Cyclones & Cancer: a contemplation
Having faced the impending doom of both a grade 5 cyclone and an incurable cancer - today, I contemplate the strands and strength of humanity I have see woven into both experiences...
A storm on the horizon
In 2015 I was in Vanuatu to facilitate an oral health conference with both local and international stakeholders. But, even before I flew up there from NZ, a huge weather system was predicted to wreck havoc on that small island nation. That system became known as Cyclone Pam and was one of the biggest cyclones to ever occur in the Pacific. It reached 896Pa (very low!) and had sustained winds of 250 - 280km/hr (very wild!).
In the days leading up to it's arrival, we watched the swirling colourful lines on windy.com become brighter and bolder and larger. The weather got more and more humid. The animals stilled with expectation. The breeze turned from gentle, to swaying to ferocious. We tried to go about as normal, do what was on the daily task list. But, in the back of my mind, a significant threat was lurking. Huge and overwhelming, this impending doom was nicknamed by media as a "monster storm" and we were told it was going to be bigger than Cyclone Katrina.
On the morning of the 11 March 2015 we opened our conference and welcomed our guests. Just before midday, we received a government issued red alert. Find immediate shelter - the cyclone is imminent.
I had to stand in front of friends and colleagues and inform them that the nation we all loved was going to take a direct hit from Cyclone Pam. As I stood there, holding back tears, I did not know, when the dawn rose the next day, how many of them would have their homes, their livelihoods, their lives. Needless to say, it was a sombre farewell as we all went to find a refuge to endure the night ahead. I remember a conversation that day, where I likened waiting for this huge cyclone to make landfall, like living with a terminal illness - an all consuming dread of the unknown force sweeping over our lives.
This week (Feb 2023), another cyclone (Gabriel) has caused horrific damage to people and property, this time in NZ. And this time, as I watched that whirling colour wheel descend from the north onto our little country at the bottom of the Pacific, I was reminded of Cyclone Pam and of my cancer comparison and reflect on the similarity of feelings and experiences bound up in facing a significant, destructive, indeterminate threat - let me extrapolate...
Anticipating the imminent
With this weeks cyclone, as with Cyclone Pam, as with CLL (& maybe other cancers as well), I've noticed how the imminent arrival of impending doom captures our focus, our feelings, our fears.
The closer "it" gets - the heat increases. With a cyclone it's the humidity. With cancer, the tension becomes palatable.
We become focused on the graph, the data, the tracking map. We wait for our next blood test, scan - hoping the track map is going to go the other way, and when it doesn't, we are forced to either make provisional plans to survive or completely ignore it.
We try to go about daily life until it hit's, but the threat is there, in our consciousness, a storm is coming, be it today, next week or next year.
And there's the massive unknown factor that's hard to comprehend or imagine. We don't know what the actual experience will be like, we don't know what the fall out will be, the damage, the aftermath, the death toll. We're facing a raging "monster" that's heading to our shores and there is so much we can't fathom about it and what it's going to do to our lives. We don't know how we're going to respond. All we can do, is watch and wait and prepare for impact.
The impact zone
And then it hits, in it's wild furious ferocity, and it's not as we expect or anticipate, because we've never been through it before, so how would we know?
Cyclone Pam ripped every leaf off every tree, threw corrugated iron around like it was paper, buildings collapsed, homes were destroyed. It crept in slowly, steadily, took it's sinister time as it ravaged an entire nation and all it's inhabitants. Cancer too can so often grows slowly, consuming our bodies and our health, little by little. It has the potential to completely overcome us, wrecking havoc inside and out.
That night in Vanuatu, people called in with songs for the radio. "My heart will go on" by Celine Dion pulled at everyone's heart stings - there was deep mourning and sense of grief as we wondered if we too were on a sinking ship? I've stood beside my mum, my nan & grandpi, mother-in-law, and close friends as they mourn the impacts of cancer and it's treatment on their appearance, their health and their futures. Mourning is needed and necessary, whether or not we survive, things have changed and grieving is a natural part of the process.
And then the power went out. We were left in complete darkness, isolated. We could feel the pressure - it was the strangest feeling - I got the shakes, others had nausea or headaches, as we entered into the deep deep low pressure of the system. We couldn't see but we could hear it: it was like we were standing right up against the turbo jets of a 747 airplane - it's force punctuated by almighty crashes as unknown objects were smashed by the raw fury that surrounded us. The sound of water lashing from the heavens. And as it rained a waterfall inside that night, the women I shared my haven with, pressed into each other for comfort and care. Sometimes the time for thinking, planning, knowing is gone. And we have the opportunity to draw on our other senses. What we feel, what we hear, what we touch. In the darkest part of the night, it is those other senses that help us navigate our way to the dawn.
And you know what, people did not stand by and cower as Cyclone Pam made landfall? They did everything in their power to protect those they loved. Families ran from refuge to refuge seeking shelter and safety. As whole communities congregated in the last remaining refuge of a village ripped apart, the men and women would literally hold the roof on as the wind sought to tear it from them grasp and expose their children to the dangers all around. They were not passive. They stood up and stood strong. As do so many diagnosed with cancer. We make health changes, we choose activities to strengthen our mind, bodies and spirits. We press into our communities for strength and support. We don't give up, we do not cower, we hang on tight.
The Aftermath
And then it was morning. And the wind abated and we could take stock. Out on the street, people marched down the middle of the road, whooping and yelling - adrenaline pumping joy - we have survived! We had overcome! We were alive! When we overcome cancer - whether its a fleeting victory or complete remission, we celebrate! We are alive to live another day. Exorbitant thankful joy!!!
Vanuatu, with it's scattering of small isolated islands, was a remnant of what it had been; everyone knew it was going to be a long road to recovery. The rebuild was going to take years. No country survives a grade 5 cyclone, no person survives a cancer, without a huge recovery effort being required. It takes time to recover from the physical, mental and spiritual impacts of cancer and its treatment. It doesn't happen overnight, but step by step, day by day, year by year, regeneration occurs.
And out of the devastation, resilience bloomed, grew and thrived. I was personally able to get involved with a number of recovery and rebuild projects and admired the fortitude, resolve, courage and stamina of the island communities. We celebrated the strength of connection and community that underpinned the entire recovery effort. Humans have an incredible spirit to rise from the ashes. I've had friends and family both die of and survive cancer and they are some of the most courageous and strong people I know. Although none of them would have invited cancer into their lives, some of the most precious, connected, treasured moments have happened during or after their diagnosis.
When I first arrived home to NZ, I looked around with different eyes. I remember sobbing after going to a tea party where the cupcakes had exquisite icing and I thought it was so damn wasteful and extravagant. My life and outlook had gone through a seismic shift, one that other people around me really didn't understand. My priorities and values were changed. How and where I spent my time and resource. What was important, what wasn't. Cancer too offers us the opportunity to reflect on our values, priorities and time and make adjustments where necessary. It calls into question our sense of time and provides us some very real limitations. We can cry over the icing on the cupcake and we can choose to use this energy to motivate us in ways that bring positive purpose to our days.
Courage, Love and Legacy
When there is an imposing threat on our horizon, when it hit's our shores, when we find ourselves taking stock in the aftermath, we often discover a shared inner strength, unity and fortitude we didn't know we possessed. Read the headlines days after any tragic disaster - it is the people coming together, working together, supporting one another that has everyone talking. The compassion, the kindness, the generosity of humanity. How people pull together, put differences aside. This beautiful and profound human spirit was what I saw first hand in Vanuatu after Cyclone Pam. This is what I have experienced within my own community after my diagnosis. This is what I have witnessed with friends and family as they face treatment and the aftermath. The darkness of a disasters of any kind, whether national, local or personal is also where the light of love shines brightest. Today take some time to reflect and be thankful: where is the light and hope amidst your current storm?