Ok to Go—Part 2

The conclusion of my "Ok to Go" blog about cancer. About contesting a purely combative mindset around cancer. About the grief and gifts of the disease so far. About channeling Jody Foster in Contact.

Jodi Foster in Contact

In part one of this “Ok to Go” blog, I shared that I’ve been diagnosed with appendix cancer. I said it’s going to be a challenging 12 months. And I shared fears, hopes and my goal to question the dominant, hyper-masculine narrative around cancer.

Here’s the conclusion of the blog. As promised, it includes tears, prayers for cancer cells, another minor miracle communication and the thrill I feel at doing my best impersonation of Jodie Foster in Contact.

***

Friends and family members have shared encouraging words as I face cancer.

The well-wishers typically speak of me conquering the disease.

“Cancer is terrible. And - I really want you to fight it,” one wrote.

“You are a warrior Ed—keep up the good fight and great attitude,” said another.

“You can beat this!” wrote a third.

I’m grateful for each of these messages. I know they come from a place of care, of hope, of love. And these supporters are not wrong as I face a life-and-death challenge.

Already, it is taking a lot of mental fortitude not to feel beaten down, exhausted by the weight of the disease. The many, complex decisions about treatment options. The dread that creeps up on me at times. The difficulty of integrating the diagnosis with the rest of my life–of not letting the disease overwhelm me.

I do need to be a warrior of sorts.

At the same time, I find myself chafing against the combative ethos that surrounds cancer.

The main way we talk about the disease is to talk of fighting it. Beating it. Conquering it. Overcoming it. It’s a competition between us and cancer.

I think this framing reflects an imbalance in our culture. A tendency to overemphasize aggression, confrontation and domination. We have long had a hyper-masculine mindset that underappreciates archetypal feminine qualities such as receptivity, compassion, connection and stillness.

This lopsided ethos leads us astray in many ways. Including, I suspect, when it comes to navigating cancer.

***

At least it does for me.

I don’t want to be at war with my body. I don’t want to view the cancer cells in my abdomen as evil invaders.

They are misguided little dudes. They are accidental organisms that somehow kept reproducing, to my misfortune.

As my pal Raul notes, flawed cells are constantly created in the body as our organs reproduce themselves. The vast majority of the time, the mistaken cells are either too screwed up to duplicate themselves or are eliminated by our immune system.

My appendix cancer cells had just enough vitality to survive my internal policing efforts.

And it’s the metaphor of community police action versus a military campaign that sits much better with me as I conceive of the cancer in my belly.

It’s like a bunch of misfit teens vandalizing my gut. Literally spraying slime across my organs as if tagging up the neighborhood with graffiti.

The call, as I see it, is to restore the peace. Recreate harmony in the community of the body politic, as it were.

***

Our broader body politic is affected by this same tendency to militarize, to demonize.

The 9/11 terror attacks were a case in point. I remember hearing one commentator at the time call for us to treat Osama Bin Laden and other conspirators more as criminals than enemies of the state. A police action to arrest them was in order, rather than an all-out “war on terror.” One where everyone in the world was either “with us or against us.”

Could we have avoided much of the suffering and mayhem of two wars if we had framed the tragedy in less bellicose, binary terms? Could we have better reduced the threat of radical religious terrorism if we had taken more measured steps?

Similar simplistic thinking is currently warping the US approach to immigration issues, it seems to me. By calling people seeking a better life “invaders,” “criminals” and “rapists,” we’re setting ourselves up to use excess force on undocumented migrants and to damage our own values and principles.

The myopic focus on deportation and wall-building also prevents us from seeing the big picture around migration challenges in our hemisphere and the entire globe–thorny challenges that involve environmental, political and economic factors.

How can we hope to solve this complex puzzle, if we don’t take a more holistic view and collaborate with our neighbors? Can’t we acknowledge the need for border controls as well as the need to address the root causes of migration?

And might the cancer unfolding in my midsection be better handled with a mindset that is determined but not purely pugnacious?

***

Some of the wise healers in my life think so.

Carly Hudson is a skilled chiropractor who has studied heath and health systems as part of her difficult, inspiring path to wellness from a host of invisible ailments. I’m honored to have helped her as she wrote her new book, Healing Ground.

“Healing in homeostasis is so much stronger than aggression,” she told me.

Homeostasis, according to the National Cancer Institute, refers to a “state of balance among all the body systems needed for the body to survive and function correctly.”

In other words, Carly suggests, regaining that healthy balance ought to be our mission. It’s not a “fight to win” so much as a “right to exist.”

My conversation with Carly felt like another minor miracle. To be sure, not as dramatic as the striking coincidence I mentioned in Part 1 of this “Ok to Go” blog. In that post, I recounted how my old high soccer teammate Adam B. contacted me right after I thought of his encouraging words–after decades of silence between us.

Carly and I hadn’t communicated for a mere two months. But she has been a guiding light to me on health issues for several years. And she popped up with an announcement about the publication of her book just when I needed wisdom about how to face what’s going on in my belly.

***

Carly isn’t alone in helping me to reconceive cancer.

Chanti Smith is a somatic healer and midwife who helped with the delivery of my youngest child 20 years ago. She and her sister Kira and their families have been dear friends for more than two decades.

Chanti helped me radically empathize with cancer recently on our Prayer Porch–a daily call of prayer and reflection that Rowena and I have with friends. Chanti said a little prayer for the misprogrammed cells that will soon be sent “back” to the spirit world.

“I am seeing those cells returning to their proper home, wherever that is- being called back, called home to the light perhaps,” she later wrote me.

A new friend, George Kansas, shared a similar message. George has survived three episodes of cancer. He finished a final round of chemotherapy just before he helped facilitate a recent gathering of folks working to support men’s wellbeing.

George kicked off this event, the Big Tent Summit, by noting that tens of millions of cancer cells were currently dying in his body. And that tens of millions of healthy cells were currently replacing those flawed cells. But he didn’t demonize the cancer cells, as dangerous as they are. Instead, he honored the life they experienced in sacred terms.

“I’ve already thanked them,” George told the audience of about 80 men’s advocates. “I’ve prayed for them. I’ve mourned them.”

***

Expressing gratitude for, praying for and mourning the death of cancer cells may sound way too “woo.”

And I am pretty woo–open to alternate spiritual beliefs. But not so woo or alternative that I disregard science or Western medicine. I’m not going the path of Steve Jobs, who initially opted for acupuncture, botanicals, and dietary changes rather than conventional treatments for pancreatic cancer.

And there is some merit to the conventional wisdom of “combating” cancer. The Stanford Center for Integrative Medicine, for example, calls on cancer patients to take on an “aggressive fighting posture.”

But there’s also cancer research “linking psychological stress with immune downregulation.” Our “natural killer” cells may be hindered in their work to eliminate cancer cells if we’re in a state of stress.

Doesn’t a mindset of all-out war create more cancer stress than necessary?

It seems so for me at least.

If nothing else, a more holistic mindset that blends “battling” with “being” reduces the burden of the disease in my mind. Eases my worry that I’m not fighting enough, all the time.

Indeed, the American Cancer Society suggests we may have less control than we think: “Some studies have shown that keeping a positive attitude does not change a person's chance of survival or the course of their disease.”

On the other hand, the Society suggests that practices to calm body, mind and spirit can improve one’s quality of life. “[T]echniques like guided imagery, relaxation, or meditation…can help manage some side effects and emotions related to cancer and cancer treatment.”

My friend and cancer survivor Erin told me not to worry about “choking” in the competition with cancer. Yes, you need to endure pain and discomfort. But treatment is largely about surrendering. “You don’t really fight,” she said. “You receive. The medicine does the fighting.”

***

A less contentious, more harmony-focused mindset also helps me face my fear of cancer. With more courage. On my terms.

A yin-and-yang lens helps me to see the diagnosis not as a death sentence. But also not as not a death sentence. As a question mark. A challenge. A puzzle. An invitation to move into an unknown territory.

There’s a mystery under way here, said my friend Elena.

“Such big things are taking place on our soul level,” she said on a recent Prayer Porch call.

One of my closest friends, Colette, put it another way: “I feel a spiritual charge. So much learning is possible.”

I feel that charge too. And, when I’m at my best, I’m ready to learn from this disease.

At the Big Tent Summit, a new friend prompted me to deepen the lesson I was taking from the extra mucous the cancer cells are producing. Soma Miller, a men’s coach, heard me talk about the slime as a kind of graffiti tagging up my organs.

I was proud of that clever analogy!

But Soma gently pushed me to go further: “What kind of gift might those cells and that mucus be offering you?”

Fine. I thought about it more. Felt into it more.

And found this: maybe mucinous adenocarcinoma is helping me clear out self-doubt that has accumulated in my belly for decades.

One of the roles of mucus in the body is to clean out unnecessary, harmful elements–such as the dust and debris that we blow out of our nose. So as with snot about to be expelled in a sneeze, maybe the mucus in my belly is collecting the fear and anxiety that I’ve long held in my body. That seems to have persisted in my core even though I’ve come to know in my brain that I worry too much, come to know in my heart that I can unclench and open up.

Maybe the process of removing the mucus–and the cancer cells that produced it–will help me reach a more profound kind of confidence.

Will enable me to trust my gut as never before. Replace a lifetime of excess fear with abundant faith.

That would truly be a gift. A lesson I’m willing to earn to learn.

***

I shared this insight with dear friends Helen and Joel the other day. They each validated the vision. And Joel expanded it.

“And I think it's bigger than that, Frau,” he said, using one of my nicknames. “I think you're going to bring us along on your journey. And teach others what you learn.”

What encouraging words. I hope to live up to them

Joel, Helen, Soma, Colette, Elena, Erin, Chanti, Carly. And many others. They are sharing such wisdom. It is part of the benefit I’m getting from my community of family, friends and colleagues.

In the course of a treatment plan expected to last about a year, I hope to keep working. I joined the Big Tent Collective to collaborate with others to help men evolve and heal. I am still active with The Teal Team I co-founded to elevate the consciousness of organizations. I plan to continue writing my book, tentatively titled “F*ck the Tough Guy Show.”

Yet I know I can take it easy when I need to in the months ahead, held by others.

So much support is springing up around me, my wife and our kids. What can be a scary diagnosis has prompted the most reassuring surge of care, generosity and love.

One of my oldest friends, “Ruds,” demonstrated his affection for me with great tenderness when I shared that I had cancer.

He said he was glad I had a positive attitude. And then he got emotional on the phone.

“I’m going to cry a little bit,” he said.

I could hear his tears up in Tacoma.

I called another friend, Rita, planning to boost her spirits as she rides a cancer roller coaster of her own. Instead, our conversation mostly was about lifting me up.

Rita encouraged me to be as present as possible, moment by moment.

“We’ve got to appreciate the little things,” she told me.

The little things are feeling huge right now.

Michael, Teresa, Laura, Rosana making or sending food. Libby, Elise, Julie and others calling, texting, mailing cards. The guys on my Buffalo-friends text thread checking in on me. Art inviting me to yoga. Kira, Colette and my dear friend Jason setting up a gofundme.

The original Prayer Porch led by Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Mike in Chicago praying daily for me.

I’m also getting amazing support when it comes to medical matters. One dear friend connecting me to experts at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Another friend helping me navigate the Kaiser Permanente health system. Carty, Bunnie, Robert and my sister Kate searching up possible treatments.

Another close friend, Temple, said this to me on the phone: “You might be the most loved person in the world.”

She may be correct. At least if you go by quality over quantity. I can barely comprehend how much goodwill is being sent my way.

***

I can’t help but feel lucky.

Not only because of all the love in my life. But because of the diagnosis itself. There are far worse cancers.

I may not have the super-rare condition I initially thought I may have: “Jelly Belly.” But I still have a slow-growing cancer. One that tends to stay in the gut. One that still comes with the comedic side-effect of slinging slime in my belly.

One that entails a treatment journey I think I can manage.

I have faced my mortality more directly than most, I suspect. I had an actual heart attack four years ago. And then panic attacks that if anything, were scarier.

I still experience anxiety and panic. But I have learned how to move through those episodes with patience and with ongoing practices such as meditation, prayer and yoga.

I recently returned to yoga classes, now that my belly has largely healed from laparoscopy surgery last month.

Practicing with one of my fave teachers Stephanie Snyder was as much YAY as it was OM. In the course of poses and yogi push-ups, I felt energy build in my body. Felt powerful and alive.

And in shavasana, the “corpse” pose, I envisioned my death. Not with terror, but with a kind of peace and appreciation.

I believe I’ve achieved what my pal Jason called “hard-earned equanimity.” Or, as he also put it, “I know who the fuck I am.”

Another friend, author Alan Briskin, heard me describe the cancer and the long road to healing. Heard me talk about my inner resources and external reinforcements.

“It sounds like you’re prepared,” he said.

***

I think he's right.

What comes to mind is a moment in one of my favorite movies ever, Contact.

That’s the 1997 film starring Jodie Foster, about earthlings interacting with others in the universe. The key scene that feels akin to my situation is when Jodie Foster is about to embark on a journey to she-knows-not-where.

She's up in a mysterious machine that conceivably will take her on this voyage, but the machine grows so loud and shakes so violently that her fellow scientists consider shutting it down.

She tries to radio them otherwise, but the signal doesn't seem to get through. Finally, one of her oldest colleagues, a blind man with an acute sense of hearing, picks up her voice.

They proceed.

Wonder ensues.

I suspect something along these lines may happen to me over the next 12 months. There will be fearsome challenges. And sacred mysteries. I may need courage beyond anything I've mustered so far in my life. Yet I have readied myself for this moment–physically, mentally, spiritually.

I'll need my community as never before. But it, too, is more mature, resourceful, devoted than ever. As hip hop artists of the 80s might say, my posse is thick.

So even as I'm going on my own, I know my people are with me.

This combination of self confidence and collective strength makes me feel like I can say the words that Jody says over and over when everything seems about to explode.

“I'm okay to go. I'm okay to go….I'm okay to go.”