as a “Hack man” for the basketball team, football was his game. His favorite line; “Ah, nothing like the sound of crunching a quarterback.” He was the All State defensive lineman. He is not a man I could ever see wearing makeup. He was so paralyzed with fear and helplessness. In his mind, he was already dying. Western Medicine promotes this paranoia. Words like “victim” and “survivor” imply that cancer chases you down a dark alley with a gun and you are powerless. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. But there are distinct advantages to the victim mentality. You can place the blame somewhere else. You can look outside yourself with the illusion that not only the blame but the control of the situation is out of your hands. And this is the biggest roadblock to both healing and cure.Because in order to heal at the cellular level, you have to look deep inside yourself. But first I had a few pressing questions for senior partner.
Sadly, no, you will not be performing this surgery on my husband. I must say, he really seemed sincere. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. He was very kind. And he had beautiful skin. ( I almost asked him about moisturizers) But because of the actions of his younger partner, I really wasn’t sure if they were being truthful, or if they really needed to go back in there because the first surgery had gone so wrong. I think that the young, cocky surgeon got in way over his head. Why else would you leave someone with a “squirt gun” ear? The two of them wanted to operate that Friday. That was just a little too soon for me. I told them we needed time to process this information. They told us they had to send the cancer specimen to an Army lab for further tests because it was so rare that their lab couldn’t classify it. In the car, my husband said he just wanted to get it over with and was ready to stay local and have it done in four days. But I wasn’t. I needed to do some research. But first I had my most dreaded task of all. I had to tell my nine year old son that his dad had cancer. My first born son was an only child for seven years. And before Xbox, video games, ice hockey, and cell phones, there was going to fire stations with dad, camping out with dad, learning to fish with dad, and a hundred GI Joe adventures with dad. My son had a GI Joe figure for all of us–even a nurse for me! They staged battles and took pictures and made their own GI Joe videos. When I arrived at his elementary school, I ran into my dear friend who reminded me about the PTA meeting that night. I told her that I couldn’t be there. She asked what was wrong. And I broke down. I told her what we had just found out and she hugged me and cried with me. The beautiful women friends of mine in that PTA were my strength. I heard that there were lots of tears at that meeting. They organized people to bring us meals, added us to their church prayer lists, and offered to stay with my anti-social two year old who cried when anyone looked at him. Friends that we hadn’t heard from since high school sent notes or prayed for us. This love and support meant the world to me. The only thing my son remembers is the exact location of the car when I told him. He was worried, but okay. It was hard to see his dad laying there on the couch staring at the fire, withdrawn from all of us. By now, I had been juicing for almost ten years. I wore out my cassette that came with my “Juiceman” juicer, by Jay Kordich. I was drinking a green drink periodically and I had the book, “Sick and Tired, Reclaim Your Inner Terrain. I was receiving a newsletter from a distributor of Dr. Young created products named Steve. I knew Dr. Young was a great microscopist and alkalizing was good for your blood, but it never occurred to me that this could help with cancer. This was all pretty new to me, and I was just beginning to understand. I didn’t know Steve and had never met him, but he seemed to know Dr. Young and sold his products so I asked him if he knew what specific products Dr. Young might recommend for cancer. And then I fell asleep. The next day, Steve emailed me back and sent me an article about a guy with Stage 4 lung cancer that had beat the odds by following Dr. Young’s program. He didn’t know what specific products he had used, but he asked me, “Why don’t you call Dr. Young and talk to him. He does consultations.” The only person who believed in me was my nine year old son. One of his fourth grade teachers was interested in telescopes and stargazing. So at night after his brother went to sleep, we told his dad we were going outside to “stargaze”. We would sit on his swing set and talk about his concerns or fears about cancer. Once I explained the theory of alkalizing the blood, he instantly knew his dad would be okay. We built a whole GI Joe mission around taking care of our wounded soldier. He drew pictures of “green” army men in tanks and planes attacking cancer. He gave his dad a little green Army man to keep in his pocket to remind him that we were all with him and he was strong. I asked him to try to keep his dad laughing. All his fourth grade classmates wrote notes and jokes to “Mr. C.” A lot of people told my husband to get a second opinion. In fact his boss called and talked to me about going to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. We live less than 2 hours from there. I totally agreed. And so did my husband. We also got some good news from the Army lab. The cancer was not the deadly aggressive kind, but instead was a slow growing type called “acinic cell.” Senior partner said the surgery would still be the same. We tried to get an appointment on our own but they said it would be weeks. We asked Senior partner if he could call for a referral to Johns Hopkins and we were able to get in the following week. I can’t say enough about Johns Hopkins. It is a totally different atmosphere and an amazing healing place. The surgeon there asked my husband to get an MRI locally and bring it with him to the appointment. By the time we went to Hopkins we had completely changed our diet. Specifically: I saw a huge change in my husband. He was interacting again. He went back to work with his “special diet,” gallon of water and a pack of washcloths for his trigger ear. His skin cleared up and toenails grew in normally for the first time. His blood pressure was great and he lost about 20 pounds. Of course, all the doubters thought it was because he was getting sicker. At a time when he was supposed to be so ill, he looked and felt the best he ever had. The surgeon at Hopkins was fabulous. He examined my husband, looked at his chart and had talked to Senior partner about the previous surgery. There was a lot of conflicting information regarding the previous surgery. At one time, they had said they got all the cancer, then they said they got half the tumor and there was another half under the facial nerve. The MRI showed a spot near the surgery site that the surgeon couldn’t really determine, without going back in, whether or not it was inflammation of the lymph nodes or cancer cells left behind. So my husband was given the following options: My husband was absolutely convinced that he needed the second surgery. When he saw all those pieces of his tumor after the first one, he felt for sure there were many more still left inside. So he opted for the clean up surgery. There was only one more question to ask. Would he still have this annoying tube in his ear after the next surgery? The doc laughed out loud. So there we were. November 27, 2001, approximately 21 days after the first surgery, waiting for the second one to begin. We had come a long way. My husband was laughing and only slightly nervous. The students were there observing and helping him get ready. They asked us if they could have the cancer to study back in the classroom. I said, “there won’t be anything in there.” The surgeon laughed and told them, “His wife has him on some green diet.” We signed a paper allowing them to take the specimen to study. I headed to the waiting room. Two hours seemed like eternity. And still I waited. I tried to read magazines, but nothing was registering. I paced. I began my typical “what if” scenario in my mind. What was taking so long if there wasn’t anything in there? What if I had been wrong and the cancer had spread? This was an awful lot of pressure for a novice! Finally, the surgeon emerged and sat down next to me. He said something like: I just spent the last half hour going over this with your husband, but I doubt he will remember any of it. I explored the lymph nodes and sent a piece of the first one to the lab to be tested. There was no cancer. Just to be sure, I sent a second one. There was no cancer. There was no inflammation. I checked the facial nerve all the way back to the base of the brain. There was absolutely no cancer. In fact, I found absolutely no cancer cells anywhere. I wanted to go televangelist and jump up on the furniture and shout “Hallelujah.” We later learned that my husbands surgeon was called before the Cancer Tumor Board to ask him why he operated on a man that clearly had no cancer. This past November, 2011, my husband was released from Johns Hopkins after ten years of follow up. He remains cancer free, medication free, and just last week helped some skinny State Trooper push two people in a jeep a quarter mile out of the middle of the road to safety. He didn’t know that the parking brake was on the entire time.
“God Games”
1998-you can see the “cyst”
My husbands cancer was a very rare aggressive cancer. In order to make sure that they got it all, they needed to go back in as soon as possible. This time, it would be performed in a hospital where they would remove the entire cheek to be able to fully see and explore the facial nerve and lymph glands. They would remove the lymph glands and check the nerve all the way back to the base of the brain to be sure no cells had “spilled” during the first surgery. They would then remove a skin flap from his back to replace the cheek, and sew his eye shut until they could be sure the facial nerve was working. He would be in the hospital for 3 weeks if there were no complications. If the lymph nodes they removed had any cancer cells present, they would also do radiation. Hopefully, within three months, he could return to work.
Oh, and by the way, the skin on your back doesn’t match the skin on your face, so they could hook us up with some medical grade makeup that my husband would have to wear for the rest of his life.
My husband was close to tears and in total shock. He asked Senior partner about statistics. “You have a fifty-fifty chance of surviving five years.” That did it. My husband totally shut down. He told me later that all he could think about was not being able to watch his boys grow up. I saw the complete hopelessness in his eyes. Which lead me to one of things I tell all my clients. Statistics are facts about somebody else. No doctor has any business telling anyone how long they have to live. No doctor is God or worse yet, a Mayan historian running out of stone tablets. None of us are promised tomorrow.
Later that night, when everyone was asleep, I looked up “adenocarcinoma of the parotid gland” on the internet. Indeed, the surgical procedure seemed to be the same. One doctor in England seemed to be considered an expert so I emailed him and explained to him what we had been told and asked if he had any advice. He was very nice and emailed me back. But the verdict didn’t change, nor did the procedure. I wondered if I was just in denial. What if I had to accept that this mutilating surgery was the only way?
Seriously?
Two days later, I was anxiously preparing for my phone consultation. Remember, this was almost 11 years ago. I was still in “nurse” mode. I gathered the few test results and lab reports that I had in case he had questions for me, and called Dr. Young. He didn’t need to know any of that. He asked me one question:
Is your husband ready to take responsibility for his health? Yikes, I wasn’t ready for that one!
At first I was a little surprised at his matter of fact attitude. There was no pity in his voice. Only strength and conviction. There was no hesitation and he was absolutely certain that my husband had to change his diet and alkalize his blood. My specific concern was losing those lymph nodes. Lymph tissue is a blessing. It surrounds foreign bodies to stop them from multiplying and migrating. I asked Dr. Young how long did my husband need to be on the greens before his lymph nodes would be clear. He said two weeks. I had my answer. I knew what to do. Dr. Young was so absolutely certain about his research that he gave me the confidence and the un-waivering belief that in two weeks there would be no trace of cancer. I tried to explain it to my husband, but he wasn’t processing much. The only thing he remembers me telling him was, “Give me two weeks, and you’ll be okay.” And we immediately changed our diet and went green. I ordered Supergreens, Prime pH, MycoDetox I and II and Fibrada. The cloud had lifted for me. Dr. Young empowered me to be the rock, when everyone else was crumbling. And to be honest, I was on my own. People listened to me extol the virtues of Dr. Young and alkalinity, but no one seemed convinced. I always got the silence and blank stare. I talked to my old nurse buddies from the hospital, thinking they would be excited for me, and their response was:
“You know that natural stuff doesn’t work. The cancer always comes back worse.”
Sadly, no.
My husband less than a month after two major cancer surgeries. Looking pretty good! Note the bottle of greens !
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Fall 2012 NYFW Beauty Recap Part VI
Lots of new exciting beauty looks have been making their way down the runway. Check-out some of the recent standouts!
Marc Jacobs: It’s hard to believe that these braids were covered up with over-sized hats because they certainly are braid perfection. Created by Guido Palau the hair was complemented by unfussy makeup by Francois Nars. Skin was kept fresh and radiant with no blush and models had heavily lined lower eyes, which allowed for the focus to be kept on the layered looks that made their way down the runway.
Theyskens Theory: The look this season was granny chic though there was nothing granny about the hair, which was basically a blow dry and go look. I liked that it was low on product since we’ve been seeing so much stiffness on the runway this season and it went well with the downtown cool aesthetic Theyskens is known for. Quite the contrast to Herrera!
Donna Karan: Like at Marc Jacobs models wore hats, but instead of being braided hair was put into a forties-style asymmetric rolled chignon. It was the eyes however that made the strongest impact with a mix of MAC Diva and Partyline lipsticks applied to the lid and outward (yes…lipstick!). There was no mascara used and brows were filled in with MAC Fling and Lingering brow pencils.
3.1 Phillip Lim: Lim’s neo noir comic-inspired collection was one of my favorite so far this season (along with The Row I pretty much want every piece…), and it was beautifully complemented by the slightly-cartoonish, but still utterly sophisticated makeup created by Francelle Daly, NARS Brand Ambassador. The pink dots are meant to evoke a girl who is on the brink of tears.
Images: WWD, Imaxtree
Chat History
Clark and I met on the Thursday before Labor Day, August 30, 2007. I don’t know exactly when we first said I love you, but the first email exchange containing the phrase, which he casually includes before signing off, is dated October 3 of that year.
Nearly four years later, I sometimes type his email address in the search box in my Gmail. Hundreds of results pop up, and I’ll pick a few at random to read. The ease of our everyday interactions is what kills me. The way we spoke to each other about what I’d bring home for dinner or whether it was a PBR or a Grolsch kind of night. In nearly every conversation, there is something that releases the pressure from my chest by forcing a giant laugh.
Clark: did you eat?
Me: yes i had soup and chips but whatever someone else has smells delish
Clark: k just as long as you ate something
how do you spell Bodasifa?
from Point Break?
Me: let me look it up
Bodhisattva
Clark: ?
really?
sattva?
Me: yep
it’s a buddhism thing
I can break down Clark’s illness into one diagnosis (metastatic melanoma), one prognosis (between 4 and 14 months to live), three surgeries, three clinical trials, seven hospital stays, three doses of chemotherapy, and five weeks of hospice care. The first surgery, a deep lymph-node dissection of the left groin, and its subsequent days-long hospital stay, spanned the first week of April 2008. The second surgery, which removed the cancer’s recurrence from underneath the tender flesh of the first, was June 11. He was hospitalized from November 11–19 and again from December 1–6. On February 20, 2009, he had emergency surgery to remove a tumor the size of a baseball from his gut. He started chemotherapy on April 15.
Me: i am sorry i wigged out last night.
Clark: oh baby do not say sorry
Me: i really was just exhausted! that’s obvious.
Clark: I totally understand
i know you were so tired and I know that you want
to make sure I’m going to be okay and safe
and really makes me want to cry
Clark: i feel the same way about you
I want to always want to make sure you are safe
and warm and comfortable
Clark: and I didn’t mean to yell but you are so stubborn
Me: no i know
haha SO ARE YOU, for the record
Clark died two months later. He was 33. I was 25.
I spent a lot of time after his death looking at photographs of us camping, at a friend’s wedding, with my family at our first Thanksgiving. I listened to “The Ocean” by Sunny Day Real Estate, the song he heard when he imagined me walking down the aisle at our wedding. I cried when Archers of Loaf, the one band Clark insisted make an appearance on any playlist, announced its reunion tour. I watched YouTube videos of his band, Statehood, scanning for hints of what his voice sounded like, afraid I’d already forgotten.
The memories of my life as Clark’s caretaker buzz in the back of my brain at a low hum. Two years ago, I was on autopilot when I changed his diaper or scrubbed the smell of urine from the armchair he sat and slept in. I didn’t question how I found the strength to support his crumbling frame as we hobbled to the bathroom. Without even thinking about it, I’d roll my jeans halfway up my calves and get into the bathtub to pull him up. I shaved his face and gave him his painkillers at perfectly timed intervals. I dressed him.
Now my breath quickens when the answer to a clue in my crossword, “Body fluid buildup,” is “edema,” the condition in Clark’s left leg that caused it to swell and dwarf his right. My eyes sting as I read a newspaper article describing the latest study to come out of a cancer conference, which involves a drug trial that Clark was too sick to participate in. I slink off to the bathroom with my head down, ignoring my friends at the bar, when I catch a glimpse of his obituary, which hangs on the back of a door at the Black Cat, the bar where we met.
I go looking for evidence of our partnership that’s not tied to a memory of me sleeping on two chairs pushed together next to his hospital bedside. My Gmail is a priceless hoard of us making plans, telling inside jokes, calling each other “snoodle” and “bubbies.” I type his name into the search field and enter a world of the unscripted dialogue that filled our 9-to-5 existence. I become immersed in the coziness of our union. In hundreds of chats automatically saved to my account, we express our love for each other readily and naturally in our own private speech. This is a history of our relationship that we didn’t intend to write, one that runs parallel to the one authored by his uncontainable illness.
Me: i love you
Clark: you do?
Me: yes more den anythin
Clark: I see
well, I’d say we have a problem because I
love you
your love might clash with my love, resulting into
a shitstorm of unicorns, babies, puppy dogs, and
couples ice skating
it could get ugly
Me: hahahahahahahhaha
and tandem bikes
I remember the pharmaceutical names of his medications—amitryptyline, Zoloft, methadone. It’s only thanks to my archive of our Gchat conversations—me from my work computer, he from our apartment’s couch or his hospital bed—that I remember that we called gabapentin his “Guptas.” They were brown, like the skin of Dr. Gupta, his kidney specialist. The Dilaudid pills he took for breakthrough pain were “hydros,” a nickname for the drug listed on the label, hydromorphone hydrochloride. He’d imitate a surfer when asking for them.
Clark: man, my left leg is useless
I really hope this chemo helps
I can barely use it anymore
Me: i know
it will work.
Clark: figure I’ll notice there first
Me: you never know
Clark: when are you leaving?
can I get a nap in?
Me: yes!
see you in like 45 minutes snoopy
Clark: cause i can’t seem to think of when I can get a nap in BEFORE practice cause when you get home I just want to hang with you
Me: yes, take a nap!
Clark: k i love you
Me: i will get gatorades and ensures. and be right home. love you.
Clark: LOVE YOU!
It was winter 2008 and Clark was taking part in a trial, his second, at the National Institutes of Health. It involved a drug called high-dose IL-2, which stimulates white blood cells to grow and divide in an attempt to overtake the cancer. The treatment has
a slim chance of success but it’s one of the only regimens approved specifically for melanoma by the FDA. Patients are typically bedridden with dizzying flulike symptoms and are uncharacteristically irritable or moody. Clark was no exception.
He had a high fever and soiled the bed again and again during his second IL-2 treatment. One time, after I held up his body so that the nurse could change the sheets, he shit as soon as I placed him down. During this stint at the hospital, the fourth dose of drug sent him mentally over the edge. He screamed at me and called me a bitch. I left the hospital in tears.
It was the only time during his illness that I elected not to sleep next to him. When I arrived at my friend Alyson’s, I had a text message from him that said, “You left me, so I’m leaving you.” Two hours later, he called me sobbing, apologizing. He barely remembered specifics the next day, but I still get a lump in my throat when I think about it. We had this conversation three days after we returned home:
Clark: you make me so happy
everyday is wonderful with you
Me: really?
Clark: no
Me: you promise?
Clark: not really
I’m just playing with your emotions
Me:
Clark: YES REALLY
stupid pants
In December 2008, Clark called my mother to apologize for the fact that I wasn’t going to be home to spend Christmas Day with them. I know it’s not uncommon for people my age to be away from their families during the holidays, but my mother, brother, sister, and I had never spent a Christmas apart. Clark and I opened presents at his mother’s house that year. My mom told him not to worry. “There’ll be plenty of other Christmases,” she said.
“Come on, Mom,” he said.
She told me this after he was gone, and it haunts me. Did he always know he was going to die, or did he think there was a chance? Did he believe me when I told him stories of the people whose tumors had shrunk to nothing, seemingly by magic? It was easier for me to play cheerleader; I wasn’t the one shitting the bed and gritting my teeth through the pain.
Clark: babies, did they say the next treatment is rough? like IL-2?
Me: the one they want to do to you?
Clark: yes
Me: i don’t think anything compares to IL2.
but i think it is semi rough. i think it’s less puking, pooping, ill feeling and more weak, tired. however, IL2 has a really low success rate, the other treatment has a high one.
i was reading testimonies of people who have been cured by the treatment, this was a few months ago, and the one guy wrote that absolutely nothing compares to IL2.
honey?
Clark: i can’t stop crying
its hard to read the computer
i’m so happy
Me: yes baby
Clark:
we are going to do it baby
Me: i’m so happy too
i know we are
Chemotherapy was our last-ditch effort to beat back the cancer. There was the tiniest chance that it would work. If all went according to plan, the chemo would shrink his tumors to manageable levels, and we’d return to the NIH to participate in a different clinical trial, the one with the best success rate.
Clark: I would go to my mothers
chill there
u can start having a life again
Me: baby, my life is being with you and fighting this cancer
that’s what it is
i do not resent you, and i never will|
i love you and we’re in this together
After three weeks of chemo, it was clear we were losing. Cancer had eaten away at his hip, attacked his spinal cord, and created a blockage in his large intestine that necessitated a colostomy bag. We then chose to stop trying to wipe out his disease and focus only on treating his pain. He lasted five more weeks.
Clark: dr. kitano called
Me: to say what?
Clark: email coming
um, the message said that she understands our concerns and thinks they are still able to provide us the original treatment and just wanted to talk to us more about it
Me: WHAT!
Clark: um, she still wants us to keep the appt. on Tuesday
Me: oh my god
I close my eyes and hear him tell me through exhaustion and tears how much he’s going to miss me after he dies. How beautiful I look sitting by the window of his hospice room.
Me: got her email
oh my god
they’re going to do it
Clark: whenever Kitano does something totally rad i play that “Are you ready for the sex girls” song from Revenge of the Nerds in my head
Me: HAHAHAHAHA
tell her that.
Clark: i should make her a mix tape
Now I live with my best friend, Cella. Some days I go to send her a message, searching for her name and the colored dot that accompanies it. I’ll try her even if she appears offline, because I need to tell her I’ll pick up coffee on the way home or ask if I can open the wine she left in the fridge.
And there it is: his name is right under hers. I move the cursor over it, and the thumbnail pops up with all of his information. His address, clarkstatehood@gmail. com. His icon, a photo of Patrick Swayze from Road House. A little gray dot, just like the one next to Cella’s name. As if he’s just not available to chat at the moment.
Clark is offline.
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Why Do We Cry?
Crying is something we all do, but most of us have never asked ourselves the question “why do we cry?” Crying, generally, is the process of fluids coming from our eyes. In as such, there are three types of crying, being basal tears, which keep our eyes lubricated; reflex tears, that protect our eyes when they are irritated (like when you are peeling an onion); and emotional tears, produced from happiness, laughter and of course sadness.
Is Crying Healthy?
In short, the answer is yes. Basal tears and reflex tears protect our eyes and remove and kill bacteria and are hence essential to the overall health of our eyes. Most wonder, however, whether emotional tears are healthy and if so, how? It has been scientifically demonstrated that emotional tears lower our manganese levels, which cause us to feel down and irritable. Crying has also been demonstrated to lower levels of stress.
From a psychological perspective, crying appears to bond people and allow communities to grow. We are more likely to feel drawn to a person who is crying, almost automatically wanting to help them. Furthermore, tears also allow us to release emotions. Hence, it is very clear that crying is healthy, both physically and psychologically.
Why Do We Cry when We are Happy?
Crying is generally associated with grief and sadness, but we also cry when we are happy. You may even notice that if you read a Hallmark card, for example, that contains a beautiful message of happiness, you may feel your eyes well up.
It is felt that emotional crying is a response to strong emotional feeling, be they positive feelings or negative feelings. Many believe that when very strong emotions occur, our brain simply cannot cope any longer and seeks release through expelling tears. However, some disagree and say that happy tears are caused by the stress that was present before the “happy ending”. For example, when two people are reunited, they do not cry at their reunion but rather as a release of all the anxiety and worry they had in each other’s absence.
Crying is natural and healthy with two types of tears even being entirely necessary to allow our eyes to function. Emotional tears seem to come easier for some people than others, with some crying a torrent of tears and others only feeling a slight burning sensation in their eyes. Regardless of what type of crier you may be, it is important to remember that crying is very healthy for our emotional wellbeing and should hence never be seen as a sign of weakness.
Take a Fearless Inventory
I first learned the value of taking a Fearless Inventory three months before my college graduation. I had always been a big drinker from a big drinking family and since college is a time when even non-alcoholics drink alcoholically, my liver was pretty pickled by senior year. I had been seeing a therapist for about a year when she told me she thought my drinking was a problem, to which I defensively exclaimed, ”Well, then, everyone in my life has a drinking problem!” She calmly replied, “Well, I am not treating everyone in your life, and if you do not seek help with a 12-step program, I will have to terminate our relationship.”
Snap! Was my therapist breaking up with me? “Holy crap, is it that bad?” I asked myself. What I actually felt surprised me. Pure relief.
So, all gussied up in my ‘80s finest — stirrup pants, t-shirt with shoulder pads Velcro-ed to my bra straps, gobs of Stage Light makeup, enormous mane of red, permed hair in full effect with big plastic neon hoop earrings — and found my way to the basement of a church in Syosset, Long Island. ”Lookin’ good and definitely not like an alcoholic,” I reassured my review reflection before going in.
I sat near the door so I could smoke my Parliament 100’s considerately, and I was approached by a beautiful, similarly shellacked, big-haired woman about 10 years my senior. Noticing I was a newbie, she asked what brought me to the meeting. I said my therapist threatened to break up with me if I didn’t attend at least one. To be polite, I asked her the same question. She looked me straight in the eyes and with a calm that unnerved me, stated, “I killed a six-year-old boy in a drunk driving accident.”
“Wow, I am so sorry. That seriously sucks,” was my shocked and not-so-sensitive reply.
“Yes, it does, and I have had to figure out how to live every day of my life knowing I killed someone’s child and broke a mother’s heart.”
Her answer inspired my first Fearless Inventory and changed the course of my life.
I stayed until the end of the meeting, fighting back a tsunami of tears that threatened to overwhelm me. When I finally got to my car, I was bawling so hard I couldn’t drive, so I sat there listening to Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All” (which of course inspired more bawling) and felt so grateful, it hurt.
I made a pact with the universal powers that be at that moment that I would not drink again. I was so ecstatic that the tragic story was not mine and so keenly aware of how easily it could have been, something shifted permanently. I still think of that generous angel who shared the story that led to the wake-up that inspired my transformation.
Once I stopped drinking, things changed. I dropped 25 pounds in 30 days, discovered my cheekbones and moved to NYC after graduation. I took an honest inventory of all areas of my life. Writing down what I wanted more of and what I wanted less of in each area. I stayed in therapy and got dialed into the self-empowerment movement. I realized that to create the life of my dreams I had to be brutally honest about what was not working and what limiting beliefs were blocking my potential. The rest is history. Taking a Fearless Inventory was a game changer for me so I want to share it with you.
Take Your Own Fearless Inventory
Start by writing a list of the main areas of your life: career, love, spirituality, health and wellness, finances, family and other. Make two lists for each category: Want More and Want Less. Keep the Want More list and burn the Want Less list with an empathic witness by your side. Declare what you want and feel the feelings of already having it. Visualize it, feel it, believe it and you will bring it into being. Open your eyes for sychro-tastic situations and meaningful coincidences that start to show up, then take action.
By taking your own Fearless Inventory and daring to declare what you truly want, you will harness the mind-blowing power of your intention and tap into the infinite possibilities of your life.
I know you can do it. I did.
As always I will be cheering you on like a wild maniac!
For more on living fearless and free, visit http://terricole.com/
Photo credit: Steve Rhodes
