What's in a word?

Timing is important. It takes time to adjust to a major upset, such as being diagnosed with cancer. At some point, the frenzy starts to calm down. After some decisions are made, things will gradually fall into a routine. While I was undergoing chemotherapy, I did not write in a journal. However, I did write an article for The Breast Cancer Book of Strength and Courage. The first version I submitted was a rambling account that the editor rejected, and rightfully so. But rewriting it helped me put my experience into a coherent story that made sense to me, and to Judie Fertig Panneton, the long-suffering editor who compiled the anthology. I didn’t realize it at the time but I stayed with the problem until I achieved insight.

I wrote an account about shopping for a wig and losing my hair to chemotherapy. The woman who fitted my wig sent me away with more than new hair. She included a new attitude free of charge. She referred to the hair piece as "your new hair," adamantly refusing to call it a wig. Her careful description taught me a valuable lesson—the words we use to describe life’s obstacles makes them impossible or easier to overcome.

Then, when I looked in the mirror—whether I saw a redhead or bald dome—I was reminded of her kindness. The words I've used and written since then have helped keep me healthy, body and mind. It's an amazing thing to learn, that I can write about upheavals and make them better.

My goal is personal insight

Sometimes we get so far away from being healthy that we need help to recover. Doctors, nurses and counselors are there to help us to regain a state of balance. Their job is to evaluate the problems and provide the assistance of modern medicine; the patient’s job is to be a valuable partner in the healthcare team.

Life doesn’t usually hand out gift-wrapped sets of solutions; it brings up dilemmas that we are at a loss to solve. My own period of illness forced me to take the time to figure out what living a healthy lifestyle means to me. I needed quiet time away from the pressures of modern life to unravel that issue in ways that are personally meaningful. Sessions of 20 minutes using pencil and paper produced profound results. Defining obstacles and problems on paper had a way of making them less intimidating. Writing took some of the pressure off.

I don’t write every day because I don’t find a daily journal worthwhile. I write every month in the journaling support group when, along with the others in the session, I spend 20 to 30 minutes responding to a specific writing prompt. What I write during these group sessions often amazes me. I am the one who develops the sessions. Each month I spend several hours putting a program together, but when I sit down with the others, reactions come out of nowhere. I have learned to trust where the writing takes me and, as a result, things bubble up from below the surface. My first approach doesn’t always reflect what’s really bothering me, or what I need to pay attention to. My first instinct does not always provide the best solution. If the words don’t flow, I keep writing the same sentence over or start making a list. After a few minutes of doing this, the real issue pops up and the healing begins.

In between monthly sessions, if something keeps me awake at night I hold a private, impromptu session. The approach is simple. My ritual is one of place and mental image. I have a journaling chair that looks out on the backyard. The only time I sit in this particular chair is when I journal. It’s been around for about 25 years and is not particularly comfortable. It makes a good, middle-of-the-night place to sit, not somewhere to relax. Using the same place helps get at what’s keeping me awake. Once I put the problem on paper, it’s like I’ve written a prescription for a sleeping pill. I find it easier to rest.

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