Inner peace

Canadian Tiger Swallowtail, 2021, acrylic, 24x36”

A month ago, I had an ambulance ride to the hospital. It was not the first time an ambulance came out to my wild little bit of farm country. The paramedics were women; great to see (and it probably dates me to say so!) Kelly rode in the back with me. She was conversational and friendly. She reminded me of my younger self — adventurous, loves the outdoors, loves animals. We had a great conversation. I was feeling pretty vulnerable — it was the morning I woke up and couldn’t use my hands or my legs. It’s interesting what pours out of a person in that state. I don’t remember well what I said, but I might have told her a lot of my life story. I do remember she asked if I enjoyed living “way out here.” I’ve been asked that a lot from friends and delivery folks who make the trek out past all the farm fields, through where the road narrows to seemingly one lane, up a steep curving hill, and in our long driveway to a hundred acres of wilderness. People are surprised to find there are actually many homes way out here.

I repeated to Kelly what I’ve shared many times... I used to do a lot of camping in Algonquin Park (and elsewhere). I loved being isolated in wilderness, canoeing, backpacking, finding the perfect camping spot to watch the sun go down. To wake early just to enjoy a paddle on the flat lake, to sip coffee at the water’s edge, or to have earned a deep sleep and fall into it under the stars. Algonquin Park is only two kilometres from my home now. Since I can’t paddle or hike into it these days, I figured living close by was the next best thing. It seemed to make sense to Kelly. As I told this story for the nth time, it rang even more true. I’ll move to town eventually and that will be fine too, but for now, as I become even less able-bodied, living in the refuge of nature is a gift.

After that ambulance ride, I was in hospital for four and a half days. Three of those days were spent in emerge due to a bed shortage, but they brought down a hospital bed and made me as comfortable as possible. As I’ve mentioned before, a couple infections had exacerbated the MS symptoms. Since I was still recovering from surgery, my whole system was overwhelmed — no surprise! Antibiotics slowly turned things around. It was an intense experience, but also mainly a positive one. I had great care from skilled and kind people. And for my part, where worry, panic, or fear could easily have overwhelmed me, I found instead very clear presence with all that was happening. It was empowering to discover that depth of clarity — grace, I called it in an earlier blog. Much gratitude arises for the meditation practice that helps me be with what is and not shut down or overreact. That said, a hospital stay always makes one grateful for home. I gained new appreciation for mine.

Two weeks prior, when I returned home from the double mastectomy, it took two people — friends and family pitched in — to help me in and out of bed, on and off the toilet, with meals, and so on. The cumulative effect of two falls and major surgery left me without the balance to even pull my pants up. Unable to use my arms for the time-being, we had to figure out how to lift my weakened lower half without even grasping my hands to pull or by lifting under my arms. Those first two weeks were challenging and exhausting. Though also like a social event at times — albeit mostly in my bedroom and bathroom. On a “shift change,” one friend said to the other, “are we not closing the door?” I was on the toilet and everyone laughed as I said, “that went by the wayside days ago!” I can’t deny how difficult it was at times, but everyone was in good spirits and we had a lot of laughs. One remarkable thing about that time was a week of unseasonably warm weather. (The extremes of climate change … makes me nervous, too.) There are a lot of windows in my house and a patio door at either end make for cooling cross breezes throughout. While this house sits in an open field, it is surrounded by trees and a haze of spring green was just budding. At times it felt like summer days on the deck or patio with friends and good food, laughter and tears, tea and a lot of chocolate.

I reflected on that really unusual time during my four-day hospital stay. “Oh!” I realized, “It was like being in a treehouse!” Our house has a walkout basement and the upper level has cathedral ceilings, so it's very high. We live on the upper level and the view out all the windows is of sky and trees. Prior to this, my mind ran many story reels about how we built the house in the wrong place, it had too much sun exposure, it's too vulnerable to storms, it's too big, too far out, not green enough, and so on. These stories fell away. So that, when I returned home, it was to a treehouse in Algonquin Park.

Here I am several weeks later and it still feels this way. There have been so many blessings on this journey through cancer and its MS complications. For me, shaking loose, once again, the entanglements of the mind. The overwhelming love and support. How people took time out of their busy lives to physically help me in the first days after surgery. It’s a gift I feel I can never repay. Michael’s unfailing presence through this is truly an unearned blessing. And this new appreciation for my home is an indescribable joy.

Right now I'm looking through squares of stained wood where Michael has begun screening in the deck off the bedroom. Ten views of orange-framed green trees and brush and grass, and a little bit of blue sky. The patterns are different, but it puts me in that place of deep peace I would experience while camping — whether napping on a carpet of orange pine needles, sitting under windswept sentinel pines, overlooking a sapphire lake, or walking in the green light filtered trails. There’s no lake in sight here, but there are ponds, streams, and beautiful trails.

When we first moved into this house, I found a large piece of quartz out on one of the trails. Why? Quartz is no where else on this property that I’ve seen. I brought it in, brushed it off, and put it on the mantle. “May all who visit here know peace,” I said aloud. I didn’t know at the time that the visitor would be me. I thought I had already found peace. Peace is a spectrum, I guess, like many things. It seems to get steadier, quieter, and more benevolent as it grows. There is deep contentment, too. And — for no reason at all — joy.

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I am, by the way, doing well. Incisions have healed, shoulders are moving well. My legs are regaining strength. The surgery caught all the cancer so no need for radiation and so far not chemo either. I may easily reach my goal to be swimming again by September! I’m taking a moment to fully appreciate all this, the best possible results, yet another blessing.