Michele Woodward

Powerful Coaching. Powerful Results.

cancer

Real and Raw

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There are some voices out there who tell you that the way to get ahead is to calculate every move you make – life is all one big game – and you do whatever you have to do to win.

Every move is transactional.

Every gesture is intentional.

Every social media post is congruent with your short term/long term goals.

Every single thing you do is thought out and supportive of your “personal brand” – the brand that’s going to get you to the top, only to the top, and keep you there.

It’s all calculation, positioning, appearance, working the angles.

Yep, and then…

Then we have a fast-moving crosscurrent of people who are waking up to say, “I’ve had it with fake.”

These are people who are looking for authenticity. Demanding it, even.

They want it in politics, they want it in relationships, they want it in leaders, they want it in communities.

They want real. They are okay with raw.

They just want what’s true.

A week ago, I was in Atlanta with my dear sister-by-choice Dr. Laurie Foley who moved into hospice care after it became clear that there was no more treatment for her ovarian cancer. Laurie is a PhD computer scientist who later became a transformative coach, speaker and writer. As I sat in her hospice room and we talked (and talked and talked), a realization bloomed in my heart and mind.

Here, at what is most definitely the end of her life, Laurie had no time for triviality. She only wanted to talk about things that are real. Things that are, at times, raw – but things that need to be said.

Folks, I learned that there is no pussyfooting around in hospice – because who’s got the time? You want strawberry ice cream? You ask for it, clearly and insistently if you must. You want to talk with someone on the phone? You ring them up. You need to say who you want to see and who you don’t? You say it.

It’s real. It’s raw. And it’s very, very true.

Since Laurie’s entry into hospice, social media – Facebook in particular – has blown up. People are posting recollections of hearing her speak, or being coached by her. On a whim, I suggested people write “LaFo” (my witty JLo-esque nickname for my friend) on their forearm to show their love for her, and now thousands of people have done so and are posting pictures of their LaFo art. There’s a moving video, a powerful speech by her, and loving reminiscences everywhere. A fabulous artist has even made a coloring book page celebrating LaFo.

It’s as if, here at the end of her life, Laurie’s impact has never been more powerfully felt.

At nearly the same time that Laurie moved into hospice, our dear friend, the writer Patti Digh, had a heart attack. She wrote brilliantly about it on her blog, and that piece was picked up by the Huffington Post where it’s gone viral. See, Patti was told her heart attack symptoms were simply anxiety. When, in reality, she had a 90 percent blockage in a key artery. The piece she wrote – the one that Arianna Huffington read and directed be posted – it’s real. It’s raw. It’s true. You can read it here.  Her follow-up piece was as beautiful a piece of writing as I’ve ever seen her do. Read that one here.

This confluence of events has been, as you can imagine, like a strong dose of smelling salts to me.

I’m asking: What am I doing with myself and my work?

How do I want to show up?

Is there any place I’m hiding?

Where can I be more real? More raw? More true?

Tough questions, but important ones – and I’m going to keep asking them of myself until I’m totally satisfied with my answers.

I’m going to be more real. More raw. More myself.

Because if I’ve learned anything in the last ten days, it’s this: There is no more time for pussyfooting around.

 

 

You Get To Decide

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I’ve long held that the most difficult times of our lives are when are forced in some way to redefine who we are.

We go from being a teenaged high school student in June to a nearly adult college kid in September. Then, in a blink of an eye, we go from college kid to full-time working person [“let’s hope so,” says every parent of a college student].

Change never seems to stop.

Some of us go from single to partnered. Some of us go from partnered to single, and back to partnered again.

Childless to parent. Parent to empty-nester. Then parenting our own parents.

Most of us go from well to ill to well again too many times in our lives to count.

There are also occasions when we go from being an important someone in a job we love to being a jobless nobody whose confidence is shot.

It just keeps coming.

All of these moments are times of profound change and redefinition. These are the challenging moments when we are very likely to ask the question, “Who the hell am I now, after all of this?”

And it’s within the question that possibility lies.

Twenty months ago my friend, writer and coach Dr. Laurie Foley, received the life-changing diagnosis of advanced stage ovarian cancer. She immediately put her work life on hold and threw herself into learning everything she could about cancer. She identified great doctors and partnered with them in her treatment. She told me, “I am going to be the very best patient any of them have ever had.” And she was. She joined support groups, became a regular speaker at a medical school, read research and reports. She even made friends with her health insurance company.

She was all-in in the world of ovarian cancer, and it was rightly her entire focus.

Week before last, when the results of two last tests came in, Laurie found out that – after twenty months of energy and attention – she’s officially in remission.

That was a great day.

It also happened to be a day when I was visiting, so after the squealing, high-fiving, and hugs, Laurie and I talked about What Remission Will Mean. [Oh, and we took the selfie, above.]

“I’m thinking,” Laurie started, “that it really means re-mission. For so long my mission has been ovarian cancer – now I get to find a new one. I get to re-mission.”

There’s that possibility I mentioned earlier.

To consciously choose a new mission. Maybe related to the old one, maybe a totally new one created By Laurie, For Laurie – and to bring her many gifts to the world.

Re-missioning.

What a promise. What potential in that deft little phrase.

What possibility.

If you’re smack dab in the middle of your own redefinition, this is what you remember. Yes, things have changed. Laurie will never be a person who hasn’t experienced cancer. Me, neither. You may not ever have the same job title, or the same spouse, or the same little ones running through your house using a dishtowel as a superhero cape.

Those moments may, indeed, be gone forever.

But you can always re-mission.

You can find something new, engaging, interesting and fun.

Your possibilities, in fact, are quite endless.

To Freak Out, Or Not To Freak Out

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It was a year ago today – the Sunday after Thanksgiving – that I found the lump. The lump that turned out to be cancer.

And what a year it’s been.

That Sunday, I was at the computer trying to make sense of the strange things happening to my body. Of course, I used the symptom checker at WedMD.com. [Also known as “Hypochondriacs R Us.”] One of the options it spit out was thyroid disease.

“I have a thyroid?” Seeking the best-of-the-best information, I went to the Johns Hopkins website, where I learned that my thyroid is a butterfly-shaped gland at the base of my neck, in charge of my metabolism. I put my hand there. It felt like a swollen gland. Hopkins said that if I swallowed and the lump moved up and down then it was likely I had a thyroid nodule.

I swallowed. It moved.

I freaked out.

It was not pretty. My mind raced from disastrous outcome to disastrous outcome. I spun story after story, none of them with a happy ending. Oh, I was a gray little Eeyore of a woman, muttering gloom and doom, misery and unhappiness.

But then I had to stop. Because crisis requires consistent, sustained focus. And panic trumps focus. Every single time.

And I had to focus to make my way through what was, at times, a baffling medical process.

The day after I found the lump, the medical machinery got moving with my first appointment with a doctor which led to an ultrasound of my neck which led to a fine needle biopsy which led to a meeting with a surgeon which led to surgery which led to a meeting with an endocrinologist which led to a meeting with a nuclear medicine doctor which led to radiation, which, months later, led to an outcome – disease free.

I never thought I’d say it, but I am so very grateful to have had cancer. It was a challenge I was handed, and I handled it. I’m more myself today than I’ve ever been. And I’m grateful for that.

And that’s my message to you today. Challenges will come. And they will come to you. And those you love. You may find, in that challenging instant, “To freak out, or not to freak out” becomes the question.

Freaking out in a crisis is a way to get our internal chaos to match the external chaos we face. There’s a comfort and balance in it, you know, because it’s all… matchy-matchy. But a freak out is not sustainable over the long term – panic saps your energy so you lack the ability to help yourself, or help others.

I’ve found that the ticket to managing a challenge is to freak out if you need to freak out, and do a thorough job of it. But then gather yourself together as soon as you’re able, so you can put your time and attention on whatever it is that’s facing you.

Because there is good stuff there if you know where to look.

Every challenge I’ve faced – and I’ve faced cancer, unemployment, divorce, death of a loved one – has been a moment of discovery. And, if you’re open to it, it will be for you, too.

A crisis point can be the moment when you discover what’s important to you, and the depths of your own strength and resilience. You discover who you really love, and who really loves you.

Getting the stuffing kicked out of you, ironically, provides an wonderful opportunity to become a fuller, richer version of yourself. But only if you let it. So why not let it?

Make Mine A Whopper

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Since my kids were little, we’d back them up against the wall, ask them to stand straight and tall, and make a little line to mark their height. Today, they can stand at the same wall and see physical evidence of how much they’ve grown.

It’s much harder for us adults to see evidence of how much we’ve grown. But I got the chance this week.

Because this week I learned I have cancer.

It’s thyroid cancer, and I’m having surgery later this week to remove the gland. One dose of radiation later, and, as my surgeon chirpily said, “you’ll be cured of cancer by December 30th.”

The C-word is a toughie for so many of us. Cancer’s got a ton of “dirty pain” associated with it. Ever heard the phrase “dirty pain”? Dr. Steven Hayes, a noted psychologist, coined the term in his development of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, as a counterpoint to “clean pain”.

Clean pain is the pain that naturally flows from an action or situation. You stub your toe, it hurts. You say, “Ouch.” That’s clean pain. Dirty pain is the story you tell about what happened. Like, “Geez, I am always so clumsy! What a jerk! I can’t believe I stubbed my toe! What an idiot!”

So here’s how I know I’ve changed. There was a time when a cancer diagnosis would have prompted me to take to my bed. I would have been overwhelmed, obsessive, swamped, anxious, fearful, and cranky. I wouldn’t have been able to listen to my doctors for the whirring sound of panic in my ears. I would have eaten a gallon of chocolate fudge brownie daily to soothe my mind, or treated myself to something “nice” (and stupidly expensive) at the mall.

I would probably watch “Beaches” eight times. In a row. Kleenex stock prices would soar.

I would have told myself really uplifting things like, “you brought this on by doing something wrong”, “of course you’re a loser, you got cancer”, “see, nothing good ever happens to you,” and, the whopper, “you are going to die and leave your children motherless and no one will even care.”

Plenty of stories. Stories that serve only one purpose — to extend the dirty pain, promote suffering, and keep us one-down, a victim to circumstance.

But how I took this cancer diagnosis surprised me. The diagnosis came with absolutely no story. Well, just a little story. And here it is:

I am a woman who found a lump. I had my doctor look at it. Tests were run. It’s cancer. It’s coming out.

Sure, there may be some pain after the surgery and I’ll let that be whatever it is. Right now, I’m fine. And so, I’m going to be fine until something hurts and then I’ll say “Ouch”. What’s the point of zooming ahead and feeling next week’s pain today? That will only give me two weeks of pain when I really only have to — maybe — do one.

OK, I’ll admit it, I’m slightly amazed at my own response. But it makes sense. After all the years of work and study and practice, I have arrived at a place where I can be clear and have pretty clean pain around this whole situation. It’s a rather welcome validation of the hard changes I knew I needed to make in my life. I have actually done what I set out to do. Ain’t that something?

Yep, I look at my own personal growth chart and like what I see — I’m standing tall, back up to the wall, clear and aware of exactly how much I’ve grown. Who knew having cancer could feel so good?