from Breath/Wind/Spirit
by Rebecca Jaffarian
Well, she’s walking through the clouds
With a circus mind
That’s running wild.
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams
And fairytales,
That’s all she ever thinks about…
Riding the wind.
When I’m sad she comes to me
With a thousand smiles
She gives to me free.
It’s alright, she says
It’s alright
Take anything you want from me
Anything
Fly on, little wing.
I know that it is late April as I watch the rain beat against the window pane. It seems as if Spring will never arrive, just as none of this will ever end. I am somehow hoping to wake from this very horrible dream. No chance of that! The cancer is here to stay.
It’s hard to believe that only a short time ago my life seemed headed in the right direction. My position at the magazine kept me very busy. My life was full and I was happy, or at least learning to be for the first time in a very long time. But then without warning, life dealt me a strange deal.
A trip to the emergency room, a series of tests, x-rays, and more tests, and then came the diagnosis. Time stopped.
“She doesn’t get this, “ the doctors were thinking. “She just doesn’t get it.”
Actually, I just didn’t believe them. People in their thirties don’t get leukemia. There had been no prior illness. Perhaps I was working too hard, not taking care of myself. I was feeling tired and run down, dangerously so. But I let the situation go for too long, probably because of an unwillingness to face up to things.
I spent seven days in this very hospital with a roommate who also had cancer. Hospitals are definitely not places to get well. All night long the man across the hall screamed in pain. All day long nurses and doctors came in and out of the room to prick, poke, and prod for any number of reasons.
Those seven depressing days wore me down. I had to believe the doctors. I had leukemia.
Within a short period of time I began an intensive program of chemotherapy and what has become a serious fight for my life. It is in part a race against time, or so I’ve been told by my team of physicians. But I continued to deny the reality of the disease, hoping life would magically return to normal.
Amidst this darkness I can hear the birds singing, a glorious reminder of the beauty of Spring. A time for new beginnings when the earth is reawakened after a long and dark winter.
From my hospital bed I can see a group of school age children running to escape the sudden downpour. There are four of them, sharing one big bright red umbrella. I suddenly want to join them in their run. If only I were strong enough. I would run wildly through the park, stopping only to smell the fresh fragrant scent of Spring instead of this illness and death that surround me. I would take time to admire the beauty of the bright multi-colored tulips just beginning to blossom and to feel the gentle drops of rain against my face. But unlike the children, I would keep running, so far away. Someplace where the cancer could never find me.
*
She has fallen asleep now. As I watch her sleep I study her breathing and I fear the moment it ceases. There are tubes and machines, but she continues to breath freely. Even as she sleeps I am amazed at my friends strength of spirit and the unrelentless sweetness with which she sees the world.
She has been through the weeks of chemotherapy; the Daunomycin, the Cytosar, the blood transfusions, the endless nausea and vomiting and the bone marrow transplant. She is so frail and thin, my bald but beautiful friend. She looks so close to death it scares me. What would my life be without Ellere?
I have known Ellere for twenty-six of my thirty-one years. We have been best friends all of our lives or so it seems.
She has always been very smart, insightful and perceptive. In school she was rejected by the other kids just like me, but she never let it upset her like I did. I remember spending endless hours, just Ellere and I, playing out our imaginative stories which included an entire stable of horses, plus a couple of dinosaurs. All with names and personalities. We would steal lemons from the neighbors’ yards to make lemonade and sell it on the street corner.
All through high school I remember walking taller and feeling invincible because I had somebody who’d fight back to back with me. Throughout Girl Scouts, pierced ears, summers at the lake and college beaus, Ellere has been with me. We’ve been together through heartaches, happiness, men and misery. We’ve spent dateless Saturday evenings with Haagen Daz Chocolate fudge with Bogart and Bacall. We’ve shared films and plays together, travelled, spent holidays, traded opinions, secrets, borrowed each others clothes, laughed, cried, perpetrated revenge and talked till indecent hours.
Our friendship is so strong, it has become part of us; we’re in each other’s blood.
Ellere is like a candle that always burns. She is a constant source of energy and inspiration to me. Everyone who meets my friend is somehow touched by her. I can never conceive of her just not being, no matter what the doctors tell me.
My thoughts are startled when I hear Ellere’s voice. I go to comfort her, but quickly learn she is talking in her sleep. She is restless. As I touch her forehead, I feel she is burning up with fever and her voice is but a whisper as she calls out Michael’s name.
*
Ellere and I are gathering seashells along the shore. The water is warm as it brushes up against our barefeet. We are laughing and giggling. My friend looks so healthy, so full of life, like the old Ellere.
Along our journey I discover an oddly shaped Conch shell. I kneel to examine my finding with the hopes of adding the coveted treasure to my new collection. I notice Ellere’s crammed pail standing upright, abandoned by its owner. When I look up I can see Ellere, who has ventured out for a swim. She is waving to me, urging me to join her. I decline her offer. She has always enjoyed the water more than I. Instead I choose to continue my search, my head lowered to carefully scan the smooth white sand. When I can no longer hear the sound of Ellere’s laughter I look out into the distance where she is suddenly caught up in a wave. The force of the current pulls her farther away from the shore. I try to swim out to rescue her, but I am unable to move my legs. I am paralyzed. I stand there, hopelessly frozen, watching in fear as my friend battles the strength of the mighty ocean. I remind myself that Ellere has always been an excellent swimmer, but then suddenly I can no longer see her figure above the waves. I am calling her name, but only hear the echoes of my own voice, rolling off the ocean.
And one more time Juliet was awakened in the middle of the night to the street noises of Manhattan clanging below, and she knew sleep would not come again. It was always the same dream; Ellere, the water, the waves swallowing her up and Juliet being unable to rescue her. This was the nightmare she couldn’t escape from. Because in reality it was a symbol of Ellere’s struggle with cancer. Her friend was dying and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to prevent it.
Juliet fumbled with the swatches of fabric that were strewn across her large marble desk. The dark suedes and rich silks would be incorporated into her fall collection; if and when it was ever completed. She needn’t remind herself that the new designs were weeks behind schedule because the blank pages on her sketch pad did.
In a frustrated move, she tossed the materials aside and walked to the bank of windows overlooking Madison Avenue. There from the top floor of her showroom, Juliet stared down at the traffic filled streets and crowded sidewalks. It was a late Spring day with just enough warmth and sunshine without the humidity. Juliet found it both strange and frustrating that everything outside appeared normal, somehow untouched and unchanged.
The impatient taxi drivers were blasting their horns at the daring pedestrians who waved in and out of traffic. The elderly Oriental man with the missing teeth was busy selling his hot dogs on the corner and the hurried New Yorker’s were still in a hurry -- a constant rush, on their way to where Juliet wondered. Didn’t these people know that the only person that mattered to Juliet was giving up on life?
Juliet turned and surveyed her domain. Whenever she felt insecure or threatened she would total up the accoutrements of her success like a worshipper counting her beads. It was an immediate reaction, an instant reflex she was trying to abolish.
The walls of her office were papered over with prints and detailed sketches of Juliet’s favorite and most successful collections, including the very first one. The décor was a soft mauve accented with shades of gray. One wall featured a lighted curio that a held a collection of perfume bottles from Europe, Japan and Australia. Her desk was an antique of Italian ivory marble with a matching tapestry executive chair.
But what did any of these material possessions really matter? They were simply items, supposed symbols of success. A success that would not be if it weren’t for Ellere’s endless support. Over the years her friends faith seemed to make her work harder. Both of them had always believed the harder one worked, the luckier one became. It was Ellere who helped launch Juliet’s first collection when she gave her a five page full color layout in the giant Spring issue of the magazine. As a new editor, it was a major risk, but one Ellere didn’t hesitate in taking. Her readers raved about the collection of simple separates in sun-washed silks, linen pastels and floral chiffons. Soon after Bloomingdales, Macy’s, Lord & Taylor and Saks were carrying the Jewels line.
But what did it matter if Juliet had a once a month facial at Georgette Klingers or had her hair cut and styled by Alberto at La Coupe? And what did it matter that she dressed in Donna Karan suits with pumps by Maud Frizon or Charles Jourdan at her feet while lunching with the beautiful people at “21” where they drank Perrier from French crystal similar to the Limoges stemware she reserved for guests at her penthouse overlooking Central Park. What was the purpose—the meaning of it all?
Ellere had fought so hard for so long. Battling the leukemia had become a full time job for her. And what was the purpose of the chemotherapy, all those poisons running rampant through her already weakened body, the endless transfusions, and now the bone marrow transplant. What was it all for if Ellere was going to lose the battle in the end?
Juliet glanced at the photograph in the crystal frame that sat undisturbed in the corner of her cluttered desk. It was a picture of Ellere, who appeared more beautiful than ever, radiant and so full of life. The photograph was taken on the day her friend became Mrs. Michael Wilde. Starring at the picture, Juliet suddenly realized that Michael was the only one who could give Ellere back her will to live. If anyone had the power it was him and him alone.
*
The flight from LAX was a long and grueling six hours with a lay-over in Chicago, definitely not one of Michael’s favorite cities. It was almost midnight when the American Airlines jet finally touched down at La Guardia International Airport.
As he paced about the seemingly quiet terminal waiting to collect his luggage, Michael Wilde brushed a hand nervously through his thick wavy dark brown hair and then across his chin where he felt the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. He imagined he looked like hell. He had been unable to sleep or eat since the telephone call from Juliet.
He had just drifted asleep when the annoying ring of the telephone awakened him. He was more than surprised to hear the familiar voice at such a late hour. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 12:20 AM, making it 3:20 AM in New York.
They hadn’t spoken since Christmas and Michael immediately sensed something wasn’t right. There was an urgency in Juliet’s plea that he come to New York as soon as possible. She refused to give any more details other than the fact that Ellere was very ill.
And suddenly Michael remembered the last time he had seen Ellere. That Saturday afternoon at what once use to be their favorite café. She had looked pale and exceptionally thin. It had been awkward for them and Michael wondered if there wasn’t some truth in that familiar saying about one being able to forgive, but unable to forget. He could not forget himself, possibly because his entire life had been altered. The incident had caused so much pain to the one person who meant everything to him.
Michael regretted leaving New York and Ellere behind now, just like he had done so many other times during the past eighteen months. Why had he believed he’d he happier without her? Despite the protests, he knew she still loved him and he her. If only he hadn’t been so thoughtless, uncaring, inconsiderate, foolish, stupid—he stopped himself from continuing. He had come to realize there was no point in berating himself for the mistakes he made and a past he couldn’t change. All this had been covered during those intensive therapy sessions with his very expensive LA shrink.
It was raining hard when Michael left the American Airlines terminal. He glanced around at the familiar surroundings, the impressive Manhattan skyline twinkled in the distance. He took a deep breath and adjusted the collar of his tweed blazer. He’d almost forgotten how unpredictable New York weather could be.
God it was good to be home. He had missed New York. The hustle and bustle, Madison Avenue, Little Italy and even those modern day charlatans and their three card monte. He had been away too long, sometimes he worried the smog or the sunshine would seep into his brain and eventually cloud his vision like it had done to so many of his colleagues. LA may have the might Pacific, palms trees and the endless sun, but it had none of the charm of New York. It was his home.
Native New Yorker’s know that taxis are elusive during rainstorms. However, tonight was an exception. Business was slow and there was a convoy waiting outside La Guardia. Michael took this as a good sign since there was no reason for his tolerance level to be tested any further that evening.
He slid into the backseat of the yellow cab and mumbled off an address to the driver. He noticed the rain seemed to be getting heavier. Ellere liked the rain. It was during a rainstorm where they had met—that fateful day so many years ago outside Radio City Music Hall. She had just begun filming a commercial for one of his clients, a new perfume called “Kick”. Suddenly the clouds burst wide open and the rain came down in buckets, complete with thunder and lightening. Quite unusual weather for a mid-Autumn day in Manhattan. By the time Michael managed to reach her and secure her under his make-shift umbrella, she was drenched from head to toe.
From their very first introduction he sensed Ellere Kirkland had a way of looking at a man in the eyes, making him tremble and talk too much. Michael wanted to marry her that second. She gazed at him intently, not seductively or flirtatiously like all the others, but clearly and unafraid, until he felt lost in cool deep waters. He returned her gaze and something happened. Later, neither of them was quite sure what it was, they just knew it had happened.
There was something about Ellere Kirkland. Yes, her beauty intrigued him, but there was something more. Her spirit—that’s what really captivated him. She was quiet and gentle, yet strong and deep, not shallow like so many of those other models he had become accustomed to dating.
Ellere had glided gracefully into his life, his heart and into his very soul. And suddenly the air did breath her scent and the carefree magic innocence of youth was everywhere. It was almost as if the world was at peace.
It had happened so long ago. Things were simple then. Michael smiled at himself, realizing there was nothing simple about his Ellere and there never had been. Water is always still and deep when nothing is allowed to disturb it.
As they stood stuck in traffic on the Triboro Bridge, Michael watched his Hispanic driver humming along to the Spanish music playing loudly on the radio. His hand tapping at the steering wheel matching the rhythm of the music, as the meter ticked away. Michael was relieved to not have to engage in trivial conversation.
Their drive took them past Macy’s and Lord & Taylor’s and Michael regretted being away during the holiday season to see the impressive Christmas windows both the retail giants proudly sponsored every year. It always seemed to be a quiet competition that both he and Ellere enjoyed viewing.
Moments later the cab came to a stop at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 57th and the impressive Trump Tower. Michael was easily irritated. This was not the address he had given the driver and it certainly wasn’t the home of the Parker Meridien.
“But sir, this is Fifth and 57th. You said Fifth and 57th!” the driver exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the street sign.
“I said West 57th.” Michael insisted.
The driver mumbled something in his native tongue before finally pulling away from the curb.
Michael glanced over his shoulder and wondered if he had mistakenly given that address. It was a location with a significant meaning. East 57th had been his and Ellere’s home. The three bedroom penthouse atop the prestigious Trump Tower had cost a small fortune. But it offered the best views of the city and was close to work for both of them. It was their first major purchase together as a married couple and the memories that existed within the walls of that space were many.
Michael was saddened when Ellere suggested they sell it upon their separation. Up until that moment he had always hoped for a reconciliation. When it didn’t come, the city he once loved suddenly got to be too much for him.
Not being able to be with Ellere was killing him and he soon realized it was time to let go. It wasn’t easy for him to let her go. It tore him apart, but he hid the pain of his grief beneath the frozen features of Scorpion detachment. Two could play the same game. After all, they did share the same November birthday.
When a position at the well-known Ogilvy & Mather Agency became available, Michael was their first choice candidate. He was growing tired of the dreary New York weather and jumped at the chance to head West.
At first, the sheer excitement and creative challenge of his new position had him fooled into believing he was getting over Ellere. The combination of hard work and long hours had him worried he was turning into a carbon copy of his father. Something Michael swore would never happen.
On one hand, he loved and admired him. Leonard Wilde was a loving husband and a devoted father. He was also a driven, work-obsessed executive who kept his emotions well hidden. Sometimes he was difficult to be around because he was so demanding, always striving to be in control. Michael remembered him as a man who tried to do too many things at a time. He was constantly under pressure and never knew how to relax. He lived by his clocks and calendars with his mind never in the present but always on the next task. Leonard Wilde was a man who played to win. It was no surprise when he died of heart failure at the age of 54.
The first few weeks in LA were spent discovering the city and adjusting to its’ pretentiousness, which is so obvious that no one can take it seriously. It was a city populated with people who wager their lives on their dreams and then try to make them come true in the most powerful and cut-throat industry in the world. These people know what they want and do what they must to get it.
And just when Michael was sure he was over Ellere, the smallest incident would trigger a flood of uncontrollable memories. Like the handsome couple strolling hand-in-hand at the Farmer’s Market; or the stolen kiss between a husband and wife who sharing an elevator ride with him. Everywhere he looked people were celebrating love. And there he was, three thousand miles away, picking up the pieces of his life and feeling very empty during the process.
Oh how he missed the rare occasions when he and Ellere would spend the entire day in bed. Their lovemaking was all consuming, concentrated and at certain times, both magical and memorable. It was deep beyond deep.
All in all, one of the loneliest moments by far, which should have been one of his happiest, was the evening he won the prestigious Clio award for the Europa Air campaign. Michael remembered standing on that stage, making his acceptance speech, surrounded by his fellow peers and everyone who was anyone in the advertising industry, but still feeling totally alone.
It was the same for him now, as he battled with another sleepless night. Being home in the city, no longer separated by miles was no solace to him. Only when he could see her and hold her would he be able to rest.
*
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
Not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somehere.
They’re in each other all along.
*
When I first saw Michael Wilde I felt a lurch, a leap and then kind of an internal sigh, an “at last, where have you been for so long?” There was an unexplainable deep sense of recognition and an almost relaxed excitement. It also felt scary as hell. Michael was like everyone I’d ever been in love with before in some small way and then himself, more so.
*
The reality of cancer is that no one for sure knows whether you’ll get well and stay well. Fighting cancer and staying cancer free is a lifelong process.
This getting well business is a job, just like any other job. It has it’s ups and downs. But I know that if I stop fighting or hoping, even for a split second, I will die.
I have decided that I’m not ready to die not when I was just learning to live. There’s still so much to do, so many unfinished projects.
*
I can remember clearly, as if it were yestarday, the precise time I realized I was in love with Michael and when I knew he was the one I wanted to marry.
It was a cool foggy evening, Michael and I had just come out of this awful movie and we were walking. We couldn’t find the car. It was just starting to get dark and we were both laughing about it, but we were getting tired. All of a sudden I leaned on this car and looked at him and I didn’t see him. I just heard him, like a pressure and a sound inside of me, in a place so deep I didn’t think anyone could ever reach. And I knew I could listen to that sound for the rest of my life.
*
The challenge of chemotherapy, the nausea and the fatigue of the cells killing off process is hard to meet. It’s designed to kill off a part of the person, and if we let it, it will kill off our spirit, too. To me, it seemed very much like life itself only more so: a great challenge and a great adventure.
Part of my adventure involved taking back some of the power this illness had so ruthlessly stolen from me. To me, knowledge is power. The majority of my work as a magazine editor involved reading. I had always been an avid reader. I would read anything and everything that crossed my path from the cruelty of animal testing to the illegal trading on Wall Street. But suddenly, I became obsessed with cancer. I couldn’t get enough information.
During my intensive research I learned that most diseases stem from not one, but a long chain of contributing factors which intensify and multiply over a period of months or years. Our behavior, feelings, stress levels, relationships, conflicts and beliefs contribute to our overall susceptibility to disease. In essence, everything about our lives affects our health.
Cancer occurs when the immune system; the white blood cells, ceases to function properly and stops fighting cancer cells.
We all have a certain amount of energy in a lifetime and we get in trouble when we use it up too quickly. When that happens, our bodies can no longer resist even the mildest stress. At this point, our energy is used up, we break down. Completely drained of all energy, the body ceases to defend itself. The results: exhaustion and fatigue.
I had depleted my system, using up more and more from my quota. Until finally I was using energy constantly, ignoring my need to replenish and the messages my body was sending me.
Working too hard, not taking care of myself. I was feeling tired and run down, dangerously so. But I let the situation go for too long, probably because of an unwillingness to face up to things.
I was also learning how my behavior may have contributed to my illness: And how this behavior may have resulted from unconscious motives ruling my life.
There’s no denying the fact that I demand perfection of myself. I work very hard to be the best. The best daughter, the best writer, the most productive and dependable employee, the perfect wife.
It was never the money. I wasn’t interested in money as an end point. I was intoxicated by the success itself. As a definer of my being and a justification for my earthly presence. The money was just a way of keeping score.
Eventually my success became my problem. The more successful I was, the more driven I became. And then when I married Michael, I was still driven and critical, but just a little bit more vulnerable.
*
Marriage itself is a brush with eternity. That moment you stand there and promise to love until death, to plan to have a new generation together, you think of your own death,and what will come after.
*
Take my days
And fill them softly
With your smiles…
Take my nights
And warm them gently
With your kisses…
Take my love
And hold it closely
To your heart…
And I will give you
All that’s mine to give.
*
I have to make the decision that I am going to get well. And I try to look ahead to a very appealing future, picturing myself in it. I think about my life going in the direction I want it to go. Just the idea and the universe helping me, helping my life. I don’t have to figure it out. I only have to do what makes sense to me. The wave doesn’t sit around trying to figure out which is the shore.
I remember walking along the beach last fall. The morning mist was in and filled the air with a fine drizzle that coated my skin and soaked my hair. The surging power of the ocean, wave after wave, pounding the beach, reminded me of the power of the universe.
There was a force stronger than myself, stronger than the minute cells waging a war in me. I wanted to tap into the mighty Atlantic to absorb the ocean’s energy and power, to make it part of me.
I took to the water’s edge toward that never-receding point where the sea merges with the shore and came upon a seagull dying. The bird lay on its side, scratching its beak frantically in the gritty sand. Lifting its head from side to side, the bird pecked the air fearfully, craving escape.
Terrified and hypnotized, I watched wondering what to do. Saving the bird, defending life and cheating death, seemed essential. Then I realized I was there to observe, not act. Sitting far enough from the bird to keep from disturbing it, I expected a long wait. Death must take time. It must be an immense and monumental process, requiring many hours.
The seagull circled its’ long neck round and round several times, hid its head under a wing, drew three long breaths -- and died.
Death was so startingly simple, the surrendering a natural culmination to life. Surrender like that, appropriate and timely, is not capitulation. It’s an acceptance, an allowance. The seagull's final peace made a powerful statement.
Burying the beautiful creature, I remembered my own fight for life, my own refusal to capitulate, and my own surrender. Now, at 31, I have learned self-trust.
*
My dearest Michael,
Sleeping…
I see your face
In all my dreams,
Filling my heart
With happiness…
Awakening…
I realize that yours is the face
I want to see
Everyday for the rest
Of my life.
*
Along my journey to wellness I am learning to become more psychologically aware of my feelings, and the various ways cancer has impacted my life.
What I was learning was that feelings don’t just disappear. Whether negative or positive, if you try to ignore them or pretend they aren’t there, they tend to become more oppressive. To deal with my feelings more effectively I needed to confront and acknowledge them. I had become too expert at shutting down feelings whenever they became uncomfortable. I was learning to stay in touch with my feelings all the time and not to let myself daydream or drift into nothingness when I worried. It was becoming clear to me now that certain lifelong behavior and convictions had to die so I could survive.
*
Facing my own mortality for the first time is like losing one’s innocence. There are so many unanswered questions. What is death? Does death mean the end of consciousness? Is there such a thing as a soul? An after life? Is there another level of consciousness? Is there a God?
I am developing my own faith now. And it’s faith, it isn’t theory of someone else. I don’t truly understand God’s way and why many things happen, but I believe God is greater than I am and God is love.
It’s a sort of a letting go and trusting process. There are things we don’t understand, but somewhere it makes sense. I am really trying to understand faith and trust. I am still always groping to understand it more clearly as I try to work it out, it is something I’m growing into.
Surrendering to the power of death is a necessary part of living. Not until you accept death -- join life and death into a unity -- do you begin to get well.
