Cancer and chemotherapy aren't words that sit quietly in the background. They're not words that allow everything else to go on as normal. They don't squeeze themselves small in the hope of not taking up too much space. They're neon-light attention seekers. They're megaphone loud. They take up every inch of space they possibly can. They're words that are demanding our full attention, and they'd quite like to keep it for at least the next 6 months.
But neither of us wants to live in crisis for months and the simple fact is that despite the neon lights and the noise there's more going on in both our lives right now than just cancer and chemotherapy. So how can we, or rather I (own the words N!), find some kind of balance between this new massive piece of energy in my life and the other parts of my life that also have their own neon-lights and megaphones?
The shift in our relationship has felt natural. We've gone with the energy. We've gone with the cancer. In our conversations we talk about 'surfing' - even when the waves might feel too high. Because that's really the best we can do when faced with such a strong energy that's coming our way. We now do us with this.
It's also felt natural to go with the cancer in my wider relationships. My friends and family are now joint surfers as we navigate our relationships with this new piece of energy. It's not cancer happening to these relationships, it's these relationships happening with cancer.
But what does (or could) that look like in my wider life? Especially my work.
I feel that it would be very possible to see this as a temporary practical problem. I could have a six month plan where I navigate around cancer and chemotherapy. Reschedule diaries. Rearrange work commitments. Do my sums to check that I can just about balance income, rent, and time spent with C. And then, when the cancer and chemotherapy have hopefully gone, I can get back to normal. Maybe even make up for 'lost' time.
That might work if my career was just a means to an end and not something that was deeply personal. But that hasn't been the way I've lived my life up until now. My work is me. It's not just what I do it's a huge part of who I am. Work has been a space where I exercise my vulnerability and my authenticity. It's a massive part of my identity - and I like it that way. It wouldn't feel right to 'park' my work, or to pretend that my energy hasn't been massively changed and that I could (or should) try to keep that separate from work.
So I'm curious.
What would it look like to take all of me on this ride? What lessons are in these waves that will serve my wider life in unanticipated ways? What would it mean to let go of more than I thought I could? Or to reconfigure old ways of being?
What would it look like to breathe this whole moment through every aspect of my life rather than to wish it away or try to keep it contained? I have no idea. But I do know I couldn't have a better companion for a ride like that and it would feel like a waste to simply 'get through' this experience rather than come out the other side changed in ways I could never have imagined. Cancer and chemotherapy are massive words. They bring in their wake the potential for correspondingly massive change in all directions.
I have more choice in this ride than C. I'm curious to know whether I'll just be a caring spectator, or what it would mean if I went fully with the cancer.
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