Chap 4–Like a Prayer

I love these two entries for the story arch they made in her journals that November, 2000. Mom was in the middle of a second round of chemo after being diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer in June of that year. She was awaiting test results and experiencing ‘scan-xiety’: the fear and stress a patient feels before, during, and after a medical imaging test. At the same time she, my Dad, and two younger siblings, Lisa and Steve, were on the road visiting friends in Connecticut. Afterwards, they drove to family in Syracuse for the holidays. I was away at college. My older brother, Michael, was stationed in Paris Island. Mom was in the fight of her life at the same time her kids were starting their own and leaving home.

I can relate to her paradox when I was given my own cancer diagnosis at 38 years old. Like holding on to a metronome with one hand and being thrust in this direction then the opposite with every beat. Be real and open about your fear and pain. Wait. No. Push positive thoughts to the front of your mind. But you don’t have time to pretend. No, you don’t have time to languish in self pity. And the metronome continues to click, click, click. More minutes gone. Less time to order supplements, eat superfoods, practice yoga, throw in some cardio, research practitioners, file insurance claims, juice fruits and vegetables, pick up prescriptions, or read and understand medical test results. And that’s just cancer-related jobs. In a strange way it was almost good luck that I got cancer during the pandemic. At least I was already working from home and with somewhat less of a workload in general. I was so thankful for that job. I needed the health insurance, especially because I added the supplemental cancer package. Given my family history, I always thought there was a good chance I would get cancer.

I was gripped by the drama in these two journal entries. For a moment I forgot how it ends because I lost myself in her storytelling as she teased out the delicious details of the meal, then finally revealed her good news. Why did she make this choice? It’s not likely anyone else but her would read this journal. Maybe she unleashed her mastery of prose and intentionally built anticipation. Maybe she wrote the details as quickly as they came to her, hastily jumping from this thought to that and back before the particulars melted away from memory. Whatever the reason, I adored it, especially the edacious morsels.

Let us honor this moment in my Mother’s journey when she, as a cancer patient, celebrated good news from the doctor. There’s nothing like it. I remember what a joyous interlude this was for us as a family. She wasn’t finished battling cancer, but she still had options. We all processed this “good news” in different ways. For my sister, it fortified her belief that Mom could never die from this. For Dad, it was something he could point to as a reason for optimism. For me, it was an opportunity to jump up and down and share a moment of joy with her over the phone.

When I read how she prayed to Jesus the night she waited for her test results, it made me reflect on my own method of prayer during my battle with breast cancer. And how very different it was from hers.

My Forest Church   

I grew up going to mass at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church most Sundays. Dressed in our “church clothes,” which were often hand-me-downs from older cousins, all four of us kids had various jobs to do during the service. Mike was the “cross-bearer” leading the procession of Father, Bishop, choir, in and out from the service while holding a tall, ornate cross. Lisa and I sang in the choir, which is not to say that we could actually sing. And we played handbells. I could swing a bell! The brass handbells were magnificent to hear in that Gothic Revival architecture. The chimes reverberated off the vaulted ceilings and across the stone walls. Finally, my youngest brother, Steve, was usually an Acolyte—one of two human candle holders during the procession. My sister was my partner in peace. We were one grade apart in school, but we did everything together in church. Always sitting next to each other, playing hang-man on a note pad during the sermon, or trying not to get the giggles because the older gentleman next to us had fallen asleep, began drooling, and no one saw but us. 

I still love that church. My grandparents attended with us often. My brother got married in the sanctuary. My sister had her post destination-wedding reception in the hall. The funeral ceremony for Mom was there, warmly celebrated with the overflowing congregation enjoying “What a Wonderful World.” Every year, big Christian holidays brought forth all the emblematic rituals: strong incense pouring from a swinging decorative orb, guest vocalists with our choir for back-up, and pipe organ performances. I’ll never forget how it felt to sing “Silent Night” as a congregation, in unison, a cappella, during Christmas midnight mass. The only light was the tiny lit candle we each held like they were our little souls. Many voices harmonized as one, stronger than the sum of its parts. We breathed together with each lyrical beat. Watching the twinkling shadows dance on the sanctuary stones, it felt like being a part of something sacred and protected. Nothing could have harmed us that night.

Since church was a regular part of my life, it may come as no surprise that in my teenage years I did much of my socializing through church youth groups. More than any of my siblings. In my circle of friends there were any number of events, meet ups, and trips I had access to through one of our youth groups. I really liked having things to do that were an easy ‘yes’ from my parents. They were willing to bet it was the best case for “good clean” fun. Most of the time that was true. 

At 16 years old, I went with my friend’s youth group to “Creation,” a Christian rock festival. Not knowing any of the music, I tried to enjoy the time I spent with the friends I came with. This might have been the first time I saw so many of my peers in dramatically expressive dress like coal-smeared eye make up, long, clanky wallet chains, platform boots, and day-glo underwear that peaked out from plastic mini skirts. Usually that’s about 5-10% of the student body, just enough to be interesting. Not there. I thought, Wow, everyone’s here. Everyone who listens to this music and dresses like this is here. The aroma of an underground, or upperground really, drug scene wafted in the air, along with patchouli and mud. There were plenty of basic vanilla teenage Christians too, and we were kinda bored. 

That was the year I went to work at a summer church camp. I had just gotten my driver’s license. My parents were talking to me about college. The first glimmer of adult freedom was on the horizon. And my first big summer crush was at that church camp. One with a distinctly older staffer. A mild albeit inappropriate flirtation ensued. Even though six or seven years is quite a spread for a young lady, it didn’t matter to me in that time and place. I was flattered and exhilarated by the attention. Enchanted with the idea that the first time I was swept up with a boy, he was actually a man. He wanted to see more of me after the summer church camp ended. I knew for him, this led to marriage. But what could I do with that? I was sixteen and needed to finish high school. I didn’t know much about myself back then, but I knew I was curious. Ready to ask big questions of the world. As my plans for high school graduation and college materialized, the reality of him in my life dissolved. Just didn’t make sense outside of church camp.  

 

Within my four years at college there were a few “oh, huh” moments that evolved my world perception into something new. Through my humanities and art history lessons I peered through the patriarchal curtains and beheld a raw truth never before articulated in a way I understood. All throughout time, up until very recently, men owned all the property and held all the leadership rolls in government and commerce. “Huh.” I came to realize I was absorbing everything from history to entertainment from a male-centric point of view. “Oh.” Once it hit, certain things made more sense. That’s why female characters in old movies were so odd to me. Their words and behaviors were written and directed by men who were perpetuating their preferred stereotypes. My sister and I would joke about Alfred Hitchcock movies like, The Birds. Tippi Hendren stayed stationary for way too long while under attack by those creepy birds. “Oh, no.” We would mime a damsel in distress with the back of our hand pressed against our forehead. A breathy, “Birds.” Exaggeratingly tossing our curly locks from side to side. “Peck me.” Point being: Why wasn’t this bitch running! Serpentine Tippi! 

Soon I was holding a lens up to other representations and stories of women. I discovered that in 1969 Pope Paul VI finally made the clarification that Mary Magdalene was not a prostitute. It was the incorrect interpretation of the bible by another Pope in 581 A.D. which was then perpetuated by religious leaders until embedded in the collective Catholic conscience, and pop culture. It seemed such a disservice to someone who was evidently another disciple of Jesus. This was when I started to let go of bible stories as literal lessons from God and understood them to be interpretations of stories written by men. There are not, after all, any books in the bible authored by women. Or, maybe there once were? I wish this question was something that made it into one of my mother-daughter conversations, to hear her perspective, but it just didn’t. Mom was a faithful Christian. Even so, I believe she would have been open to discussion on the conflicts of biblical messaging versus what we know about human nature and anthropology. It sure does get interesting! By college graduation I was beginning to understand Christianity as a homo-social religion where all love, devotion, and loyalty is between men. A hierarchy where women are placed underneath as an invisible labor support system for them. Enforced through violence for centuries. What a bummer! The sexism, but also the missed opportunity of conversing on such a topic with Mom. We just ran out of time. 

Years later, in my 30’s, I came close to death myself. Twice. The first time was when I was hospitalized for alcoholism on Christmas Day. Three weeks before I turned 36. I spent a week at Princeton Med, detoxing, recovering, and being observed for possible organ failure and transplant candidacy. Remarkably, I recovered without needing a waitlist or invasive procedure. Six days later I was discharged and began my new sober adulthood. 

When my annual gynecological exam came up on the calendar in November, 2020, I almost rescheduled. I was feeling good, in the best shape of my life in fact, but the world was sick with COVID 19. As the weather temperature dropped, cases rose, and going to a doctor’s office gave me pause. However, I kept the appointment. I was already going to be out voting. It was November 4. The day started with voting for president by dropping off my mail-in ballot at a local deposit box, and ended with an emergency order for a mammogram. The tumor was so big they knew it was cancer before the biopsy results confirmed it. 

I don’t know why, but I knew it would happen. Some sort of cancer. I wasn’t surprised at all. I don’t think I even cried. Usually I’m a big cryer. I refused the tissue the mammogram technician offered me. In that moment I didn’t need a tissue. I needed a pen. I began planning for the next day. Then the next, and the next day after that. Fortunately, there were so many next days. Seven months later, after chemotherapy and surgery, a new pathology report determined I was cancer free. 

During the illnesses and recovery phases of both of these battles, getting sober and surviving cancer, never once did I pray to any one of the many Gods people currently pray to. When I was sick, weak, and devastated at the thought of my terrestrial life ending, I found peace and tranquility in nature. Healing in herbs, yoga, and hiking. Camaraderie in support groups, family, friends, and my dog, Charlie. Especially Charlie.

If Mom had been alive for my illness, would she have wanted to pray with me? Or advise me to search “my faith” for answers? Possibly. She liked to have a thoughtful exchange of ideas. Maybe she would remind me that many people who practiced a religion during COVID fared better with mental health versus their secular counterparts. And I would counter with the fact that children are more likely to be abused in a church than at drag queen story hour. One thing is for sure, during my chemotherapy, when people told me they were praying for me, I treasured it. What is a prayer in its purest form? Someone, assuming their heart is true, is taking time out of their day to wish me good fortune or betterment because they care about me. It’s a beautiful act and I believe there is a positive energy released into our atmosphere. I can appreciate that even if I do not pray to a God myself. 

Every time I went hiking, my entire body, from the top of my bald head, to the pads of my toes, was absorbing and becoming the forest. The deciduous air poured through my lungs fresh off the mountain. Purification. The rocks and soil pressed beneath the weight of me and returned my energy with buoyed steps. Feeling the cascading sun through branches of ash, oak, chestnut, and the dogwood was as warming as griddle pancakes on Christmas morning. When I closed my eyes I smelled the musky husks of decomposing bark and hide mixed with sweet bursting blossoms and baby blades of grass. The scent of cemetery and nursery in one breeze. I picked up pebbles from the muddy, mossy riverbanks, tossed them in and while watching the tiny waves undulate from the point of passage, thought about how I could be the last person to ever touch that rock until the end of time. Cosmic reverie.

During those restorative rambles I would consider this: time is not linear. The past, present, and future are all happening at once. Looking around, I was comforted. This has all happened before, it is happening now, and it will happen again. And I’m still here. In a way this makes me feel more connected to Mom, even so long after her last breath. Because my past with her is happening now even in the present. Illumination isn’t free. In order to move forward, I had to leave something behind. I don’t need to fantasize about Heaven anymore, I don’t think there is one. Maybe a shared collective consciousness? Maybe some form of reincarnation? Dancing through the possibilities is a little bit of heaven right here and now.

If there is spirituality in my life, it’s in these moments–expressing gratitude to our Mother Earth, and freeing my mind from the confines of ‘past, present, and future.’ Not a prayer, but like a prayer.