Exist. Live.

Every year, on the 1st of April, I mention that this is the anniversary of my diagnosis. I talk about the irony of it, being that I was diagnosed on April Fool’s Day. (If you can’t see the incongruous nature of that situation, I’m not sure you’ll make it through life unscathed, my dear.) Today, however, I was thinking about other things, things beyond the absurdity of it all, which, to my pleasant surprise, brought about a giggle or two and not “what the fuck?” moments. You see, life is linear, in a roundabout way. Are you with me? I’ll try not to lose either of us, as I clarify.

We can wake up and go to bed and, in between, either exist or live. I was thinking about this as I stood on a small chunk of land poking out into the Bay of Biscay. Far out, somewhere, a storm was rolling and lurching – as they do. I arrived on foot, having walked from Santander. I knew a storm would come; storms always come; they’re linear – in a roundabout way. I didn’t consider the lightning storm. I was not expecting the hail nor the rapid drop in temperature after that. I thought that I had planned for things… We’re always looking, plotting, and considering ways to plan things. Yes, we’re always planning how to prepare. Things. Things. The linearity, the trajectory. Things. I wanted something to go accordingly. I wanted to exist, plan for hail, and prepare for post-graduate life. Things. Bring my gloves for the drop in temperature, and consider how to outline my resume to make a potential employer go, “He’s our guy!”

Existing. It’s existing.

To exist –

verb (used without object)

to have actual being; be:

The world exists, whether you like it or not.

This isn’t a survival story. Nope. I was freezing to death; I wasn’t lost in the depths of the wilderness. This is about sitting under a tree, stuffing my hands into my armpits to keep them warm while watching a storm pass over a gorgeous seascape. I was existing. I was waiting for linearity to run its course. Yep, I’m just sitting there and waiting it out. Linear. Point A – point B

Cancer and cancer survivorship is not linear. You can stuff your pack with all the shit you can think of, and something will come up, and what was once progression is kicked back to point A. It’s linearity in a roundabout way because it’s progression until it’s not. It’s growth until it’s not. It’s freedom until it’s not.

What truly breaks the cycle is opting to live and not simply exist, being and not endlessly planning to be, enjoying being rather than planning on it. I only realized this…today. However, I don’t know exactly. Sometime between waking up and knowing it was my diagnosis anniversary and accepting the fact that I was actually going to stuff my hands into my armpits because my gloves were sitting on the table at my Airbnb.

To live –

Verb (used without object), lived [livd], liv·ing.

To have life, as an organism; be alive; be capable of vital functions:

All things that live.

The middle-ground

Cancer is a sort of middle-ground between what was and will eventually be. This middle ground is unstable and forever shifting and changing — often daily. As unstable as it is, it also acts as an anchor. With a diagnosis and subsequent treatment, with life revolving around clinics and tests, trying to grapple with the “new normal” post-cancer, as well as the shift in perspective of life when the dust settles, patients seek refuge on this ground.

This middle ground, however, cannot hold, nor is it meant to.

To acknowledge that one is in remission is to become aware that the steps, however frightening, must be taken to move away from the middle ground to step forward. I have kept myself there in this gray area.

I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle ground, however, cannot hold, nor is it meant to.

As horrifying as they were the circumstances in France rattled parts of me, they forced me to bear witness to the events that had taken place over the years. I was unprepared to handle the deluge of emotions from observing this. The events snapped me into such intense awareness of all that had come to pass, each and every brutal moment of my journey. The emotional scars became apparent. The physical scars radiated, and I could not look away from either or turn my attention elsewhere. My emotional being couldn’t hold out any longer; I was shedding layers, and the feeling of emotional nudity was unbearable. I was losing the self I had been constructing; who was Jeremiah now? This identity was slipping, try as I might I couldn’t hold it. Everything came to a grinding halt; I was literally and figuratively unable to take another step. Brain surgery had to occur during active treatment; there was no question about the procedure. When everything started to rise to the surface, when the layers were dropping away, the physical and psychological acknowledgment of this particular scar was the trigger that sent me into a tailspin.

I have been able to meditate on some of the imagery and hallucinations I experienced during my breakdown. There are some images that, until now, have remained mysterious or so tangled in metaphor that I couldn’t decipher them. One in particular was pulling a hair-like substance from my chest. This unnerved me, and I wasn’t ready to interpret it. I had been building an identity around cancer; it engulfed my entire life for so long that I took on that persona, that of a patient. ‘I have cancer’, I’d say to myself, or I speak about it as though it was current, that I still had it, that I was still in the place of treatment. Neither is true. This gesture of pulling this substance from my chest is so clear to me now, so obvious. I was trying to extract this identity, this version of myself that has since passed. The transient persona that I had outgrown yet was fiercely holding onto. From within me, from my core, I was trying to haul this out, to unburden myself of it. Not to rid myself of the memories, good or bad, nor the lessons learned, as there are numerous — a lifetime’s worth! I was trying to purge myself of all that didn’t serve me, holding me back from stepping off the crumbling middle ground.

I had to return to France; Golinhac was calling me. All this came about there; all that dormant within me rose fully to my attention — glaringly so! In return, I would leave the remanence of this deteriorating middle ground and my meticulously crafted persona. I’d keep the new awareness and lessons from the incidences experienced there and feel a sense of certainty in stepping away.

I put a ticket on my charge card and began packing. Just a few weeks after I left France, a complete emotional and psychological mess, I was going back.

Everyone expressed their concerns. They were worried that I was still very vulnerable and returning so soon, in a fragile emotional and psychological state, would be very unwise. Why, after such a short period of time, would I want to return to the site of my breakdown? To the place where, just a few weeks ago, I was admitted to the emergency room after being found screaming and howling in the middle of a footpath just outside of Golinhac. These questions started building in my mind, too. Why would I want to do this? The entire way to Boston, which on the bus felt like an eternity, I was wondering what on earth I was doing. What was I hoping for? I didn’t know the answer to anything. Even during my layover in Lisbon, I still wondered and questioned everything.

I admitted to a dear friend who has been an incredible support this entire time and someone I feel safe confiding in,

“I don’t know what I’m searching for.”

“I don’t either,” she replied.

This is the uncertainty that keeps a cancer survivor remaining in the middle ground. Not only the uncertainty of life, as explained, but that of oneself, the question of who one is — who is this Jeremiah? How has he arrived here?

I don’t need an identity here. I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle ground, however, cannot hold, nor is it meant to.

I walked east out of Golinhac with ever-increasing anxiety. I had to stop and gather myself to go on a few times. At one point, I even considered returning home, admitting it was too soon for such an undertaking. But I was still drawn onward and slowed considerably, taking deep, slow breaths with each step. I stopped at a certain point, put down my pack, and started emulating the gesture of pulling the hair substance from my chest. Gently, slowly, without the frantic haste of my hallucination, I mimicked the action, one hand then the other in a rhythmic fashion as though softly pulling one long, continuous thread from my chest. The action became ritualized in its repetition, fluidity, and symbolism, bringing a deep sense of peace. I envisioned dismantling the persona that had been constructed around cancer, the identity that no longer served me. Bit by bit, as if pulling a single thread that unweaves a tapestry, I unraveled an identity. I simultaneously entwined a new Jeremiah, no longer the patient, yet holding the memories and lessons – the same thread yet a different weave pattern.

I stood still in the silence of the location and continued taking long, slow breaths. Dusk arrived, and with it, a chill. I retrieved my pack and walked westward back towards Golinhac.

The peace I felt there has remained. Returning to France, which consisted only of four full days, left me feeling as though I had undergone years of psychotherapy. It isn’t so much that I am thankful for the breakdown itself, as it was terrifying, rather, that I am thankful for that which it revealed to me and the metamorphic shifts that have since followed.

This is not to say that I have stepped entirely from the teetering middle ground, but I have one foot firmly planted on the other side.

I can build an identity here, one that is linked to (the) cancer via memories and life lessons and not one that is torn between two worlds, two worlds that ultimately hinder the desperately needed stability required for reconstruction.

Lost

Over a decade ago, when life seemed easier in many ways, partly due to blissful naivety, I left Paris en route to Munich. There, I met with German buddies to make our way on another adventure around the British Isles. Though I had been there a few times prior, I hadn’t traveled by car, and I knew this would add a whole new dimension to our journey. The British Isles, namely Scotland, are my ancestors’ land(s). I was keen on getting off the beaten track, so to speak, and really explore.

The year prior, or perhaps two years prior, we met up in Zurich, where I studied then, and set out to explore Italy. Both journeys were full of spontaneity and, naturally, considering our ages, delicious German beers. Heavy drinking aside, each journey graced us with limitless possibilities. Cliche, perhaps, but we each grew throughout our adventures. Of course, this is only in hindsight, as always, and one looks back on such voyages with a sigh and a smile, retracing not only the steps that we took then but the steps that lead each of us to our current places here and now.

There were many laughs along the way, which weren’t due to the beer; in some two or three cases, it took up more space than our luggage. We encountered some caravan-dwelling folks in Calais who seemed to live in a clown car of sorts, as each time we turned around, there was another… and another… and another. Each one disembarked until their numbers were excellent, and we soon realized that their intentions were not as friendly as we had assumed… blessed naivety. When we needed, which was often, we slept on beaches when the weather was “nice,” an” hud” led under the car, an old Mercedes (which is probably still going vital to this day) when the weather took a fowl turn. One of their friends, studying at Oxford, invited us to stay in his dorm room, which made up for the nights sleeping under the car. We cooked white rice over a camp stove and added ketchup to flavor it… a delectable meal, even if the rice was crunchy. We crossed over the Irish Sea on a late-night ferry from Holyhead. The ferry seemed almost empty at this godforsaken hour, and we sprawled out in the passenger lounge on hard plastic seats to catch a little rest. Rest evaded me as the rocking of the ferry made me queasy.

Somewhere well south of Dublin, we were driving along a double-lane highway which, seemingly instantaneously, turned into a sort of country lane just wide enough for two cars to pass. From there, it tapered off into a single lane, then a dirt road, and then a path that, I presume, was made for a tractor or other such piece of equipment. I am not sure if it ended together in pure Irish countryside or not… Had the roadmap been used more regularly, it would have consisted of major roadways, highways, etc. Still, this little dirt track wasn’t wasn’t make matters more interesting; our dual language road map was perfect for a German- or English-speaking traveler wishing to stay on the main autoroutes. Still, it was not helpful in our current situation. All the signs we could see, some just propped up on rock walls, others, which seemed to point in a random direction and undoubtedly acted more as weathervanes, swiveling this way and that even in the gentlest of breezes, were in Irish (Gaelic).

In the middle of seemingly nowhere, we came upon a small cottage. It was an idyllic, postcard-worthy scene. After a brief discussion, it was decided that, since English was my native tongue, I would speak with whoever was there — if anyone at all. After knocking on the door, I paused momentarily to admire the houses. I also wondered how one might live here in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. When I was about to leave, the door opened, and an older woman greeted me. I can’t imagine how I looked, considering we had been sleeping under a car and consuming white rice with ketchup-washed-down beer for the better part of 2 weeks. But she didn’t seem to notice or care. I presume she had been watching from a window, studying the car with German plates and the three bedraggled boys.

“Good afternoon,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re lost.”

She smiled warmly.

It wasn’t until later that I began considering my comment and her potential interpretation. Here we were in what I called the “middle of nowhere”, but to”her it was home.

Lost
Past and past participle of loss.
Adjective: lost
Denoting something that has been taken away or cannot be recovered, e.g., a lost opportunity.

It isn’t that this opportunity is lost forever; it is simply that such tidbits of wisdom only arrive when one is ready to receive them. The opportunity will repeat itself in various ways and forms until the knowledge is seen and accepted.

This journey of illness and recovery is an opportunity, right? Occasionally, I get glimpses of this, and a blissful warmth runs over me. Then I slip backward and become bitter at seeing something that has caused so much pain and suffering as a chance to learn and grow. Couldn’t I have learned this differently?

I awoke to a text from a dear friend of mine. She has been a source of endless support, care, and love during these years of both illness and recovery. She spoke about the destination and used the analogy of building a stone path and how I’m looking far ahead to some distant point. In turn, the stones I’m laying down to build the path are being overlooked in my haste, in my desire to arrive at some terminus just out of my reach. The task is daunting, too. Building a path that stretches for miles and miles leaves me angry and thus depleted. I realized the stone path I had been laying could barely be considered a path. It’s a twisting and winding mess leading here and there, running wildly in every direction, chasing every possibility, seeking out any and every venue in hopes that one thing, that anything, will relieve me, nourish me, heal me…

I have been wondering about this notion of being lost, of being somewhere neither here nor there and struggling desperately to find the way — any way, for that matter. How might it be if, by chance, I stopped desperately trying to find a way? Or, rather, as it seems, I’m after one in particular. What if I stopped giving a damn about the stone path all together? What if I stopped giving a damn about direction? If I just sat here, then what? To me, the construction of a path is a sign of strength and courage, forging boldly ahead in the face of it all. Even if I see the path as rambling madness running off in every which way, I still view it as such. What if I ceased the exhausting construction of this path? What if I just let it be? What if I just was?

Osho, an Indian spiritual guru and philosopher, said, “Be — don’t try to become.” I have spent far too much becoming. Becoming healthy. Becoming happy after such turmoil. Becoming whole again. Becoming. Becoming. Becoming. All of these are so close, just out of reach — just there.

If I become this, then I’ll have that. What a very strange equation.

This is the opportunity, the tidbit of wisdom that has arrived. Perhaps it has come a few times, and I simply wasn’t ready to be open to receiving it.

The warm smile from the older lady in Ireland was reassuring and comforting. Now, after so many years and countless experiences, I wonder if she was smiling because she knew I wasn’t lost then and that, in actuality, there is no such thing as being lost at all.