Early on, my greatest fear was not that I might die of cancer, but that I had been responsible for it. When I finally rode out the waves of guilt and shame, I found myself in unexpectedly calm waters. Through the mastectomy and recovery from surgery and on into the early rounds of chemotherapy, often I felt God holding me. It was as if all my debts had been forgiven and I was at peace. But still, I did not want to die.
Somewhere between rounds three and four of chemotherapy, I went to see a healer. Em was a wise, older woman--a midwife of the spirit--who put me into a deep state of relaxation. In her low, soothing voice, she guided me to visualize myself eradicating the cancer cells. Oddly enough, when I emerged from that session, the peace that had infused my life was no more. The intimacy with God was gone. Suddenly, I felt alone and scared. Then I came home to an empty house. The kids were at various after-school activities. There was a message on the answering machine that an emergency had come up at the office and Dan would not be home for dinner.
I seethed. Dan, who had been at my beck and call for months; who had dutifully volunteered for the task of giving me a daily shot needed to counteract the side effects of chemotherapy; who had stuck with me through it all--boy, was he going to get it when he came home. As promised, I sprang like a snake. "You are looking for an excuse not to come home," I hissed. "You're tired of taking care of me! Admit it!"
"Don't you dare talk that way to me," he replied, louder than a hiss.
"I'll talk to you however I damn well please!" I was screaming now.
"Then you can go to hell!" He shouted back.
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. As if we had been awakened by an alarm clock, we suddenly looked into each other's eyes and started laughing.
Why were we laughing?
Because you don't say "Go to hell" to a dying woman. He said it--so I must not be dying. With a few well-chosen swear words, I had turned the corner toward recovery.
The next time I saw Em, I told her what had happened. Even though on some deep level, I knew that my anger meant that I was getting better--I did not understand why I no longer felt as close to God as I had.
Em explained to me that what I'd gotten those first peaceful few months was a kind of sneak-peek, sort of a spiritual "trying it on for size." The experience of serenity was real enough. If I had died, I would have died in peace. The thing is, I didn't die. Now I was on the verge of discovering one of the world's greatest-kept secrets: it's easier to die than it is not to. I had learned that I could, if necessary, die peacefully. But what was it going to take for me to pick up again the mainstream of my life?
During this time of transition, I stumbled across a unique interpretation of the story of the sacrifice of Isaac. Do you remember this story from the Hebrew Scriptures? God tells Abraham he wants him to sacrifice his son Isaac. Abraham follows instructions, bringing Isaac to the mountain designated by God for the ritual slaughter. As Abraham and his young son walk up the mountain, Isaac keeps asking, "Where is the lamb for the sacrifice?" Abraham answers, "God will provide the lamb." When they get to the top of the mountain, Abraham prepares the altar for the sacrifice. Still no lamb. At last, Abraham binds Isaac to the altar and is about to kill him when an angel intervenes to stop him. Then Abraham discovers the sacrificial ram, horns tangled in the brambles nearby. Isaac was freed and the animal sacrificed in his place.