Re: Death postponed

[Guest guest]

Dear Family,

Phew. Wow. Gosh.

I’d like to set down some sort of account of what’s being happening to

this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,

dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleases

you.

Where can I start?

Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my doctor

(thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about some

lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewhere

that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin that

seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, I

asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

checked out, hadn’t we?

I didn’t think too much more about it until a few days later when a

letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal Marsden

Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I probably

haven’t got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I’d been at the

doctor’s she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes, so I’d

got a quick look at my notes. She’d written ‘Lymphoma?’ The leaflet

sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked up

Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss. (Well

haven’t I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?) Chances

of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I’m going to die. Well, that’s OK.

And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being, in

the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake. I

knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain, always

had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, but

that was its problem - and I was not it.

My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not to

tell him, because I didn’t want to disturb whatever process he was in.

I couldn’t tell anyone, because I couldn’t risk my kids or my brother

somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I was

going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty of

this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have fallen in

love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these thoughts

come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeing

herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly peaceful she

felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.

But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination really

kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my darling

girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe I’ll

never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won’t see all the films

my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will my

husband’s life be like without me? I know our daughters would look

after him, but I’m his best and closest friend - he’ll be dreadfully

lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the while

something in me was saying, don’t be such a fathead! So I looked at

myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted ‘SHUT

UP!’ And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

After that, I didn’t really look back. I felt completely calm about the

whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests the

hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I’d be perfectly all

right. Maybe I’m seriously ill. It really doesn’t matter, because

what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with some

dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favourite

county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they were

brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of not

knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I was

tasting every moment of life with a gourmet’s relish.

When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really still and

peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he had

been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he’d had for our future

(we’d been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the midst

of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on teaching,

etc. etc.), so I thought I’d better tell him. He was so sweet. He

listened quietly, and then he said, “I hope you won’t mind if I’m not

upset.” He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day. We

decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at least had

less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make the

very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an absolute

ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the theatre

or the cinema, talking, being together - and he’s been spoiling me

rotten.

I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital - bits

gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven into my

bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still have

to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not being

able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I had

to say nothing until I knew what the hospital’s verdict was, and until I

had talked to my family.

Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived home

after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper. I

felt I couldn’t just not tell her what had been happening, so I did my

best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I’m

fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked and

quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing encounter,

because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last summer

before she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. We

ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the past

just dissolved.

And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple of

years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire either

way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totally

calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name, and

in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of nervousness. I

just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

And it is perfect. Because guess what? I’m not about to die (not

unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or lymphoma,

but it’s the mildest possible kind - something called ‘chronic

lymphocitic leukemia’ which sounds awful, but just means that the cells

in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get a

check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn’t

turned into the aggressive kind, and I’m absolutely OK.

As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

But my God, it’s been an interesting and instructive experience. I

found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never wrote

it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid themselves,

almost before they got started.

One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I’m going to go on

living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it into

words.

Love to all you wonderful people. Ain’t life surprising?

xxx

Katharine

[Guest guest]

Katharine,

Your experience and telling of it touched me deeply. I think it

should be submitted someplace for publication.

What I realized is that death for me still sometimes feels like it

would be a welcome relief. I wouldn't have to deal with putting

myself out there in the world and making a living which is what my

darling mind loves to tell me I have to do. It will be good to be

with that.

I so relate to your grief about leaving your loved ones and their

subsequent grief. That's the hard part about dying for me - imagining

never seeing their dear forms in just quite this way again.

You talked about falling in love with life, with earth. Isn't that

the most wonderful feeling! I am always so grateful when it arises in

me. It makes the past years with all their suffering seem like just a

gift, to bring me to this.

I pray that when my moment comes to receive a real 'body' scare, I

will be able to meet it with such grace.

Much love,

Margaret

> Dear Family,

>

> Phew. Wow. Gosh.

>

> I'd like to set down some sort of account of what's being happening

to

> this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,

> dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleases

> you.

>

> Where can I start?

>

> Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my

doctor

> (thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about

some

> lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewhere

> that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin

that

> seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, I

> asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

> certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

> checked out, hadn't we?

>

> I didn't think too much more about it until a few days later when a

> letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal Marsden

> Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

> specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

>

> Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I

probably

> haven't got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I'd been at

the

> doctor's she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes,

so I'd

> got a quick look at my notes. She'd written `Lymphoma?' The

leaflet

> sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked up

> Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss.

(Well

> haven't I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?)

Chances

> of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

>

> First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I'm going to die. Well, that's

OK.

> And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being,

in

> the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake.

I

> knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain,

always

> had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, but

> that was its problem - and I was not it.

>

> My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not

to

> tell him, because I didn't want to disturb whatever process he was

in.

> I couldn't tell anyone, because I couldn't risk my kids or my

brother

> somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I was

> going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

>

> I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty of

> this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

> exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have

fallen in

> love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these

thoughts

> come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

> taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeing

> herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly

peaceful she

> felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.

>

> But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination really

> kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my

darling

> girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe

I'll

> never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won't see all the

films

> my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will

my

> husband's life be like without me? I know our daughters would look

> after him, but I'm his best and closest friend - he'll be dreadfully

> lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the while

> something in me was saying, don't be such a fathead! So I looked at

> myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted `SHUT

> UP!' And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

>

> After that, I didn't really look back. I felt completely calm

about the

> whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests the

> hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I'd be perfectly all

> right. Maybe I'm seriously ill. It really doesn't matter, because

> what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with

some

> dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favourite

> county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they

were

> brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of

not

> knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I was

> tasting every moment of life with a gourmet's relish.

>

> When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really

still and

> peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he

had

> been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he'd had for our

future

> (we'd been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the

midst

> of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on

teaching,

> etc. etc.), so I thought I'd better tell him. He was so sweet. He

> listened quietly, and then he said, " I hope you won't mind if I'm

not

> upset. " He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day.

We

> decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at

least had

> less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make the

> very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an

absolute

> ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the

theatre

> or the cinema, talking, being together - and he's been spoiling me

> rotten.

>

> I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital -

bits

> gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven

into my

> bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still

have

> to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not

being

> able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I

had

> to say nothing until I knew what the hospital's verdict was, and

until I

> had talked to my family.

>

> Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived

home

> after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper.

I

> felt I couldn't just not tell her what had been happening, so I did

my

> best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I'm

> fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked and

> quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing

encounter,

> because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last

summer

> before she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. We

> ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the

past

> just dissolved.

>

> And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

> VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple

of

> years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire either

> way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totally

> calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name,

and

> in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of

nervousness. I

> just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

>

> And it is perfect. Because guess what? I'm not about to die (not

> unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or

lymphoma,

> but it's the mildest possible kind - something called `chronic

> lymphocitic leukemia' which sounds awful, but just means that the

cells

> in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get a

> check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn't

> turned into the aggressive kind, and I'm absolutely OK.

>

> As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

>

> But my God, it's been an interesting and instructive experience. I

> found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never

wrote

> it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid

themselves,

> almost before they got started.

>

> One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I'm going to go

on

> living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

>

> Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it

into

> words.

>

> Love to all you wonderful people. Ain't life surprising?

>

> xxx

> Katharine

[Guest guest]

Dear

thank you for sharing this. I woke up early this morning, worrying that if I don't sleep 'properly' then I'll get ill, or wont be able to fundtin at full strenght. I got up to do some work on it - and reading your piece was just perfect!

well done, without the doing!! And I notice how I postpone life when I'm stuck in a story.

love

Suzanne

Re: Death postponed

Dear Family,Phew. Wow. Gosh.I’d like to set down some sort of account of what’s being happening tothis apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleasesyou.Where can I start?Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my doctor(thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about somelymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewherethat sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin thatseem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, Iasked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almostcertainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get mechecked out, hadn’t we?I didn’t think too much more about it until a few days later when aletter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal MarsdenHospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is aspecialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I probablyhaven’t got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I’d been at thedoctor’s she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes, so I’dgot a quick look at my notes. She’d written ‘Lymphoma?’ The leafletsent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked upLymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss. (Wellhaven’t I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?) Chancesof cure, it seemed, about 50/50.First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I’m going to die. Well, that’s OK.And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being, inthe moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake. Iknew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain, alwayshad been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, butthat was its problem - and I was not it.My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not totell him, because I didn’t want to disturb whatever process he was in.I couldn’t tell anyone, because I couldn’t risk my kids or my brothersomehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I wasgoing to have to face up to this thing on my own.I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty ofthis earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakinglyexquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have fallen inlove with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these thoughtscome up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeingherself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly peaceful shefelt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination reallykicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my darlinggirl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe I’llnever see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won’t see all the filmsmy beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will myhusband’s life be like without me? I know our daughters would lookafter him, but I’m his best and closest friend - he’ll be dreadfullylonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the whilesomething in me was saying, don’t be such a fathead! So I looked atmyself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted ‘SHUTUP!’ And I went to bed and slept like a baby.After that, I didn’t really look back. I felt completely calm about thewhole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests thehospital would do were going to show. Maybe I’d be perfectly allright. Maybe I’m seriously ill. It really doesn’t matter, becausewhat is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with somedear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favouritecounty of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they werebrilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of notknowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I wastasting every moment of life with a gourmet’s relish.When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really still andpeaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he hadbeen experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he’d had for our future(we’d been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the midstof a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on teaching,etc. etc.), so I thought I’d better tell him. He was so sweet. Helistened quietly, and then he said, “I hope you won’t mind if I’m notupset.” He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day. Wedecided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at least hadless time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make thevery most of the time we did have. So we have been having an absoluteball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the theatreor the cinema, talking, being together - and he’s been spoiling merotten.I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital - bitsgouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven into mybones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still haveto have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not beingable to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I hadto say nothing until I knew what the hospital’s verdict was, and until Ihad talked to my family.Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived homeafter four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper. Ifelt I couldn’t just not tell her what had been happening, so I did mybest to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I’mfine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked andquite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing encounter,because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last summerbefore she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. Weended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the pastjust dissolved.And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear theVERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple ofyears? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire eitherway. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totallycalmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name, andin we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of nervousness. Ijust stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.And it is perfect. Because guess what? I’m not about to die (notunless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or lymphoma,but it’s the mildest possible kind - something called ‘chroniclymphocitic leukemia’ which sounds awful, but just means that the cellsin my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get acheck-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn’tturned into the aggressive kind, and I’m absolutely OK.As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.But my God, it’s been an interesting and instructive experience. Ifound I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never wroteit down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid themselves,almost before they got started.One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I’m going to go onliving every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it intowords.Love to all you wonderful people. Ain’t life surprising?xxxKatharine

[Guest guest]

Dear ,

I have been having imaginings that I have some dread disease. It is now forming in my body. When I have dared to think of it, I've felt terrified, helpless, guilty.

I finally reached the point that I wanted to do the work on it. I'm sick... Is it true?? I don't know, but my thinking has me on my deathbed, true or not. How do I respond when I think that thought. That has been the most interesting. Pulling this thought, and it's cousin's, out into the light of day to investigate has been awesome and allows me to return to peace and to reality.

Then I read your letter and it was the sweetest reminder of the power of the work on our renegade thoughts. Thank you for sharing.

Love,

Wanda

Re: Death postponed

Dear Family,Phew. Wow. Gosh.I’d like to set down some sort of account of what’s being happening tothis apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleasesyou.Where can I start?Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my doctor(thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about somelymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewherethat sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin thatseem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, Iasked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almostcertainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get mechecked out, hadn’t we?I didn’t think too much more about it until a few days later when aletter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal MarsdenHospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is aspecialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I probablyhaven’t got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I’d been at thedoctor’s she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes, so I’dgot a quick look at my notes. She’d written ‘Lymphoma?’ The leafletsent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked upLymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss. (Wellhaven’t I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?) Chancesof cure, it seemed, about 50/50.First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I’m going to die. Well, that’s OK.And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being, inthe moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake. Iknew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain, alwayshad been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, butthat was its problem - and I was not it.My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not totell him, because I didn’t want to disturb whatever process he was in.I couldn’t tell anyone, because I couldn’t risk my kids or my brothersomehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I wasgoing to have to face up to this thing on my own.I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty ofthis earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakinglyexquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have fallen inlove with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these thoughtscome up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeingherself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly peaceful shefelt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination reallykicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my darlinggirl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe I’llnever see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won’t see all the filmsmy beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will myhusband’s life be like without me? I know our daughters would lookafter him, but I’m his best and closest friend - he’ll be dreadfullylonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the whilesomething in me was saying, don’t be such a fathead! So I looked atmyself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted ‘SHUTUP!’ And I went to bed and slept like a baby.After that, I didn’t really look back. I felt completely calm about thewhole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests thehospital would do were going to show. Maybe I’d be perfectly allright. Maybe I’m seriously ill. It really doesn’t matter, becausewhat is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with somedear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favouritecounty of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they werebrilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of notknowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I wastasting every moment of life with a gourmet’s relish.When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really still andpeaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he hadbeen experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he’d had for our future(we’d been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the midstof a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on teaching,etc. etc.), so I thought I’d better tell him. He was so sweet. Helistened quietly, and then he said, “I hope you won’t mind if I’m notupset.” He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day. Wedecided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at least hadless time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make thevery most of the time we did have. So we have been having an absoluteball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the theatreor the cinema, talking, being together - and he’s been spoiling merotten.I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital - bitsgouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven into mybones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still haveto have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not beingable to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I hadto say nothing until I knew what the hospital’s verdict was, and until Ihad talked to my family.Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived homeafter four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper. Ifelt I couldn’t just not tell her what had been happening, so I did mybest to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I’mfine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked andquite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing encounter,because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last summerbefore she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. Weended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the pastjust dissolved.And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear theVERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple ofyears? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire eitherway. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totallycalmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name, andin we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of nervousness. Ijust stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.And it is perfect. Because guess what? I’m not about to die (notunless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or lymphoma,but it’s the mildest possible kind - something called ‘chroniclymphocitic leukemia’ which sounds awful, but just means that the cellsin my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get acheck-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn’tturned into the aggressive kind, and I’m absolutely OK.As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.But my God, it’s been an interesting and instructive experience. Ifound I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never wroteit down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid themselves,almost before they got started.One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I’m going to go onliving every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it intowords.Love to all you wonderful people. Ain’t life surprising?xxxKatharine

[Guest guest]

Thank you Katharine for a beautiful story, another wonder example on

how The Work leads us to peace, even in the face of potential death.

The thoughts come up, we find ourselves fretting over possible

consequences, then we inquire into the stories going on in our head

and find our true reality.

And not only did you find peace yourself, but it looks like you

husband and daughter became closer to you in the process.

So thank you again for your wonderful story. I love it!

Your PreskitPal

> Dear Family,

>

> Phew. Wow. Gosh.

>

> I'd like to set down some sort of account of what's being happening

to

> this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,

> dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleases

> you.

>

> Where can I start?

>

> Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my

doctor

> (thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about

some

> lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewhere

> that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin

that

> seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, I

> asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

> certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

> checked out, hadn't we?

>

> I didn't think too much more about it until a few days later when a

> letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal Marsden

> Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

> specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

>

> Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I

probably

> haven't got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I'd been at

the

> doctor's she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes,

so I'd

> got a quick look at my notes. She'd written `Lymphoma?' The

leaflet

> sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked up

> Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss.

(Well

> haven't I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?)

Chances

> of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

>

> First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I'm going to die. Well, that's

OK.

> And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being,

in

> the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake.

I

> knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain,

always

> had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, but

> that was its problem - and I was not it.

>

> My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not

to

> tell him, because I didn't want to disturb whatever process he was

in.

> I couldn't tell anyone, because I couldn't risk my kids or my

brother

> somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I was

> going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

>

> I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty of

> this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

> exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have

fallen in

> love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these

thoughts

> come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

> taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeing

> herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly

peaceful she

> felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.

>

> But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination really

> kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my

darling

> girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe

I'll

> never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won't see all the

films

> my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will

my

> husband's life be like without me? I know our daughters would look

> after him, but I'm his best and closest friend - he'll be dreadfully

> lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the while

> something in me was saying, don't be such a fathead! So I looked at

> myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted `SHUT

> UP!' And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

>

> After that, I didn't really look back. I felt completely calm

about the

> whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests the

> hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I'd be perfectly all

> right. Maybe I'm seriously ill. It really doesn't matter, because

> what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with

some

> dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favourite

> county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they

were

> brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of

not

> knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I was

> tasting every moment of life with a gourmet's relish.

>

> When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really

still and

> peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he

had

> been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he'd had for our

future

> (we'd been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the

midst

> of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on

teaching,

> etc. etc.), so I thought I'd better tell him. He was so sweet. He

> listened quietly, and then he said, " I hope you won't mind if I'm

not

> upset. " He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day.

We

> decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at

least had

> less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make the

> very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an

absolute

> ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the

theatre

> or the cinema, talking, being together - and he's been spoiling me

> rotten.

>

> I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital -

bits

> gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven

into my

> bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still

have

> to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not

being

> able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I

had

> to say nothing until I knew what the hospital's verdict was, and

until I

> had talked to my family.

>

> Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived

home

> after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper.

I

> felt I couldn't just not tell her what had been happening, so I did

my

> best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I'm

> fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked and

> quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing

encounter,

> because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last

summer

> before she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. We

> ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the

past

> just dissolved.

>

> And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

> VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple

of

> years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire either

> way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totally

> calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name,

and

> in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of

nervousness. I

> just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

>

> And it is perfect. Because guess what? I'm not about to die (not

> unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or

lymphoma,

> but it's the mildest possible kind - something called `chronic

> lymphocitic leukemia' which sounds awful, but just means that the

cells

> in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get a

> check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn't

> turned into the aggressive kind, and I'm absolutely OK.

>

> As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

>

> But my God, it's been an interesting and instructive experience. I

> found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never

wrote

> it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid

themselves,

> almost before they got started.

>

> One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I'm going to go

on

> living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

>

> Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it

into

> words.

>

> Love to all you wonderful people. Ain't life surprising?

>

> xxx

> Katharine

[Guest guest]

>

dear katharine,

this was all inspiring for me to read and very interesting. thank you for

giving us the whole story.

reading it, i was noticing what parts were scary for ME to imagine. i could

relate a little to the not-being-afraid-of-death thing -- i've experienced

something of the sort twice in the last few months, in smaller ways -- around

9/11 ( & the terrorism/war fear continues but i seem to repress it (?) most of

the time now), and a couple of months ago around being told that i have a

strange

(to me) mycoplasm infection and looking it up on the web and really getting

scared by what some people think it can lead to, before i got the information i

needed.

in your story what scared me " more " (?) was, first, the thought of facing cancer

with no health insurance (i don't have any), and second, going through those

horrible tests (and without telling ANYONE -- but if it were me, i'm sure i'd

tell at least one person, if only over the phone).

you don't seem to have minded the tests much -- i wonder about that, was that

too just part of the great freedom you were/are experiencing around " dying " ? or

maybe they really weren't as bad as i imagine they would be.

and noticing my scary places was another gift of your story.

thank you.

love

martha

> Re: Death postponed

>

> Dear Family,

>

> Phew. Wow. Gosh.

>

> I'd like to set down some sort of account of what's being happening to

> this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel free,

> dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that pleases

> you.

>

> Where can I start?

>

> Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my doctor

> (thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about some

> lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and elsewhere

> that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin that

> seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter, I

> asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

> certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

> checked out, hadn't we?

>

> I didn't think too much more about it until a few days later when a

> letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal Marsden

> Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

> specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

>

> Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I probably

> haven't got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I'd been at the

> doctor's she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes, so I'd

> got a quick look at my notes. She'd written 'Lymphoma?' The leaflet

> sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked up

> Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss. (Well

> haven't I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?) Chances

> of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

>

> First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I'm going to die. Well, that's OK.

> And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just being, in

> the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No mistake. I

> knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain, always

> had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart, but

> that was its problem - and I was not it.

>

> My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided not to

> tell him, because I didn't want to disturb whatever process he was in.

> I couldn't tell anyone, because I couldn't risk my kids or my brother

> somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I was

> going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

>

> I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty of

> this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

> exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have fallen in

> love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these thoughts

> come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

> taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeing

> herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly peaceful she

> felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.

>

> But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination really

> kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my darling

> girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe I'll

> never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won't see all the films

> my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what will my

> husband's life be like without me? I know our daughters would look

> after him, but I'm his best and closest friend - he'll be dreadfully

> lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the while

> something in me was saying, don't be such a fathead! So I looked at

> myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and shouted 'SHUT

> UP!' And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

>

> After that, I didn't really look back. I felt completely calm about the

> whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests the

> hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I'd be perfectly all

> right. Maybe I'm seriously ill. It really doesn't matter, because

> what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with some

> dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favourite

> county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they were

> brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo of not

> knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I was

> tasting every moment of life with a gourmet's relish.

>

> When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really still and

> peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what he had

> been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he'd had for our future

> (we'd been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the midst

> of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on teaching,

> etc. etc.), so I thought I'd better tell him. He was so sweet. He

> listened quietly, and then he said, " I hope you won't mind if I'm not

> upset. " He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day. We

> decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at least had

> less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make the

> very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an absolute

> ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the theatre

> or the cinema, talking, being together - and he's been spoiling me

> rotten.

>

> I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital - bits

> gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven into my

> bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still have

> to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not being

> able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I had

> to say nothing until I knew what the hospital's verdict was, and until I

> had talked to my family.

>

> Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress, arrived home

> after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to supper. I

> felt I couldn't just not tell her what had been happening, so I did my

> best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that I'm

> fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked and

> quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing encounter,

> because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last summer

> before she went away, and it had never really been cleared away. We

> ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the past

> just dissolved.

>

> And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

> VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple of

> years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire either

> way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totally

> calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my name, and

> in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of nervousness. I

> just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

>

> And it is perfect. Because guess what? I'm not about to die (not

> unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or lymphoma,

> but it's the mildest possible kind - something called 'chronic

> lymphocitic leukemia' which sounds awful, but just means that the cells

> in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get a

> check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn't

> turned into the aggressive kind, and I'm absolutely OK.

>

> As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

>

> But my God, it's been an interesting and instructive experience. I

> found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never wrote

> it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid themselves,

> almost before they got started.

>

> One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I'm going to go on

> living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

>

> Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it into

> words.

>

> Love to all you wonderful people. Ain't life surprising?

>

> xxx

> Katharine

>

[Guest guest]

Dear Katharine, is it okai for you, if i set your

letter in our Dutch emailgroup " liefde-voor-dat-wat-is " ?

Michiel

> Dear Family,

>

> Phew. Wow. Gosh.

>

> I'd like to set down some sort of account of what's being

happening to

> this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel

free,

> dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that

pleases

> you.

>

> Where can I start?

>

> Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my

doctor

> (thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about

some

> lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and

elsewhere

> that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and groin

that

> seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it matter,

I

> asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

> certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

> checked out, hadn't we?

>

> I didn't think too much more about it until a few days later when a

> letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal

Marsden

> Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

> specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

>

> Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I

probably

> haven't got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I'd been

at the

> doctor's she had slipped out of the room for a couple of minutes,

so I'd

> got a quick look at my notes. She'd written `Lymphoma?' The

leaflet

> sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked up

> Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss.

(Well

> haven't I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?)

Chances

> of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

>

> First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I'm going to die. Well, that's

OK.

> And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just

being, in

> the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No

mistake. I

> knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain,

always

> had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart,

but

> that was its problem - and I was not it.

>

> My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided

not to

> tell him, because I didn't want to disturb whatever process he was

in.

> I couldn't tell anyone, because I couldn't risk my kids or my

brother

> somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I was

> going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

>

> I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the beauty

of

> this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

> exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have

fallen in

> love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these

thoughts

> come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

> taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of seeing

> herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly

peaceful she

> felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid of.

>

> But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination really

> kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my

darling

> girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And maybe

I'll

> never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won't see all the

films

> my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what

will my

> husband's life be like without me? I know our daughters would look

> after him, but I'm his best and closest friend - he'll be

dreadfully

> lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the

while

> something in me was saying, don't be such a fathead! So I looked

at

> myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and

shouted `SHUT

> UP!' And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

>

> After that, I didn't really look back. I felt completely calm

about the

> whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests the

> hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I'd be perfectly all

> right. Maybe I'm seriously ill. It really doesn't matter,

because

> what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days with

some

> dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my favourite

> county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and they

were

> brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo

of not

> knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I was

> tasting every moment of life with a gourmet's relish.

>

> When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really

still and

> peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what

he had

> been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he'd had for our

future

> (we'd been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in the

midst

> of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on

teaching,

> etc. etc.), so I thought I'd better tell him. He was so sweet. He

> listened quietly, and then he said, " I hope you won't mind if I'm

not

> upset. " He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that day.

We

> decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at

least had

> less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make

the

> very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an

absolute

> ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the

theatre

> or the cinema, talking, being together - and he's been spoiling me

> rotten.

>

> I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital -

bits

> gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven

into my

> bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I still

have

> to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not

being

> able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt I

had

> to say nothing until I knew what the hospital's verdict was, and

until I

> had talked to my family.

>

> Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress,

arrived home

> after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to

supper. I

> felt I couldn't just not tell her what had been happening, so I

did my

> best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that

I'm

> fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked and

> quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing

encounter,

> because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last

summer

> before she went away, and it had never really been cleared away.

We

> ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all the

past

> just dissolved.

>

> And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

> VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a couple

of

> years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire

either

> way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance totally

> calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my

name, and

> in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of

nervousness. I

> just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

>

> And it is perfect. Because guess what? I'm not about to die (not

> unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or

lymphoma,

> but it's the mildest possible kind - something called `chronic

> lymphocitic leukemia' which sounds awful, but just means that the

cells

> in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is get a

> check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it hasn't

> turned into the aggressive kind, and I'm absolutely OK.

>

> As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

>

> But my God, it's been an interesting and instructive experience. I

> found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I never

wrote

> it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid

themselves,

> almost before they got started.

>

> One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I'm going to go

on

> living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

>

> Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting it

into

> words.

>

> Love to all you wonderful people. Ain't life surprising?

>

> xxx

> Katharine

[Guest guest]

Dear Michiel,

Of course it's OK! I would be honoured.

Love

Katharine

[Guest guest]

Reply from Gerda (Dutch emailgroup " liefde-voor-dat-wat-is " )

Hi Michiel, wil je deze doorsturen alsjeblieft?

Dear ,

I felt the same emotions for two years ago, when I discovered some

things in my breast and when it takes 4 weeks to check that out (it

was nothing serious). I'm not afraid for death, never been, rather

curious, dying was just hard to imagine and the idea of leaving my

loved ones behind did hurt.

But after a while I realized that I should live on in them and they

in me and became calm. And yes, it makes you more aware of being

alive and how short life may be, it definitly does! A Dutch comedian

has written a song what says " today may be the last day of my life,

so let us dance, let us sing, let us make love! And if I've been

wrong, no problem at all, it has made my life so

beautifull " .

So enjoy.

Love,

Gerda

>

> > Dear Family,

> >

> > Phew. Wow. Gosh.

> >

> > I'd like to set down some sort of account of what's being

> happening to

> > this apparent individual over the past few weeks. Please feel

> free,

> > dear unknown friends, to skip this post - or read it if that

> pleases

> > you.

> >

> > Where can I start?

> >

> > Back at the end of March, I suppose, when I decided to go to my

> doctor

> > (thinking I was probably wasting her valuable time) to ask about

> some

> > lymph nodes (those little pea-like things in your neck and

> elsewhere

> > that sometimes get sore when you are unwell) in my neck and

groin

> that

> > seem to have been enlarged for about a year or so. Did it

matter,

> I

> > asked. Well, possibly, she said, but added that it was almost

> > certainly nothing to worry about at all, but we had better get me

> > checked out, hadn't we?

> >

> > I didn't think too much more about it until a few days later

when a

> > letter arrived summoning me to see a consultant at the Royal

> Marsden

> > Hospital. As most people in the UK know, the Royal Marsden is a

> > specialist cancer hospital. Oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod.

> >

> > Calm down. The doctor said it could be hundreds of things. I

> probably

> > haven't got cancer at all. But on the other hand while I'd been

> at the

> > doctor's she had slipped out of the room for a couple of

minutes,

> so I'd

> > got a quick look at my notes. She'd written `Lymphoma?' The

> leaflet

> > sent with the hospital letter said they had a website. I looked

up

> > Lymphoma. O crikey. Radio therapy. Chemotherapy. Hair loss.

> (Well

> > haven't I always had a secret hankering to be a Buddhist nun?)

> Chances

> > of cure, it seemed, about 50/50.

> >

> > First reaction. Ah. I see. OK. I'm going to die. Well,

that's

> OK.

> > And everything sort of came to a stop, and there I was, just

> being, in

> > the moment. And it was absolutely fine. No problem. No

> mistake. I

> > knew that I, myself, who I am, was absolutely as right as rain,

> always

> > had been, always would be. My body might just be falling apart,

> but

> > that was its problem - and I was not it.

> >

> > My husband had just gone away for a ten-day retreat. I decided

> not to

> > tell him, because I didn't want to disturb whatever process he

was

> in.

> > I couldn't tell anyone, because I couldn't risk my kids or my

> brother

> > somehow hearing about it by some roundabout route. I decided I

was

> > going to have to face up to this thing on my own.

> >

> > I went out for a walk. Everywhere I looked that day, the

beauty

> of

> > this earth was just extraordinary - stunningly, heartbreakingly

> > exquisite. The thought came in - how unfair, just when I have

> fallen in

> > love with life, to have to give it up. And I kept seeing these

> thoughts

> > come up, and asking myself, is it true? I remembered watching

>

> > taking someone who was afraid ofdeath through the process of

seeing

> > herself on her deathbed, and how the woman said how utterly

> peaceful she

> > felt. I knew - I just KNEW that death was nothing to be afraid

of.

> >

> > But then, later that evening, when I was tired, imagination

really

> > kicked in. How am I going to tell my daughters? How will my

> darling

> > girl who lives so far away in America be able to cope? And

maybe

> I'll

> > never see my two grandchildren grow up. And I won't see all

the

> films

> > my beloved younger daughter will make in the future. And what

> will my

> > husband's life be like without me? I know our daughters would

look

> > after him, but I'm his best and closest friend - he'll be

> dreadfully

> > lonely... And so on. Before long I was howling. But all the

> while

> > something in me was saying, don't be such a fathead! So I

looked

> at

> > myself in the mirror, all red-eyed and ridiculous, and

> shouted `SHUT

> > UP!' And I went to bed and slept like a baby.

> >

> > After that, I didn't really look back. I felt completely calm

> about the

> > whole thing. I saw clearly that I did not know what the tests

the

> > hospital would do were going to show. Maybe I'd be perfectly all

> > right. Maybe I'm seriously ill. It really doesn't matter,

> because

> > what is here, now, is perfect. I went to stay for a few days

with

> some

> > dear friends who had hired a cottage for a few days in my

favourite

> > county of Dorset. I decided to tell them the situation, and

they

> were

> > brilliant. And somehow I found that being in this strange limbo

> of not

> > knowing made everything wonderfully alive and vivid. I felt I

was

> > tasting every moment of life with a gourmet's relish.

> >

> > When my husband came back from his retreat, he was in a really

> still and

> > peaceful state. I sat and listened to him telling me about what

> he had

> > been experiencing. Then he got onto the ideas he'd had for our

> future

> > (we'd been on the point of trying to move house, and he is in

the

> midst

> > of a career change, and I have been wondering whether to go on

> teaching,

> > etc. etc.), so I thought I'd better tell him. He was so sweet.

He

> > listened quietly, and then he said, " I hope you won't mind if

I'm

> not

> > upset. " He has been 100 per cent supportive ever since that

day.

> We

> > decided that on the offchance that it might turn out that I at

> least had

> > less time to live than we had previously assumed, we should make

> the

> > very most of the time we did have. So we have been having an

> absolute

> > ball - going for long walks, going out to dinner, going to the

> theatre

> > or the cinema, talking, being together - and he's been spoiling

me

> > rotten.

> >

> > I had to have some unpleasant things done to me at the hospital -

> bits

> > gouged out and taken away for analysis, horrible needles driven

> into my

> > bones so they could extract bone marrow, blood tests, and I

still

> have

> > to have a CT scan - and it has been very difficult at work not

> being

> > able to tell anyone why I keep having half days off. But I felt

I

> had

> > to say nothing until I knew what the hospital's verdict was, and

> until I

> > had talked to my family.

> >

> > Last Sunday, my second daughter, the one who is an actress,

> arrived home

> > after four months in LA. She and her husband came over to

> supper. I

> > felt I couldn't just not tell her what had been happening, so I

> did my

> > best to convey to her how I felt about it - that it was OK, that

> I'm

> > fine, whatever the body may be up to. But she was very shocked

and

> > quite upset. And funnily enought it was a remarkably healing

> encounter,

> > because we had had a rather painful misunderstanding back last

> summer

> > before she went away, and it had never really been cleared

away.

> We

> > ended up with tremendous hugs and love all round, and with all

the

> past

> > just dissolved.

> >

> > And then, finally, yesterday we went to the hospital to hear the

> > VERDICT. Life and health? Life and ill health? Death in a

couple

> of

> > years? And it was so strange. I truly found I had no desire

> either

> > way. I just walked down the path to the hospital entrance

totally

> > calmly, like it was just any day of the week. They called my

> name, and

> > in we went. And I still felt not the faintest twinge of

> nervousness. I

> > just stayed right there in the present - and it was perfect.

> >

> > And it is perfect. Because guess what? I'm not about to die

(not

> > unless a bus runs over me, that is). And I do have cancer, or

> lymphoma,

> > but it's the mildest possible kind - something called `chronic

> > lymphocitic leukemia' which sounds awful, but just means that

the

> cells

> > in my lumph nodes are slightly abnormal. All I have to do is

get a

> > check-up and a blood test every three months to make sure it

hasn't

> > turned into the aggressive kind, and I'm absolutely OK.

> >

> > As I said: Phew. Wow. Gosh. I do feel a little breathless.

> >

> > But my God, it's been an interesting and instructive

experience. I

> > found I hardly had to do The Work on all this - certainly I

never

> wrote

> > it down - it just did itself. All the stories just undid

> themselves,

> > almost before they got started.

> >

> > One thing I have decided (and my husband agrees). I'm going to

go

> on

> > living every moment as if it is irreplaceably precious...

> >

> > Thanks for reading all this, if you did. It felt good putting

it

> into

> > words.

> >

> > Love to all you wonderful people. Ain't life surprising?

> >

> > xxx

> > Katharine