“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes
filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”

– Khalil Gibran

We were traveling through Romania. I think it was in the spring of 1997.  We were stunned, not just by the poverty, but how time had stopped for these people. I saw women, no older than me, wearing babuschkas while they plodded in the dirt furrow made by the ox-pulled plow or swung scythes that I’d last seen in a museum. We saw ‘buses’ being towed by tractors. It felt like every broken down scene should be viewed in shades of sepia.

I remember Kevin looking at me and saying what I’d been thinking,”Thank God our ancestors emigrated to Canada.”

Although neither of us had ancestors from Romania, we both come from that kind of peasant farmer stock. Whether it was from where my mother had been born in Russia, or where his ancestors came from in the ever-shifting borders of Hungary/Austria/Ukraine, if they hadn’t left we might still be stuck behind a plow.

I remember too, the shattered reflections from the windows of the abandoned factories, the derelict farm houses and then the stacks of utilitarian apartment blocks that were clustered near the center of town. There was a sidewalk leading to one of these highrises and walking to the front door were several people carrying large chunks of bleeding meat. They had slaughtered a cow or some other large beast on the lawn in front of the apartment and the pieces were being carried home. It was as if their rural lifestyle had been shoved into the urban environment.

Lately I’ve been remembering a particular image; I see the back of a slender woman. She is walking to that front lobby door with a big chunk of meat held up in front of her. You can tell it is heavy. It is hard work for her. I see bloody rivulets run down her arms.

Let me be very clear with this; I am making no claim for hardship.

My life is easy. I am grateful for all that was sacrificed by my ancestors so that I can live with so much wealth. But still, lately that image kept showing up in my brain, and today I realized the connection; I feel like I have scooped out my heart and am carrying it out in front of me.

It feels raw and bloody and too heavy. It is weighted and bruised, and though part of me wants to contain it, to shove it back into the dark cave of my ribs, to remove the incredible vulnerability, the other part of me is grateful for all that it carries…because though the sorrow sometimes feels too big to hold, the counterpoint to this crazy sadness are the moments of ridiculous joy and laughter.

I’ve been told that our hearts are the size of our fists. Lately, mine feels much bigger and cumbersome than that. I cry too easily. Swear too quickly. My mind moves too slowly. And, when I do manage to stuff my heart back in my chest, it feels like it’s taking up too much space. It sits, thick and awkward, a thumping reminder of my incredible luck.

This is not survivor guilt. I simply recognise that life is very random and today it is my turn to be the one who is healthy.  My only duty is to pay attention and be grateful for every minute that I am alive…even if it hurts.

So I’m doing my job, but let it be known…cancer sucks.