Recovery of the Spirit
Roadblocks:
Lifelines:
“This journey of mine, this parenting journey, would involve going two steps forward sometimes and then three steps backward. It was not vertical progress I was making, but it was progress. And strangely, the more I kept the focus on myself and striving to be happy, the easier it was to let go of my child. I knew I had paid my dues, and I feared no one’s judgment, least of all God’s.
I’ve railed at God many, many times during these twenty-three years of joy and pain, this God they speak of at Twelve-Step meetings. How many times had I sinned in my life? Many, more than I want to remember. And so the child in me had been sure, earlier on, that I was being punished for all of them. It was my karmic payback. “What goes around comes around,” etc. Indeed, for all of my life, before my breakdown, I had no faith in anything or anyone other than myself. I grew up very lonely and isolated, and if there was a god, he wasn’t paying any attention to me. So I learned to be very independent and self-reliant.
But when I finally found myself on my knees, I felt broken and whole at the same time: broken because my MO for dealing with my problems hadn’t been working; and whole because I finally let myself believe in something outside of myself to strengthen me, to fill in the gaps that were missing in me, and to help me cope. I was starting to develop and cling to a faith that assured me that I was not being punished and that I would be OK in the end, no matter what happened to my daughter. And I realized that fighting her battles for her was not only a waste of time; it was also useless and of questionable value.
My energies, spent though they were, would be better directed toward reclaiming my own life, which had been sorely compromised in the fight to save my daughter. And in reclaiming my own life, I was bidding for my redemption, long overdue, but just within my reach. This was my journey now, I knew it; I sadly accepted it. I wanted us to be connected but we weren’t. I wanted her struggle to be our struggle, but it wasn’t. I wanted to save her life but I couldn’t. I could only save my own. And I’d keep working at it—or this relentless disease would claim two more victims instead of one.” ~Angie Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, by Maggie Romero, 2014
I wrote a few words on this topic ten years ago, just a few words, a very few words. And I am amazed at how much more I have to say on the topic a decade later. In my recovery program, they tell us to “keep coming back.” This is why, and I’m so glad that I did.
First of all, I forced myself, gradually, to open my closed mind and really listen to what others had to say. I had to reach rock bottom, sad to say, in order to be able to do this. I had to be so broken and miserable that I was desperate to try anything new. Because “my best thinking had gotten me into the rooms.” And what does that say about my “best” thinking. To put it charitably, it was propelling me toward continual unhappiness and frustration. My life simply wasn’t working for me, and I knew that something or someone had to change. ME!
Recognizing this required a lot of letting go and surrender: of my arrogance, ego, self-will, need to control, self-reliance and stubbornness. I was finally on my knees, the student at last ready for the teacher.
I lost nothing by surrendering these things I had been a slave to for most of my life. And what did I gain? A lot more wind in my sails, the God-given, grace-filled capacity to dig deep and find the goodness and humanity that had been buried for so long behind a wall of anger and self-righteousness.
What a relief, what freedom I am enjoying, to be sailing on an open sea with my sails full of power, the wind behind me, looking forward with faith to a bright future.
“If you have made mistakes, even serious mistakes, you may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing we call “failure” is not the falling down, but the staying down.”
― Mary Pickford
Those who die young are denied so many opportunities: the chance to live out their lives fully, often making mistakes, hopefully learning from them, and growing into more mature, evolved people. Eventually, if we’re lucky, we arrive at an age of wisdom when we can pass on learned lessons to others.
Learning to live well is a skill that many of us aspire to, especially as we grow older. Some of us are aware of the wreckage we left behind if we were burdened with demons like alcoholism or other forms of addiction.
Since I was a teenager, I struggled with various forms of it: eating disorders and amphetamines, which I craved because they relieved me of my depression, the underlying cause of my misery.
I, nevertheless, proceeded through life doing what my parents expected of me: marry a suitable guy and raise children. My husband, children and I lived a privileged life in the Foreign Service. But I wanted a career, and my husband did not approve. Rather than work it out for the sake of us all, I insisted on a divorce and moved back to Virginia with our children.
And so continued a period of years where I received great satisfaction in the classroom. But I was a far less successful parent. The kids were hurting badly, but did well enough on the surface for me to rationalize their pain.
Annie, my middle child, however, turned to drugs when she had barely graduated from college, and has been in and out of that hellish life for twenty-three years. Hence, the wreckage I spoke of.
During my years of teaching, I met the man I’ve been with for thirty-one years. Both high school teachers, we weren’t looking for love, but love found us. I eventually traded my food obsession with alcohol and embarked on thirty years of drinking. Ironically, Gene was a recovered alcoholic, but he knew better than to try and stop me, that the desire to stop had to come from me. I was a functional alcoholic, but not at all healthy spiritually.
My real work was soon to begin.
Yet I needed to learn to let go of Annie. “Let go or be dragged,” they say.
I needed a change of scenery, so Gene and I left Virginia and moved to New Mexico. We enjoyed a decade of living in “the land of enchantment.” But Annie was still floundering, and I stepped up my drinking. I couldn’t bear the pain of losing her.
My son and his wife helped me to wake up.
“Mom, please move up here so you can be closer to the children and watch them grow up.”
I bought a home on Camano Island, an hour north of Seattle where my son had moved. Life was good. I had begun publishing memoirs while still living in Albuquerque, and the catharsis I needed to begin the healing process had begun.
Spending many weekends down in Seattle at my son’s house, I was regularly drinking in his basement. I was not ready to work on myself and give up my thirty-year habit. Then one day he and his wife confronted me.
We sat down together, and he minced no words:
“Mom, we know what you’re doing in the basement. All our vodka bottles are empty.”
Immediate shock, humiliation, and the realization that I had not been fooling them all these years.
I said very little, just that I was so sorry that I’d been behaving so recklessly. And from that day I’ve never thought about drinking alcohol. At last, this student was ready for the teacher, happy that I’ve remained teachable. I had to believe that I was worth the effort to stop drinking.
It’s a fortunate person who has evolved enough to realize that he needs to change in order to live his best life. I am one of those fortunate adults.
Starting over after a long life of substance abuse isn’t as daunting as it sounds. I feel blessed, on the contrary, to have a second chance at life, living sober and reaping all the accompanying rewards.
This is personal transformation at its best. Gratitude fills my heart every day as I move forward, doing the next right thing.
The Rewards of Friendship
It’s part of the human condition to take things for granted sometimes. We have a myriad of excuses, of course. We wouldn’t want to do periodic self-assessments to see if we need to change anything. The older we get, the more set in our ways, the more prideful we become. We’re doing fine, we say, it’s young people who need to shape up and emulate us!
This is why I am a “grateful alcoholic.” If I hadn’t been a substance abuser and had to face terrible personal consequences because of it, I might never have tried to change my character. Enter Twelve-Step recovery, a guide for living that helps us be the best people we can be.
That’s it, just a few guidelines to follow, many of which strangely echo the Golden Rule. Most of my childhood friends don’t remember me because I was very unhappy in that town. When we moved away, I never looked back, and neglected to keep up with them, sure that it would be of little consequence.
My oldest friend in northern Virginia was my best friend for years. Our children grew up together, and we were a constant support for each other. But after I moved West with Gene, I dropped her as well. Out of sight, out of mind?
But I’m happy to say that I reached out to Gail recently and we arranged a Zoom chat on her account. First, the amends. I was so sorry for carelessly discarding her like I did. “No apologies are necessary.” she offered, “we all have busy lives.” And we proceeded to chat as though no time had passed. What a gift to us both to reconnect like that. And all because of cancer.
Cancer can be a deal breaker in some ways. It was telling Gail about my cancer that was the conversation opener in my email, and something she responded to, predictably, with love and concern. It can serve as a motivator in so many ways: from valuing our days as though they were numbered—and living accordingly; to making amends to people we’d been avoiding because we can do it later.
It has to do with vulnerability. Allowing myself to be vulnerable is hardly a sign of weakness. I’ve been told over and over from people who’ve read my memoirs that it’s a particularly appealing trait. If nothing else, it evens the playing field among friends and acquaintances. No more need to compete. We are all equals.
Before I went into recovery, my outside didn’t match my inside. If I had any friendships at all, most of them were pretty superficial. But as I’ve become more comfortable in my skin, I’ve become more honest with everyone.
And the rewards? Many more friends, an end to loneliness, and deep gratitude that I have been given a second chance to live life better than before. I’ve enjoyed such a wonderful life. And now I have the good sense to appreciate it and reap the rewards.
Testing My Mettle…Yet Again
Last spring when I had raging carpal tunnel syndrome in my hands AND a viral mouth infection so severe I couldn’t eat anything but pablum, I whined that “it never rains, it pours.” Well, those two maladies were a walk in the park compared to falling down the stairs and breaking my humerus three days before my first chemotherapy infusion.
“God,” I said looking up as though that were where He lived, “You are really testing me. Geez, isn’t t-cell lymphoma bad enough without having to cope one-handed with my arm in a sling?”
It’s a good thing I couldn’t see Him because I knew he was smiling, sure that I would meet this challenge just fine. And I would have slugged him, I was so mad.
At myself, of course. I talk about remaining teachable and I think THIS time my self-will has wrought a bad enough consequence to make me stop in my tracks. How did this happen? I failed to turn the night light on, was nearly finished barreling down fourteen steps in slippery socks, missing the last one, and plummeted onto my left side at the base of the stairwell.
My first thought: I will not be defeated by this. I got up and was grateful I could walk without pain. More gratitude: it was my left side and not the dominant right. I went to my phone and called 911.
Camano Island Fire and Rescue was there right away and whisked me off to Skagit Regional Hospital in Mt. Vernon. X-rays were taken, and I waited in the outer area for my friend to come and take me home. Oh, did I mention that Gene had just that evening flown to San Francisco for the memorial of a friend? Timing…
I was quite alone in my house, but not for long. The front door was constantly revolving all weekend with friends coming over to teach me how to wear a sling, cut up vegetables, open bottles for me, perform a myriad of tasks reserved for two-handed people. I’m so grateful for them.
My son took me to my first infusion the following Monday. He held his tongue, but I knew he was furious that I could allow such a disaster to happen at the start of my chemotherapy. When Gene flew back the next day, more dismay and head-shaking that I could have been so careless.
So there you have it. This occurred on October 17, just eight weeks ago. It was fractured badly and the ice cream is nearly off the cone. Still quite painful, it’s not going to heal on its own. So I saw a shoulder surgeon this week and he’ll schedule surgery for as soon as possible, when treatment is over.
The sooner the better, so I can get through rehabilitation therapy and hopefully get back to paddling my kayak this summer. Am I too ambitious? Nah.
And I’m nothing if not determined…
Healing
When I was seeing a counselor at work in Virginia, she suggested I try a 12-Step group called Al-Anon.
“Oh no, that’s not for me,” I responded, convinced that I had all the answers to Annie’s problem. Yet I was desperate for help, and was willing to try anything, so I began attending a regular Saturday morning meeting. But I was essentially paying lip service to a program I was too arrogant to believe in. I felt I had all the answers and was unable to accept her substance use disorder as a disease I had no control over.
The first three steps of all the 12-Step programs are the “God Steps.” We admit we are powerless over whatever it is that we are trying to free ourselves from; in my case, trying to control my daughter. But I needed to learn to let go of Annie. “Let go or be dragged,” they say in Al-Anon.
After six years of attending meetings, and still unable to save her with the only kind of love I could offer, I suffered the clinical depression I spoke of in the previous segment. That’s when Gene and I left Virginia and moved to New Mexico. We enjoyed a decade of living in “the land of enchantment.” But Annie was still floundering, and I stepped up my drinking. I couldn’t bear the pain of losing her.
My son and his wife had moved to Seattle for work, and they started having children.
“Mom, please think about moving up here with us so you can be closer to the children and watch them grow up.”
This was a no-brainer for me and Gene. We had spent the early years of our lives together paddling canoes all over the country, so being near water to continue that pursuit would complete us. It was the one thing that was missing in the desert of New Mexico.
I quickly sold the condo I owned in Virginia and bought a nice home on Camano Island, an hour north of Seattle. Gene wasn’t quite ready to let go of his orchard and the sunshine of New Mexico, so we went back and forth between our two homes for four years. But we eventually got tired of all the fence-sitting and made a decision to sell our little pueblo house to live full-time on Camano Island.
Life was good. I had begun publishing award-winning memoirs while still living in New Mexico, and was about to publish my second one in 2020. Having joined Story Circle Network in 2013, I used their publications to write a number of short pieces and see them in print. Story Circle Network is an outstanding and versatile organization founded by Susan Wittig Albert back in the 1990’s, specifically as a venue to encourage women to find their voices and write.
Between that and publishing my memoirs, the catharsis I needed to open my eyes and begin the healing process had begun.
No Spirit At All
Learning to live well is a skill that many men and women aspire to, especially as we grow older. Some of us are aware of the wreckage we left behind if we were burdened with demons like alcoholism or other forms of substance abuse. Even addictions like gambling, sex and workaholism can interfere with a more functional life.
Ever since I was a teenager, I had struggled with eating disorders, which seems to be a common theme among many young people who grow up in an alcoholic home. That led me back in the 1960’s to diet doctors and amphetamines, which were easy to acquire. And I loved them because they relieved me of my depression, the underlying cause of my misery.
I, nevertheless, proceeded through life doing pretty much what my parents expected me to do: marry a suitable guy and raise children. My husband, three children and I lived a privileged life in the Foreign Service, living overseas for fifteen years. But I wanted a career, and my Cuban husband did not approve. So rather than work it out for the sake of us all, I insisted on a divorce and moved back to Virginia with the children.
This was a very heady time for me. I landed a job teaching English as a Second Language in Arlington Public Schools, and threw myself back into the teaching career I had begun years earlier in Nicaragua. My children were ten, twelve, and fourteen at that time, and I essentially left them alone to raise themselves. Their father was very generous with child support, but he was so angry about the divorce that all he gave us was money. He refused to share custody with me. And that did a grave disservice to our children.
And so continued a period of years where I received great satisfaction in the classroom. But I was a far less successful parent. The kids were hurting badly, but did well enough on the surface for me to rationalize their pain. Annie, my middle child, however, turned to drugs when she had barely graduated from George Mason University, and has been in and out of that hellish life for twenty-two years. Hence, the wreckage I spoke of. I did have her in therapy early on for about ten years, but to no avail. I eventually suffered a nervous breakdown from my repeated attempts to “save” her, and took early retirement from a job I adored. Another price to pay for my self-absorption.
My partner and I moved to New Mexico to start over, and enjoyed a decade running an orchard and selling produce at the local markets. But I had years earlier in Virginia traded my food obsession with alcohol and embarked on thirty years of drinking. I was a pretty functional alcoholic, never missed a day of work, but no more evolved spiritually than the man in the moon.
My real work was soon to begin.
The Graveyard Shift
This is bizarre. It reminds me of when I had carpel tunnel syndrome last spring: I was in such burning pain that I couldn’t sleep. But that passed with time, and this insomnia will, too.
My new sleep schedule: I fall asleep between 7:00 and 9:00 at night; then I’m up at 11:30ish; I watch videos until my eyelids start drooping, usually a couple hours; then fall back to sleep until, if I’m lucky, 4:00 am, when my day begins. I drink a mocha, check emails, etc. At 5:00 I eat breakfast; at six I can start the work of the day: my writing. This consists of my daily gratitude journal and for the past six months my cancer diary. It’s pretty long, over twenty-five chapters, both before and after my diagnosis.
By 10:00, I start to fade and take a nap, about an hour. But before I nap, I eat a sizeable protein snack. After I wake up, I work on my computer until 12:00, lunchtime. Well, I guess some things coincide with real life! I go downstairs to watch Nicole Wallace, and even though the news is depressing, I love to listen to her guests, especially Tim Miller.
Then I’m ready for another short nap, another snack, more writing, and then dinner with Gene. So, you see the routine is trying to glide into some semblance of normalcy. If I could just sleep through the night…
Why the insomnia? I only take prednisone for five mornings in a 3-week infusion cycle, so I’m not convinced it’s that, though it has a monstrous reputation. Then I read an article called “Why Do Cancer Patients Have Anxiety?” Geez, ya think?
Out of boredom, I started playing Dr. Google again. I read that my type of non-hodgkins lymphoma is not only incurable but has a very poor prognosis. Tell that to the lady who whizzed through 6 miles of Disneyland without getting tired!
The truth is that they are making huge strides in cancer research every day. Right now I’m undergoing my first line of treatment. My oncologist also has me in a clinical trial concurrent with my chemo. The theory is that if I go into remission, it might last a few years longer. Dr. Poh gave me a gold star when I saw her on Monday.
I believe in my heart that remission awaits me. I just don’t know. What I do know is that t-cell lymphoma is usually “refractory,” meaning it will come back with a vengeance, resisting the chemo I got before. This is when I’m glad it’s nearly 2025 and not twenty years ago. There are a number of new treatments they will surely try. But, as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m only halfway through this first line of treatment. February 3 is my last infusion. We’ll see what the PET scan shows, if Dr. Poh can claim me to be in remission or not.
Fingers crossed!
One Tough Old Bird
Nearly three years ago, I tripped on a towel in our bathroom and fell, whacking my head against the porcelain tub. I broke six ribs, had a pneumothorax, and a teardrop fracture in my neck.
It was my fault, moving too fast in an unlit room, I made a promise to myself: I can never fall again. Period. Well, “Promises are like piecrusts…” Is that how it goes?
Five days before my first chemo infusion, I made the same mistake. I had a fall that resulted in a significant fracture of my humorous (upper arm). OMG, I can’t believe my timing! I’ve started out in a sling and the orthopedist saw me yesterday. Because of the cancer treatments, we’ve elected to avoid surgery for now and let it heal in the sling for six to eight weeks.
“Marilea, the human body is a remarkable machine. It will heal itself if we are patient and let it. If you use the sling for the next two months, slow down, and use the time to rest, it will eventually heal itself. You will need to do regular exercises and maybe work with a therapist regularly, but I think we can avoid surgery, which is problematic at your age, not to mention your cancer treatments.”
“Thanks, Doc. I’ll learn to be patient and let my arm heal on its own. See you next week for a checkup.”
Ladies, have you ever tried to get dressed, pull your pants down to go to the bathroom, floss your teeth, cut vegetables or an apple, just live your life the way two-handed people do? It’s damned inconvenient. And slows me down, probably a good thing.
So here’s another lemon in my life: the broken arm.
Lemonade? It could have been SO much worse. I could have had a concussion, broken a hip, compromised my legs and ability to walk. Walking, oh wow, that’s number one on the gratitude list. If that were compromised I might have just had to put everything on the cancer side of the drama on hold until I could walk again! So lots of silver linings to pay attention to and deeply felt joy and gratitude that it’s just a broken arm. Oh, another glass of lemonade? My ability to see all the silver linings and allow them to elevate my spirit.
The spiritual part of this journey is absolutely essential to holistically healing my body. My alcoholism recovery is the basis, of course, for all this healing and has saved my life. Minimal whining, endless joy and gratitude, A deeply held faith that life is unfolding for me as it was meant to. I’m in God’s hands. And however much time I have left on this earth, I will live it to the best of my ability, and accept, gracefully accept, God’s will for me.
Amen, and stay tuned for the continued cancer part of my saga!