My, oh my. This piece left me breathless...again.
So much written of insomnia derives from the negativity of fear and helplessness while trying to control, or perhaps simply explain, the uncontrollable. My own oncologist sleepless nights are generally iatrogenic, noisily wrestled from sleep by some intrusive device or another. The inability to return to sleep is mine alone. Did I give the right advice? Did I ask the right questions? What am I missing? A constant rehashing of the information I've been presented for assessment. With satisfactory evaluations I can generally return to sleep.
A decade ago, at my wife's cancer diagnosis, sleeplessness was unyielding. I planned and constructed a lifetime anticipated, based on the dismal expectations I had of her disease. In those days, music soothed me to sleep, not by its cadence but through its message of solace, shared only with a solo voice in the dark who connected with me at a primordial level. Ten years hence, she remains well as nearly all my conjured dread never actually happened.
Thank you for this beautifully poetic glimpse into your provocative and nuanced sleepless night. As I say to cancer survivors who experience profoundly meaningful and moving moments, especially in the mundane, "There is great wisdom found along the cancer journey."
And once again, thank you for sharing yours.
2
I, Judith, am moved to tears every time (often) I read this.
Susan, I love all of your columns and look forward to every one of them. But this one, this one, was amazing. You elicited the same feelings in me that I have when reading the end of James Joyce’s, “the dead.” The passage of time, the “evening,” the connection and continuation of it all. Thank you and so so glad you are well.
I read this most eloquent piece 3 times!! That’s the effect it had on me! To say anymore would be diminishment!
1
"What is this inebriated euphoria?" Irrational and unfounded, it may simply be hope.
May I share this further thought, untranslatable into English? Quien más de su tiempo es, más del tiempo es.
I wish Professor Gubar many more such illumined moments of being.
This was an incredible read, thank you for that. It was the equivalent to a great song I want to keep on repeat which I know will bring me a lot of joy each listen. Bookmarking this to read again and again (like that song tucked away on the shelf).
8
I have metastatic breast cancer and and often wander around the house in the middle of the night with the same feelings. I could never convey these feelings so aptly. Beautifully written!
6
Thank you for writing this. Having been given a similarly poor prognosis in 2011, I survived and was diagnosed with Cancer, Round Two in October of this year. Your message seems to speak directly to me, and I am going to keep a copy close at hand.
I am thankful that this horrible disease has taught me to be profoundly grateful to fully experience all the moments of my life.
5
This is the article of The Atlantic, mentioned by Diane Doles.
"Genes Are Overrated-
Their discovery wasn’t predestined, nor do they dictate our destinies—and current ideas about them may die."
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/06/genes-are-overrated...
1
I think this New Yorker article is the one that Diane Doles talked about on
Siddhartha Mukherjee
Cancer’s Invasion Equation
We can detect tumors earlier than ever before. Can we predict whether they’re going to be dangerous?
By Siddhartha Mukherjee
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/09/11/cancers-invasion-equation
However, I think all the oncologists including the brilliant Siddhartha Mukherjee are chasing wrong approaches to solve cancer treatments.
Freaking awesome words. Time is such a mystery. Cancer opens some doors too, and am I cured or am I going to find out with tomorrow’s test that the clock is ticking again? But wait it was always ticking but I thought once I could stun time no that isn’t likely now. Now I have a window I didn’t have before. And in the moments so described by this dear writer are those magical ones I thought I knew but didn’t and now show up, often in the middle of the night.
Joy!
9
Sometimes I kind of miss my night sweats too.
1
What a lovely piece of poetry Dr. Gubar.
Metastatic cancer has no place for the faint of heart. Most in my support group have passed on. Admittedly, even though my youngest of four children was only 6 during my first round of treatments, there were times as I sat in my bathrobe on the sofa - unable to find the strength to move - that I cowardly and silently wished for what I thought was the inevitable to come soon. It didn't, and I sit here 14 years later - grateful and proud to see that same little boy all grown up and in his fourth year of Engineering at university - with his battle scarred but alive Mom cheering him on.
I detest those who say with the right attitude you can beat cancer. Cancer doesn't give a poop about your positive thoughts and to suggest otherwise is heartless, cruel and ignorant. But I do believe that your approach to life and death can make it all so much better for those around you as you go through your final days or weeks or months, or in my case, years.
Keep feeling fine, keep feeling good Dr. Gubar!
26
I grew up in south Bergen County, just a short distance from where Williams lived and practiced medicine. I first came across "Danse Russe" as an undergrad in the early 80s, and immediately became enchanted with its celebration of the self. I am grateful to Ms. Gubar for reminding me of its existence. Given that Williams was a physician who surely witnessed many patients dealing with life-and-death struggles, perhaps Ms. Gubar's connectivity with the poem as a cancer survivor is more than just her unique interpretation.
2
Lovely, and a unique expression, although I don't think the experience is unique at all. As a cancer survivor I sometimes feel similarly. What a pleasure to be asked how I am and to be able to answer, "I'm well, thank you," and it's something I get to say often.
I hope you don't mind me posting this on a couple of sites for head and neck cancer sufferers, caregivers, and survivors. There was recently a post by someone who has been declared cured, but still has trouble because s/he can't talk about his disease with acquaintances and get understanding and sympathy. Perhaps this can help in that conversation. Thanks!
4
,,,'this illumined moment of being', poetry in prose, when you free yourself from the shackles of time slipping away...while you savor the eternity of this moment not wasted. I suppose that, once you stop taking yourself too seriously, and join the natural flow of life, it dissolves our ego, so to become one with nature...and transcend our human imperfections and even our petty behavior when circumstances and serendipity are not playing fair with us. Do we transcend the limits of our thoughts, and reason, when we become sentient beings, where feelings make words irrelevant? You have, among a hundred types of malignancies, cancer of the ovary; metastatic, supposedly not amenable for cure at this stage and at our level of sophistication in treating it; and yet, in symbiosis, a delicate equilibrium that allows your life to go on, uninterrupted; to our benefit, so we can read about it in your own words, and feelings, and the nobility of your spirit. In your case, the joy of living in the moment makes mortality a mere accident of nature, expected but played down as a pesky detail for the books.
8
Your wisdom truly is immortal, Professor Gubar. Thank you.
3
I️ remember these magical nights that called me out of bed while recovering from cancer
4
Astonishingly beautiful
3
Beautiful and raw!
2
The best book about living with the specter of death is "Borrowed Time" by Paul Monette.
2
No good oncologist gives you an expected expiration date.
3
Lovely--
1
Wonderful.
2
Thank you.
3
You are a constant source of inspiration and support for those who have been, and those who are now, blessedly, able to be a caregiver to someone else. There will be a SUPER MOON on New Years Eve. I hope that there will be clear skies above that allow you to see "tomorrow" sometime before you go to sleep on Sunday night. It will also be viewable on the evening of January 1, 2018.... I look forward to reading your pieces for as long as you feel like sharing them with us.
5
thank-you. this rings true to the accidental, random or intentional nature of living as a cancer survivor. much is not known, but savoring living in the moment triumphs all, for the moment.
1
Susan, Thank you! This is the first article of yours I've read. I quickly went back to read your others in NYT. Thank you for sharing your gift of writing and your personal experience. I feel understood. Peace to you.
3
Beautiful.
Perhaps out of context:
"And every breath we drew was Hallelujah!"
3
we are grateful to you for sharing your experience. God bless you.
2
I️ remember these magical nights while recovering from cancer. Awaken at 2 or 3am, I️ would get out of bed wander my home and feel an eerie wonder at being alive and the beauty that can sometimes be found in difficult situations. The author captures these night time epiphanies and makes my memories of them tangible for a fleeting moment - thank you and here’s to your recovery in 2018.
7
In 1979 I was told that I had six months (or less) to live. I'm still here. Each year is a blessing. The moments you describe are in some way sacred, universal, and deeply personal. Thank you for inspiring me to share my stories. Every day (or night) is a gift.
6
Would that our mortality brought us closer to the sublime before it was at our doorstep! Thank you, Susan, for reminding us - both the well and the sick - that every moment offers the opportunity to choose to taste the sweetness life offers, even amidst misery and uncertainty.
1
Thank you for reminding me how precious those moments are. Wonderful writing.
2
Somehow I missed this when it first appeared on Dec. 21. I always look for you and was overjoyed to find this beautiful, evocative, deeply moving piece. All my life and career as a feminist scholar and reader you have been a guiding light for me. The writing you do in these columns is the most beautiful you have ever done.
6
Same experiences here since 2012 - up at night, wonderment at being alive, staring at photos of family members you are afraid you'll leave too soon and more.
2
This is just beautiful!
Thank you Professor Gubar!
3
Cancer was slowly killing a golfing friend of mine. We'd play until he couldn't walk anymore and then retire for a "medicinal" Glenlivet or two. The golf really didn't matter but seeing a hawk's nest for the first time, or the grain in a putting green, or the pink in an orange sunset...he doubled 18 in October, and, although I'll keep at it, I'll never see a golf course in quite the same way again.
4
Once you get past 50 or so, the memories that come to you should you find yourself unable to sleep can be quite vivid and instructive. Interesting how some people have slipped from our lives and their presence is not missed at all, while others come back to us in those quiet hours like a beautiful summer day.
19
This. Is. Me. Thank you for capturing, yet again my inner thoughts and spirit. It has been a daily struggle on if and how I wanted to share.
Stage 4 cancer may rob me of time and experiences, but it cannot rob my soul of drinking up every tiny pleasure.
You and your words are truly a gift. Now if we could only sit and chat face to face, now that would be something.
Peace, to a lovely 2018.
35
Thank you for that exquisite piece and for letting us in to share that moment.
23
As I read this beautiful, transcendent piece "tears flow, but tears of joy."
Thank you, Susan.
20
A year of so many losses 2017 has been, you cannot imagine my relief to see this column and realize that you are still here. Somehow I had missed some of your columns and while reading Jane Brody's Well article you suddenly came to mind. Hoping you continue to write and share with the world. Best wishes for 2018.
15
And suddenly, it happens. We, who were fractured, feel a sense of wholeness. All is right in the world. The moon shines, love fills our hearts. We are alive and thankful to be so in this imperfect world. You write it beautifully and the writing is another form of thankfulness -- another form of discovery. Thank you!
37
Every moment you’re alive, you’re immortal.
19
No you're not.
1
L’chaim!
And thank you.
11
What a gift. I suspect this is better than any gift I might unwrap tomorrow. Thank you.
26
“pleasure and exultation pulse now in this contingent place” Yes it all is contingent, this hiccup in the bursting of super novas. Lovely writing thank you!
13
As a night owl since becoming an empty nester, I fight the sleep experts “shoulds” because, even without a dire diagnosis, I’ve discovered this aliveness almost every night. I sleep ‘til noon, having gotten 8 hours, and still get to my flexibly scheduled work on time. I still feel hesitant that I’m violating some fundamental rule because no one talks about these delights but still I persist and enter a nighttime wonderland.
You (and the responsive community whose words are also beautifully written here) give me encouragement both for how I arrange sleep and for how, around 2 a.m., I slip, solo,
into a slowed down dimension. Thank you all!
13
Wonderful, zestful, intoxicating writing!
19
This is helpful. I'm getting "up in years," a couple of serious health problems but nothing life-threatening, alone except for a cat, and many friends have died already. When I wake up in the middle of the night my thoughts turn to: What will happen? Things will eventually get worse. How will I die? (The cat purrs.)
Thank you for another way of looking at it.
43
Life, the mysterious, the unanticipateable, however much erudition, focus, and wisdom we bring to it, and even however much medical pressure is brought to bear on it.
8
Oh my goodness. Stunning. You did it, you captured it. Thank you.
38
You are my guiding light. My journey has been somewhat similar to yours (although all of our journeys are very individual) as I have had a very good response in a clinical trial. We can't know how long it will last but I am riding this train for all it's worth! At the end of this year, I have had thoughts like yours but which you have so superbly articulated in ways I never could. Each day is a blessing and you words have comforted me beyond anything I could say. Best of luck to you in 2018!
40
What a wondrous piece of writing. Thank you.
22
This was quite beautiful. Thank you and happy holidays!!
11
I have read the comments to this perfect piece of literature. And so there is nothing more to say = except to agree. I too am thrilled to see a new article you have given to us. You and your thoughts offer an immeasurable gift to me, and to so many of us. So I agree: "exquisite" "Lyrical ode".
thank you so so much.....for continuing to live and write...
25
I get this too-- I think it has to do with getting older in general. You said it beautifully.
12
Thank you for this gorgeous piece of writing. A close friend is fighting the same battle, and this meditation will surely help her.
13
Waking up in the middle of the night, which I often do in my mid-seventies, is sometimes worrisome, as I keep being reminded, in places like the NYTimes, that 8 hours of nightly slumber is essential to remain healthy. This concern is not one of your immediate concerns. Instead your middle-of-the-night wakefulness is a reminder to you that you are still alive and aware. I also think your experience emphasizes the redemptive quality of Stillness, as described by philosopher Paul Brunton (1898-1981): "The true self ... is hidden in a central core of stillness [which] is forever at rest [and] bestows peace, [whereas the outside] ring of thoughts and desires constituting the imagined self, the ego . . . is constantly fermenting with fresh thoughts, fresh desires, and alternately bubbling with joy or heaving with grief." Or as Walt Whitman says more plainly in "Song of Myself": "These [worldly distractions] come to me days an nights, and go from me again, but they are not the Me myself . . . Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am."
19
Thank you for the unexpected loveliness this morning.
13
The sentence 'Cognizance of limited time can paradoxically expand time' was beautiful. Thank you very much. You are always so clever with your thoughts and words.
29
When I see that there is a new piece by you, I always have a rush of joy because it means you are still here, still offering your wondrous words. I'm not ill, as far as I know, but your writing speaks to everyone who is mortal and human -- that is, to everyone. Wishing you many moments of joy and discovery for many years to come!
93
Thank you for communicating the complexity of our treatments and experiments in survival. There are those precious moments of stillness when a sort of calm wisdom washes over you and settles your busy body and mind. In my 19 years with Stage IV Cancer I keep coming back to the notion that "Attitude" is the leading quality to all the other work necessary to consciously staying alive. Your lyrical tone expressed that beautifully.
27
What an exquisite piece of writing! Thank you for this lyrical ode to serendipitous, unexpected moments of grace. And wishing you many more of them.
39
The immortality you suggest is evolving throughout my life, whether my cancer is gone or my health is aging faster than my mind. I believe in your intuition and your wonderful images in writing, I will save these thoughts for a long while.
14
Thank you for your lucid, blooming prose. May the new year bring you joy.
16
We communicated with one another many years ago (by email), shortly after I was diagnosed with the same disease that lurks inside so many unknowing women. I read your book and cried--from terror and from hearing the voice of someone who understood my so-called "journey". Like you, I find ecstasy in the simple acts and things that compose everyday life. Thank you for your perspective, wisdom and tears about life living with Ovarian Cancer. May the longest night of the year be followed by days filled with more and more light. I look forward to your musings and am so glad that your doctors got your "due date" wrong. ;-)
40
The first 5 respondents have stated it beautifully. Ditto.
Thank you for a sublime and, as usual, a column that has resonated deeply for me. It came at an ideal time. Blessings
10
Such an incredibly beautiful and lyrical essay. I've been following your column all this time, and am so grateful for everything you share. Wishing you much more time to savor this world and the creatures in it.
25
Death is the mother of beauty.
8
No it's not.
2
Don’t be such a Debby Downer, Ortrud. I believe that the intent of William’s comment was to acknowledge that we often see beauty more completely when we are aware of how fleeting it is. I know it’s in these moments I seem to see more clearly.
2
Your oncologist may be brilliant, but why was he (or she or whatever) telling you you would probably die before 2013? There are other ways of presenting the (ugly) five-year survival statistics for ovarian cancer. That way seems to me to be a pretty bad one.
9
I would be surprised if the oncologist did not say it another way.
3
Mine is pretty blunt - and I love him for that.
Beautiful sentiments, gracefully expressed. I hope that when my end approaches, I have a little time and a great deal of ability to savor the remaining moments, and the people who are so important in my life.
14
We can all awaken now, don't wait!
1
Beautiful. Thank you.
11
What an unexpected and exquisitely tender winter solstice gift. Thanks, Susan.
17
Powerful, accurate and sad. I don't have a terminal illness but share your thoughts as I become elderly.
I know "no one gets out alive" but it just seems like such an incredible waste. Not so much a concern for my own eventual demise but for those left behind.
May you find peace.
10
A verbal blessing. I'm recuperating from a lung lobectomy and am so tired of clichés and that cancer look of oh-so-ernes sympathy from friends, or mere acquaintances, tinged with horror. Oh the horror in their eyes. Horror, for the most part I don't feel. I too, rise in the middle of the night and find exquisite gratitudes in detail. Your excellent writing being one of my gratitudes this morning. Thank you for putting into words the feelings I try to tell people I'm feeling and feel frustrating at my lack of ability to communication.
18
Very, very Fine. You will NOT go gently. Or be forgotten.
8
Grateful is an inadequate word to express my response to your beautiful words. I am a psychologist who has the ongoing privilege of learning from (what one of my clients calls) “cancer experienced people.” Many are living with advanced cancer and in addition to enduring intense treatments, financial ruin, disabling side effects, bodily disfigurement, anxiety/depression, etc., they navigate well- intentioned but misguided suggestions for miracle cures and enhanced quality of life tools that are fundamentally projections of others’ inability to be with serious illness and dying/death. Exhausting. We have so far to go in our culture to come to terms with and realize the gifts of life’s limitations. Susan - you are helping get us to that more enlightened place. Thank you. I am sharing this piece with everyone - from my pathologist husband to the entire team of health care providers I work with to the support group I will facilitate this evening. The best holiday gift I could ever have envisioned will come from you.
62
Those closer to death and inmates serving a long sentence seem to grasp the present moment better than others not so afflicted.
Being trapped in psychological time where one is in constant worry about the future and in turmoil over past failures and slights is finally seen as the delusion that it is and as a the quagmire where happiness dies and dissatisfaction reigns.
Through compassionate awareness of the obsessive self, its grip is loosened and we expand to see, hear, taste, smell and feel the novelty and wonder of the moment and find within this gap the safe reserve we once knew before time enveloped and dimmed our prenatal sense of eternal, infinite and abundant being.
17
After a car accident that left me paralyzed for life, waking up in the middle of the night in the hospital was always an experience for me. Sometimes it was awful, because I was so alone. Sometimes it was wonderful, because I was so alone. Grief, and its passage, requires solitude. That feeling of what it means to be uniquely you, yet so much a part of everything, even in death and trauma, *especially* in death or trauma.
For some reason, in the middle of the night all the beeping and whirring of machines became incredibly soothing. Maybe because it was the sound of life, just moving along and being OK, not in crisis. It was also the time to awaken and contemplate dreams that seemed more correct than reality, and to process the fact that your life is now stranger than some dreams.
I loved interacting with the nurses who came in the middle of the night. They were often different people, but they were night crawlers like me. They would come in quietly, expecting me to be asleep, until I uttered a soft, whispered, "Hey," as one does with a loved one in bed. Then we would whisper together, and it was intimate in a way I hadn't experienced before and haven't since.
66
i too spent time in the hospital and enjoyed interacting with the night shift nurse. Im not sure why this was so but your comments really hit home for me. thanks
2
The breakthrough research and therapy is occurring by the group of researchers that revived the theory of Dr. Otto Warburg, a Nobel laureate. Right now mainstream oncologists believe in the theory of cancer as the genetic disease, but they may be wrong. This is the research summary:
Emerging evidence indicates that cancer is primarily a metabolic disease involving disturbances in energy production through respiration and fermentation. The genomic instability observed in tumor cells and all other recognized hallmarks of cancer are considered downstream epiphenomena of the initial disturbance of cellular energy metabolism. The disturbances in tumor cell energy metabolism can be linked to abnormalities in the structure and function of the mitochondria. When viewed as a mitochondrial metabolic disease, the evolutionary theory of Lamarck can better explain cancer progression than can the evolutionary theory of Darwin. Cancer growth and progression can be managed following a whole body transition from fermentable metabolites, primarily glucose and glutamine, to respiratory metabolites, primarily ketone bodies. As each individual is a unique metabolic entity, personalization of metabolic therapy as a broad-based cancer treatment strategy will require fine-tuning to match the therapy to an individual’s unique physiology. (Thomas N. Seyfried, Roberto E. Flores, Angela M. Poff and Dominic P. D’Agostino )
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3941741/
10
Also read Siddhartha Mukherjee’s article in the Atlantic (October ?, 2017) about how the “environment “ within our bodies modulates the cancer. It’s fascinating. Sorry that I can’t embed a link to it.
3
I always read and admire your column, and this one tops all. Its lyrical style is a shift from your usual, more reportorial, one. It is a Whitman-esque celebration, perfect for this turn of the year. Thank you once again.
81
Susan, your book “The Madwoman in the Attic” changed my life decades ago. Thank you for this terrific meditation on Keats—an extraordinary poet who knew about living with fatal illness, and whose voice speaks across the centuries.
30
Silver/sliver/shiver--so many evocative turns of language in this surprising, artful evocation of the strangeness of being alive with cancer in our bodies. A beautiful gift in a season of cliches, and a reminder of what remains of who we were and are still.
58
Thank you for your beautiful writing and your joyous spirit! Your writing rushed me toward a feeling of immortality, too-the infinite hidden in the finite-or, as Dogen says, the moon in a dewdrop.
29