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I’ve been struggling with the deterioration of my body. Six months ago, I was running twenty kilometres a week, I was fit, and healthy, and strong, and happy. Or, so I thought. Obviously I wasn’t as strong and healthy as I thought I was. BUT… I was so happy with my body, and my fitness, and my strength. I gloried in my ability to run. I felt free. Well. Powerful.

One of my friends had been fretting about how much I was running. She asked why I did it. “I Love it!” I said.
“Why?” she asked.

I thought for a long moment, and then sort of had an epiphany: I didn’t really love running. In fact, most of the time I hated it. And it took serious commitment, a certain inflexibility of routine, and concerted planning for me to ensure that I did it three times a week. It was always hard, and it always involved a lot of self talk and encouragement for me to do it. So why did I say so positively, “I love it?” when that was patently untrue? Well, I did love how I felt afterwards. I did love the changing strength and fitness of my body. I did glory in the accomplishment of something I had never thought I would do in life.

And I felt powerful.

So after that long moment of thought, I finally said, “I think that if I run, I won’t get sick again.”

So there you have it: it’s all about control. If I do this…. then this will happen. It’s all about me, and what I can do with my body.

Obviously, I wasn’t conscious of this thought everytime I ran, but it certainly became the anthem of my fitness routine. Even more so than the weight loss benefits, flexibility and beauty issues.

I know that fear of aging plagues many people, particularly in the Western world; but I’ve never really been troubled by the thought. To me, aging is a natural progression of the body and the spirit; it’s a sort of rite of passage; a treasure that you discover as you gain the wisdom and serenity of self discovery, and spiritual maturity. And the wrinkles, and kinks, and foibles of the body are outward manifestations of this wisdom.

That’s been my philosophy, anyway. Aging didn’t seem to be something to be either mourned or feared. I had witnessed my mother age with grace and serenity, always happy to be the age she was, never looking back with regret, or forward with fear. Unlike her best friend, who spent the morning of each new birthday, locked in the bathroom, sobbing. Each birthday was a cause for celebration for my mom, and I always honoured her for that.

And this was a woman who understood the physical pain of aging. When I say that I was never concerned about growing old, I realize that had I suffered the effects of old age – the often painful deterioration of the body – I might have been singing a different tune. OLD age might be something to fear. The complete breakdown of the body, and total reliance on others for your physical needs – THAT might be something to fear. But my mom understood the physical pain of aging. She had suffered debilitating arthritis for years, she had diabetes, and in the end, used a colostomy after a botched surgery. And yet, other than saying that “It’s a bugger to get old,” she had very few complaints about aging.

So, I’ve known my whole life, that it is possible to age with grace and dignity.

But, facing a terminal illness, seems so different than merely growing old. And I guess the difference might be that unlike aging, which is a gradual process, the physical degradation of the body in an illness is steep and precipitous. There is very little time to become accustomed to one major body change before another encroaches upon you. Six months ago, I noticed that my torso was swelling, and that I seemed to have gained weight around my middle – but, it wasn’t weight gain, it was a liver, rapidly growing cancerous tumours.

And then I began chemotherapy. And along with that came all sorts of physical woes. Nausea. Loss of appetite, weight loss, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, hair loss. Steroids, prescribed for the nausea, and the liver pain immediately caused swelling of my face, and upper torso.

And then the news that that chemo had been useless, and ineffective, so a new regime was introduced – one that was even more toxic, and dangerous. Because it is so highly allergenic, I needed much higher doses of the steroid, and the immediate effects on my body were devastating. My face became swollen and moon-like. My cheekbones disappeared, and my features blurred. The flesh around my eyes became puffy and distorted. All my hair fell out, and there was nowhere to hide: the classic, steroid engorged cancer look. My appetite soared, and between that and the steroid puff, I gained twenty pounds. I had no clothes that fit. I bought more, and tried not to look too carefully in the mirror as I tried them on.

All these changes didn’t really disturb me at first. In fact, when my appetite returned, and I was able to eat properly again, after those first two devastating rounds of chemo, I rejoiced. I would MUCH rather be able to eat anything and everything, that not to be able to eat at all. And that it the truth. So, I was happy, and I celebrated. With food. Lots and lots of food. And I thought to myself that these physical changes were the least of my worries. At that point, three months ago, I really thought I was going to die very soon. I didn’t have a lot of hope, because I was so sick. So, a little puffiness and weight gain didn’t seem so bad.

But now, two months later, I’m having some issues. Not all the time. But every now and then – like when I catch a glimpse of myself unexpectedly in a mirror. Or when I see someone I haven’t seen for awhile, and they kind of do a double take. Or when I am getting dressed, and the swelling for one reason or another is particularly bad that day, and I can’t fasten up the larger size I just bought, and I don’t think these shorts come in a bigger size. Or when I’m going out, and I want to look pretty.

It’s not that I was used to being pretty. I’ve never had a lot of confidence in my outward appearance. I’ve never been sought after, or admired, or lauded for my beauty. BUT, I was a pretty snappy dresser, and I liked how my style had evolved over the years, and I had come to a place of peace with myself and my looks, after a lifetime of learning to accept myself and my physical foibles. So here I am now, after all these years of hard fought struggle, and these little tendrils of grief and regret about my appearance are winding themselves around my heart. And I’ve cried about them. And I’ve felt like a lesser person.

That’s really sad.

It’s sad that it has such a hold on me.

It’s sad that it took cancer to show me that I still have issues with this one thing I thought I had finally conquered. Because for years, I’ve been content to be me, and to look like me, no matter the size.

I was talking about this the other day with the same friend who had asked me about my running. I was gripping about the puffiness, and the weight gain, and the general blobbiness of my body. She said that she had noticed that looks seemed to be really important to me, and that I seemed to spend a fair amount of time thinking about how I looked, and carefully choosing my wardrobe, and accessories. I agreed, because it was all true, and I liked it. I liked dressing well, and putting a look together, and feeling attractive.

And then there was a long pause. And then finally, she said, “Do you think it might be a little bit like your running?”

I looked at her blankly for a moment.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you said that your running was all about control. You, trying to control your own health. Do you think this might be all about control, too?”

Another long pause. Another moment of epiphany. Another realization that CONTROL is the idol I’ve erected time after time in my life, and that no matter how many times I think I’ve torn down the Asherah pole, somehow I put it up again, and worship at its feet.

Another egotistical deception that needs to be stripped away.

Just when I think that here, exposed on the high places, with nowhere to run or hide, where every possible sin must have been stripped away by now because I feel so exposed, and vulnerable, I see that there is more. More layers of gunk that I’ve built up over the years as a sort of defines against – against what? Against the world? Against public opinion? Against God? Against myself maybe. If I control how I look, maybe people will like me better, and I won’t be lonely, or feel judged, or be teased. I don’t know.

The essential me is NOT in toned tummy muscles, and firm thighs, and smooth skin and sculpted cheekbones. It is not in eternal youth, and good looks and lovely outfits, and good accessories. It is not in outward appearance. I tell my daughter this every day. I try to model it in my speech. BUT I have failed.

And even as I write this, I feel so shallow. How can this be a source of grief to me in a world like this, where children die of starvation in the streets where I grew up; where refuges swarm to camps already overflowing with desperate, needy, frightened people; where wars ravage the countryside, and people die in ditches; where God is mocked, and babies are killed.

And yet, I do mourn it. And the deception obviously has a hold on my heart.

And so, that’s sad.

But, I also know that God knows that I am made of dust. And dust is not very clever.

I feel a little like Frodo Baggins at the end of the world, when he is facing his final test in the fiery furnace of Mount Doom. He knows that he needs to destroy the ring of power; he knows he needs to wrest it off his finger and throw it into the fiery furnace, or Sauron will win, and the world will be enslaved in agony and despair.

But he can’t do it.

The ring is precious to him. More precious than his freedom. More precious than his friends. More precious than his life. He fears it, and worships it. He cannot let it go. It has become part of him, and he feels that to destroy the ring is to destroy himself.

In the end, he never does let it go. He simply cannot do it. He is not the hero who saves Middle Earth. He is the frightened little hobbit who clings to the deception, and cannot let it go.

He is made of dust.

In the end, it is Gollum who saves Middle Earth.

Gollum. Hopeless, helpless, morally depraved, sinful.

He didn’t mean to save anyone. But when Frodo couldn’t, or wouldn’t destroy the ring, Gollum leapt to action. With a single-minded frenzy, he seized Frodo’s hand, chewed off his finger, and with a cry of victory and despair, fell into the abyss, and was devoured in a sea of lava.

He didn’t save the world in any conscious, or deliberate way. Like Frodo, he just couldn’t let go of his idol, and he preferred to die rather than give it up. At the end of all things, right at the mouth of Hell, He couldn’t let go. And he died.

Sometimes I feel that I am standing at the edge of the abyss, looking down into the river of lava at the centre of Mount Doom. It is the end of all things. My feet are torn and dusty, my lips cracked and parched. I am tired, filthy, crabby and confused.

But. I am not alone. And what I’ve learned more than anything in this journey through the barren places of Mordor, is that even though the layers are being stripped away, and my soul is exposed and vulnerable, I am in no way diminished. in fact, paradoxically, I am renewed.

Henri Nouwen wrote, ” The first step to healing is not a step away from the pain, but a step toward it.”

I might be tempted to run away. In fact, I AM tempted. I’ve made quite a practice of it in my lifetime. But, this time I don’t want to. This time the stakes are too high, and eternity looms too near. This time I need to turn and face it; and in facing it, finally be free.

And I am content, because God is with me, and He can do it.

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