Living in Acceptance
This is the third post in a series chronicling my firsthand experience with the power of mindfulness in moments of personal upheaval.
Throughout this series, I’ve talked about how mindfulness has continued to sustain me through a life-changing challenge I faced recently. First, I wrote about the wake-up calls I experienced when confronted with a diagnosis of breast cancer.
I followed that with my thoughts on facing the fear that at one point seemed to engulf me completely, and the mindfulness practices I employed during some dark days prior to treatment. Unbeknownst to me at the time, those same practices strengthened me for the next unexpected turn this journey would take.
In an earlier part of my story, I recounted my surgeon’s assurance that I wasn’t going to die anytime soon from the kind of cancer I had, and that although it may have felt like a medical emergency, it wasn’t. His nurse had even lightheartedly remarked that if she could pick a cancer, she’d pick mine. Their words comforted me and gave me hope, at least for that moment.
Following my diagnosis, I’d been given a choice of treatment options: a mastectomy, the removal of the entire breast, or a lumpectomy, the excision of just the tumor. I chose the lumpectomy.
For me, the choice was both logical and relatively easy. I had been diagnosed with early stage cancer, and the clinical data I’d read didn’t support significant differences in the rates of recovery or recurrence with one procedure versus the other.
I stress strongly here, as I have before, that I can only talk about my cancer, my situation, and my choices. Everyone’s cancer and circumstances are different.
During the course of surgery to remove the tumor, the surgeon also removed a couple of lymph nodes, which is standard practice to verify that the cancer has not spread. My medical team had reassured me earlier that they did not expect to find cancer in the lymph nodes—an expectation I shared and one that gave me confidence in a seamless, speedy recovery.
To my horror and the medical team’s surprise, the biopsy confirmed cancer cells in both lymph nodes, prompting my surgeon to reassess my cancer at a more advanced stage. He told me I would need a more extensive radiation therapy than originally planned, and that we would need to re-discuss the possibility of chemo with my oncologist.
Shattered expectations and the prospect of more months of treatment sent me reeling back into fear and uncertainty. I also couldn’t help but remember that I’d read somewhere that my particular type of cancer can spread to the lungs or bones.
That led me to question everything relentlessly. Had my cancer spread? Did we really know what stage it was? How did we know it wasn’t in more lymph nodes? Would radiation be enough? Were there options other than chemo? Would my hair fall out? What else did we not know? Did we really know anything?
In the face of so much uncertainty, I desperately wanted to take control of the situation. So, I asked my surgeon to run more scans and tests to see if the cancer had metastasized. He said no.
He explained that it’s not standard protocol to keep running tests, and that there were no signs or symptoms that the cancer had metastasized. The tumor was small and had been removed, the margins were clean, radiation treatment would take care of any residual “shrapnel,” and I would be on an oral chemotherapy drug designed to prevent metastasis for many years to come.
He also cautioned that today’s advanced technology has outpaced the medical community’s ability to interpret it definitively. Further tests might reveal some blip or blemish that could prompt other biopsies and additional diagnostic procedures for something that was perfectly benign or would already be managed by the proposed treatment.
That wasn’t the answer I wanted so I turned to my medical oncologist and asked her for more tests. She said yes, and sure enough, the scan showed nodules on my lungs.
My oncologist then told me that a nodule doesn’t mean I have lung cancer, and moreover, that many people today are walking around with similar nodules without even knowing it, because they're not getting lung scans. She said we would monitor the nodules regularly, and if changes in size appeared, we’d do something about it then. The good news is that we’ve done just that, and my most recent CT scan of the lungs shows nothing to worry about.
The rest of this particular episode is more nuanced. As it turns out, both doctors gave sound advice, and the impact on me has been essentially the same. My surgeon, who wouldn't authorize the additional tests, was right because now that I've gone down that rabbit hole, I have to live with that knowledge and subsequent follow-up. My medical oncologist, who said yes to the additional testing, was also right, because now that I have satisfied my need to know, I have to live with that knowledge and subsequent follow-up.
This whole experience has heightened my awareness of some of the foundational principles of mindful living. First, I have experienced firsthand how the disconnect between my expectations of how I want things to be and the reality of how things truly are fuels stress, anxiety, and fear.
That, in turn, has led me to appreciate more than ever the value of acceptance—of being consciously connected to the present moment, aware of what’s happening without judgment, and accepting what is with curiosity. I don’t have to like the situation or agree with the outcome, but through mindfulness I can recognize when the time has come for acceptance.
I freely admit that acceptance can be one of the hardest things for me to practice. I also know that, just as there’s a time and place for it, there’s also a time and a place for questioning and discernment. I can attest, however, that acceptance applied properly can bring a true sense of peace, serenity, and purposeful living.
So, how has this renewed appreciation for acceptance played out in real life for me?
For one thing, I’ve learned to temper my expectations of the scientific community. There’s a lot they know and a lot they don't, and that’s okay—medical science is a constant search for greater understanding. At the same time, I’ve learned to trust that medical caregivers, with few exceptions, are doing the best they can with the information and experience they have, and that research continues to evolve treatments for cancer every single day.
Acceptance also played a role in another decision I made about my ongoing treatment. Rather than have radiation therapy at the major medical center in Chicago where I’d had surgery, I chose to have it at an excellent, but considerably smaller, treatment center nearer my home in rural Michigan. It was an experience I’ll never forget.
The medical team members there were so compassionate and kind that I actually looked forward to seeing them every weekday morning of my six-week treatment. I got to know about their lives, their husbands and wives, the one whose daughter was getting married, the one who’s expecting another child, the one who’s building a garden. The connections I formed with them were therapeutic in itself.
When the radiation therapy had run its full course, I got to ring the brass bell signifying that the treatment had ended, a common practice in lots of places. I was overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions—relief that I was done with active treatment, resolve that I was now a cancer survivor, love for the support of family and friends, and joy to be feeling strong and alive.
People are sometimes skeptical when I say I didn't have any truly bad experiences during this entire ordeal; I know others have. Perhaps I didn't because mindfulness had taught me not to focus my attention that way.
For example, I could have been furious with the surgeon who told me there was little likelihood of finding cancer in my lymph nodes, and then there it was. I could have blamed him for not knowing this in advance, or for raising my expectations with false hope.
I find it healthier not to approach things that way. I just have to accept that my body will continue to respond to the extended treatment as it should, and that the changes I’ve made in my lifestyle will help it do just that.
I’ve learned not to live in a place of fear, but rather in a state of gratitude, joy, and kindness. It’s a conscious choice.
Mindfully yours,
Ashley
When I’m struggling to accept what is, feeling reactive or emotional, or when I find that I want something to be different, here are some acceptance practices I use to interrupt the stress reactivity cycle and access more equanimity:
Soothing and Supportive Touch—In moments of stress or discomfort, touch activates the parasympathetic nervous system to help us calm down and feel safe. Try placing a hand on your heart, cradling your face, gently stroking your arm, holding your hands together, or even giving yourself a hug. Once you identify what feels best for you, simply notice the sensation of a warm touch and extend kindness and support to yourself as you breathe in and out for a few moments or minutes.
Self-Compassion Break—In the midst of a moment that is difficult, causing you stress, or creating reactivity, see if you can pause, notice the stress or emotional discomfort in your body, and give yourself a self-compassion time out. Move through the three elements of self-compassion by acknowledging:
Mindfulness: “This is a moment of suffering.” “This moment hurts.”
Common Humanity: “Suffering is a part of life.” “I know that many people are have stressful moments.” “I am not alone.”
Self-Kindness: “May I be kind to myself.” “How can I express kindness to myself in this moment?” “I’m going to take a moment to breathe and extend kindness towards myself.”
Acceptance Micro Mantra—Breathing in, I do my best. Breathing out, I let go of the rest.