Uninvited Guests

I stepped out of the air-conditioned car and into the Texas heat and humidity, which offered…relief. Off and on, I had been chilled for the last couple of hours. It had been that way for the last two weeks with regular fevers and chills. I slowly walked past the six-foot bronze beaver welcoming me to the singular madness of the Southeast’s favorite gas station, Buc-ee’s. 

It was already past 2:00pm, so we were overdue for lunch. Though I still wasn’t hungry, I was going to eat anyway. There’s an overwhelming set of choices for everything at Buc-ee’s, including food. We followed our noses to the first thing we smelled: BBQ sandwiches. As Dad was picking those up, I made the ¼ mile walk to the restrooms. Slowly. 

I had as close to zero energy as ever, maybe other than the stem cell transplant in my twenties. And it had been that way despite a recent four days in the hospital in Austin to try and figure out why my recovery from the lung resection had gone from steady improvement to a fairly rapid decline.

In my return to the car, I opted to walk in the sun instead of in the store, both to bypass the chaos and to try and warm up some more.

An hour left to Houston for a visit to MD Anderson.

Eventually settled in the Hampton in Houston, Dad and I both grabbed an afternoon nap. I think this was already part of Dad’s daily rhythm. (Am I eligible to retire yet?)

While I thought I had hit the bottom, I somehow had even less in the tank as we got up the next day for our appointments. Walk some. Sit down and rest. Try to catch my breath. Nurse takes some blood. Walk. Different nurse needs to take more blood. Rest. Chest xray. The MD Anderson campus is vast - effectively its own zip code. Eventually, a wheelchair became necessary.

I was reaching some dark places in my head:

Dark because I had no idea what was going on, and nobody else, doctors included, seemed to know either.

Dark because it felt like nobody was actually hearing me. 

Dark because of the unpredictability. 

Dark because Mom had died during her cancer treatment from an obscure infection the doctors couldn’t figure out…so that was a constant backdrop. 

Dark because I had to leave Stacey and the kids at home and wondered when I’d see them again. 

Dark because I have historically considered myself physically capable of most all the things I want and need to do (such a wonderful gift), but I was barely capable of walking 30 yards. 

Dark because I could see my body changing.

Dark because I was starting to question if my brain was messing with me. 

Dark because, though I know death travels alongside all of us, it seemed to want to travel even closer than ever. 

My surgeon sensed a lot of this, with an initial reaction of, “you don’t look good.” I was immediately admitted for another nine days in the hospital to rule out the most nasty culprits. 2.5 liters of fluid drained, including a lot of old blood. Enough IV antibiotics to last me a lifetime. Eventually the fevers abated, and things seemed to stabilize. Longer walks around the hospital. Lots of good help and loving from lifelong friends and family who came to stay with me. 

We never really figured out exactly what was at the root of my issues, but we were grateful for a little stability and slow improvements in energy, breathing, etc. That was enough to get out of the hospital, which was, at that point, driving me into those dark places too. 

I’m at home now, which I’m ridiculously grateful for. I’m left wondering about the dark places, which are lingering with me as this recovery is frustratingly slooooooow. I’ve had life-changing moments in this larger journey where I had these visceral experiences of being held amidst the challenges of cancer treatment. 

And I’ll own that these last few weeks have not felt like that. 

I don’t doubt that the larger, mysterious, interconnection and divine love is always there. The past felt experiences of that made it known to me in a way my head or words will never capture. And…these dark places I’ve been in have not had the lightness of that mysterious interconnection. 

Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun and teacher, said, “Feel the feelings; drop the story.” Hearing that recently helped me recognize how much I’ve been pulled into all these stories in my head these last few weeks. I’m recognizing that unpredictability has created the hardest, darkest moments in this journey. And these last few weeks have maxed me out on unpredictability, leading me distracted down all the rabbit holes, playing out made-up stories in my head. I’m reminding myself to give myself grace with the up and down journey through this.

The usual grounding from meditation and anchoring in my breath has been challenging too because breathing has been different, labored, and uncomfortable at times while my body works to adapt to less lung. But my breath has been more available in the last week, which is helping me to feel the feelings in my body better, with less running out into some made-up future the stories promote. 

A recent meditation invoked one of my favorite Rumi poems, The Guest House:

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

For me, it’s that invitation back to a stance of allowing rather than resisting (does it always come back to this?). To “feel the feelings; drop the story.” 

My sister, after a week or so in the hospital, had asked me what were a couple of things I wanted to do when I got out of the hospital and back home. The first things that came to mind were things like sit on the back patio under our big oak tree and just look and listen, watch a show with the family, or tend to the vegetable garden. All mundane on the surface, but what if that’s where the joy is to be found? Maybe that’s what Rumi is referencing when a crowd of sorrows are worth treating honorably as they may be clearing me out for some new delight? That delight is probably not a new life with different things, but rather being in my existing life in a different way.

May we find our breath in the unpredictability. May we notice the periodic wink from the Divine, reminding us of its surrounding presence. May we give ourselves the same grace we would give to a dear friend. May we feel the feelings and drop the story. And may we find delight through new ways of being with what is right in front of us. 

As always, much love to and gratitude for you. 

Matt

With Chris and Ern in the hospital. Lucky to have friends like these.