Читать книгу Close to the Bone - Jean Shinoda Bolen - Страница 38

My image of what a hero looks like and what heroic means has been changed by watching ordinary people go through the ordeals that an illness and medical procedures take them through. Speaking before large groups of women survivors of cancer, seeing many with turbans covering their bald heads, or heads covered with fine downy hair from chemotherapy, knowing that most also bear surgical scars and some have radiation burns or bone-marrow-site scars, and that all of them have gone through or are in the midst of underworld descents, I have felt humbled by being in their presence. They are veterans, survivors, unrecognized heroes; the rest of us are civilians in comparison.

The only similarity for me was how I felt during my medical school and training years, especially in internship with our thirty-six-hours-on, twelve-hours-off rotations; then it felt that we were on the front lines of life and death, while the rest of the world were civilians. Yet we were not at risk of becoming casualties, of being a statistic or a number in a body count.

Cancer patients are like soldiers in ongoing conflicts: they are living through uncertainties and risks, lose their friends to the enemy, run into unexpected complications, and the appearance of new symptoms is the equivalent of being ambushed, stepping on mines, or being shot at by snipers. The enemy is near, deadly, and for the most part unseen. Patients, like soldiers, can be caught up in a war that lasts for years, while contemporaries go on with their lives as usual. Buddies matter. Members of a cancer support group know what a bad day or bad odds are, as well as how small victories are reasons to celebrate. Support groups that are circles with a spiritual center find that when they meet, check in, and meditate or pray silently together that this becomes a source of invisible support as well.

Medical conditions can flare up or go into remission. Some patients have multiple hospitalizations for diseases such as heart disease or diabetes as well as cancers. Some will have multiple surgical operations, each one an ordeal. It takes fortitude and courage to undergo major surgery when you know that there are risks and can anticipate difficulties, pain, and exhaustion. To do so is heroic, though it is not respected as such.

When my son, Andy, had to go through a series of major and minor operations, I saw his courage, character, and quiet strength emerge. His fate was to have Neurofibramatosis-2, a rare and progressive condition in which non-malignant tumors could grow on any cranial and other peripheral nerves. The year he turned twenty-one, Andy had a nonmalignant tumor removed that was located in a dangerous place. It was pressing on his spinal cord in his neck and had already displaced the cord to one side. If it wasn't removed, it would result in a spinal cord compression. On the other hand, any mishap in surgery could result in serious damage to the spinal cord or the nerves that come off it. To reach the site, neurosurgeons had to go through the bony vertebral bones of the spine, and then the dura and other finer protective coverings. Under the circum-stances, surgery was not only risky, it was very long, and recovery from anesthesia and from the operation also took time and was very uncomfortable. Because this surgery coincided with his becoming twenty-one, it made me think of the rites of passage that some indigenous cultures have required before a young man is acknowledged as an adult. Anthropologists describe these initiations as physical, psychological, and spiritual ordeals that are tests of courage and endurance. In such rites of passage, success is usual but not without risk to life, limb, and soul, which was also the case for Andy's surgery. The operation was successful, and the spirit in which my son made the passage was indeed admirable. Inspired by the title of Alice Walker's book of the same name, I thought of his surgical scars as “warrior marks” and told him so.

Difficulties are soul shaping, depending upon how we respond. They can be lessons that lead us to know who we are, and they can stretch us into becoming larger souls and more authentic human beings than we were before. I think of soul journeys as heroic when they begin with unwanted and unchosen circumstances: a crippling accident, the loss of a significant relationship, sexual, emotional, or physical trauma as well as any life-threatening illnesses. That which we all hope to be spared, happens all the time to some-one, somewhere and that person may now be you. Some people become bitter and cynical, which is toxic to the soul. These same circumstances can result in developing soul qualities of compassion, wisdom, and courage. Ordinary people are quietly heroic when they persevere, endure, and do not give up on love or on there being meaning and purpose to their lives.