Illusions

Two months ago I was under several illusions. I believed that I was in good physical health (albeit a bit out of shape), good spiritual health, and good emotional health. I also believed that I was in charge of what was occurring in my life, that I was in control. The worst illusion I held was that I didn't need anyone.

These illusions weren't ironclad. The murder of my niece had shaken some of my beliefs to their core. Yet like I suspect many do in similar circumstances, I put the pain, anger and confusion into a little box I labeled "Denial" and tried to go on with my life as before. Every now and then I would open up this box, and see if I still got a jolt of pain. Of course I did, so I carefully put the lid back on, and vowed not to open the box ever again. When I would see or hear of a family member who was having trouble grieving, my commitment to keeping this box secure grew stronger. I missed my niece, I missed her smile, her laugh, her humor, and her optimism. The pain my family was going through seemed unbelievable. But I thought that I was doing more good by being strong, helping everyone else, and I didn't really know how to deal with the miasma of emotions.

When I received the pathology report from my colonoscopy, I was horrified. Horrified that my body had somehow betrayed me, that I could die and leave my wife and children alone, and that my life had been a waste. And a waste it was. In the two weeks since my diagnosis, I realized that I had accomplished little of value in my 41 years. That's a hard pill to swallow. I hadn't built any enduring friendships, nor helped anyone except myself in any significant way. It's very humbling to realize that you really aren't the center of the universe.

I had avoided attachments because I was afraid that I would get hurt. That friendships would end badly in disappointment or acrimony. I held my friends and family at arms length, simultaneously wanting yet fearing the love that only they can offer. My first marriage was an act of desperation, of selfishness that only perpetuated my self-centeredness.

I held onto these illusions because it was easy and convenient. It's awfully hard to change how you view the world, and I think our tendency as people is to hold onto some structured view of life. Change happens though. I had a chance to change when I met Jen, and when we had our two children. I always said that I while I was good at this or that, I was really good at being a father. And change I did. Kids will do that to you, as will a wonderful wife.

Yet I held onto this silly notion that my kids and my wife were the exception. That I had to stay in control, that I could stay in control. My diagnosis demolished any chance of retaining that illusion. It made me revisit that box with Rachel's name on it, and weep for my lost niece. It made me realize that I really wasn't in control, that control was just an illusion to keep me sane. That release was good for the soul, that to deny our feelings and fears was the most unhealthy of acts.

And then a wonderful thing happened. When I felt the lowest, the loneliest, in sheer utter fear and panic, I began to receive calls and emails, cards and letters from family, friends, neighbors and coworkers who had heard I have cancer. Friends from high school whom I haven't heard from in 23 years sent emails wishing me well. Family members who I had lost touch with, or had never even met sent me notes of support and encouragement.

It's hard to describe how that makes you feel when you're going through cancer. I'll be honest and say that it doesn't magically alleviate your fears, nor make your treatments less uncomfortable. But it does make you realize that despite forty one years of looking out for Number One, people do love and care for you. I'd think I'd rather hold onto that then the illusions that got me this far.

love,

Cj