Long Paths

When I took Greek in college, the professor always encouraged us not to simply swap one word for another, but rather to go to “the land of ideas” when finding the meaning and connections behind language. And I would add that perhaps it’s not just a land of ideas, but of emotions and feelings as well.

So when we look at the word path, which comes from the Greek root pathos, we have to consider that it doesn’t just literally mean suffering, experience, or emotion—it emotes it.

I love paths. I’ve built a life around them—the experience, the emotion, and, yes, the suffering. I’ve made a living as a literal trail guide and by sharing stories of navigating life’s paths. And yet, this past week, I felt really inept at it all. There is a difference between the trails we choose and the trials that choose us, and it is always easier to navigate the challenges we choose.

And all of a sudden, I did not like the word path. I’ve been living my life with a blood pressure cuff as an accessory the past few weeks, and just hearing the word spiked my vitals. Because now, every time it came up, it was in reference to my post-surgery pathology report.

Pathology has the same Greek root as path. But in this sense, the land of ideas and experience suggests that suffering is specifically a disease. And -ology comes from the Greek logos, which translates as the study or knowledge of something. Therefore, pathology = the study of disease.

In that “path report” lay my future. Do I get to go back to my past life after a very unexpected and bumpy detour? Or am I still derailed? Will my path ever be the same?

Thin Margins

We’ve talked a lot about margins in our family. Usually, they come in terms of time management—leaving more space to breathe or creating boundaries with other people. Margins are what keep you sane, safe, protected. They keep you from burning out or overextending. And they are always easier to talk about than to actually establish or define.

Turns out margins go beyond executive functioning skills or personal boundaries and extend to pathology reports as well. When people asked how they could pray for us, we said: pray for clear lymph nodes and clean margins. If we could check those two boxes, then the cancer would be out of my system.

And after checking my patient portal frequently… incessantly… obsessively, I woke up Monday morning to a new file posted on my chart…

Check. Check. Exhale.

We got them… by a hair—really, by less than a hair. The lymph nodes were clear, and we had clean margins of less than 0.1 mm on both the anterior and posterior sides of the tumor. I was cancer-free by less than an eyelash. My doctor said she can’t remember seeing such thin margins in a patient.

Because the margins are so thin, I have a few follow-up appointments to gather information and explore additional considerations. But those appointments—as well as any additional immediate treatment—are optional. In a clinical sense, I am considered treated (past tense).

The Come Apart

How mind-boggling that less than one-tenth of a millimeter (×2) is the difference between being cancer-free and ongoing treatment. And how twisted that you can feel both relieved and guilty about the results. On one hand, you’re excited to resume your life; on the other, you feel unworthy to be a cancer patient when your treatment journey lasts less than two months. It’s like being a day hiker sharing the trail with thru-hikers—you’re on the same trail with vastly different experiences and levels of output.

And, while not a thru hike, day hikes can still take it out of you. I’ve been holding it together pretty well—for myself and for those around me. I’ve been eating well, resting, diligently following post-op instructions.

Until Thursday evening.

After a day filled with kale salad, adaptogen tea, and PT exercises, I found myself home alone for the first time in a long time—and I was overcome with… it… all.

All the above emotions hit at once, and instead of fighting it, I said, “C’mon.” I fed the grief with my kids’ Easter candy, stirred up the mixed emotions with some red wine, and commiserated with it all during a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills binge. It’s been years since I went all-in on Bravo, but when you’re in a come-apart and want company, those women really show up for you.

My husband walked in to dirty dishes and wrappers, an open bottle of cab, and his wife sprawled out on the couch watching women curse each other out on TV.

“Uh oh,” was all he said. And then - in a move that says we’ve been married nearly 18 years - instead of trying to put me back together, he sat beside me on the couch and watched Real Housewives.

Come-aparts, otherwise known as break downs, fall aparts, and melt downs, come in all different shapes and sizes. They can happen on a mountaintop or in a Walmart aisle. They can involve tears or yelling, or happen in complete silence. It’s a moment to stop fighting or fleeing or simply surviving—and to surrender to the tangled emotions and exhaustion that come with crisis or trauma. An emotional exhale. An off-gas of repressed feelings. A loosening grip on everything you’ve tried to control. And I’m pretty sure they are just as important to the healing journey as my anti-inflammatory foods, hippie herbal teas, prescribed shoulder rolls, and mandated rest.

A bodily disease has to be translated into a personal journey. It’s not a one-to-one equation. You have to travel to the land of ideas and emotions and experiences and figure out what a common diagnosis means for you as a spiritual, emotional, physical, and unique being. They don’t send you home with PT exercises for your soul—you have to feel that out on your own.

The thing is... when I finally let things fall apart, I can usually pick out a few things to leave behind—and pack up the remaining weight with more discernment and expertise than before.

In many ways, an emotional come-apart is very much like a resupply ritual on a long trail: checking into a motel, wearing a bath towel all day, eating too much of whatever food you can find, watching junk TV, hobbling in pain from bed to bathroom on overused feet, wondering why you subject yourself to this, thinking about going home—and then packing up the next morning and heading back out for another hundred miles.

Completing a long trail requires a cycle of resets: unpacking, resting, repacking, and restarting. Taking rest days—or “zero days”—is as important to a trail resupply as the physical provisions that restock your pack. And yes, there is a difference between the trails we choose and the trials that choose us. But I have to believe that with each trail we choose and complete, we build the physical and mental muscles to overcome the trials that choose us.

And my adventuring background suggests that when it comes to healing from surgery—and breast cancer—recovery isn’t a linearly ascending physical path, but an undulating emotional climb with multiple false summits that demands periodic breaks, deep breaths, plenty of snacks, and lots of unpacking and repacking along the way.

In different ways and in different seasons, we are all bound to face long paths and thin margins in one form or another - and come-aparts are bound to happen. In these moments, it’s imperative to create space and extend grace—to yourself and others—to periodically unravel. Because while it might not help you get better faster, it just might help you heal more wholly over the long haul.

(And if you’ve watched this season of RHOBH, I would love to hear your takeaways!)

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About the Author: Jennifer is an Adventurer, Author, Speaker, Entrepreneur and mom of two who has a Masters in Public Affairs and a husband that plays bluegrass. Her blog focuses on life as she experiences it with a focus on Outdoor Adventure, Business, Public Affairs, Family, and Faith. For information on booking Jennifer as a speaker for your next event, email brew@jenniferpharrdavis.com or call (615) 708-4301.