The Passage to Nirvana

As the Buddhists believe, Nirvana is a transcendent state in which there is neither suffering, desire, nor a sense of self, and the subject is released from the effects of karma and the cycle of death and rebirth. It represents the final goal of Buddhism.

In a thesaurus, the words that appear for Nirvana are heaven, awakening, bliss, tranquility, peace, serenity, joy and cloud nine. 

I like both. 

And, as someone who has knocked at death's door three times now and when my own time does arrive, I can only hope that I am welcomed into this state of Nirvana with eternal joy and tranquility. 

But why is this end-of-life so heavily on my mind? Oh, so many reasons...

Aside from my own thoughts on this passage of time in my life, I have been sadly reminded these past two weeks about the short and precious cycle of life and death. My breasties that are out there in the fight of there lives, the breastie who just took her wings last week and now the untimely death of a young man. A 21 year old soul that took his wings way too early.

As many of you know, my fave chemo nurse Martha (head Purple Angel) has always been a source of centeredness and joy in my life. But unfortunately, she is the mother of the young boy (Patrick, Pat, Patty Cakes) that entered Nirvana a mere two weeks ago. A boy so full of life and laughter that he brought hundreds of people together to honor his short life and beautiful, vivacious spirit that brought breath and light into so many other lives. And as he was returned to the sea Friday on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, more than 40 fishing boats circled his final resting place as his mom Martha released his ashes into the sparkling Pacific. A place that her son spent much of his time throughout his brief life, surfing, fishing and swimming and now the gateway to his Nirvana.

Death as we understand it here, is a complex process and passage. And those left behind are left with a heavy heart. Is this suffering? Is this Buddhism at its core? Or is it simply a group of words found in a dictionary that describe our final passage? Whatever the case, I personally, am left with a keen perspective yet again on how precious life is and my purpose here. What now? What road do I turn towards? What's my unfinished business? How can I make a meaningful impact in other's lives? What's my next 'set' as Patrick often said? What's your next set? So many questions that are swirling in my mind and heart. All I know for sure right now, is that I am left with another set. One of numerous valuable lessons that I have learned from Patrick and his untimely passing.

So now a final verbal shout out and 'paddle out' to Patrick, a soul who is helping us all figure out our own passages to Nirvana and the invaluable lesson that we will always have one more set to play.

Another Chemo Grad ROCKS IT! Go Chris!

My chemo-comrad-cousin Chris (say that 3 times!) and I seem to have a lot in common these days. For one, we're clearly relatives. But this last year has brought us together in a different way - through cancer, surgeries, side effects and treatment. Me with a 3rd breast cancer diagnosis and him with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma at 15. AND, recently, we finished our last treatments on the EXACT same day - March 26th! A day to remember! Woot! Woot!

His amazing mom (my first cousin) Deidre and I ritually texted each other this past year on treatment days with pics, "Chris ROCKS!" and "Number 12 - DONE!" texts! A year of closeness, perspective and cancer cheerleading that this disease has brought on.

And while Chris and my cancer journeys have been a mix of both similarities and differences, Chris and I mostly connected through cancer comparisons. With a quick hug and a head nod, we often and quickly fell into chit chat this past year about neuropathy, numbness in our toes, what foods grossed us out, our sleeping habits and of course remedies for nausea. One time, as we were sitting in his house on the couch while our band of caregivers were chatting it up and comparing OUR stats, I leaned over and whispered "Don't you like how they all talk about us like we're not even here?" He nodded and we both chuckled. But they all needed an outlet too as Chris and I forged on with hair loss and high-fives over our new fuzzy hair growth along with treatment and testing milestones.

Chris' cancer stats still blow me away (48 rounds of chemo, 1 surgery, 17 radiation treatments) even though I was deep in my own cancer trenches and stats. Deidre and I talked for months like we were medical personnel: "What are his blood count numbers this week?" "Can he take a Zofran with some crackers and water?" "When's his PET scan?"How many days will he have for his radiation boost?" "Who's your chemo nurse today?" A new world of communication that brought us two cousins closer together after years of intermittent visits and updates through family.

We laugh at our new cancer language yet often cursed it when we were angry or frustrated. But then quickly, we reminded each other to take a deep breath to refocus ourselves on what we now call our 'gratitudes' -  our health, our caregivers, our newfound perspective and treatments for a cure.

Chris also helped inspire us as usual as we watched his ongoing and quiet determination! As I struggled with fatigue and headaches, Chris quietly said he wanted to go back to school the day after his last treatment. And 2 days after his last radiation at Stanford, that's exactly what he did and showed up to baseball practice with his buddies as they watched him struggling to run around the bases. "Throw the ball down, Little Chris has no wheels!" But his first day of practice was done in usual Chris style as he played 5 innings while Deidre texted us his play-by-play action. We were all picking up our jaws as she was describing the return of Chris' 15 year old life and his favorite sport - baseball.

Oh how I sometimes wish I were a 15 year old boy!

In the meantime, Deidre, Hil and I talk endlessly about 'What now?' and how we are supposed to feel now that treatment is done.  But as we have learned over the past year-and-a-half, we could all use a little 'dose of Chris' as he hops back on the train of life. A boy of few words just carrying on with his teenage life, computer gaming, going to school when he can and catching the last fly ball of a recent game for the win!

BOOYAH Chris! You're my hero!

Flying Under the Vulnerability Radar

Brené Brown speaking at TED

vul·ner·a·ble [vuhl-ner-uh-buhl] 1. capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt, as by a weapon; 2. open to moral attack, criticism, temptation

BUT...let me help you right off the bat by scrapping this dictionary reference above and instead, go straight to Brené Brown's meaning as you'll hear in the video.

vul·ner·a·bil·i·ty [vuhl-ner-uh-buhl-i-tee] 1. our most accurate measurement of courage; 

2. the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change (Brené Brown)

Now that we have that out of the way, I must again give an honorable nod to Brené Brown for her brilliant, straightforward and wholehearted work that continues to inspire me. Because let me tell you, if going through cancer, once, twice or three times doesn't make a person vulnerable, then I don't know what does.

There's so much vulnerability that correlates with a cancer diagnosis that I frequently don't know up from down. And I'll even go out on a vulnerability limb and share with you that I continue to feel exposed as I embrace the new changes about myself, my new perspective on life, friendship, my scarred body, my numb chest and my numb fingers and toes from the chemo. I frequently fall over from a standing position as if I were intoxicated and always joke it off with a 'no worries, I'm not drinking.' Walking around bald for months on end while looking like a ghostly, ashen version of my former self left me in one of the most vulnerable states of all as I endured stares, name calling and wide-eyed looks from children. And now my current struggle with vulnerability is focused on the end of the treatment road for me. There, I said it... well some of it. Enough for now.

And as I continue to question myself through this process, my writing and interactions with others about how vulnerable I 'should' be, my head often spins at an accelerated rate.  How much do I tell her? How should I say this? Should I gloss over this news? Can they handle it? And the biggest question of all, can I handle it?

My answer...HELL YES! This whole cancer gig has brought up a bundle of adjectives for me to chew on. And as a language therapist, I then typically start heading down the linguistic road of lexicon: exposed, tender, humbled, delicate. And then fleeting and flitting in and out of a Noun - Shame! (pause for reaction....). Yes, I said SHAME!

Because I felt such significant shame during my first diagnosis that I held 'it' in secrecy, swore people to secrecy and stopped telling people that I had breast cancer. I didn't quite grasp why I felt so shameful, and after watching Ms. Brown today on Super Soul Sunday, I realized how consumed I have been through each diagnosis with vulnerability and shame...until now. 

So, twenty years and a third breast cancer diagnosis later, I will purposefully choose to forge ahead and confront the 'Big C' in spite of feeling blemished, scarred and flawed. No more shame for me. I will go as far as to say that I will 'dare greatly' as Ms. Brown suggests.

I believe, that the path for me will continue to be full of vulnerability as it allows me to embrace my sometimes fragile self. It's the only choice I know.

So who's on board the vulnerability train with me?!