When I was in my third grade elementary class, I remember reading about the wild horses of western plains of the United States in the Weekly Reader. I remember the article being about how the U.S. Government was “helping” these horses (like only a government can). I remember feeling freedom in the photographs presented of these amazing equines. Fast forward to my adult years … Wild horses continued to represent freedom, the exhilaration of running free in wide open spaces.
And I was blessed to meet Ruella Yates … and Renaissance Painter, Renn, and his equine herd. Our introduction and friendship came as a result of my journey with ovarian cancer, and continues to bless my life with entire chapters of courage, healing and love stories — stories of overcoming limits and finding your proverbial herd.
Which brings me to why I am posting this today … Ten years ago this morning I had major abdominal surgery to remove two large tumors, and a number of lymph nodes and tissue samples. That day as the nurse walked me to the surgical room, I promised myself that I would never allow myself to be fenced-in. I promised myself from that day forth, I would live free of should’s and the limits of expectations. {It has taken a decade to reach full bloom on that promise.}
Remember, we say that a flower is blooming whether it is in half, three-quarters, or full bloom.
~Clarissa Pinkola Estes
But it was that particular attitude that facilitated the discovery of the tumors; I had to adamantly insist upon an ultrasound after being dismissed as pre-menopausal and told to make a follow-up appointment in six weeks. {The day after surgery, I woke up to the PA holding my hand in tears because she was “mistaken” about her assessment … And my oncologist congratulated me for being so tenacious about the exam and ultrasound.}
Having cancer removes a veil.
It reveals what matters, and more importantly it reveals the relationships that are rooted in true love. Not the love people proclaim casually … {or when you tell them you have cancer}. The kind of love, like my Dad’s, that sits with you for hours. The kind of love, like my Mom’s, that initiates contact even when you cannot respond. The kind of love, like my sons’, that remains present — being near — even though you have no idea what will happen if your mom dies. The kind of love, like my friends’, that makes time to call and to send handmade cards and fresh flowers from afar {even when some of those friends have never met you in person}. The kind of love, like my beloved husband’s, that remains faithful even though he was crushed with the knowledge of what could (and did) happen to his beloved.
I write these words today from a place a strength.
I have not always felt strength about the pain and suffering of cancer and chemo and the health issues that arose from being a “survivor” … about what I was forced to deal with because of {and in the midst of} all of that. I felt indescribable pain from rejection and confusion regarding the responses of certain people. I had to admit I had expectations, steeped in unfounded hope. That apologies and humility don’t always result in reconciliation. That even when presented with facts, some people still believe lies.
This is an important mile marker in my life.
These words have been with me for years. But I was convinced that what I had to say was just for me to know, that my words would be misunderstood or create an opportunity for certain people to be hurt. But I learned that people choose their responses to every situation. And some people are determined to see themselves as victims, just as some people choose to see themselves as victors.
Pain is part of living … Suffering is optional.
Pain reminds us that we need one another — to say what we need to say and to do what we need to do. Celebrating LIFE today! And being free … in wide open spaces of liberty and grace. ♥
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