The Gratitude Experiment

As someone who has always been wildly and continuously healthy, I decided that my illness is God's way of giving me the gift of something brand new. Once I started thinking about all of this as a gift, it got me thinking about all the other gifts that have come my way in recent weeks. And thus the gratitude experiment was born.

Sometime each day, especially when it is a day that I feel like crap, I am trying to think of five or six things that I am especially grateful for. There are lots of them – from the fact that my chemo is working to the wonderful dinner someone brought me last night to my beautiful children and the lovely cards and messages that are coming my way. Or the energy that helped me write a new chapter, an incredible sunset, the gentle neck massage I got from my husband and the gorgeous flowers I received from a dear friend. The gifts are everywhere.

In the past, I have tried to remember to be grateful for the things I've been given in my regular life, but most of the time I'm just caught up in the muck of life. So right now, in the interest of doing something new, I am doing the gratitude experiment. I find that there is something incredible about methodically cataloging the big and small gifts received each and every day. My mind gets clear and energetic and I feel especially, vividly alive.

So here's a little gift that I would like to give back to you, in the hope that you won't have to learn this particular lesson in the way that I am. Try the gratitude experiment. See if it works for you. Maybe you could get something out of all this without having to have the cancer - wouldn't that be fabulous? Or rather one more thing to be grateful for?

Curbing My Competitive Instincts

I am a very competitive person. I've learned how to tame it a little bit - so while I don't try to outcook every other dish at the annual teacher luncheon, I can't help taking a furtive look to see how I stack up. (The result of too many hours spent watching Iron Chef.)

But what can I say - I am a younger sister. And one of the curses of being the second child is that you're always trying to do what the older person can do - whether it's walking, crossing the street without an adult, staying up late, or riding your bike to school. The list goes and on and on and on. Trying to do what she can do is programmed into you from the earliest days. First you just want to be like her, then you want to be even better.

It didn't help that I got born into a striving family. I can't remember a time when I didn't know that I would go to college, for example. And it had to be a good one. We heard a lot about the places we could go and the places my Dad wouldn't pay for. Once I actually applied, and really wanted to go to Duke (an approved school) my college counselor told me that out of all the students in my class applying (something like 15) I was the one she was sure wouldn't get in. That made me desperate to go. Luckily, as it turned out, I was one of two who did get in. I was pumped.

So now it's a million years later and I have cancer. I am finding my old competitive thing trying to raise its ugly head. But not in the way you think. It's so insidious. For example, my mother had a very serious stage 3 breast cancer 15 years ago. My instinct would have me be better than her. But I am learning to be very careful in my thinking. It would be very good for her to have the worst breast cancer in my family. She can win. I don't need to out-cancer her.

As they're sharing success stories, people tell me about women they know who have been sick and the size of their tumors. I try to remember that I don't need to have the biggest tumor in the room. Instead, I think about how lucky I am to have a very popular cancer - so many women have it and get cured - and I want to swim in those hundreds of thousands of women who are boringly fine years and years later. I don't want any fancy complications or interesting new diagnoses. I don't want anything rare. Give me an ordinary, run of the mill, easy to get over, lots of research on, easy to remove, tiny cancer. Save that competitive thing for a bake sale. I know, it's still not pretty, but at least no one's health is at stake.

And by the way, years later, I found a copy of my college application and re-read the essays I wrote at 17. There I discovered the secret of my admission. To the question "what will you add to our community," I found that I had the nerve to write that the school would already be filled by incredibly smart, high-achieving brains. So what they needed was somebody interesting to fill out the bottom half of the class - me. I'm guessing that after they fell off their chairs laughing, they said "sure, we'll take her."