Books: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron (part 3)

So let's continue talking about When Things Fall Apart. As a reminder, so far I've talked about embracing fear and being vulnerable.

Generally speaking, we as a society are incredibly uncomfortable with being uncomfortable. Awkward silences. Wardrobe malfunctions. Putting your foot in your mouth. Bad news. Embarrassment. Trauma. Catastrophe. We spend so much time hoping that things will go according to plan, and so much time fearing that they won't.

The Venerable Pema Chodron says that:

"Hope and fear is a feeling with two sides. As long as there's one, there's always the other . . . This is the root of our pain " (Chodron 39).

Diagnosis Day is a day burned into my memory as the moment that every single piece of my life changed. It was the worst day of my life. I am 38 years old. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. As I sobbed hysterically that day, I realized that I didn't know I was so afraid of dying until that Rockstar Neurosurgeon said the words "cancer" and "aggressive" and "incurable".

I've mentioned the abstract bus that could hit any of us tomorrow, but as I sat in that office getting that diagnosis, I saw the bus. That Rockstar Neurosurgeon pulled aside a curtain to show me how close it was. It was right there. It is still right there.

Diagnosis Day shined a light on my deepest fears, but hidden deep underneath of that was the inkling of an idea that maybe, just maybe, Rockstar Neurosurgeon was wrong. I couldn't help but hope that he had misidentified that bus; maybe it was actually just a skateboard.

It is easy it see how fear is painful. For me, fear is a product of weakness exposed. I make it my business to put on a strong face. People see me around town and always look so surprised that I don't look like I'm dying. Maybe they think I'm making it up, because how could someone make jokes about cancer, or talk about other aspects of life besides cancer, or smile or laugh while having cancer?

I put on that strong face and I smile at my friends. I make small talk. I go out to dinner. I have birthday celebrations with friends.

This is my First Face. It is almost disturbingly easy to put on that strong First Face and laugh off any of the uncomfortable things I experience. People say things that hurt me, but I smile and laugh it off. People fail to respect my boundaries, and I grin and bear it because I don't want to make anyone else uncomfortable. People look to me for comfort because they feel sad that I have cancer, and I grit my teeth because it shouldn't be my job to make you feel better about your discomfort about my diagnosis.

So here is something from my Second Face. Those who only see my First Face don't get to see how fragile my Second Face really is. It is incredibly difficult to admit, even to my Second Face family, just how afraid I am. The fear is always there, because this diagnosis is terrifying, and Prozac can only help alleviate that fear so much.

That's where The Husband comes in: he is so helpful when it comes to mitigating that fear, which is so very important. Sometimes I don't think he realizes how important he is for me. Because he makes me feel safe to let go of that fear, even for just a few minutes, he allows me to embrace that tiny nugget of hope that lingers in the back of my mind.

Fear is painful, of course, but embracing that tiny nugget of hope is also painful. Anyone who has experienced betrayal, trauma, or regret knows how painful it can be to have that nugget of hope slip right between your fingers.

And of course, following right after it is the fear that the tiny nugget of hope will be lost forever. How much does hopelessness hurt?

The beautiful thing that I have discovered is that there are tiny nuggets of hope to be found everywhere around us, if only we are paying attention. It is far too easy give up and embrace the fear. It is so much more difficult to leave yourself open to the possibility of hope, even if that also leaves you open to the possibility of pain.