Josh

A year ago this April, my sister's 17 year old son Josh was diagnosed with stage 4 lymphoma. What began as a limp, while vacationing in Disney World, stemming from a pain in his right hip with no explainable cause, turned into full blown cancer within a few short weeks. What began as a visit to Josh's regular pediatrician turned into a visit to an orthopedist, then a neurologist and then a pediatric cancer specialist. X-Rays revealed lesions throughout his hips and his spine. Josh was put in a wheelchair. He was not allowed to bear his own weight. His bones were pronounced "moth eaten" from his countless tumors. All within the span of seven days.

The next week was full of MRI's, bone scans and pet scans. A port was put into his chest even though there was not yet a diagnosis. A bone marrow biopsy was performed. The good doctors of Connecticut Children's Medical Center pronounced it cancer. They just did not yet know what kind. They sent his test results to a major cancer center to determine the type. Josh waited. My sister waited. My parents flew in from Arizona and they waited. We were all full of dread and fear. We cried and hugged a lot.

Three weeks from the first doctor's visit a diagnosis was given- Stage Four Non-Hodgkin's Type Lymphoma. There was no way to wake up from this cruel nightmare. Josh's cancer was systemic. Although it was not in his lymph, it was seemingly every where else; hips, spine, ribs, lungs, bone marrow and even a spot on his heart. Josh's cancer was harsh and completely debilitating but we were told by some of the best pediatric oncologists in the world to hang in there,be tough, and have faith. It was curable. Maybe.

Ruthless and aggressive chemotherapy began. Last spring and summer, Josh had over 21 lumbar punctures (injections) into his spine. He immediately was withdrawn from his junior year of high school, bound to a wheel chair, and summoned to the cancer floor of a pediatric hospital. While his peers took their final exams at school, he lost all of his prized blond hair on his pillow, developed mouth sores that prevented him from speaking (forget about eating) and was nauseas most hours of the day.

We all felt that the cancer "sucked" and that it was totally unfair. We even wore pins that said "Cancer Sucks." Not Josh. Throughout the chemotherapy, Josh never complained or expressed feeling sorry for himself. Not once. Even when he couldn't close his mouth all the way because of sores that started in his mouth and ran throughout his entire digestive tract.. When Josh did speak about his illness, it was gentle and kind and usually something along the lines of "Don't worry about me. I can handle this. I am OK."

Josh is a sensitive kid and loves babies. This was made even more evident during this difficult time. He always had a smile and a high five for my Sadie. His two-year old twin siblings Danny and Maeve worship him and were like two puppies clamoring for his attention. My sister would often say that for Josh babies were the equivalent of "therapy dogs."

My sister showed me what it is to be a "Momma Warrior." Privately she was scared out of her mind and let out her own pain and vulnerability with those she was closest too but publicly she showed only strength. She did not fall apart. She got up every morning and did what she had to do. She watched her oldest child go through unbearable pain and face the unknown and she stayed right by his side- a calming presence. She did not waiver. If Josh could bear it then so would she.

Every day my sister had to entrust her two year old twins into the care of family and friends while she spent as many waking hours as possible by Josh's side. Between Josh's two parents, he was never left at the hospital alone. They slept under fluorescent lights, on blow-up mattresses and fell asleep each night to the random beeps of an IV filled with Methotrexate dripping its essential poison into Josh's veins.

It is one year later and Josh is completely cancer free. His port is being removed from his chest today. A simple operation. A major milestone. Our hearts are no longer broken. For now, our grief seems far away. Many times over the past year I have caught myself wondering what it would be like to face death. To look into the eyes of the tiger and not know if it was going to eat me.

Today my immediate difficulties seem small compared to our fear last April of losing our beloved Josh. These days I have anxiety about getting enough revenue to flow into our studios during a scary economy. I strive for balance and self-acceptance.

A valuable tool to help me deal with what is beyond my control is the teachings of one of my own yoga teachers, Yoganand (Michael Carroll.) He says that no matter who you are- how successful, educated, beautiful, thin, rich, popular, or healthy, that our biggest fear is our own death That is why we work so hard to define ourselves. To give meaning to our lives. Meaning could be a family, job, volunteer work, education, material things etc. We surround ourselves with our own importance and then we feel more secure in the fact that we cannot die. We are too busy or too important to die. We have too much going on for the business of dying.

During Josh's illness, my father said to me that we are all dying. "Each one of us is dying a little bit every day," I am a yoga teacher by profession and yoga is my spiritual path. My yoga mat can sometimes feel like a raft that I cannot let go of. Other times it feels like my magic carpet setting my heart and soul free to fly. My yoga mat is sometimes my prison and sometimes my church.

Today as I practice in the silence of early morning and take a moment to honor Josh's remarkable journey with cancer, it occurs to me once again that if we all could bare to face up to the fact that each one of us is going to die, acknowledge that each day we all get one step closer to our own death, that once we accept this, then we can know true peace of mind and obtain freedom from our own self imposed suffering. We can let go of our need to control everything and all of it. Thinking we are "separate" and special is a disease that leads to suffering. We learn instead that we are connected to everyone and everything. We are a part of all life has to offer. We are a part of all beauty and joy. We are also a part of all sadness and suffering. When we understand this union with everything than we can take in love and fully occupy our place in the world.

When I look back to last year and recall how my seventeen year old nephew faced something so difficult and scary as cancer with courage and compassion, I am reminded of what is important. To live in fear is to live a wasted life. The best we can do is to love ourselves and each other, take courage from that, and live each day with enthusiasm.