Trails to a meaningful life

A meaningful life is one we live in concert with our values. The tough part is how to prioritize our values, sorting out how much time and energy we want—or are able—to give to each thing we cherish.

I bought this painting by Karakalpak artist Daribay Tadjimuratov on a visit to Chimbay, a village just outside of Nukus in Uzbekistan. It’s the only painting I have ever bought. It was love at first sight; something about it lifts me. Tadjimuratov told me he was saving his paintings for a new gallery and hadn’t sold anything in five years. But he sold this to me. It hung in pride of place in my Uzbek office and will soon hang in my office in France.

Last weekend I was paging through the paper version of the international New York Times, a luxury purchase, on my way to the crossword, when I came upon a long op-ed by a man whose sister had just chosen suicide over the more painful prospect of death from ovarian cancer.

I froze. I knew I shouldn’t read it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was mesmerized by this grim vision of my possible future. She left a wife and daughters behind. When I finished, I ran upstairs to tell my husband, somehow hoping there was comfort to be found. “Why did you read it?” he said, hugging me. “You know it isn’t good for you.”

But no matter how hard I try to protect myself from dwelling on the worst-case scenarios, they find me. They’re everywhere, popping up in places I don’t anticipate. A novel I’m reading, a film, conversation with a new acquaintance. It’s not possible, I’ve discovered, to hide from reality.

At the same time, I know it doesn’t do me any good to focus on these. I am already aware of my odds, and I am not capable of getting through a day without a shimmer of hope on the horizon.

I can’t turn to statistics for that hope, so I turn to the stories of friends. A friend of a friend in Los Angeles had the same kind and stage of cancer and is thirteen years out without a recurrence. A friend of hers had a recurrence but responded well to the chemo I am now taking. I cling to these to counteract all the people who say to me, “Oh, my grandmother/mother had ovarian cancer! She died.” You’d be amazed how many people don’t stop to think before sharing these stories. They can’t possibly believe they’re providing me with inspiration.

The hopeful stories of friends are not the only stories holding me together. I’ve always been an obsessive reader, never leaving the house without a book, but now reading saves my life just about hourly. I’m reading different books for different reasons: some to help me make the final edits to my PhD thesis before it heads to the archives (The City & The City by China Miēville) ; some that my daughter Theadora wants me to read so we can talk about them (A Girl’s Guide to Murder by Holly Jackson); and some I actually choose (Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver). All of them allow me time away from cancer. They keep my brain from eating itself with fear.

Even better, I only recently discovered that I can read and hike at the same time, thanks to my late adoption of audiobooks. I still prefer paper books, but audiobooks allow me to triple my reading hours. Given that I walk almost every day, I am getting through a lot of extracurricular reading. I’m in the middle of Demon Copperhead, with the lilt of the narrator’s voice still ringing in my ears. I’m starting to think in a Virginia accent.

Today, I am feeling marvelous, thanks to the blood transfusion I had last week. I feel so well, in fact, that it feels impossible to believe I have a lethal disease. I feel humanish for the first time in a year. In the weeks before chemo, I struggled to get from the village parking lot to our home, weaving my way up the long way to avoid the many stairs. (When we bought our home in this Medieval village, my husband said, “All these steps are either going to kills us or keep us fit forever.” Let’s hope its the latter).

The morning after receiving two precious bags of blood, I woke before my alarm, feeling not terrible. I took a walk with my daughter Theadora and I could leap uphill! I could walk upstairs! I had my legs back. Damn. I really feel like I GET vampires now.

Having new energy, thanks to the infusion of hemoglobin, makes me realize how much my moods post-chemo result from pure exhaustion. In such a state, everything feels overwhelming. The stairs. Answering an email. Filling out a form. Ringing a friend. Texting anything.

Energetic days like these have been very few over the past year, my exhaustion exacerbating my fears. I worry about my daughter’s future without me. I worry how my husband would cope with my loss. I panic at the thought of dying, from this or anything else.

“How do I live with the knowledge I have of my prospects?” I asked my therapist, Troy, who treats me for free through a UK charity. “With the infinite suspense?” Because I don’t know how long I have, I struggle to organize my time. Should I be writing, or spending time with my daughter? Should I be doing a crossword or finishing a book?

Troy has given me many tools in the past, simple concepts that I can use to pull myself through the days. On the first day I went through the entire box of tissues in his office, he offered me some deceptively simple advice.

“Let me tell you about spades and ladders,” he said. “You’re in a hole. A spade is something that makes you dig further down into that hole. A ladder is something that leads you up out of it. Does that metaphor make sense to you?”

“I’m a writer, Troy. I’m pretty good with metaphor.” And it did make immediate sense.

“So I want you to start recognizing which things are spades for you and which things are ladders.”

“Okay,” I said. “Predicting the future, imagining an alternative to survival, those are spades.”

“Yes.”

“Work and exercise are always ladder rungs. When I am able to do them.”

“Yes.”

“Talking too much about cancer is a spade. Constantly having to update people about my situation is a spade. My friend Ana is a ladder.”

I thought for a moment. “But research is a spade, and sometimes I need to do research. For my writing. To know what questions to ask my doctors. To explore supplements. How can I protect myself from research?”

“Nothing that has been written is about you,” he said. “The people you read about in support groups are not you and do not share your future. The statistics have nothing to do with you and your outcome. Statistics are not predicting your life. You need to guard against over-identifying with other people and statistics.”

He gave me homework.

“This week I want you to notice your ladders,” he said. “Look for your ladders. Also, something that is a ladder on Monday may not be a ladder on Tuesday. For example, if you watch a bit of television Monday evening and go to bed feeling happy and peaceful, that does not mean that television will be a ladder for you every night.”

“That makes sense.”

I left feeling like I had something to hold on to. Because Troy is a ladder.

Since then, I have been cleaning my inner tool shed of spades, though occasionally one still whacks me over the head, like that New York Times article.

Recently, Troy recommended I read the book Get the Life You Want, Finding Meaning and Purpose through Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. Now, I’ve never been interested in reading self-help books. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone who claims to have the secret to life/health/happiness. I never even managed to read a single parenting book—though I meant to—because I was so busy parenting. Seriously, what parent has time?

But because it was my beloved Troy who recommended this one, I’m reading it. I got started during my transfusion. It turns out that even the preface had information that was useful to me. Many modern cultures tell us that we ought to strive to feel happy. We need to free ourselves from darkness and depression and happiness will follow. But what is more likely, the book posits, is that “rather than pursuing happiness as a goal in its own right, instead we should aim to live a full and meaningful life and let happiness look after itself.” There are exercises throughout the book to help you figure out what a meaningful life looks like for you. I’m only 39 pages in, so I’m no expert yet, but so far, so good.

A meaningful life is based on what we value most. For me this is: writing, family, the outdoors, books, friends, theatre, and community. For starters.

The hard part comes when we need to prioritize our values, sorting out how much time and energy we want to—or are able to—give to each. It’s an endless striving for balance, an endless unbalancing.

This week, I’d love to hear from you what things help you feel you are leading a meaningful life. What do you want to spend more time doing? What do you want to spend less time doing? What gets in the way?

Next week I’ll be talking about aspects of international life that tourists never see. Looking forward to sharing those with you!