On faith

     Predictably, stuff's coming out in my poetry (and my novel, now that I think of it) that illuminates what I didn't know I was thinking. This self-discovery is part of the narcissistic lure of writing, of course, and which writer was it who said she cannot be expected to know what she thinks until she writes it down?

     I write, therefore I am.

     Anyway, the process, coupled with the hyper-awareness of turmoil, both global and domestic, has really set my reptilian brain to percolating. The upshot is great confusion, an erosion of faith, perhaps, but at the very least there is a paring of what I believe not to be true. So, that's something.

     Regarding cancer: I have no faith in the theory that attitude has any bearing whatsoever on the biology of the disease, either its progression or its retreat. Attitude is inauthentic, by definition, largely because of the faith our culture has placed in this theory: there is enormous pressure for the patient to act heroically by minimizing ill effects (smiling through it); to keep the schedule; to appear brave. Show me a cancer fighter on the teevee, I'll show you a martyr. We so hope that acting tough will result in victory, we are unwilling to acknowledge that (what I suspect is) a great majority of cancer patients privately fall the fuck apart. The upside of this clarity, I suppose, is my faith in people's capacity to do what they have to do. Note that this is not the same thing as toughing it out, powering through, taking one's lumps. Rage is a coping mechanism; depression, a protective device. I have no use for bravery, or even goodness. Consider all the brave people with stellar attitudes who've succumbed to a "long battle with cancer," and the opposite -- those pitifuls with piss-poor manners who scream and kick and cry and endure many remissions, or perhaps are cured. Cancer is not who I am; my response to it is not representative of my character. Cancer is nothing more than a piece of my struggle, one of many. And everybody's got somethin'. 

     I have faith in healing efforts as they extend toward me from an authentic heart. That is to say, I have faith in the love of my doctors, my family, my friends, my colleagues. I have come to believe it doesn't much matter what they do, as long as they're accepting of my visceral responses. As M and I tell A, it's okay to feel sad/mad/bored. I have faith in my personal biology, and have become (I think) better at following my body's signals and needs. But really, it's like my hair caught fire twelve years ago and I'm still hopping around beating my head with a wet towel. There's nothing deliberate about my response to this disease. It's al-Qaeda in the caves, elusive and enigmatic, indistinct, and multiplying. What can you do, strategically, tactically, but cross your fingers and hope?

     What about maturity? The ability to control one's emotional response, to temper, to decide? A raving bunch of shit, in my experience. Yet we're expected to be able to control, or at least limit, the big scary emotions that accompany any misfortune -- grief, rage, sadness, we're supposed to move through them by stages; to get over them. (Thanks for that, Kubler-Ross.) 

     I have no faith that I can control my fear; I have great hope that I can come to peace. For now, I'm relying on love and nerve pills. 

     Note to self: faith in books, next time.

     This post is a bald, rambling mess. Feh. It's as close to true as I can make it tonight.