There isn’t any easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it: I have cervical cancer. It’s invasive, seemingly advanced, and terrifying. It appears too large to be solved by surgery, and immediate chemo and radiation are the best paths. Having children with my DNA may never be in my future. I learned this on Friday, and it’s been a whirlwind since. There is a lot I still don’t know yet. I will likely need to leave my home, brother, friends, parrots, and plants in San Francisco for a while and move to New York. I will learn more about staging and treatment plans over the next few days, but there is likely more I may never know. What I do know is that the next few months will be the most difficult of my life. I’ve always been a giver, but now, I can do nothing but receive. I don’t know what this will look like or what this will feel like. I don’t know what I will be like. And in that, I think of Rilke’s quote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue.” I’m learning to stop grasping for control and lean back into complete free fall.
It’s an interesting state to be in - I have a mix of anger, of sadness, of confusion, of despair, of faith, of confidence, of peace. All of the things that mattered a week ago no longer do. I am in phenomenal shape - I swim in the ocean every day, I can hike a marathon on any given weekend, I can dance for hours, I have infinite energy, I take care of myself, I don’t drink, I eat well - but it’s not enough. All I want to do is jump into the ocean, but I can’t right now. It is now out of my grasp. I am everything and also nothing. It’s the cacophony of emotion to a sudden silence. Everyone chases an ‘ego death’ from psychedelics; try getting a cancer diagnosis.
I was caught in a riptide in Mexico three years ago today (February 13, 2022). I was just playing in the waves when I was suddenly swept out. I’m a strong swimmer - I know to swim horizontally to avoid the current - but I couldn’t, given the high cliffs on either side of the ocean channel. The other alternative was to calmly let myself get pulled out to sea until the current stopped, but I didn’t know where I would end up. Every second I deliberated, I got pulled out to sea further and further from my friends on the shore. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had a short window based on my physical strength - I dove under the waves, under the current, and swam hugging the ocean floor until I could see the light above greeting me towards the shore and safety.
I don’t believe in coincidences; I believe deeply that this diagnosis is another step on a path I started walking three years ago toward living my best life. I was dumped unceremoniously by a situationship the day before I got caught in a riptide, and I felt at the lowest of any possible low. I vowed to myself as I tumbled to shore that enough was enough. That I could fix the pain and suffering I felt in my lifetime and that which I had carried on from lifetimes before. That I could and would take complete and total agency for myself. I wrote more about all of that here. Over the last few years, I have done so - I deeply and completely love myself, and I will do anything on the planet to keep myself alive. I faced my shadows and revisited the things that scared me the most. I honor myself. And I know in my heart that this is darkness before the sunrise—my last nemesis. I’ve cleansed darkness from my mind; I need to clear it from my body. I trust in the divine timing of my life. It’s time to dive under the water and embrace the unknown that awaits me.
In the words of David Whyte in his poem, Sweet Darkness,
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.
I’ve never been skydiving, but I’ve heard it feels like this: You fall through the sky at such a speed and rate that it is perfect silence. Everything around you feels still. It is dangerous to grasp onto anything aside from the people around you who are also falling - you just have to let go. We hang onto structures, society, and a semblance of order, but you open the door, and it’s clear we’re all just tumbling down. We’re just in varying states of awareness and comfort around it. What does it mean to free fall?
I always hated trust falls as a kid. For the few times I was forced to do it, I hung onto the picnic table to do everything I could to avoid the safety of others’ arms. But in times like these, I don’t have a choice. I need to unequivocally trust in the universe, relinquish control, spread my arms, and let the medical community, family, friends, coworkers, and the world catch me. Falling means trusting that the ocean will take me where I need to go and that I have the emotional, physical, and spiritual strength to stay calm when I can’t see a light to follow because I am a light. My faith is unshakable and unequivocal.
I’m an athlete. And I’ve been training my entire life for this. In crew races, you mentally break things down into chunks. Anyone can do anything for a minute. And you stack them, and you’ve won the race. As one of my crew coaches used to say, “Race to race, don’t race to win. Focus on each stroke, not on the finish line.” I swim every day (well, used to) in the freezing ocean where I can’t see a foot in front of me. I can deal with uncertainty. I know how to clear my mind. I know how to withstand pain. I know how to trust my body completely. I am the strongest and most resilient person I know. If anyone can get through this, I can.
I don’t know how many wake-up calls one gets in one’s life. My therapist, Lois, often says that the Chinese character for ‘Crisis’ is the same as ‘Opportunity’. I have carried a tremendous amount of pain and suffering, but it’s time to let that story go. It’s time to let everything go that does not bring me joy. To be clear, that doesn’t mean running away. It means letting it all pass through me - I am a sieve that catches nothing but love. Or, in the words of the sign painted by one of my nearest and dearest, Connie, on my bedroom door, “You are a gossamer net that catches all of the butterflies of you.”
I believe deeply that somewhere down the line, as scary as this present moment is and how much I wish I could wave a magic wand to make it go away, I will know that this is the best possible thing that could have ever happened to me. I have not been feeling well for months. There is a saying in ayahuasca traditions that “Sickness is the body getting better.” How lucky am I to live in a time where everything I face in front of me is curable? And, like the last line of “The Man in Bodega,” how do we know that what happens to us isn’t good?
I don't know what I'm going to need during this time. My best guess is that I will want people to just be there, hold my hand, give me a hug, surround me with flowers and joy, mirror back my strength when I am afraid, remind me to keep laughing. I don’t know where I will be but will update those who are curious once I have more information.
Note: I’m overwhelmed and likely won’t respond to texts and calls, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them. I’ll figure out a better way to keep people who want to be up-to-date. I’m trying desperately not to do what I typically do when I’m sick - hide - and I would love to be surrounded by hugs and love.
