The Last Freedom - To Choose... To Choose

I copied this from Victor Frankl “Man’s Search for Meaning” for Cristina because she just thinks that she "survived" cancer... she doesn't fully realize it's not whether you survive or not... it's HOW you do it...

This excerpt is from the book I told you about… He was a famous psychoanalyst and concentration camp survivor of several concentration camps. The only family of his that survived was his sister. He lost everyone else.

This is what he writes about being in the concentration camps: where it is in bold are the parts that made me think of you and all the ways you maintained your grace, dignity, humor, style, class and indomitable spirit, including just these few examples: how you thanked everyone all the time, found humor, and LEAPED on the fact that you ate 3 more string beans that day…

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“…But what about human liberty? Is there no spiritual freedom in regard to behavior and reaction to any given surroundings? Is that theory true which would have us believe that man is no more than a product of many conditional and environmental factors – be they of a biological, psychological or sociological nature? Is man but an accidental product of these? Most important, do the prisoners’ reactions to the singular world of the concentration camp prove that man cannot escape the influences of his surroundings? Does man have no choice of action in the face of such circumstances?

We can answer these questions from experience as well as on principle. The experiences of camp life show that man does have a choice of action. There were enough examples, often of a heroic nature, which proved that apathy could be overcome, irritability suppressed. Man can preserve a vestige of spiritual freedom, of independence of mind, even in such terrible conditions of psychic and physical stress.

We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may be have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.

And there were always choices to make. Every day, every hour, offered the opportunity to make a decision, a decision which determined whether you would or would not submit to those powers which threatened to rob you of your very self, your inner freedom… in the final analysis it becomes clear that the sort of person the prisoner became was the result of an inner decision, and not the result of camp influence alone. Fundamentally, therefore, any man can, even under such circumstances, decide what shall become of him – mentally and spiritually. He can retain his human dignity even in a concentration camp. Dostoevski once said, “There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.” These words frequently came to my mind after I became acquainted with those martyrs whose behavior in camp, whose suffering and death, bore witness to the fact that the last inner freedom cannot be lost. It can be said that they were worthy of their sufferings; the way they bore their suffering was a genuine inner achievement. It is this spiritual freedom – which cannot be taken away – that makes life meaningful and purposeful.

A Grateful Heart is a Happy Heart

One of the "benefits" of being sick so long (and unable to sleep much), is that I've gotten a chance to do a lot of thinking and "pondering." Because of some miserable childhood stuff, I tend to think about all the things I DON'T have, all the shortcomings I DO have... This keeps me living my life in the past. Almost like a child who never quite grew up.

What's added to this has been my daughter's illness and recovery where we have been very dependent for a very long time on the kindness of others. While, of course, I have been and always will be so grateful for everything people have done for us, it wasn't until last night as I was laying in bed that the full impact of how I think and feel really hit me.

I have been so humiliated and embarrassed for being so dependent on peoples' kindness for so long, I've lost sight of the fact of how grateful I really am. How there is NO WAY either Cristina or I would be alive (and in some small measure still sane) without such kindness for such a long time. It was like one of those huge "AHA" moments when you realize that you're whole focus has been on the wrong thing. The "deprivation," not the "abundance."

I think about all the money people raised to help us out... the clothing we got, the furniture, the people who decorated, brought over food, listened to my constant pain, showed up at the hospital and house. The people who NEVER left us, especially in the face of nothing but bad news for many years. The people celebrated every victory... no matter how small and listened to my hysterical ptsd rants. The "strangers" who sent money, cards, prayers. The healers who kept charging less and less as money kept running out. The healers who helped saved Cristina's life.

My heart did a major "flip flop" last night as I thought that i am truly my own worst enemy! not my daughter's cancer, not my cancer, not that I'm financially destroyed. Those are not my enemies. It's my thoughts about my life that is the worst. As I lay in bed, it's my own negative, irrational thinking that keeps me down. It also negates the love, kindness and compassion that I have been surrounded with for all these years.

I celebrate now! My "New Year's Resolution" is to be Grateful for Everything. To welcome whatever life has in store for me with open arms and a grateful heart. Accept life just as it is. Knowing that I truly am never alone... unconditionally loved... from everywhere... all the time...

My heart glows!

Dancing in the Mourning

As I think about my experience with my daughter’s struggle to just STAY ALIVE for so many years, I realize that, because of how long and how many times she hovered between life and death, I never really had the time to MOURN all the times I “buried” her and didn’t think she was going to make it.

I remember one time in the hospital, while she was in bed and I was sitting in the chair next to her, saying over and over again to myself, like a mantra… the "Lord’s Prayer." I remember another time her Uncle Phil was coming and I sat there saying to myself over and over again, like a mantra… “just stay alive to see Uncle Phil one more time.” These are only two examples of the, literally, thousands of times Cristina was so close to death. This doesn’t count all the other times she hovered between life and death at home and in the hospital and all the times I actually went out with a pager and she paged me because she was having serious difficulty. I would have to drive home… not too fast to get stopped by a cop, but not slowly because… the worst thing would have been to get home and find her dead and that she had died “alone.” That was one of my mantras as I was driving home for another emergency: “You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone.”

How many times can you “bury” your child without going insane? How many times can you do that without having the time or energy to really “mourn” this? Another aspect of this whole thing that was extremely difficult was that over and over again in my mind, I’d think about… what would Cristina want to be buried with? Do I talk to her about that? Do I ASK her about that? I didn’t know if she would want to be buried with her jewelry or if she would have wanted to “gift” certain friends with some of her things. I knew I’d bury her with her “blankey,” a childhood gift from her father that she’d slept with for many years. I knew I’d put music in her coffin. I knew I’d put flowers in with her. I was also afraid I’d throw myself in there with her.

As time has gone on and Cristina is no longer fighting for her life in the way she was for so many years post-transplant, I’m realizing that I never mourned all this. And then I got cancer. Malignant melanoma about 7 years ago. I never mourned my potential death… I was too concerned about how Cristina would handle it.

What was one of the ways I coped with all this? Dancing, of course! I found Argentine Tango. Argentine Tango is one of the most passionate and expressive of dances. For me, it was ONLY in Argentine Tango that I could express the pain, sadness, and ache in my heart about my daughter’s condition. It was this incredible combination of pain, beauty and sensuality all in one dance that, in any way, eased my heart.

So I Danced in the Mourning…