From
Day One At a personal
level, unforgettable days earn that rank, their space on a calendar often
invisible to anyone but you. Generally unnoticed, their anniversaries aren’t
celebrated with cakes and cards.
Perhaps they should be. I feel that way whenever I’m asked
about colon cancer, especially my experience living with it. Usually, I supply
details that may be relevant to the query. Most often, the questioner and I
discover that our cases are different. Even so, sharing our stories seems to
spread the effect of fear and pain in a way that diminishes those aspects of
the illness.
As a writer, I felt a similar result when the fright and
shock of cancer found expression in my poetry and my essays. In fact, when a
friend from Norfolk who volunteered at the cancer wing of an eastern Virginia
hospital read my chapbook, I Am One Too, dedicated to cancer patients, he
purchased four dozen copies to give to patients there.
What those poems and essays do for me is really what I try
to share. Since I’m familiar now with the progression of responses to news of the
illness, I often think that I could have named my collection Day One: The Call.
Although the message is etched in my brain, who the caller
was is a blur. “The entire tumor was cancerous,” they said. “There were no
clear blue lines.” Later I would be told that meant the surgeon wasn’t sure
he’d “gotten it all.” But that didn’t matter to the caller. What had to be
done, “immediately,” was to schedule a resection of my colon.
That call came on July 4th, thirteen years ago.
Indeed, Independence Day is extremely special to me every year. Doing double
duty, it serves as a reliable reminder that every day is precious, that our every thought and feeling and action
has some meaning worth receiving and sharing.
Finding words to describe those thoughts and feelings is
important to me, especially because I know that what I write may connect a
reader to the significance of his or her emotions. In a sense, my writing can
sometimes be as a remedy that clarifies and helps define emotions clouded by
shock and misery.
So I write. In earnest. And not just about cancer. I write
about people who have touched me, whose efforts I respect and appreciate. Some
of those people are my students. Others are friends who “normally don’t share
their stuff.” But I write about them, their triumphs and their disasters.
All of it matters.
Now and then I find a writer who has a story about their
cancer. Reading their work reconnects me with my emotional history that started
at Day One.
That happened yesterday when I read this from Professor
Barry Rubin, a man whose insights often have served as crucial supports
regarding my political positions concerning Israel and its neighbors. For me
(and for many others, I’m sure), his intellect and his diligence have served as
standards a mentor might set.
Nothing
is stranger than having a normal life and then within a few hours knowing that
it might end at almost any moment. That’s what happened to me when I was just
diagnosed with what is called inoperable lung cancer. I am still waiting final
results of the tests and the choice of therapies.
Although I’ve never met him, I’ve admired Professor Rubin
for years. Only now have I been able to glimpse his guidelines, those pillars
that gird his good work. In a sense, they come as a blessing cancer prompted
him to give. I welcome his reflections; each word rings true:
For
2000 years my ancestors dreamed of returning to their homeland [Israel]
and reestablishing their sovereignty. I
have had the privilege of living that dream. How amazing is that?
We
have to judge ourselves by whether we’ve lived up to our ideals and done our
best. Not by the accumulation of power, wealth or fame; not for failing to
achieve the impossible.
A
famous Jewish story about that is the tale of Rabbi Zosia who said that he did
not expect God to berate him for not having been Moses—who he wasn’t—but for
not having been Zosia.
To
me, that means we must do the best to be ourselves while trying to make
ourselves as good as possible. I’ve really tried to do that. I don’t have big
regrets, nor bitterness, nor would I have done things very differently.
And
I’ve discovered the brave community of those who are supporting and encouraging
each other in the battle against this disease.
B.Koplen
8/5/12
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