21 years ago, I heard the words no-one ever wants to hear
And if I survived, I assumed I’d be forever grateful. Except it wasn’t quite that simple.
It was a Monday morning in mid-May. The surgeon who’d removed a lump from my left breast the previous week sat across a broad mahogany desk from me, studying a sheet of paper. It was printed with small black words, outlining the pathology of my lump. A lump I’d been told, pre-surgery, was definitely benign, but had since been elevated to the status of pre-cancer. And possibly cancer.
I’d spent the entire weekend praying it was just pre-cancer.
The surgeon looked up. ‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you this,’ he said. ‘But we have found cancer.’ And in that one sentence, life as I knew it fell away.
After the appointment, my mum took me home. It was a perfect spring day. We drove along the Outer Circle, the road skirting Regent’s Park. To my right, rose verdant canopies of trees, and beyond the park railings, I caught glimpses of people picnicking on the grass or boating on the lake. To my left, were John Nash’s stucco terraces, sunlight cast across their pristine cream facades.
The world had never looked more beautiful. And all I longed for was to be able to continue to be part of it. If by any chance I survive this illness, I thought, I’ll be forever grateful just to be here.
Summer 2002 was spent in the harsh world that is cancer treatment: hair loss, and violent sickness from the chemotherapy drugs; my right arm and hand repeatedly stabbed with a needle, as a nurse attempted to find a vein. And the physical discomfort accompanied by the terror inevitably unleashed by a cancer diagnosis.
Yet, it was also a time I’ve never felt more grateful to be alive. I found myself paying attention to and delighting in things I previously didn’t even notice: the pattern created by a flock of birds in flight, or the scarlet beds of tulips in the park. When life is threatened, what we usually take for granted becomes heightened. Plus, for once I wasn’t rushing around, trying to cram in long hours at work alongside a social life and a fitness routine, so had the opportunity to pause and drink in the world.
As summer gave way to autumn, the feeling that simply being alive and a part of this world was a magical and precious thing continued. On weekday mornings, energy-permitting, I’d walk through Regent’s Park to my radiotherapy session, leaves crunching beneath my feet, the crisp November air cool against my face, and marvel at the copper, gold and acid green landscape surrounding me.
Finally, after months of treatment, I was discharged from the oncology unit. And as I edged back towards ‘normal’ life, I noticed how my sense of wonder started to recede and life’s everyday complaints began to take up more space: I’d get really irritated when stuck behind someone in the supermarket checkout who took forever to count out the right money for their groceries, or I’d obsess over the fact my body was now a size heavier, thanks to having been too exhausted to exercise during the final months of treatment. Things which, in the bigger picture of being alive and apparently cancer-free, surely didn’t matter?
Except it’s human nature to notice the negatives more readily than the positives. This is called the negativity bias. Thousands of years ago, when our ancestors regularly faced threats such as predators, being attuned to the negative played a useful role in survival. Even though we no longer need it in the same way, it remains part of our hardwiring.
While paying more attention to the things that displease us might be an innate tendency, it’s not necessarily one that brings us the richest quality of life. I’m not recommending a Polyannaish way of inhabiting the world, where we insist on only seeing the good things, nor do I think it’s a wise idea to push away our uncomfortable emotions and pretend all is well (that’s a whole other letter topic!). But I do think it’s worth being aware of where we’re placing our attention, and what we’re choosing to feed.
It’s inevitable there’ll always be endless niggles and negatives flowing through our lives. Just a few of mine from the last 24 hours include the guy who thoughtlessly marched into the yoga studio in the middle of final relaxation this morning and disturbed my students, the woman who yet again has ignored my email chasing her up on something she needs to get back to me on, and my son squishing his raspberries onto my nice clean floor. It’s all too easy for the combined weight of such everyday irritations to take up the foreground, rather than allowing them to just come and go.
Equally, there’ll always be moments of richness and beauty flowing through our lives. A few of mine from the last 24 hours include cuddling my son in his bed last night, walking to teach early this morning in bright light (a relief after months of doing this journey in the dark), the sound of birdsong audible on the still-quiet London streets, and, post-class, eating toast with eggs, their yolks orange and sticky. Yet these nuggets of goodness can all too easily fade into the background if we let them, not least given our hard-wiring.
My own capacity for gratitude rises up most potently when my life, or the life of someone close to me, is under threat or great challenge. In the past week, gratitude has surged. Both because the anniversary of my diagnosis is approaching, which takes me back to that May day, and reminds me how lucky I am to still be here. And, even more so, because a friend lay in hospital very, very sick. I thought of her almost constantly, knowing what a privilege it was to saunter down my front steps and gaze up at the canopy of cherry blossom outside my home, to feel heat rise in my body as I held a plank pose, to sit on a bench in the spring sunshine in my local square and watch my son run around with the other kids.
I know this intense gratitude will, in time, fade away. And that for most of us it takes a certain amount of effort and practice to stay attuned to the wonder of being alive. But it is, I believe, an effort worth making. As Mary Oliver wrote, When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
Below are some of the practices I find useful to help me stay attuned. I’d love to know yours too. Please do share in the comments.
SLOW DOWN & SAVOUR
If we’re rushing around all the time, we don’t get much chance to appreciate life’s small delights. Can we learn to pause - even if just for a few seconds or minutes - to savour the beauty of something we encounter as we go about our day, be it the display outside the florist’s we pass, or five minutes sitting quietly as we drink our coffee, so we can fully enjoy its taste, rather than bolt it down on the run.
INVITE IN JOY
Every day, do at least one thing you really enjoy. Maybe it’s reading a poem you love, or listening to a favourite piece of music, or making yourself something delicious to eat.
RECORD IT
Gratitude journaling is a bit of a cliché, but with good reason. Most nights before I go to sleep, I write down three things I’m genuinely grateful for that day. The more specific, the better. And the more I do this, the more good things I seem to notice, as my brain is then primed to be on the lookout for goodness.
REMEMBER IMPERMANENCE
Pausing to remember that the moment I’m in right now will never ever be repeated helps me remember its preciousness. For sure, there are plenty of moments in life we’re very relieved we’ll never have to repeat! Equally, we can easily let those so-called ordinary moments pass us by and forget they hold magic. For example, when my son asks me to read him a story, sometimes I think, oh not again. But when I remember that in a few years, I won’t be reading to him anymore, it helps me appreciate the privilege of doing so.
Love,
Annabel x
AND A FEW THINGS I LOVE RIGHT NOW
TO READ
I’m halfway through Coco Mellors’ brilliant Cleopatra & Frankenstein, a mix of gorgeous writing and compelling characters, set in New York. It’s one of those novels you can’t put down. I borrowed it off my 90-something dad, who loved it, so I’d say that even though most of the characters are in their 20s and 30s, it’s a book for all ages.
David Whyte’s words on gratitude. I always come back to these. They remind me gratitude comes from, above all else, being present and paying attention.
TO WATCH
One Fine Morning is a moving story of a widowed single mother who’s caught between the excitement and challenge of new love, and the heartbreak of a father who’s mind is failing him. Beautifully shot in Paris, it made me want to jump on the next Eurostar.
TO EAT
I’ve become addicted to the sweet and sour flavor of these slow-cooked leeks with raisins by Anna Jones, which, as she suggests, I eat on toast (sourdough) with ricotta. It only takes a few minutes to pull together.
Such beautiful and precious words Annabel, as always. Thank you.