Paradise

This is a journal entry from my little sister who has just finished radiation and her third surgery for a cancerous brain tumor. Having been through a life-changing crisis I understand what she is getting at and think she expresses it beautifully. My sister is my hero and I admire her strength and courage.

I’m sitting at my kitchen table (currently placed at the bottom of our stairs a midst a lot of boxes and suitcases), listening to Caleb sing “I’d like to make myself believe That planet Earth turns slowly” from his bedroom. It comes from the song “Fireflies” by Owl City, which has been getting some airtime on our car radio of late. I think that line of the song must be the only one he can remember right now, as he sings it over and over and over again at the top of his lungs. Each time it gets a little louder and a little more off-key. While I should probably be getting concerned about him waking his brother, I just listen. Right now I don’t think I’d trade that sweet, slightly brass-sounding voice for anything. It’s amazing how the experience of having cancer can change one’s perspective. As someone who has known and worked with many people who’ve gone through it, I know my experience is not unique in that respect. Still, it’s interesting that things that used to be annoying to me—like loud, off-key singing that threatens to waken a teething baby—is now, literally, sweet music to my ears.

It’s like that country song by Phil Vassar, called “Just Another Day in Paradise.” (That I prefer a country song is maybe another indicator that I am not who I used to be… :) We don’t have a printer hooked up in our house yet, so I’ll just summarize the gist of it. Vassar starts off describing a house with kids screaming, phones ringing, overdue bills, sour milk, and a broken washing machine. It reminds one of those mornings when so many things are not working in harmony that it would be comical if it didn't also seem so maddeningly routine. The interesting part of the song comes next, though, as Vassar not only refuses to delve into self pity, but heaps praises on the experienced inconveniences. He sings,

Well, it’s O.K. It’s so nice
It’s just another day in paradise
Well, there’s no place that
I’d rather be
Well, it’s two hearts
And one dream
I wouldn’t trade it for anything
And I ask the Lord every night
For just another day in paradise.

I got teary-eyed listening to those lyrics when Brook was driving me back from my last day of radiation a little over a week ago. I felt overwhelmed as I put my hand on Brook’s (my husband)knee and said, “That’s all I want. A lot more of those days.” I realized that all the so-called “inconveniences” of family life had, during the two months of radiation and chemo, become the moments I wanted to keep more than anything else. And as I contemplated the wide range of survival for people with my type of brain tumor (from less than one to over thirty years), I found myself yearning for the “exceptionally long” side of survival—with forty, sixty, or more years to go. Not so that I could find some way to save the world from injustice or because I thought I could have some monumental achievement that could get me recognition, wealth, beauty, or fame. It was so that the things that had once perhaps seemed like aggravating interruptions to “me” time or the moments of “happily ever after” solitude had suddenly become infinitely precious to me.

There's a quote by Gordon B. Hinckley’s I read a while back, part of which says:

“Life is like an old-time rail journey . . . delays, side-tracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.”

When I first read that quote years ago, I thought it was nice, but I felt that his words, like Paul’s in 2 Corinthians 12, were perhaps too idealistic, advising us to “glory” in infirmities or experiences that any reasonable person would find discouraging. I thought I was to find joy in the trials of life because they remind me of my own “nothingness” and because they helped me to more greatly appreciate the easier, more peaceful moments when they came.

Since cancer has made me ponder more seriously on my life and on mortality in general, I think I see things a little differently. I still don’t know that I can ever echo Paul’s pronouncement of glorying in my infirmities. Trials like cancer are not things I relish experiencing. And yet, I am grateful that I’ve learned how to better differentiate between which things are trials and which are undervalued blessings. Experiencing life as a cancer patient and reflecting on Vassar’s song about what paradise is, I have rethought Hinckley’s quote and realized that many of the delays, much of the dust, and many of the serious jolts in life’s journey are not just significant because they make the “beautiful vistas” and “thrilling bursts of speed” more appreciable, but because they are what make our journeys. They are the foundations for building our most significant relationships and experiences, and, if properly appreciated, can give us the life-changing, treasured memories we can ponder on during those brief times of solitude that may crop up on occasion.

I hate cancer. It terrifies me to think of it sometimes, and it seems this last year has been one of the longest, hardest ones of my life. And yet, because of it I think of my family and am overwhelmed with gratitude for the role I get to play in what many people would term the mundane tasks of housekeeping and childrearing. I am grateful for the sweet, off-key songs by Caleb. I am grateful when I’m allowed an interrupted night’s sleep to care for my teething baby. I am grateful for the confusing, complicated patterns of communication between Brook and me as we try to plan for a future that bears many uncertainties. I am grateful that I’ve experienced the closeness that comes from the sweet giving of friends and family as I’ve been forced to surrender some aspects of my independence. I’m grateful for these and many other experiences, for they remind me that I am alive. That my life has purpose. They remind me that I still have opportunities to build experiences and relationships that can soften character, that can sweeten memories, and that can provide eternal joy. And it is because of these experiences that I pray every night for many more days when I’ll get to hear my kids screaming, phones ringing, and washing machines breaking down as my experience with cancer has taught me that those truly are my sounds of paradise.