January 2, 1999 When I was five years old, I woke up on a dark spring night to the crashing sounds of a violent thunderstorm passing overhead. Terrified, I ran to my parents bedroom for comfort. Though it was probably 2 or 3 in the morning, my Dad led me downstairs to our family room. I remember that I was crying and scared, and that he was full of amused reassurance. Without turning on any lights in the house, we made our way over to the sliding glass doors that looked out over our backyard. The big panes of glass afforded a view of the sky and the huge pine trees behind our house that seemed to fill the whole world to my young eyes. As the lightning streaked out of the sky in stark bolts above the trees, I shrank back in fear and covered my ears in shaking anticipation of the deafening BOOM that would follow. So far, our trip to the glass doors hadn't done much to allay my fears. But my Dad took my hand and we crouched down near the floor. He pointed up at the brilliant sky and there was a big grin on his face. I don't remember his exact words, but I remember that the storm seemed to thrill him. As I watched him and then watched the dramatic display before us, I caught his enthusiasm for the excitement of the storm and it suddenly seemed like a wondrous thing to me. I wasn't afraid anymore, but filled with joy at the beauty of white lightning flashing against black sky. Since then, I have never been afraid of thunderstorms.
My Dad has always been a storm aficionado. I remember after the famous Blizzard of '78 in New England, the National Guard closed the roads to all but emergency traffic, and enforced the ban with armed road blocks. Never one to pass up an opportunity to have fun at the expense of authority, my Dad piled my brother and me in the car and we drove around the backroads having a ball. The snowbanks were twice as high as the top of the car. Several times we stopped the car and walked up to peek at major intersections, only to find guardsmen on the lookout. We'd go back to the car, turn around, and find another route. Through it all, there was the excitement of a little adventure, and a sense of delight at doing something so out of the ordinary. Ultimately, it was about finding joy in something that could easily be feared or resented as an inconvenience.
It's winter again now in New England, with weather that can try most people's souls. Making things even harder to bear than usual this year was an unusually warm and dry fall, which left us totally unacclimatized when winter finally hit with a vengeance this week. It started a few days ago with a totally unforecast snowfall, adding fuel to my theory that weathermen get paid for making wild guesses. However, we've never had to wait so long for snow here before, and when it finally came, lots of people were positively gleeful about it.
The snow started tenatively in the morning, and came down sparsely all day, leaving the warm ground a bit wet but never accumulating. So it appeared our first snow might be a bust, until early evening when the temperature dropped, and the snow just kept on falling. It had just started to pile up to an inch or so when I headed out to a friend's house for tea and a video early in the evening. Several hours later, I left to head home and walked out into a fairyland.
Around four inches had fallen in a few short hours, and it was the kind of perfect, fluffy, slightly wet snow that sticks together wonderfully and makes everything look like a postcard. The flakes were falling steadily in large, fluffy clumps and everything from trees to cars was outlined in white. I drove the long way home just to watch the snowfall as long as possible.
I've always heard that any experience that causes you to face your own mortality will give you a new appreciation of the beauty in the world. It makes sense logically, but it's not something you can comprehend on any kind of meaningful level without such an experience. Lately, with the conclusion of my chemo, my energy coming back, and things looking up, I often have a sense of euphoria over everyday occurrences. Things like unexpected snowfalls can take your breath away. The fear and difficulties of dealing with cancer are somehow offset by a kind of joy that comes easy and often. It's a silver lining that threatens to eclipse the cloud at times.
Winter in New England is famous for being difficult, but less famous for its beauty. While never one of those people that hates and grouses about winter (well at least not until March), I still never found it quite as intriguing as I have been lately. We had an ice storm yesterday (relatively minor, fortunately), and today the sun was bright, the sky was an amazing color of blue, and every single branch on every tree and bush was outlined in dazzling, sparkling ice. Tonight, on my dog walk after dark, the stars in the cold night air were clear and sharp on a dark blue sky. The moon was rising large and yellow with a few clouds lit up in front of it. I kept thinking, have things always been this beautiful and I just never noticed? Or are things just unusually stunning this year? I think I just never noticed.
So the idea that first occurred to me when I was five and watching a thunderstorm - that something terrible could be turned around into something beautiful, seems to have permeated my whole life these days. I'm just starting down the last leg of my treatment journey, with scans and tests and consultations about radiation, to be followed by radiation itself. I have a lot of fears about the treatment and my future in general, but overall I feel strong and good about how I am and where I'm going. The idea that I could not only beat this disease, but be left with the gift of appreciation that I have gained is a powerful thing.
It's so powerful that I find myself wanting to convey it to others, but, frustratingly, I can't really do that to my satisfaction. I can talk about it or write about it, but it's not the same as experiencing it. At times I feel that my perspective on everyday life has altered to the point that I feel alienated from anyone who doesn't have a similar perspective (which is most of the general population). It's like the metaphor I've heard used to describe how you feel when you are diagnosed with cancer - that you have been transported to the far side of a wide river with all the cancer surivors on one side and everyone else on the other. It's an apt description, and acquiring a new appreciation for life is part of that process.
Carpe Diem
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12:31 AM
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