Death, my companion
“Death is the only wise advisor that we have. Whenever you feel, as you always do, that everything is going wrong and you are about to be annihilated, turn to your death and ask that this is so. Your death will tell you that you're wrong; that nothing matters outside its touch. Your death will tell you "I haven't touched you yet."
--Carlos Castaneda, The Teachings of Don Juan
It's interesting only to me that when I learned about having cancer, my thought was of Carlos Castaneda and the idea that death was my companion. (I'd forgotten the actual quote is about "wise advisor.") I have a degree in Philosophy and Religion from long ago and a more recent certificate as a spiritual director, which means I've read a good deal about saints and mystics, as well. A great number of those books I read dealt with the idea of death. But my first thought was of this strange Hispanic writer from the 1970s who may have been making it all up. It just rang true then. In fact, I remember reading Journey to Ixtlan, his third book, and thinking as I read the final chapters that I would somehow be transported into some kind of mystical trance or warrior's dimension, transformed in some profound way. (Yeah, I was high at the time.)
I didn't get angry.
I didn't protest.
I wasn't working out some kind of bargain.
It's possible I was angling for denial, but I was, for certain, reframing my predicament to something I could accept. Death hasn't touched me yet. I have knowledge that I can work with.
"Only the idea of death makes a warrior sufficiently detached so that he is capable of abandoning himself to anything. He knows his death is stalking him and won't give him time to cling to anything so he tries, without craving, all of everything."
What will I do about it? Well, I'll write this.
We drove in the early morning to Riverside Methodist Hospital where we were admitted to the ER. Over the next 72 hours, a team of doctors and nurses formed. They had their way with me: wee-hour blood draws, ectoscopic biopsy, an MRI, lathroscopic biopsies, and the placement of an infusion port for future blood draws and infusions. At the end of my stay, I met my oncologist, Dr. Krishna, who gave me the formal diagnosis of Neuroendocrine Tumors (NETs). (Not as fatal as pancreatic cancer but I was later given “short years” by one doctor and 50% chance of 2.5 years by another.)
During this frenzied time at the hospital, my sense of humor carried me along, actively engaging with the professionals around me. I was profoundly grateful for their concern and care. I was attempting to be in the present moment with my new status: cancer patient. I can readily credit my years in the spiritual formation circles of Christos Center for Spiritual Formation, the Spirituality Network, and Illuman, a male-oriented ministry of the Center for Action and Contemplation, for keeping my head from spinning out of control.
Through Pandemic eyes, I made every effort to praise the various nurses who cared for me. They were angels and my words lifted me just as much as they were lifted. Most seemed to love what they did and were gracious. A team of specialists had assembled to deal with my condition, and again my gratitude overcame the shock of how advanced my condition was: Stage 4, grade 3: metastasized and >80% speed. But that speed would make the cancer cells more vulnerable to chemical treatment according to my oncologists.
When we got home there were new prescriptions as well as time for tears. Our plan on walking each other Home had become real with the catch that one of us was taking an unintended, unwanted shortcut. Of course, Jessie could have an accident and die first but that was abstract. (And yeah, it isn't a competition.) The "walking home'' had been abstract, but this cancer business was not so abstract. The fog of waiting to hear from Dr. Krishna’s referral at the James Cancer Research Center, an NET specialist, involved a lot of heart-felt discussion. We waited for yet another New Normal to emerge.
We also undertook some practical things: getting plans for the disposition of our bodies after death had taken us. We made sure our wills were up-to-date. And we told people about the situation, inviting prayers. And that has been a huge blessing.
Chemo was very, very good to me. I quickly saw the advantage of having the port for the infusion sessions that lasted anywhere from 70 to 145 minutes. They happened mainly on Wednesdays through Fridays, every 21 days at Columbus Oncology and Hemotology Associates (COHA). The nurses were first-rate and every one an angel. Again, I engaged with them, perhaps out of nervousness but also out of gratitude. They were an essential part of the team who were there to extend my life. My intentionality required me to interact, to be an active part of this process.
BTW, I don't like the warfare words often used in resisting cancer. I don't feel like I am fighting for my life. It's not a struggle. I am alive and going through life, and death is not separate from the experience. Richard Rohr has made it very clear that the mystery surrounding death is too important for dualistic interpretations.
When you really think about it, these angel nurses should not be thinking in terms of win-lose either, or they are on their way to heartbreak. We are all going to die and yes, if they see me as a person and connected to them, it’s going to hurt more, perhaps, than if I just passively went about getting infused. But as a person who sees them as angels of mercy, I can give them permission to grieve me without feeling that they failed somehow or that life has no meaning.
As an Enneagram Seven, my tendency is to avoid pain but the events of my life have transformed that avoidance tendency into reframing suffering as a part of life and a key to spiritual growth. Yes, I may not live to see my grands matriculate let alone graduate college and maybe get married. I may not see the terrible political divide in our country be resolved. But I am going to let what time I have in this world continue to transform me.
In the first months of treatments, my appetite was lousy and a lot of things, including water(!), tasted off. I lost any appetite for fizzy drinks, so water was my main thing. Treating it with lime juice, and particularly, Nellie and Joe's Key West Lime juice made a huge difference. We bought new water bottles from the World Wildlife Fund, which worked very well, contributing to a cause my late mother liked. Weirdly, my sense of smell was enhanced. When Jessie baked homemade granola, I had to go downstairs, away from the smell. I still can no longer eat her wonderful granola.
I went eight rounds total. Only about 20% of patients with my condition can get through the full process before side effects take their toll. The scans afterward showed remarkable downsizing of my tumors and no progress of any kind since the scan after my second round. I went without treatment for seven months until scans showed a return of new NET sites but no activity at the old sites.
I have gone through six more rounds of chemo with even fewer side effects save hair loss and occasional constipation. Through it all, we kept making plans as the billboards along the hospital corridor on 315 proclaim. We hiked all over Ohio and Cumberland Falls, TN. We spent time with our grands and our sons and families. We visited many friends with a new perspective that indeed, life is short, make the most of it.
My contemplative lifestyle, which took form in 2005, gave me a good attitude, hiking and biking gave me a solid physical state, and the prayers of friends and family wrapped my spirit in love. I have tremendous support that was well-established in always keeping in touch with many friends as well as newly founded (2017) membership in a men’s spirituality group in Columbus, as well as having a spiritual director and being in a peer group of spiritual directors. We have a condo that faces a woods filled with life that we can view from all the main rooms of its three levels that matches any retreat house we have experienced.
I see all these gifts around me with a profound gratitude and the feeling becomes inescapable that God has me right where He wants me. In that, I can abide.
Prompts for Reflection
How do you cope with medical setbacks?
Did this piece give you an idea about how looking for God's gifts in a situation can help you reframe it?
Have you thought much about death in a useful way?
About the Author: Donavan Vicha is a retired association web specialist, who retired in 2017 and moved to Columbus, Ohio, with his wife, to do childcare for their older son and eldercare for his mother until her passing in 2020. Trained as a spiritual director in 2005 through the Christos Center for Spiritual Formation, he facilitated in the training of spiritual directors until 2015. He writes Science Fiction & Fantasy reviews for Booklist and loves biking and hiking in the parks of Ohio. He is an avid gamer and loves being a grandfather.
