On Breasts and Warriorship

This was a tough one to write. I wasn’t sure I wanted to say anything at all about this, and yet, there are things to say.

So here. I’ll say it.

On March 2, after a regular annual check up and several follow-up tests, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Two lumps in my right breast, relatively small ones, but of the aggressive kind. I was told I would likely need the whole shebang — surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone therapy. It would be a slog.

I went on a free fall. A cancer diagnosis, in a brand-new country, with a health system I didn’t know how to penetrate, in a language I was still struggling with. I was brought to my knees.

*
In the ensuing days, I ransacked my library for guidance from spiritual leaders whose teachings have helped me time and again. Through them, I found strength and a strategy to face what was coming.

Zen Buddhists say that bravery is looking directly at what is frightening us. Rather than unraveling, the spiritual path is to keep stepping into our fears, to keep moving into what terrifies us. With cancer, there is nowhere else to run anyway. So, I did as suggested and became acquainted with my fear. I listened to the stories of women who have treaded this path; I visualized myself already bald and breastless; I moved around doing chores with only my left arm to simulate post-surgery limited mobility. And as promised, by being intimate with fear, it ceased to hold me in its palm. Fear dissolves, and what is left is a state of openness, curiousity, and wonder. Where will this experience take me? Have I released enough attachment to the superficial? Can I be as brave as the other women who have experienced this?

My sister asked me, “Are you scared?”
“Not at all.”
That was the truth. At doctors appointments, potentially devastating news — that I would enter early menopause, that I would lose my hair, that depending on test results, I may have to consider doing an “Angelina” — fell on me like a feather. No impact.

*
Stoic philosophers say that virtue is having control over our minds, which is really the only thing we can control. Govern our thoughts, and we will find strength. Suspend desires, and we avoid suffering. So, I did as suggested and acknowledged my tiny place in the infinite universe. I gave up any ridiculous ideas of control, and instead, allowed my diagnosis to unfold.

My friends told me, “Let’s hope for the best results.”
“No, no hoping. That can only lead to disappointment. Let’s let this evolve as it should.”
Not trying to micromanage the universe brought tremendous relief. And it brought miracles I couldn’t possibly have orchestrated on my own, in the form of human angels taking turns providing relief, guidance, emotional support, and translation services.

*
This was me during the first few weeks: grinning and bearing it. I felt courageous. Calm. I was a spiritual warrior.

*
The past few days, however, saw this spiritual warrior break and throw spiritual tantrums. “Dear God, gudamit. I was JUST starting to live, and you do this. Eating plant-based in the land of jamon? No alcohol in the land of wine?? Bald, tired and nauseous in the land of La Vida Loca (or is that Puerto Rico, but whatever)?? What kind of joke is this?”

While I wait for more results that are supposed to come in in the coming days, I find myself praying for miracles, “Can I get the easy treatment protocol? Can I NOT lose my hair? Can i NOT have menopause weight gain? Can I just NOT do this?”

Some days, many days, the only prayer I can muster is “Fck this sht”.

*
On the morning of Good Friday, feeling a little guilty for falling off the spiritual path, I closed my eyes to meditate on Jesus’s words “not my will, but yours,” as he agonized in the garden.

But instead, these words flashed prominently in my mind, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup of suffering away from me. . .” These were Jesus’s words, too! Right before saying, “I’ll do it if you really want me to”, he slid in, “Dad, if you want to change your mind about the torment awaiting me, I won’t be mad.” I loved that! It reflected Jesus’s humanness. I was immediately consoled. Being an unwavering spiritual warrior takes superhuman strength, and if the Son of God can ask for a pass, why not little-human-speck-in-the-universe me?

We know how Jesus’s story continues from that fateful Friday. I’m not expecting a free pass either.

Eckhart Tolle says there is great opportunity in illness. I still believe that — there will be great learning on the other side of this. I am determined to learn every lesson there is to learn; to evolve into who I am meant to be after this. But I also cannot deny that it will be a pain in the fcking arse. And I cannot promise that there will be no shaking of my tiny spiritual fist at the vast sky every now and then. But that is the gift of the slog that is this illness – to offer opportunity after opportunity to get back on the warrior horse each and every time I fall off.

I suppose this is the mess and beauty of straddling both our spiritual and worldly dimensions — to seek wisdom and virtue, to find the courage to accept our fate, and to keep doing so, all while being a weak, fumbling, fist-shaking, cursing human being.