Handling Cancer at Your Own Pace

We have all heard the expression: God doesn't give us more than we can handle. Sometimes it does not feel that way and, with a cancer diagnosis, it seems as though we have been handed far more than we can manage. Many years ago, a lovely woman, who was a minister, participated in my breast cancer support group. There were many sad stories exchanged that evening, and someone finally shared the above statement. I will never forget how Elizabeth literally sprang from her seat and firmly disagreed: It seems to me that God often gives us more than we can manage and much more than we can bear.

Hearing those words from a clergy person opened the proverbial floodgates. If she could say that sometimes we have more than we can manage, certainly the rest of us could better accept those feelings. I am aware that it is a little tricky to write about this in a blog that will be read by many people who have a range of faiths and beliefs. There is comfort in believing, and I am very respectful of all perspectives and values. I firmly think, however, that sometimes we all feel that we can't carry the burden, grief, fear, and pain that we have experienced, and there can also be comfort in knowing that this is a normal human reaction. None of us can be strong every single day.

Here is a delightful quote from A. A. Milne: "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffling slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Sometimes we all feel that way.

I am not trying to offer theology or big advice here, but, instead, a reminder to think about how to manage on those days — which we all have — when we don't feel brave at all. Remember that courage is like a muscle; it becomes stronger with use. Each time we do something that seems very hard, we are preparing to make the next time a little bit easier.

Cancer gives us the practice. Any cancer diagnosis forces many life changes. We must recognize the omnipresent nature of both beginnings and endings. We are forced to drop any gauze shield of denial that has previously protected us. We look at the world, and we now see it vividly. We begin to live contemplative lives, and, if we are lucky, to live more fully than ever.

Our lives become a time of thanksgiving, of harvesting what we have sown. The lives we live after cancer are woven from all that has come before. Forged by the pain of our experience, we are stronger. We have learned about ourselves, what we can do, and have been tested in ways we could not have imagined. We cherish our families and our friends; we trust our doctors, and we reach out to help one another. We have been given the chance, the mandate, to examine our lives and to begin to be whom we have always wanted to be.

I worked for years with a psychiatrist who liked to say: Adults only grow on the rack. We have been painfully stretched, but we have grown.

Perhaps the loveliest story about these feelings is one that I heard from one of my well-traveled patients. Several years after finishing cancer treatment, she went to Peru with her husband. A highlight of the visit was a trip to the temples at Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca site in the jungles. It was a hot day, and they climbed the many steps with a group of Americans and Peruvians. The Americans raced up the steps as quickly as possible and became frustrated with the Peruvians who frequently sat to rest. Finally, one of the American men called down: Hurry up! What are you doing? The answer was this: We are waiting for our souls to catch up.

Cancer reminds us to let our souls catch up. On the bad days when we are scared or very sad, we can rest. We can trust that the next day will be a little better, and we can forgive ourselves for sometimes feeling vulnerable and small. All we have to do is get through this day, even if we manage it an hour at a time. It helps if we can remember that these heavy days won't last forever. It also helps to remember that you are never alone with cancer.