I OPEN AT THE CLOSE.  Death and dying are HUGE concepts that completely occupied my being for weeks. Even today, plans for dying and saying goodbye remain extremely difficult and tear filled.

Something MORE important has been lost behind the panic, grief and treatment side effects. I have been gifted with time, I am now 5 months post-diagnosis, and time is a very precious resource. I have been blessed with 5 months of joy, laughter and loving attention from many friends. Feeling the love and generous kindness of each person has been overwhelming, a positive thing to cry about! Now, when my life is slow I can finally feel and acknowledge the incredible love that surrounds me. It's been absolutely mind blowing to acknowledge all of the loving hearts that I have holding me.

Very late in the game, but I am making sure to let everyone and everything beautiful touch my heart. Perhaps at the close, I am learning to put down judgment and allow more of life to touch me. I actively meditate on giving and receiving love with gratitude. I don't know if you and I, we, will get a clear "goodbye". I think this giving and sharing of love is the goodbye language that fills this sweet "inbetween".

Brigit and I discussed "I open at the close" a few nights ago. I agreed to read the last Harry Potter book because of this message. Both Brigit and I agreed that we have "evolved" as a result of my cancer journey. We both feel closer to each other and, in general, more "open" than at the start.

Today I learned that a friend died of lung cancer. She was diagnosed and died within 1 week, we didn't even know she was sick. Devastating. A numbing reminder of what I am facing.   Counting blessings, thankful to have time to laugh, cry, hug and share time with friends and family...before saying GOODBYE.

I am not dying. Not today. I ride a bike to the store, meet my friends for happy hour and hike for miles. I do struggle to manage treatment side-effects, but overall my current health is stable.

Dying is a verb, an active process that is observable. Dying is the body shutting down, closing shop, calling it a day. My image of dying is hospice, bed in the living room, family gathered. I have a calm certainty about "dying" because it is a reliable, natural human process.  The body knows when and how to shut down, pain can be managed, and I have friends and family who will lovingly usher my transition. This is a precious certainty that I am thankful for.

What is difficult and highly uncertain is terminal illness, i.e. living on the edge of dying. In a loose sense we are all terminal. In my case terminal illness has brought the "dying" undeniably into focus. Terminal illness is an asymmetrical balance point that tips and wobbles every day, pulling further and further away from the old normal. It is difficult not to become overly vigilant of each symptom and change, pondering..."is this it?"

So quickly I lost my old normal and became my illness.
 
I think there is a better use for this  "waiting on death" time.  I'd like to use terminal illness as my "board of nails" helping keep me awake to each moment. If I can live 10 more years, this is how I want to move forward.  My life has slowed considerably, which is a great gift. I am luckier than before because now I have time to relish each person, conversation, event, and act of kindness. I now have time for gratitude, to literally hold each person in my mind and heart and thank them. 

Now there is so much more to be grateful for; losing control has been good for me.

   

Stage 4 cancer is like a gut punch from the Universe. We humans  live as if immortal, constantly fingering future hopes and dreams, but news of "death". evaporates immortality into emptiness and separation. Shock and numbness persist for weeks while the patient compliantly steps through a painful schedule of surgeries, chemo, blood draws, scans etc. Feeling competent and in control erodes into feeling like a lab rat. Medial personnel are polite but flat faced, holding distance from the "dead". Some technicians make the unwitting mistake of asking "How are you today?", the response ... a polite lie or flood of tears, then silence. Never does a doctor say "dead" or "dying", instead they focus on the mechanics of treatment, chemo, which doesn't heal or save those with Stage 4 - hello flat face.  I was advised that the treatment was only "palliative" ...do patients know what that means? In my case, treatment was not palliative, instead my symptoms and quality of life worsened. I wonder how many Stage 4 patients actually understand their prognosis and feel empowered to make personally meaningful choices? Oncologists don't invite the discussion, they are chemo purveyors giving flat-faced care to numb lab rats, this is the standard of care. Chemo can make you very sick, chemo can kill you, and it is used with nearly all patients to extend life for just a handful of months.
Doctors don't assist with discussing options, friends pray and root for a miracle, needing you back in the immortality club.
Why isn't the choice to de-stress, slow down and intentionally use the rest of good health to hug, laugh and say "goodbye" a viable and supported choice? Isn't letting go and reducing stress powerful medicine anyway, more likely to open the door for a miracle healing? Why can't hospice start NOW, not oxygen or morphine, but some peaceful support for patient and family choices would be invaluable.

Ponder with me now and inevitably for yourself later: Why are we so afraid and completely avoidant of death? I don't think people realize that dying people are still people, with important choices to make. What will it take for us to become expert at supporting and honoring the dying process in an "alive" and welcoming way? Will we forever push the terminally diagnosed through this unexamined death march simply because we are afraid?