Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Knowing What Your Rope Is

By Myra Shostak

Shortly after learning I had a rare type of breast cancer, one that

would

require a year of aggressive treatment, I decided to cut back on some of my

activities.

I stopped by my son's classroom to explain to his teacher why I would

no

longer be coming to help every Monday morning. When I became upset as I

told

her about my diagnosis and the long months of treatment that lay ahead, she

took

both my hands, held them tightly, and told me this story about her friend

Ann.

One summer, Ann decided to go river rafting. Everyone signed up for

the

trip had to learn the basic procedures and safety measures. As the

instructor

outlined the dangers, Ann became scared. What if her raft capsized or was

dashed against the rocks? What if she were thrown into the rapidly churning

water and carried downstream before anyone could rescue her?

The instructor had one answer to all of Ann's anxious questions: " There

is

a rope that is attached to the perimeter of the raft. Whatever happens,

hold on

to that rope. Never let go. Just hold on. " And do you know what? An

unexpected storm came up, and Ann's raft did capsize, but she remembered her

instructor's words. She held on to that rope, and she survived.

I stared at my friend, wondering what this story had to do with me.

" Know

what your rope is, Myra, " she counseled. " And hold on. Whatever it is.

Through whatever happens. Just keep holding on. "

She gave me a hug and returned to her classroom, leaving me to ponder

her

words. What was my rope? What would I hold on to in the days ahead? What

would help me survive my perilous journey through the unknown world of

chemotherapy, radiation and surgery? It didn't take me long to find the

answer.

My rope would be the love of my family and friends, who I knew would support

me

through whatever lay ahead.

As my treatment progressed, that rope was often at hand. It was there

during my chemotherapy when my husband said, " Lean on me. I'll be here to

give

you strength. If you can't go on, I'll carry you until you're strong enough

to

continue on your own. "

It was there the day of my surgery when a dear friend hung a silk carp,

the

Japanese symbol of courage, in my hospital room. It was there on Mother's

Day

when, unsure of what lay ahead, my daughter gave me an opal, the symbol of

hope.

And it was there one night after I had lost

my hair, when I found fifty cents under my pillow with a note from the " hair

fairy. "

There were times during the year when I didn't get along with the

people

whose closeness and support I so desperately needed. I argued with my

children

about their refusal to attend a support group for families dealing with

cancer.

I fought with my husband over the handling of certain household matters.

In the past, I had been able to handle disagreements such as these

easily,

but at this particular time, I couldn't tolerate the feelings of loneliness

and

isolation that followed arguments. On these occasions, it felt as though

the

rope was slipping out of my hands and I feared the dark waters would engulf

me.

These were the most frightening days of all, because I knew I couldn't make

it

through a year of treatment alone. The love and laughter my family and

friends

gave me were just as essential to my survival as the chemotherapy and

radiation

treatments.

I discovered that Aristotle was right when he said, " Friendship is a

thing

most necessary to life, since without friends, no one would choose to live,

though possessed of all other advantages. "

And so throughout the entire year, I held on. I held on when it

appeared

as though my tumor wasn't shrinking as it was supposed to in response to the

chemotherapy. I held on when a bone scan revealed a dark spot on a rib that

looked suspiciously like bone cancer. I held on as though my life depended

on

it, because it did.

I survived my journey. My raft, although battered by storms and raging

currents, is still afloat. I often hear my friend's words echoing in my

mind:

" Know what your rope is, Myra. " I do, and I'm still holding on.