Kindness is my Kryptonite

“Kind” isn’t the usual description for a rejection. It should be. Yesterday, I experienced two examples of rejections softened with kindness.

The personal example was a rejection delivered so kindly that I almost didn’t mind not getting the answer I preferred. He has power and was kind while using it, taking time to explain his opinion and urge me to keep trying. Of course I’m disappointed. I also felt empowered and encouraged.

The US election offered the second example. Ms. Clinton was kind and gracious in her concession. One hopes Mr. Trump would do the same to concede a loss.

Even if neither of yesterday’s decisions were my choice, conceding my loses with kindness feels healthier.

Much has been said and written about poor role models in the public realm: the accusations, rudeness, vitriol, and nastiness. Where can I vote to bring back language rooted in kindness as an antidote?

 

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The Power of Pessimism

Many people believe positivity in thinking and attitude are needed for healing. In several blog posts I wrote about what I call the twin tyrannies of positive thinking and good attitude. When I posted those opinions I didn’t have any evidence to back me up.

Those posts expressed my discomfort with being told how I was supposed to think or feel about cancer and survival. After all, life’s problems bring a whole roller-coaster of thinking and attitudes, all of which are appropriate at different times and days.
Recently I read, and greatly enjoyed, Originals, by Adam Grant.
51qo9pottyl-_sx329_bo1204203200_1
Eureka, there it was. Research in support of my belief that positive thinking and good attitude will get you only so far. I’m happy to share this news with you.
Turns out that pessimists also do very well if they see the risks and prepare themselves to meet those risks. If they think strategically, the pessimists build capacity to overcome obstacles, and create resilience.
Time to turn the twin tyrannies into something less oppressive to those who have problems. How about strategic thinking and defensive attitude?
Go forth and be negative if that’s how you feel at the moment. Add defensive (as in thinking through the bad things that might happen to plan how to overcome them) and strategic and you should do well.
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Here’s the URL to take your measure of the Original’s action planimg_4057

Does regret deserve another chance?

What is it about regret?
Regret has quite the reputation. Dictionaries shove regret in with remorse, apology and disappointment. For years I accepted this connotation and have been regret avoidant, determined to live without regrets. Lately, I reconsidered my regret aversion.

How many flavours does regret come in?
duhEven when I meant no harm I’ve said stupid and done dumb. I didn’t always realize it right away. It sometimes took me years to understand – slap forehead with palm. And then I’d regret the stupid and dumb stuff and vow to be better.

How did regret get marinated in one negative sauce when regret grows in varied soil? In regret’s favour, it motivates reassessment, curiosity and determination.

At least two types of regrets are teachers.

The ‘what if’ regret poses questions without answers
What if X had happened instead of Y? What if I’d stayed at my great, secure job with opportunities for promotion instead of risking a career change? It sure makes me aware of my privilege in having life choices.

imdb.com‘What if’ regret is often imposed without choice. Helen, the protagonist in Sliding Doors lived two time lines. In the original the train door shut in her face. She got the next train home and her life unfolded. Then, the scene replayed. Helen yanked open the train door, got home to find her partner’s infidelity and her life shattered. Her two parallel lives continued their different trajectories until her futures converged.

Would I wind up in the same place whatever I decide?
It’s comforting to believe such convergence happens. Convergence isn’t my experience. My present life depended on specific decisions. At each ‘what if’ bifurcation point my decision meant irrevocable life changes.

That’s the blessing buried in the ‘what if’ regret. No matter which path to where I end, I’d like to believe I’d have adapted.

‘How could’ regret looks inward to prevent repeating mistakes
How could I have been so [fill in the blank]. Helen #2, who caught the train, couldn’t believe she’d been so [stupid, blind, in love, misled – pick a failing] to miss the signs her partner was unfaithful. Helen #2 adapted to her changed circumstances. Helen #1, who missed the train, didn’t change anything and her infantile cheating partner held her back.

The blessing in the ‘how could’ lesson is the growth opportunity.

Do regrets deserve rehabilitation?
Although I began on a challenging quest to live without regret, I now ‘regret’ that.

photo from CD available on amazon.ca

photo from CD available on amazon.ca

What would it be like to live without regrets? Well, I’d lose valuable lessons. Making mistakes, hurting others, and disappointing myself is inevitable. Regret is born in understanding rather than being oblivious. So, like the lovely Edith Piaf, I regret nothing.

Regret offers the chance to fix hurt feelings or mistakes
My late mother and I regretted our relationship wasn’t closer. A lot of issues we worked out. In the seven years since she died our relationship keeps improving. She’s been my silent partner, and I’ve written some of our conflicts out of existence in my (still) unpublished novel.

My conclusion: it’s never  too late to fix a relationship or hurt feeling. The other person will deal with his or her stuff, and if there’s anything I regret, it motivates me to work on mine.

What regrets are you holding on to that could be turned into teachers?

Get over it or get past it (or both)?

No! I didn’t get over it already. What’s more realistic is I’ve gotten past it. Trauma is like flowers that bloom, go dormant, and bloom again. Get over it implies the impact ended. Get past it implies overcoming the impact. Overcome and end have different finish lines. I’ll get over the cancer experience once there’s a cure.

Here’s evidence I’m past it:

  • Less intense panic attacks
  • Fewer decisions I’m too paralyzed to make
  • No need to explain that quadruple mastectomies dictate my wardrobe choices.
  • Haircuts are haircuts, not flashbacks about being bald.

What’s the ‘it’ I’m past?

The radiologist, who I’d never met, entered the room, stared at the screen, and declared with certainty the abnormalities on my breast ultrasound were benign. The ultrasound technician looked shocked but didn’t contradict him. The radiologist missed the cancer. When my doctor did follow up, one year late, I was four months from dead of advanced breast cancer. Treatment left me exhausted, underweight, brain-fried, and angry the cancer wasn’t diagnosed before it required heavy artillery.

They made mistakes where they’re supposed to be experts. But, most decisions rely on imperfect information; even experts can’t know every variable. My diagnosis was in time, if not timely.

I’m grateful. I’m past it.

Trust the tail, the truth is there

“This little guy will save your life.” Between diagnosis and my first mastectomy, my partner Decker put his trust in a ten-week-old puppy named Trail to keep me alive. How’d that go? Well, Trail’s living large, having figured out my operating system*. Wow, imagine replicating Trail’s job style:

Self-written job description.

Trail lifted a rear leg on our pet expectations.

White Westhighland (Westies) need plenty of exercise and playtime … excel at agility, obedience, flyball, and other canine sports. These activities stimulate his bright mind and channel his boundless energy.

2013-09-24 09.29.21

Grey face

Yup, playful, agile, energetic, obedient White Westies. So says the website. Trail clarified our delusions starting with his breed’s name. White? Trail rejects White.

Trail hurtles himself hedonist-style, buries his nose and rolls, talking non-stop to the dirt, grass, or snow. He emerges joyfully, his coat drenched in goop, chlorophyll, or icy pompoms.

In a competition between a brilliant-white dog and a joyful dog, I relinquish roll control to Trail.

2012-11-11 15.11.33

photo: Cat Harbord

Be useful.

Trail matured with an unusual attitude and a secret identity, Rescue Dog. Trail’s rescues include:

2011-10-31 18.53.16

• Waking us to help a disabled house guest who’d fallen during the night.
• Diving into the water to help when someone toppled out of the canoe.
• Waiting at forks to guide laggard hikers on the right path.
• Running a black bear thirty feet up a tree in our back yard, where it clung while Trail barked and tried to climb after it.

When it seems he’s all about him, he accommodates himself completely to others.

unsure tail

Read my tail

Speak heart to hearts.

His responsive tail, bendable to his mood, telegraphs Trail’s emotions with an honesty that wrenches my heart. If I misread hisarticulated tail tail’s meaning, he’s kind and forgiving.

I want that collaborative heart in all my relationships.

 

scared tailalert tailneutral tail

Find fun everywhere.

Trail ignores me prance about with dog toys to entice him. “Poor pathetic human,” his eyes say. “So sad she can’t entertain herself sniffing.”

He retrieved ball and stick – one of each. The first ball I threw, Trail brought back in his little mouth and dropped at my feet. Trail stroked the lake until the stick I tossed was drawn to where he could reach it without getting wet. Both times I unplayful tailpraised, rewarded him, and threw it again. Both times he tilted his head as if saying, “I already brought it back, you get it.” I tug a toy and he walks foward holding his end.

So, he misses out on play or sport; he’s endless fun of his own kind. Avoiding one kind opens space for others.

Take my time.

Other humans spell w-a-l-k or their dog explodes. We excitedly say, “Walk”, and Trail lies down, chin on paws. “Okay,” he seems to sigh, “if you insist.” We ‘walk at a Trail’s pace’, more pulse than walk – shuffle, stop, shuffle, stop. Repeat.

An eighteen pound anchor on a rope, he’ll sit to watch any activity like his personal television, leaving me on standby until his program ends. happy tail

We should’ve named him Speedy since ‘Trail’ became destiny.

His nicknames include: Trailer; Trailing; and

Trail Mix (from his friend Cat, if Trail were trail mix, he’d be the premium kind with all sorts of great surprises hidden in each handful); and,

Trail Thunderpaws because he runs to catch up; and,

Trail Houdini when we backtrack to find him; and,

Princess Trail in kayak Princess Trail prefers human powered rides like stroller, kayak or bicycle basket;

Princess Trail

photo Beth Lawrence: Marcus ‘walks’ Trail

and finally,

Yoda Trail      Yoda Trail, for oh so many reasons.   Yoda

It’s our particular compromise, Trail’s and mine. He’ll eventually arrive, and I get to practice patience.

Live an authentic life.  

curious tail

Trail learns concepts incredibly fast, and, when inclined or not distracted sniffing every petal of every flower, he obeys the dozens of words he understands – eventually.

Maybe Trail is too smart to waste his boundless energy. He waits until we’re committed to a direction, in case we reverse and can pick him up on our return. He walks 4.5 kilometers to my five.

We’re sure he solves problems, counts at least three, and understands basic geometry and connectivity. He studied a cattle grid and then trotted across, each paw set confidently.

For errands and time sensitive walks, Trail tolerates a leash. He’s clear what he won’t tolerate. Trail intervenes like a mediator between dogs playing rough. If Decker and I split to do separate errands, Trail refuses to follow either of us.

Trail couldn’t fake it if he tried. His tail tells his truth.

concerned tail

Would it be helpful if people still had tails?

 

TKI preferences (Collaborating, Compromising, Accommodating, Avoiding, Competing).

 

I got news that trumped Fear with Optimism

I met the man who owns my left breast. I chatted with a stranger who said he’s a Medical Researcher studying what breast cancers spread to bones. I said I’d donated the tissue formerly known as my breast to his research project. He said my breast’s in a petrie dish in his lab freezer, and I asked if that’s next to the vegetables.

He said he owes me because without tissue donations he has no research. Now that I’ve had time to process the encounter, I owe him more.

Fear of meaninglessness

I’d searched for the disease’s bigger meaning, overlooking I’d donated my breasts to science. Quadruple mastectomies, chemo and radiation hid the memory. So long as I got my breasts off my chest before they killed me, I didn’t care if they froze or incinerated. They weren’t coming home in a jar.

Now he’s given me hope my tissue can help, especially since the cancer was rare Triple Negative. Unintended, but he reduced my Fear the cancer meant nothing.

Meaninglessness of Fear

Like so many with cancer diagnoses, I experienced numb shock, waves of terror, and masses of esoteric information. Daytime, distracted and busy, I almost forgot Fear. But at night, or when tired, oh, Fear roared.

Where’d Fear’s dizzying power come from? How’d I let Fear dominate me into I’m-gonna-die, world-gone-nuts, paralysis?

Turns out, Fear, you don’t act alone, you get help. Lots of help.

Fear rides with powerful friends

Fear, you shape-shift as Triple Negative Breast Cancer or a herd of stampeding horses, or whatever terrifies. But you boost into big time with government, media, and corporate injections of Fear into anxious mortals. Election cycle, news cycle, and economic cycle – there you and they are, with thin explanations, replaying your message du jour.

Fear, you’re sometimes effective when people feel they lack power in uncertain times. Negative campaigns rely on you – Boo – we’re scared into voting your way, buying a product or service, believing a stereotype.

horse7

What’s the opposite of Fear?

The Medical Researcher invested me with Optimism in the best sense of the word: curious, and informed. Take that, Fear, and negative attack ads. I had Triple Negative Breast Cancer; I gotta have game. Fear, you’re a cycle in need of breaking. And I’m breaking up with you.

Now, I want a name for the state of non-fear. Dictionaries offer antonyms: courage, fearlessness, bravery. But those can co-exist within a stew-pot of fear, stress and anxiety. So they don’t fit as names for non-fear.

How about curiosity or optimism? Research suggests Optimism is both genetic and can be learned to shrink Fear, so I owe my grandparents too.

I’d welcome suggestions: what’s the name of this tentative state of being that’s the opposite of Fear?

 

Escaped from Death again, now exploring Life’s purpose

Death brushed me again, but couldn’t keep a skeletal hand on me. Stunned at the close escape, I clung to the mountain side as eight horses stampeded within an inch of me on the narrow dirt path. Their galloping hooves pounded choking clouds of dust into my eyes and lungs. Their sides were soaked from their hurtling run down the mountain ahead of the two gauchos pursuing them.

photo credit Evelyn Hoter

photo credit Evelyn Hoter

A few hours before, my hiking companions and I had seen the two mounted gauchos with their six pack-horses heave their way up the mountain fully loaded with supplies for the hut at the top. The eight horses laboured so hard they stumbled and the gauchos urged them with the Spanish equivalent of what our cowboys would in English. We’d already started down the mountain so stepped aside for less than a minute to let them pass.

We felt an urgent need to get to the bottom before we were stranded on the mountain. The hike over the pass and into to the valley had taken more time than anticipated, we’d started from Estancia Peuma Hue later than planned, chosen a more distant route than discussed, and we’d stopped at the mountain climbers’ hut longer than expected. We were late, dusk was punctual. Dark would soon make the descent treacherous.

the pass up; Brian M photo

Frey climbers’ hut; Brian M photo

climbing the pass; Brian M photo

me in the pass up; Brian M.

 

The path was wide enough for one person to walk at about a 35 degree pitch in some places, steeper than that in others. To the right was a fierce drop into a crevasse. To the left, the undergrowth was thick on the mountain wall. The forest was silent, and
smelled too dry.

our party’s scramble over the pass; Brian M. photo

 

I’d fallen behind the others, quads screamed in agony, knees too sore to bend, fiery pain stabbed my rigid hips, and toes hammered into the front of my hiking boots from hours and hours of rock scrambling downs steeper than mountain climbing ups. My left hand was scraped from clinging to sharp edges, my right was cramped in a vise grip on a climbing pole. Both arms ached from hauling my body over boulders. Everything except my earlobes stung, hurt, groaned, creaked or blistered.

And then, I heard the horses.

I looked back, my tired body twisted to see what was happening less than ten feet away.

The lead horse was unable to stop his mad descent, crowded from behind by the other seven. He was propelled along, two horses trying to pass him on a trail wide enough for one person. He tried to slow when he saw me and was broadsided from behind. His herd mates were running unloaded and empty towards their night’s rest and feed. They were in as much of a hurry for the same reasons as us, and much faster. The lead horse half-reared to turn, but had no choice except to continue galloping straight at me.

I ran. Not sure how, but it felt like a run.

“Brian, the horses.”

Iroamtheworld.com

Iroamtheworld.com

Brian McCutcheon heard my yell and turned. The danger was so obvious and the solution so wasn’t. Cliff down, rock face covered in underbrush up, or trampled in between. Brian must have assessed it all in less than a second.

The lead horse’s head was at my shoulder when Brian grabbed my left arm and the strap of my backpack. He threw me backwards and leapt onto the cliff after me. As my feet flew up, they touched the horse’s flank and the next horse thundered past and the next and the next … We had no place to move. As one horse hurtled past with empty propane tanks strapped around its girth, Brian shoved the tank away from hitting us. The two gauchos were last, still urging their lathered and exhausted horses forward. The gauchos were as motivated as the horses to get home.

Then they were gone in a dust cloud and we were left, shaken and unhurt. Had Brian taken a second longer to react, eight horses would have trampled over me.

Brian grinned. “If they’d been prettier horses I’d have grabbed one for you to ride down. They weren’t pretty enough.”

We found my partner, Decker, waiting ahead. They overtook him at a wider section and he simply stepped off the path as they barreled past. We all made it down, in the darkness, feeling our way after 14 hard hours on the trail, Brian’s iPhone our only light. Our wonderful hosts met us with flashlights and guided us to a waiting dinner.

A few years ago, Death in the name of late stage Triple Negative Breast Cancer had me in its sights. Decker felt something even though there was no palpable lump. The oncologist said that, untreated, Death was at most nine months away. Three days ago, Death was at most nine seconds away. First Decker saved me, and then Brian did.

So what am I to make of two such close escapes through the grace of two extraordinary rescuers?

What, I ask, is the purpose of the extra time I’ve been given? I’ve struggled with this as so many cancer or disaster survivors have. Where is the lesson, how am I different, who does it all matter to? The only answer that means anything to me so far is that I haven’t finished writing yet, or done enough for the environment yet, or seen our grandchildren grow up. Even these aren’t enough, so I search for more ways to be of use, to make a difference in this extended lifetime I’ve been gifted. I will write, do what I can for the environment and play with the grandchildren until whatever truth I’m supposed to know appears. I read of those who find their life’s calling from some horrifying misadventure.  If something’s calling me, I don’t hear it yet but at least I’ve woken up enough to listen until I do.

Today, instead of hiking, I went for a horse-back ride, a safe, controlled canter through the Patagonian countryside, to savor the joy of living.

photo credit Evelyn Hoter

photo credit Evelyn Hoter

 

Bogart’s character Rick in Casablanca: an optimist or pessimist?

Photo Wikimedia Commons, Humphrey Bogart as Rick

Photo Wikimedia Commons, Humphrey Bogart as Rick

Rick says to Ilsa: I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world[1]

Then, Rick gets noble and becomes a bean that matters on a hill of beans. He leaves Isla and strides into the fog to fix the craziness in his little corner of the world. Cynical Rick? A hero? What the …? 

Today, Bogie leans against my kitchen wall; his eyes smolder in the shadow of his fedora; he snarls at me, “Sweetheart, if you can’t do much about how crazy the big world is, pick some little problem nearby.”

“Bogie,” I say, “That’s not nobility, that’s optimism.”

Pick a hill of beans

Like most people, I want a life that matters. Having come so close to dead, my quest to live that life has some urgency. Quick! Where’s the accelerated search engine?

Okay, it’s not my destiny to win the peace prize or cure cancer. But, what if Rick was right at Casablanca’s conclusion, when he focused on one little local problem with one small impact? The movie ends before we learn its bigger consequences, but it implies he made a difference. Or is that the optimist’s view? Rick changed his pessimistic outlook and affected – the audience is audacious with hope – the outcome.

Optimistic / pessimistic ambidexterity

What next? Chemotherapy imploded my natural optimism into a pessimism so deep I couldn’t recognize positive action if it stroked my face. I entered one Friday treatment believing the best would prevail. Sunday exhaled a swirling pit of panic and despair; a chemo-induced brain makeover in thirty hours that clung three years.

The upside is my brain now operates as ambidextrous, functioning in optimism and pessimism with equal dexterity. To paraphrase Sophie Tucker, I’ve been optimistic and I’ve been pessimistic. Optimistic is better.

Risk management is a conflict competency

Guess I should thank chemotherapy for the opportunity to live as a pessimist so I can weigh both options and opt for optimism.

Optimism is more than hope, or what I call the twin tyrannies of positive thinking and good attitude. It’s also risk management, which is a conflict competency. Recent research suggests that pessimism is an advantage because optimists depend on happy endings. Is this a fair categorization of optimism? Not all optimists treat lottery tickets as a retirement plan, just like all pessimists aren’t good savers for retirement. I seek to mitigate risk whichever outlook I use. Where optimism has it over pessimism is belief in my ability to make a positive difference in outcome. I’m more motivated when my outlook is that my actions might matter. So go ahead, buy the lottery ticket AND save for retirement. Integrate the inner optimist and pessimist.

Adapting to change is a conflict competency

And that’s a conflict competency; integrating the two outlooks is more adaptive than their competing for mental bandwidth. I had an example in conversation with my bio-daughter Beth.

“It scares and saddens me,” Beth said, “that my generation is the last able to do whatever we want. My son won’t enjoy that freedom.”

Pessimism reality check. History and experience suggest that Beth’s correct, everything we enjoy won’t continue. Optimism alert. Other enjoyments await.

Optimism doesn’t relieve me of the responsibility to leave my grandson a better world but it’s relief from pessimism’s paralyzing fear and sadness.

What’s next? Well, which problem should I prioritize for 2014: climate change, social upheaval, or 2013’s leftover personal turmoil?

Bogie tips his fedora, glides through my kitchen wall, and is gone.

Wonderful words from optimists: (or, words from wonderful optimists)

“Language is very powerful. Language does not just describe reality. Language creates the reality it describes.” ― Desmond Tutu

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” ― Anne Frank

“Part of being optimistic is keeping one’s head pointed toward the sun, one’s feet moving forward.” ― Nelson Mandela

“The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” Chinese Proverb


[1]Casablanca is a 1942 film about an American expatriate owner of an upscale club and gambling den in the Moroccan city of Casablanca who meets a former lover, with unforeseen complications. Directed by Michael Curtiz. Written by Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, and Howard Koch, based on the play Everybody Comes to Rick’s by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison.” http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Casablanca_(film)

Changing piece of mind to peace of mind

Oh, I was naive to believe my life’s path led straight to graduation and some career. In a blind turn I should’ve but didn’t see coming, the path suddenly dropped off a cliff. Desperate, I clung to roots and branches, terrified of bashing my brains out. I crash-landed, survived, yet couldn’t imagine salvaging a meaningful future. 25-years later that particular cliffhanger had an unexpected happending.

Change seems to breed retrospection and paradox. My past is as big a surprise as any future. I’m in wonderment that I got from then to now. I’ve craved and feared change. Sometimes what I craved transformed into what I feared or what I feared became what I craved. Some big changes left small impacts; some small changes left huge impacts.

I’ve never yelled: “Bring more change. It’s so restful here in the rubble of what used to be.” Change steamrolled ahead anyway. I hung on tight, trying to anticipate impacts, manage risks, adapt as needed, pray it ends well. After profound change came the fun of post change syndrome (PCS), getting used to whatever’s new. I credit four qualities with surviving life’s cliffs I’ve tumbled down – Resilience, Mindset, Optimism and Discipline. I posted about Resilience. It’s Mindset’s turn.

Most of my life I craved courage to write. Writing is hard. I could fail, face rejection and ridicule. My school’s vice-principal selected me to enter a writing contest (“you’re good enough”, he’d said). I never completed the entry form; afraid I’d disappoint him and he’d judge me

Mindset book cover

Now I take the risk of writing online about – of all things – breastlessness. Writing’s still hard. I fail, face rejection and ridicule. Somewhere craving overcame fear and writing happened. Carol Dweck’s research on Mindset [i] didn’t change my life. It did pinpoint what in my life changed. My fixed mindset morphed into an open mindset. Sure, I want to write better. When I fail I learn what I have to do next time.

Dr. Dweck explains that small change can change minds: “mindsets are fostered by a focus on theperson (e.g.,talent or ability) as opposed to a focus on the process (e.g., effort, learning)”.

“Wow, that’s a really good score. You must be smart at this.”
“Wow, that’s a really good score. You must have worked really hard.”
That’s all we did, but the results were dramatic… Intelligence praise, compared to effort (or “process”) praise, put children into a fixed mindset. Instead of giving them confidence, it made them fragile…[ii]
 

In my conflict management practice I draw attention to growth mindsets, assuming even exchanging vowels from piece to peace can foster change.

… the brain was a dynamic, malleable organ and that every time they learned something new their brain formed new connections. … These interventions were relatively modest, but had rather immediate and striking effects.[iii].

Having my breasts amputated (twice) wasn’t entertaining. Was cancer a huge or small change with small or huge impacts, or maybe huge change with huge impacts? I’ll be optimistic and suggest small change with small impacts. Even small change matters but impacts vary with mindsets.

Since August, it feels like I dropped off the path into The Matrix, a simulated reality where my next crisis emerges from my last post.

Chronology of coincidences: 

  • August 22, 2013, I blogged resilience, mindset, optimism and discipline got me through cancer and chemo.
  • September 18, the double mastectomy needed a do-over.
  • September 30, the post about resilience ended: “Now, I’m thinking about Mindset. I’m hoping for no adverse opportunities to put it into practice between this post and the next.”
  • October 13, brain MRI showed an unidentifiable spot. I named it Macbeth[iv]. The neurologist has decreed it benign. Whew.

Yikes, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about optimism, my next topic.

The Secret for Recovery from Post Change Syndrome

sadWhether change is from a death, disease, divorce, depression, disappointment, or other disaster, hey, the trauma ended, move on; get over it. Were it so simple. So, I’ll share a secret here first. I’ve figured out what ‘cured’ my PCS (Post Change Syndrome).

Two years ago, Dr. Simpson, exasperated, asked what kept me in sadness when the cancer was in remission. Tears were my silent answer. My risk remains high, so imagine my wonderment that (for the most part) I did get over PCS. But someone recently reminded me of my low time in PCS. Now, with my brain finally engaged again, I’m on a quest to belatedly answer Dr. Simpson’s question.

Origin of the Quest

Trail on the trail 8:2013Trail the Westie’s sensitive terrier nose worked the ground zig-zag, seeking the source of some fantastic smell no human nose appreciated. His determined quest was to sniff the butt of the dog ahead. My intent, compatible with his, was to stay close and keep him safe.

2011-08-05 09.05.22We overtook a shy blind dog that dove behind her human’s legs. Larry, the human, and I untangled leashes and exchanged names. While the dogs lapped sun-warmed glacial water, we admired the magnificence. Larry is also an aspiring writer so next we traded domain names. And then Larry’s reaction to my blog on living  breastlessly: ‘wow, you have a great outlook’.

This response still surprises me. During and since diagnosis I met many with outstanding outlooks. I expected my blog on joyful breastlessness would prove mundane. A chance encounter plus a brain freshly freed of chemo fog launched my quest.

The Questions for the Quest

Being passionately curious, I unleashed my inner terrier:

  1. what is a great outlook?
  2. what are the qualities that facilitate a great outlook despite adversity?
  3. are those qualities common? and
  4. can those qualities be taught, learned, or are they innate (you got ‘em or you don’t)?

I asked my research assistant, Dr. Google, for data on great outlook after adversity. Hmm, 31,100,000 choices. Nap time.

 Methodology of the Quest

in perfect repose 8:2013From the hammock under the apple tree I undertook conflict analyses, rigorous research, and thinking about PCS. No apple fell so I studied Trail’s perfect repose for inspiration.

Findings from the Quest

1. what is a great outlook?

A great outlook is whatever gets someone through PCS feeling sane and healthy on the other side. If it isn’t sane and healthy, it likely isn’t a great outlook. The twin tyrannies of positive thinking and good attitude are privileged as the ‘right’ way to weather PCS’s aftermath, but there’s different adaptive capacities. Cancer Curmudgeon, for example, has a feisty attitude that brooks no guff. It works for her and I always read her posts.

 2. what are the qualities that facilitate a great outlook despite adversity?

In my hammock-based analysis, there are four qualities that made it easier to walk through the PCS goop that clung to my shoes. In order that I employed them, they are:

        1. Resilience: treatments for Triple Negative Breast Cancer were horrible and toxic and I felt gratitude.
        2. Mindset: I don’t quit.
        3. Optimism: it will get better.
        4. Discipline: if that’s my goal, whatever it takes, I’ll do.

3. are those qualities common?’

There are loads of blogs about how breast cancer made someone better, wiser, or nearer God or to life’s meaning. But the qualities that enable the process for doing any of those (should you want to) are not commonly joined together in the blogosphere. These qualities haven’t, previous to this, been identified as the cure to the PCS I invented.laugh

4. can those qualities be taught, learned, or are they innate (you got ‘em or you don’t)?

I’m pleased to report the four qualities of a kick-ass great outlook are indeed quantifiable, measurable and attainable. Resilience and Mindset are teachable traits, Optimism is learnable although it’s also associated with genetics, and Discipline is just a bitch that has to be wrestled to the ground like a runaway.

Conclusions from the Quest

We’ve fragile creatures, body and soul; anyone’s a diagnosis away from disaster. A sudden verdict or invitation can spin us like a tilt-a-whirl midway ride. Recovery from dramatic life altering change is a process. If PCS isn’t a real condition, it sure felt like it when I was inside its grip.

Each person’s cause of PCS is path dependent. Mine can be summed up as: “how do I avoid premature death?” My experience was of PCS as a giant mental vacuum. For me, PCS was the suboptimal edge of panic over what foods to eat, how to rest enough, when to exercise, who’d diagnose new symptoms, where to meditate, why no follow up treatment for Triple Negative Breast Cancer.

Dr. Simpson asked a simple question: what was keeping me stuck in PCS? I didn’t know the answer. The answer I now give Dr. Simpson is to a different question: what got me unstuck from PCS?

Resilience     Mindset     Optimism     Discipline

The next four posts will muse about each quality.