Dancing with Cancer

My mom lived with cancer for almost 10 years, and it wasn’t until after she passed away late January of this year that I learned she actually preferred to call it “dancing with cancer.” My dad and I were working on a post for social media to announce her passing, and as we were writing it, he corrected me, saying, “no, she didn’t just live with cancer, she danced.”

This is a metaphor, of course. My mother, Joanne Pyl, was not a dancer. She was a chef, a nurturer, an introvert, a wife, a mom to five, grandma to five, and the strongest person I have ever met, but I don’t think I once saw her dance. However, ‘dancing’ is a perfect way to describe her attitude through her long cancer journey. She didn’t just live with two types of breast cancer and stage 4 colon cancer that had metastasized in her lungs – and near the end, her brain and bones – but she did so gracefully and joyously like a skilled and practiced dancer, with quiet strength and poise.

I can’t possibly list all the life lessons my mother taught me; I’m sure this is in fact an impossibility for most people. Each and every action, word, and piece of advice has shaped who I am and how I view life, from the little things – like how she taught me that cutting pizza with scissors is so much easier than using a pizza cutter, and a little water in the middle of the night can put any restless child back to sleep - to the big things – such as how her example taught me that serving others is sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself. While I could go on and on for pages about all the ways my mother impacted me throughout my life, my current state of mind from the past few months – one of grief and disbelief – leaves me currently more impacted by the lessons she taught me in the weeks and days leading up to and following her death than I do by the ones that span across my lifetime. I am left forever changed by her display of strength, perseverance, presence, impact on others, perspective, and attitude.

Just as a dancer will glide fluidly across the dance floor with movements that appear so natural and graceful, my mother’s strength hid beneath the surface, making her joy and smiles seem effortless, though inside she was fighting a fierce battle. I stayed with her in the weeks leading up to her death as a caretaker (approved by her hospice team), because she was getting increasingly weaker and needed full-time care which my father was not able to handle on his own. If you saw her, you wouldn’t have known her bones were riddled with cancer unless you saw the tell-tale cancer equipment sprinkled around the apartment (a walker, toilet seat attachment, medication, hydration, end of life pain medications, a list of important phone numbers, and – eventually – a hospital bed), or watched her struggle slowly to get around the room. I’ve heard that having cancer spread to your bones is incredibly painful and debilitating, but my mother’s warm, sweet demeanor was extremely deceiving, leaving me thinking, “are they sure this is really the end?” Even in her last week when she was sleeping almost constantly and could no longer swallow, she would beam with joy and pride when she had enough energy to open her eyes and would see my one-year-old daughter playing on the carpet. I never heard a complaint in those weeks I spent with her and my father, and very few throughout the course of her life. Her poise and strength as she fought an invisible and brutal force was heartening and inspiring, and I hope to be able to emulate that some day.

Dancers have to persevere through hours of practice, corrections from instructors, and falls every week to perfect their craft; my unwavering, stubborn, amazing mom persevered through 107 chemo treatments, 21 rounds of radiation, a tumor removal, and a double mastectomy. I am inspired and amazed by her determination to fight, even after the doctors told us she likely only had months to live. Two weeks before taking her final breath, she made the trip to the hospital through pain and fatigue five consecutive days in a row to receive radiation on her brain. Mom was a woman of faith, and she firmly believed she was going to a marvelous, amazing place after her dance was over, but she fought and persevered anyways, to put off leaving those she loved for as long as possible. She fought for us, not for herself, and I am so grateful for her will to press on.

As Mom’s energy faded away towards the end and she didn’t have it in her to open her eyes anymore or speak, she still was able to teach me something through her silence. There was much debate on whether she could hear us speaking or not, and whether she was really even conscious or able to comprehend much anymore, as we knew the cancer was in her brain. I clung to the words of the health professionals, which was that hearing is typically the last thing to go. So, I spoke to her, telling her stories, describing the weather, and narrating what the baby was doing. I offered her water to wet her lips and rubbed lotion on her arms and legs, as I knew that radiation made her skin dry and itchy. Just like a dancer, she didn’t need words to communicate; she taught me that people can somehow manage to communicate through their presence and energy in the room.

How do we possibly calculate how many people a professional dancer has impacted in their life? They attend countless performances, work alongside many different peers and instructors, and some go on to teach and pass on their craft to others. I didn’t realize how many people my mother had impacted in her life until after she had already passed. The number of calls and messages that came pouring in were endless. It was amazing to hear of different people’s experiences with Mom that I had never known of, and hearing how she impacted them. Mom served for years as the head cook of an adventure sports camp, and she touched so many people through that ministry as she served quietly in the background. I am not the first person to feel the need to write some sort of tribute to her; people have shown up in emails and on various blogs after years of silence to tell my family and myself how impacted they were by our amazing Joanne. In death, my mother taught me that even when you don’t realize it, your life, attitude, and actions can reach much further than you know.

I’m sure the task of pushing your skills to the limit is grueling and challenging for a professional dancer, and as such, it takes a great deal of perspective to keep your eye on the end goal and stay on track. My family and I had worked on a special gift for Mom in the months before her passing. In December she told us that she was about to reach 100 chemo treatments, and we decided we wanted to do something celebrating her amazing determination and achievement (although she was mistaken and had already surpassed this huge milestone!). We contacted her friends and family and asked them to write her a message to celebrate and encourage her, and then we gathered those notes and had them made into a special keepsake book for her. We didn’t realize that the end would sneak up behind us so quickly, like the end of an action packed, enjoyable, sunny day. We were able to get the book ordered and delivered a week before she passed, but by this point she was mostly unresponsive. We read to her anyways, surrounding her with love and laughter and encouragement. The special project that was meant to be for her really turned out to be for us, and I couldn’t help but feel like this circumstance had been choreographed by mom somehow, helping us through our pain and grief and loss. Mom was always able to shift her perspective and see the good in everything and everyone, and I could feel this impact and energy from her as she relaxed nearby. This experience taught me that even if things don’t work out how you imagined, if you choose to see them in the right light, they do work out.

Finally, mom taught me that attitude is key. As I mentioned previously, I had no clue she preferred to look at it as “dancing with cancer”, and when I first heard this, I was a little confused. I couldn’t help but personify cancer in my mind – a dark, uneasy, oversized shadow of a man - and imagine my mom following the lead, dancing and smiling, but it just didn’t quite fit. Rejoicing with cancer seemed wrong and counterintuitive, and just plain sad. As I was thinking about this and trying to settle it in my mind, I took a little break to go to the bathroom and splash some water in my face, and when I turned around, I stood face to face with some wall art – a wooden, painted plaque in the style of the beach (Mom’s favorite place), with a saying on it, and suddenly it clicked. It said, “Life is not about waiting for the storm to stop, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” Attitude is everything, and I am in awe when I look back over memories during the ten-year span where mom was getting constant chemo treatments and attending unending doctors’ appointments, and all I see is a happy, smiling, beautiful, dancing light of a woman.

These lessons of quiet strength, unwavering perseverance, communicative silence, far-reaching impact, purposeful perspective, and joy-filled attitude were ones that my mother taught through actions her entire life. I feel so grateful to have been able to witness the amazing person that she was, and I truly believe that – though she lived a humble, quiet, God-centered life – her amazing display of character as she danced in the presence of an enemy has reached more people than we really know, and that her presence will live on even though she isn’t here with us physically anymore. I want to conclude by sharing the words I wrote for Mom’s 100th Chemo Treatment Celebration Book:

"Dear Mom,

A few years ago, Kevin and I were playing a question-and-answer game while driving to pass the time, and he asked me who my biggest role model was. I thought long and hard, and while I resisted it because it felt extremely cliché, I honestly couldn’t think of anyone other than you. You are such an inspiration to me. You are strong, and stoic. You are kind, and loving. You are God fearing and faithful. You always support me and love me, and I am forever grateful. You are the perfect example of the kind of wife, mother, and woman I want to be. Many times, you have told me that God knew what he was doing when he picked me to be Ronan and Winry’s mom, and now I want to say the same to you. I know God hand-picked you for me. You are exactly what I need. I couldn’t ask for a better mother, friend, or personal hero.

Love always, Your Babe”