grace blog, by Deanna Thompson

Welcome. This blog offers reflections on the gifts that grace our lives, even in the midst of stage IV cancer diagnoses or other lousy circumstances that come our way. Thank you for visiting.

An Advent Cancerversary

As I approach the fourth anniversary of the day I was diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer, I’m caught between conflicting emotions.  On the one hand, I’m extremely grateful to still be around.  Reaching cancerversary #4 is a milestone.  Definitely cause for celebration.  But with the cancer reactivated and recent moves to new medication and more time in the chemo room, the celebratory urge has become more muted. 

Since my diagnosis, I’ve struggled with how to have cancer and how to talk about it.  Heading toward the cancerversary, I also struggle with how to mark the anniversary of cancer’s entrance into my life.  On the first cancerversary, a dear friend who lost his wife to the cancer I have brought over champagne.  We toasted the fact that I was living with cancer, that the medication had put me into remission, that our lives were beginning to resemble our lives before cancer. 

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In Praise of Birthdays

People often ask me how life has changed since being diagnosed with stage IV cancer.  On bad days, the question brings tears to my eyes.  On good days, though, I acknowledge that cancer changes the outlook on many aspects of life.

Take birthdays, for instance.   

This week, I’ll officially enter my upper-40s.  Since the cancer diagnosis, I’ve become more attuned to the many protests we lodge against the aging process.  The popularity of botox injections and coloring hair to hide the gray, to name just two visible protests, suggest we’re not too keen on showing the world we’re actually getting older.  We want to look young, feel young, stay young.  And then birthdays come around once a year and insist that we acknowledge we’re getting older.

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In Gratitude for This Day

It’s rather remarkable that for everything else it is, Thanksgiving is fundamentally a day set aside for gratitude.  Even though attention is often turned toward the delectable dishes we get to enjoy, it’s nevertheless a day to consider the gifts of grace we enjoy individually and as members of the larger community. 

But sometimes gratitude can be hard to come by.  Those of us who live face-to-face with an aggressive diagnosis or with other occasions for grief can find it difficult to be full of gratitude, even on an officially sanctioned day to do just that.  Since my own diagnosis almost four years ago, I know how often fear, uncertainty, and grief make insistent pleas for my allegiance, even when I’m “supposed” to be cultivating gratitude. 

In the face of fear and uncertainty’s nagging presence, I attempt—with varying degrees of success—to keep them at bay.  While they tempt me with lists of anxious questions (Will still be around next Christmas?  For the girls’ high school  graduations?  Will I make it to 50?), I try and turn my attention elsewhere.  One of the best “elsewhere’s” I’ve found is through the practice of daily morning prayer.  It is the case that I often wake to thoughts of fear; in response, I move through a litany of prayers of gratitude for this day. 

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In Praise of Lament

Before we move into the season of holiday celebrations, I’d like to say a few words in praise of lament.  Lament—the expression of sadness, grief, mourning—is an underrated practice in contemporary life.  In their book about lament called Rachel’s Cry, religion scholars Daniel Migliore and Kathleen Billman suggest that we’re reluctant as a society to publically grieve our failures, limitations, and losses.  The title of their book comes from the biblical book of Jeremiah (31.15) where the prophet talks about Rachel’s inconsolable weeping for her lost children.  In Jewish tradition, Rachel’s grief is revered and respected, while in Christianity her cry receives scant attention.  Perhaps it’s because the Christian story ends with resolution—there’s a resurrection!—that Christians and many in the dominant culture do not give the practice of lament its due.

In the past several years, I’ve gained a healthy respect for lament.  Dealing with cancer or other tough issues in life leads to lament, to a posture of sadness and sorrow.  But that’s a hard sell in America much of the time, land of political slogans like, “Happy days are here again!” and “It’s morning in America.”  Writer Barbara Ehrenreich’s most recent book, Bright Sided: How Positive Thinking is Undermining America, begins with a chapter about her own entrance into “Cancerland” due to a breast cancer diagnosis.  When she found her way to online forums on breast cancer and expressed her lament over her condition—including frustration over the lack of funding for researching breast cancer—other users in these online communities responded with words of caution about Ehrenreich’s negative attitude, telling her they were praying for her so that she might become more positive. 

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For All the Saints, Past and Present

I’ve been thinking a lot about saints.  All Saints Day (November 1) coincided with one of my classes studying the lives of medieval female saints.  These women were officially recognized by the Roman Catholic Church for their heroic displays of compassion and reports of miracles they performed.

It’s also the case that this past Sunday churches around the world honored the saints who have gone before us.  Remembered especially were those who died in the past year.  At these worship services, bells tolled as each name was read aloud.  It was a time to honor the lives of those who passed away, to remember them in death, and to hope for more for all of us who mourn their passing.

I come from a wing of Christianity that does not share in the ongoing Roman Catholic tradition of granting official saintly status to persons performing miracles or living particularly virtuous lives.  Nevertheless, in remembering those who’ve gone before us, we still use the word saint.

If it is the case that all of us are children of God, then it seems that all of us are born with huge potential for sainthood.  Most of us spend our days far from that ideal; yet it’s true that especially in times of great need, many of us are recipients of grace given by saints in our midst.  I know that since my own cancer diagnosis, life has been full of encounters with saints.

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Bad to the Bone: A New Slogan for Breast Cancer Awareness Month

October is officially dedicated to raising awareness of breast cancer.  Bright pink athletic gear, pink-tinted yogurt containers, and pink-lit buildings broadcast support for those living with breast cancer and those attempting to cure it.  As with any good campaign, there are also catchy slogans accompanying the pinking of our surroundings.  “Big or Small, Save Them All” is just one of the ditties designed to get us thinking about a disease that killed an estimated 40,000 persons last year.

Since being diagnosed with breast cancer almost four years ago, I’ve had a complicated relationship with popular ways of framing of the fight against breast cancer.  Leaving the critiques of the movement’s pink hew to others* I’m interested in how raising awareness has only just started to include information about the most aggressive forms of breast cancer and the stories that accompany them.

By now most of us know something about what I call the breast cancer drill: You find a lump in your breast; you get a mammogram, you’re told the awful news of having breast cancer; you suffer through the trauma of surgery, chemo, and radiation.  Then best case scenario you move into remission. 

This familiarity with the breast cancer drill was at the heart of my disorientation with my own breast cancer diagnosis.  My back broke—not once, but twice—and a biopsy on my back discovered I had . . . stage IV breast cancer? 

Come again?

I’m a woman with breast cancer.  The problem is that my path to diagnosis and treatment bears little resemblance to the breast cancer drill many of us know so well.  I found no lump; the mammograms I had revealed no tumor; I had no breast surgery, no chemo that led to loss of hair.  What does it mean to have breast cancer in a way that differs so drastically from the dominant breast cancer narrative?

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A New Vocation

In the few years since my cancer diagnosis, I’ve had more conversations about the sad parts of life than I have in all my years before the diagnosis combined.  Sharing my own story with others, especially in the form of a book, has provided avenues for others to share their own struggles and grief with me.

After reading my book, a friend shared with me some of her struggles with mental illness.  She then asked whether I feel burdened by the frequent conversations about my own—and others’—pain.  While I wish we all had much less sorrow in our lives, I’m keenly aware that’s not the case.  Talking about the tough stuff simply is what life is about these days.  And recently I’ve even come to see it as my new vocation.

In contemporary conversations about vocation, we often talk about finding or choosing a vocation.  We take strength-finder inventories; we envision where we’d like to be in ten years and what we need to do to get there.  Much reflection on vocation in the past, however, has characterized vocation as something given to us, even when we’d prefer to be doing something else. 

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Becoming a Fan of Christopher Hitchens

I was never a big fan of Christopher Hitchens’ take on religion.  A self-described antitheist, Hitchens took great pleasure in mocking God, religion, and people of faith.  While there are many valid critiques of religion out there, Hitchens’ attacks seemed designed to get a rise out of his readers rather than to add any new insight to the debate.

Even though I wasn’t a fan of Hitchens’ views on religion, I’ve become a fan of the man.  After he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in 2010, Hitchens began writing about his life refracted through this new lens.   The cancer did not let up, and he died at the end of last year.  But his words live on, particularly in a posthumously-published book entitled, Mortality, a collection of his Vanity Fair essays on the challenges of “living dyingly” with cancer.

I didn’t find a soft spot for this man simply because we have a stage IV cancer diagnosis in common.  I became a fan of his writing because I think it’s worthwhile to talk about cancer in ways that do more good and less harm. 

In his essay entitled “Miss Manners and the Big C,” Hitchens makes clear why more conversations on how to talk about cancer are necessary.  He points to the need for better manners by those whose insensitive comments about life with cancer leave their mark.

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A Most Amazing Gift

Almost exactly three years ago I was given a most amazing gift.  On an exquisite fall day, my family and I were lured to a friend’s home and given a quilt sewn together by dozens of friends and family members.  Over the past 3 ½ years, we’ve been overwhelmed by many meaningful gifts bestowed on us in response to my illness.  But this one takes the cake.

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The friend who came up with the idea of a quilt told us that back when I was at my sickest, she had a vision of creating a quilt for us.  She considered this vision her marching orders and used the entries on my Caring Bridge site to make contact with our friends and family about participating in making a quilt.  

Mailing fabric, dropping off squares at various locations, even meeting prospective sewers clandestinely in coffee shops, our friend recruited a small army of sewers to help make her vision a reality.

During the summer I moved into remission, sewers sent completed squares back to our friend. A quilting frame went up in her living room, and unbeknownst to us, her family hosted quilting nights where our friends and family gathered to stitch this quilt together.  

On that gorgeous fall day three years ago, our family was rendered speechless by this gift and the deep love radiating from our dear friends and family who had gathered to stitch it together for us. 

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Off the Mat

Back when I was really sick, people recommended I take up yoga.  This suggestion annoyed me.  Cancer had broken my back—not once but twice.  Couldn’t they see that bending and stretching was beyond what my body would allow?  

After months of back braces, surgery, and radiation, I moved toward remission and living without a brace.  Again people recommended yoga and again I was annoyed.  I was building strength and logging many miles on my bike—couldn’t they see that I was beyond gentle stretching?  

But the world’s preoccupation with yoga seemed to follow me everywhere, and I finally relented and attended a yoga class offered as part of a weekend retreat.  It was different than I expected, more challenging than I imagined.  And it left me feeling clear-eyed, focused, and calm.  

I considered taking up yoga.

Then a yoga studio opened two blocks from my house.  I took it as a sign and started with a basic vinyasa class.  The class was challenging and rewarding.  My back benefited from the core work.  I gained flexibility and expanded my range of motion.

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