One beautiful sunny day in late August of last year I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of stage-IV non-Hodgkins lymphoma. CT scans showed that a primary tumor the size of a grapefruit had wrapped itself around my heart and lungs and was pressing hard against several major veins and arteries, slowly cutting off the circulation in my neck. The cancer had spread throughout my body, and the prognosis was not a pretty sight.
Have you ever wondered what you would do on the day you found out you might have less than a year to live? I never in a million years would have guessed that I had it in me, but here's the story of what I did on that fateful nightmare of a day.
Let me preface this by telling you I had never ever done anything even remotely this bold before, and frankly I was appalled at myself. What I did was, I googled Peruvian Paso horses and found the nearest place around here that breeds, trains, and sells these glorious creatures. Then in a fit of raging chutzpah, I called these total strangers on the telephone. Right out of the blue!
“Hello,” I said out of the blue. “I just found out ten minutes ago that I have a very aggressive form of cancer, and my last dying wish is to come hang out with your horses. What’s a good time for you?”
Or something to that effect.
One of the questions Bernie Siegel asks his cancer patients is, "What does your cancer mean to you, what does it give you permission to do?" And mostly his people seem to hem and haw and end up tentatively suggesting such daring things as, Well, maybe I could quit this job I hate now, or Maybe I don't have to go to my mother-in-law’s house next Christmas.
But if anybody had asked me that question, what does your cancer give you permission to do? Well, I discovered on that fateful day last August that the correct answer might as well be: absolutely anything.
“Oh, good gracious, cancer?” exclaimed the extremely nice horse people when I called out of the blue. “Maybe you’d better come soon! How about tomorrow? Stay all day! Stay overnight! Stay all weekend! Take all our million dollar championship horses home with you if you want to! Cancer? Yes, anything, anything at all! Um, and who did you say you are again?”
Or something to that effect.
I suppose this was what’s called “playing the cancer card.” How wrong was it for me to do this and enjoy every minute of it? Should I maybe have felt a little bit guilty for taking advantage of the kindness of strangers in the face of a life threatening illness? Probably. But on that day I really didn't care. I just up and decided to become my very own personal Make A Wish Foundation.
I had long admired the gorgeous, gentle, highly intelligent Peruvian Paso horses, but most of what I knew about them was from reading. I had never actually seen one, and riding one had long been one of those items on my expansive List of Things I'd Like To Do Someday When I Finally Have Time. Why is it that we only manage to find time when we discover it's rapidly running out?
Anyway, I set my alarm for 4 a.m. and drove three hours, way up into the scenic hilly green farm country not far from the Mississippi border. When I arrived at the astonishingly beautiful horse and pecan farm, I was welcomed like visiting royalty.
My horse for the day was a magnificent 13-year old Peruvian Paso gelding named Valiente, which quite appropriately means "courage" in Spanish. Valiente had the great honor of having won the AAOBPPH Champion of Champions Amateur Performance Gelding title. He was a world famous horse.
Peruvian Pasos are known for having the smoothest ride of any gaited horse. At their horse shows there’s a traditional competition called the Champagne Ride: “Riders complete several laps and maneuvers with a full glass of Champagne in one hand. The competitor completing the class with the fullest glass is the winner. As the horses are so smooth, even the rider placed last has enough Champagne left to toast his competitors.”
Now I hadn’t been on a horse of any sort in over 30 years, but as I hoisted myself onto Valiente's noble back, it all came rushing back like it was yesterday. Somehow my entire body remembered exactly what to do. I’d ridden mostly English in my youth, plus a little bit of western, but the Peruvian tackle is different from either. You sit like western but rein more like English. And to spur the horse from a regular walk into a gait, you make little kissy sounds with your mouth.
My inexperience and rusty skills didn’t matter one bit to Valiente though. He was a perfect gentleman, kind and wise and intuitive enough to read my mind. He also managed to channel enough of his eponymous courage back up to me that I instantly got over my paralyzing fear of heights. And riding him across the beautiful hilly green pastures with a cool early autumn breeze on my face, I discovered that day how very very dearly I loved life.
So against all odds, my second official day of having cancer was one of the happiest days of my life. And the memory of that wonderful life-affirming day helped pull me through the brutally dark days ahead.
Miraculously, for the time being anyway, there is no more cancer to be found in my body. Those six months of unmitigated treatment hell that I went through apparently worked. So I can't exactly justify playing the cancer card any more. But I'm determined to not let that stop me from taking whatever risks are necessary to make my dreams come true.
This may sound unbearably sappy, but you know, life is just way too short to put off making every day the happiest day ever. So your assignment for today, dear readers, is to think of something you've always wished for and wanted to do, and go do whatever it takes to make time for it NOW. Don't wait around for cancer to give you permission. |
Vibrating Liz |
| About the author: |
| Vibrating Liz is an avid writer, dancer, gardener, weight lifter, and cancer survivor who firmly believes that 50 is the new 18. She lives in a small rural village in the quirkiest part of the deep south with an engaging assortment of flora and fauna |
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