The body

For years, I didn’t like my body. For the majority of my life, there was this sense of guilt or shame about how I looked and felt. As a result or product of, I am not sure, there was an internal struggle, a sort of emotional and spiritual dissonance within that which I can only refer to as the soul.  

The body and soul were awkward, each attempting to adjust to one another, the physical and metaphysical working their way into a partnership of sorts. In one’s formative years, this is a time of great physical and emotional/spiritual strife. From my childhood until recently, this lingering sensation of turmoil always seemed to be.  

Much of this stems from the labels and ideas thrust upon us by the society and culture into which we are born. It is hard to adjust and figure out our way through the swamp of ideals and morals, beliefs and philosophies that aren’t necessarily our own – in fact, they seldom are, as we soon discover, they are simply handed down piece by piece. In such a way, they become like the game a telephone might play as a child. One person starts a phrase, and it is passed around or down a line. The end product is usually some bastardized version of the initial statement. The awkwardness of soul and body, this feeling of discontent, eventually brings us to the point of either acceptance of the societal and cultural default settings or forces us to step out in hopes of discovering that to which we are drawn by some force and/or inner seeking. Both take courage, neither one can be deemed good or bad, right or wrong etc.  
Amid treatment, during the first rounds immediately following my diagnosis, I stepped out of the shower one morning and stood before the mirror fixed to the opposite wall. There, in front of me, was my naked body. My hair had long since fallen out on my head and my entire physical being. I looked like some prepubescent boy with the face of a middle-aged man – a face exponentially haggard by exhaustion, stress, anxiety, etc. My eyes were sunken, tired, and sad. They, my eyes, have always held every bit of my worry, fear, joy, passion, etc. I looked at myself; I stared at the body before me. I stood still and let the feelings and sensations (some of which I haven’t found a suitable word for) pulsate from my core.  

It was the first time in my entire that I felt a sort of love, admiration, and acceptance for myself – for both my body and There was an incredible level of sadness and anger, and there still is – of course. Only a fool will tell you that love ousts hate or that bravery trumps cowardice. One cannot exist without the other, and their equality and power are matched 1:1. Ultimately, about all personal decisions.

I stood there. My fingers traced various lines and ran over my bloated body, puffy from steroids and other drugs administered during active treatment. 

The orchiectomy incision looked back at me. I hadn’t looked at it since the operation and commencement of treatment. There was a part of me that didn’t want to look at it, to admit that it existed, or to deny the fact the surgery had taken place.  

Afterward, I let my fingers wander over my body, from the top of my bald head to the sunken sockets holding my eyes, over my flabby belly, and along the scar that marks the right side of my groin. I let my arms fall to my sides. I remember distinctly looking at myself – really looking at myself. I never wanted to. The body, my body, was just something. Embarrassed as I am to say this, I viewed it as some form that I had been plagued by.  

Beyond the fleshy, bloated being is where my gaze eventually fell, where it entered. How could it not? That is where all the lines I traced on my body were leading. As with the physical body, I didn’t think I was ready to honestly look or hold myself in that manner. But given the circumstances, the nand tire situation I was in, how could I not? 

I have always been curious about the soul. The notion of it as a thing, for lack of a better word, fascinates me. I see it as something continuous, an ongoing form of energy, something that doesn’t end when the physical body holding it passes. The idea of the soul as something “eternal” stems from my catholic upbringing. As with my physical body and the shame and embarrassment I felt towards/about it, I felt something similar towards my soul. My physical body might lead to sin – to enjoyment and lust. My soul was a mere breath or thought away from damnation.  Damned might I be should I enjoy my own flesh, my body – the sacred house of my soul! Damned might I be should I steer my soul on a course of my own choosing to embrace the free will I was taught so much about.

It took me nearly 3 decades to look at myself and appreciate the strength of my body and soul. It took almost 3 decades to look at myself, to behold myself, body and soul, and to give thanks.

Despite the anger and bitterness, and sadness, gratitude exists. Though I might struggle daily with my mental and emotional well-being, I’d be genuinely damned without appreciation.

The photo is a still from a performance video I made in 2012. Through my visual art I was always trying to articulate my feelings and beliefs about the physical and metaphysical. Through art I sought to examine this relationship and express that visually which alluded me in every other form of expression and means of communicating. In this video we have two beings; one that remains still, eyes closed. The other worked furiously to wrap and eventually unwrap their head with string. The being with their eyes closed is actually the one seeing, the one that is fully aware of what is going on internally and externally. The other being, the one wrapping their head with the string, is the being trying to figure out their place within everything, to literally untangle the mess and confusion in which they find themselves.

A Question / An Answer

Greetings, dear friend,

I have been in a fight with cancer for 3 years. It has, as you can imagine, altered my life. I keep looking back, gazing longingly at the past, and thinking, ‘It was much better then; life was easier then.”

I catch myself and feel angry and guilty for thinking about this. Even during meditation, I’m annoyed thinking that life was more straightforward then.

Can you offer some advice about being gentler during such a rough time?

Many thanks,

Jeremiah

Hello dear friend Jeremiah,

Thinking about how things were more accessible and better in the past is a natural part of grieving what you have lost. However, what you lost was not your health but your innocence. It was easier then because your problems seemed of a lesser magnitude than your problems now. You still have plenty of innocence, and you still don’t know what the future holds, but when you live with cancer, you have all your other life problems plus cancer. You have a much deeper perspective that can’t ignore the fragility of life. Looking back at your earlier self, you can think, Lucky me, I didn’t know what was coming. You still don’t know what is coming, but you don’t feel as lucky, or you may feel unlucky or cursed. Yet, you are vibrantly alive. It is outrageously courageous of you to sit meditation. Meditation is where your deepest fears vie for the light of your attention. It is where your mind processes your grief. Thinking about a simpler time is a fine thing to do. Wishing for past and future health is a big part of the

process. Feeling guilty and angry for having thoughts is a reaction.

When you notice those reactions, practice responding.

A response is an intentional reaction. When you respond, you can include compassion. Meditation is a time to let go of thoughts. As your attention is on your breath, there is no other thought. You think about the past and notice the thought, then bring your attention to your breath. Feeling guilty for having a thought you didn’t want is another thought, so notice that and bring your attention back to your breath. Your getting angry is another thought; notice that and return to your breath. You don’t need to sort your thoughts into good or bad, right or wrong; you just have to notice them and bring your attention back to your breath. That is repeatedly throwing out your mind. When you finish meditation, you can let your thoughts run again, but meditation is a time to practice dropping off your thoughts.

If dropping off thoughts isn’t working for you. Practice a more active form of mediation. Practice thinking about gratitude. Practice loving-kindness meditation for all of the people in your life. Imagine how others suffer; breathe in their suffering; peace and wellness for them. If you are in the hospital with other people, practice healing them. Breathe in their sickness, and breathe out peace and wellness for them. That kind of thing occupies your mind more than a more open form of mediation.

Walking meditation is also good for that. You move and drop your thoughts off as you focus on your feet, touching and leaving the ground.

Overcoming a pervasive fear takes a lot of practice. Fear digs in and spins off things like guilt and anger. With practice, though, you can change your pervasive habit.

It is still essential to embrace not knowing. Not knowing brought happiness before you knew it, and you must remember that you still don’t know. As you await test results, remember you don’t know. Not good, not bad, just don’t know. As you experience the joy of a positive test result, notice the nirvana of the fears going away. Pain comes and goes. When it goes, that is bliss.

Peace,

Peter

Shadows larger than life

Sometimes, I feel as though I have a very clear idea of what I want to write and what ideas and emotions I’m trying to convey. Other times, I don’t know where to begin and hope that fumbling along will eventually string together enough thoughts to create something solid. This is the former. However, the idea is clear but the words haven’t yet formed.

Recently, I have wondered if this is all worth it. By this, I mean the cumulative fear, stress, and anger that have spanned the last 2.5 years of my life.

With cancer, there is no reprieve. I always wonder if something is lurking. The experience with the recurrence took me so off guard. Now, I always wonder what’s there, just under the surface? What’s going on within me?

In a way, I have become very childlike, existing in this world where shadows are larger than life and wondering about my health every second.

The scans I had 3 months ago were clean. (I will have another round in early August.) The knowledge of clean scans permits me a little time to feel good, safe, and breathe. Then the show starts all over again. The build-up begins weeks (if not months) before the actual test dates; sleepless nights, raw emotions/emotional outbursts, heightened sensitivity to noise or sudden movements, and irritability. There is a pervasive feeling of dread that blankets everything. It’s not so simple to label it as depression; it is too multifaceted. (By the way, I take antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. In addition, I also take a daily regimen of herbal remedies and supplements to combat all sorts of things mood-related.)

This is my existence, and I have honestly been wondering if it’s all worth it and if I can hold on. If I can hold out for that one day when I’ll awake, the nagging fear, the chronic anxiety, and endless worrying will have slipped away in the night.

In June (2018), when I saw my oncologist at Mass General, they asked how I was doing. I felt more and more comfortable with them and knew they were asking on a deeper level (i.e., not just inquiring about fatigue levels, appetite, etc.). I said, “I feel hopeless.” It is a word I hadn’t used much before, if at all. Hopeless: despair, desperate, forlorn, pessimistic, resigned… these words don’t describe who I am. Who was I becoming? What had all this illness done to me? The weight of that word fell upon me.

For me, a state of hopelessness is reached rather gradually. In considering my journey, in relative hindsight, it is akin to wading out into a body of water — just one step, then the other, and so on. I think the longevity of my journey was a sort of cresting wave; the initial diagnosis, the recurrence, the stem cell transplant. Everything consumed me in between the various tests that took place, the preparations, the scheduling of this or that. I had little time to even consider what state I was in. Naturally, there was great sadness, frustration, etc. I never thought these emotions would culminate in hopelessness, or perhaps they were slipping under the radar. The cresting wave broke; it fell upon me. The body of water, the floor of which I could just barely touch amidst everything, was no longer there. Try as I might, I couldn’t touch the bottom. Then, another wave broke and another. I surfaced and looked for the shore, but the swells were too great, too high. All these moments of fear or anxiety, anger or sadness, amounted to a state of hopelessness.

For those unsure of what I’m saying, I will be blunt; I have often wondered about ending my own life. Also, for those who are also wondering how or why I would go through years of cancer-related treatment only to contemplate taking my own life — it is not, nor will it ever be, that simple.

As I said before, I’m holding out for that day when I will wake to even the slightest hint of normalcy.