Hineni

I was ten years old when I walked down the gray corridors of the hospital to visit my mother, as she sat in a wheelchair, wrapped in a pale blue hospital gown. Three days earlier she had found a lump in her breast, had it biopsied, and the doctors performed a mastectomy on the spot. She was forty-four.  

I was thirty-five years old when I sat next to my mother as she got a phone call informing her that a new cancer had been found in her other breast. They gave her options this time, but she insisted on another mastectomy.

I was fifty-seven years old when I received my own call with that news a few weeks ago, while my 24 year old daughter sat next to me, and we held each other, crying. Despite the other options available, given my family history I am choosing to have a bi-lateral mastectomy in a few weeks. My 92 year-old mother is still with us. I may have inherited some cancer producing genes from her but I hope I inherited her longevity genes as well.

One might assume that I have always feared receiving that phone call; that I would have felt it was inevitable that I would get cancer. That is not the case. My sister and I always knew it was a possibility but didn’t really feel any more at risk than anyone else. We were vigilant about mammograms and never used any kinds of hormones, as we were warned from early on that these would increase our risk. But living in fear? Never.

I have pondered that in recent days: why wasn’t I afraid? The answer is clear. I didn’t live in fear because my mother wasn’t always sick. She had cancer. She treated it and then she just lived. We moved to Portugal for 5 years. She watched her three children grow up. She lived her life. When it happened again, she treated it and kept living. Whatever dark fears she and my father harbored – and it doesn’t take too much effort to imagine what they may have been – didn’t overshadow the brightness of our lives. I am so grateful for that.

That doesn’t change the fear I feel now. I don’t need to list all my fears: use your imagination and you will no doubt cover most of them. However, after the first rush of emotion on hearing the diagnosis, something interesting happened. I looked at Fear head on and it just settled down and took its place beside everything else going on inside me. And there is a lot going on: anger for one thing, gratitude for another; the need to learn as much as I can, and the desire to enjoy every minute;  the deep recognition that to really take care of myself I will have to make some changes in my life; the belief that it is ok to let go, to make room for something new; the determination to walk this path with an open heart; the clarity that moving through this and moving forward is all I can do.

At my sister’s suggestion I read a story in Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart in which a Buddhist leader comes across a snarling, vicious dog. When the dog comes charging at them, everyone in his group runs away, but the leader runs towards the dog as fast as he can. The dog cowers back and stops his attack. Like that dog, my fear lost its power when I turned to face it. It hasn’t gone away. I feel we will just live together from now on. Perhaps that is how my mother and father managed to keep fear from dominating our family over the years: it just trotted along beside them, tamed, sometimes frisky, sometimes snarling, but always on a leash.

I have faced some very painful challenges over the years. Sometimes I wonder if the Universe is trying to break me, that if I just give up and let it crush me, these things will stop. Yet with each blow to my heart, I have risen up, stronger, with gifts that I carry forward in my life; gifts that serve me well, though I never wanted them; gifts that allow me to find joy again and carry on.

The timing of this newest challenge is meaningful to me. I am Jewish and I got the news right before the High Holy days. This is the time of year when we reflect on the past year and atone for ways we have strayed from being the people we want to be. It is a time to make amends for our transgressions against others and against G-d, as well as pray for mercy and kindness in the year ahead. It is a profound process, because in looking both to ourselves and to G-d we recognize that we are at the mercy of something greater than ourselves, and yet we do have some power: the power of our own actions. We have the ability and the choice to show up, to be present with whatever Life, G-d, the Universe, hands out. How we respond when we are called is the only form of expression we have, the only way to grow and be who we aspire to be. It is humbling and frightening to know that we can control so little in life, and yet it is the work of a lifetime to embrace that fact.

Other than the basic prayers, the only Hebrew words I know are “Hineni,” pronounced Hee-Nay-Nee. They mean “Here I Am.” In the Torah, Abraham and Moses both say those words when G-d calls them to do what seems to be too much to ask. They show up, they stand before G-d and say “Hineni.” My husband taught them to me when we first fell in love. Such simple words, they have always been a special lighthearted communication between us, but he has shown me their deeper meaning throughout the harder moments of our life together. What could be more powerful for someone feeling lost than to hear a voice in the darkness saying, “here I am?” What greater gift can one offer someone they love than to say “here I am” when they are called to lift a heavy burden. Now my husband has shown up yet again, turning to face and run toward the snarling dog, as have my children, my family, my friends, and even strangers willing to help.

I am not alone.

So, with that grace, with that gift, humbled, I hear my name called and I answer:

“Hineni, G-d, Hineni.”