Giving and Receiving

Our support group seems to have dwinded.... but, not exactly. Each meeting, only 5-6 women attend; however, each time it is different women. We seem to be fluctuate between 10 "regulars." (2 women seem to have dropped out).

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The subject of this week's support group, "Giving and Receiving," could not have been more aptly timed. (to understand why, read my previous post)

"Which is more difficult," asked our group's facilitator, "and why?"

We give from a place of strenth; we are empowered by giving.

We receive from a place of weakness; receiving makes us feel "needy."

We prefer to be "givers" rather than "takers."

We have strong egos. We cling to our self-image of being "hakol yachol" (able to do anything).

Accepting help means accepting our inability to do that which we did before. We do not want to accept our limitations. So we resist.

We know:
* it takes strength to accept help
* we would be happy to help, so we should be happy to accept help
* we are giving other people the opporunity to do mitzvot (good deeds)
* by accepting their help, we are allowing the people who care about us to feel involved and useful

We also know that we really do need help.

We know all these things to be true. Yet, asking for help is one of the hardest things for us to do.

We are learning.

I am learning.

I have learned to keep lists. If someone offers to help me, I write it down. If I don't, I will forget who offered.

If I am out and about, I probably don't need help at that moment. But I will need help another time and it is easier to call someone who has already offered to help.

If someone offers a particular kind of help, I write that down too. Not everyone is willing to go shopping, pick up my kids, do my laundry, or help me clean my house... but some people are.

I am learning to be gracious. When someone helps me, whether solicited or not, I say "Thank you."

Rather than throwing out some sort of deprecating comment (choose any of the following: 1. "you shouldn't have...", 2. "it wasn't necessary..." 3. "we don't really need it..."), I express my appreciation: "Thank you for thinking of us", "That was helpful/thoughtful/kind," "I really appreciate your efforts."

Slowly, very slowly, I am learning not only to accept help, but also to ask for the help I need.

I am learning to say "Thank you. We don't really need 'that', but 'this' would be very helpful."

It's a process.

After I was diagnosed last summer, Moshe turned to me and said decisively: "You need to squelch your natural inclination and, every time someone offers to help, just say 'yes'!"

Who would have thought that saying "yes" could be so difficult?



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Beit Natan Summer "Retreat" -- Part II

(Click here to read Part I)


I chose the afternoon session called "Etgarim" (challenges). I did not know what to expect, but it sounded like fun. Little did I know....

We drove in shifts to Ya'ar Yerushalayim (the Jerusalem Forest), where there were three madrichot (guides) waiting for us. They would be leading the session with J, one of the psychologists from Beit Natan (she gave an excellent lecture at the winter retreat).

As we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, I asked D, one of the madrichot, about Etgarim. Etgarim began as an organization to provide physical challenges for necheh Tzahal (wounded soldiers). Over time, it expanded and now offers challenges for all sorts of groups, including youth at risk, other groups with disabilities, etc. I discovered that D also had a disability -- she was deaf (she spoke so clearly, that I hadn't noticed).

When everyone arrived, we introduced ourselves. We began our first challenge by forming a human knot and working together to untangle the knot. It was challenging.... and fun!

Afterwards, J gave each of us a slip of paper and instructed us to write down one or two of our dreams; something that we would like to see in the future, that would be a turning point in our lives.

Then, we walked over to the main challenge: O.D.T. ("Out Door Training). The madrichot had prepared a "rope bridge" -- two rows of rope, strung across four trees. With our feet on the bottom rope (approximately 1 meter above the ground), and our hands on the top rope, we would walk from one end of the bridge to the other (with safety equipment, of course).

I knew it could not possibly be as easy as it looked when the madricha (guide) demonstrated how to do it. Nonetheless, I volunteered to go first. The longer I waited, the scarier it would be for me.

There were three stages of the bridge. At the end of the first section, hung a bottle into which we would deposit the notes with our dreams. We could choose to complete just the first section, or to complete all three stages. I was determined to complete all three stages.

I started all right, using my good leg to lift myself onto the ropes. As I pulled myself along, I felt the bottom rope shaking. I started laughing. L was there, and as I inched along, with the bottom rope shaking all the while, the two of us kept laughing. I felt myself falling backwards; I could not seem to find my balance and stand up straight.

I calmed myself and looked to D for guidance. D advised me to brace my legs. But with my bad hip, I could not lock my knees. When I tried, the stress on my hip was too painful.

I fought to hold back tears. I have always thought of myself as a strong woman, capable of anything. Suddenly, I could not ignore the fact that I had a physical limitation.

I looked D in the eyes, and quietly said "ani mugbelet" -- I meant to say "I am limited", but the Hebrew words also mean "I am handicapped." As I gave voice to the words, I was struck by the second meaning. I suddenly came face to face with a truth I had been desperately avoiding.

I tried with all my strength to complete the first stage, but it was too difficult to hold myself on the ropes. I let myself down, literally and figuratively.

I did not even reach the end of the first stage, to put my note in the bottle.

I could not do it.

I stepped aside and endeavored to compose myself.

J came over and asked if I would like to try again, with her on the ropes with me. Apparently, it would be easier with someone else leading. I said yes.

After watching two or three women complete the task, I was ready to try again.

J went up first; then I lifted myself onto the ropes, again. J wanted to help me with the safety ropes, but I was capable of handling them by myself. Still, I needed more help to stand up securely. Y, one of the other madrichot, balanced the ropes from the other side.

This time, I completed the first stage, and was ready to go on.

Towards the end of the second stage, I seemed to be handling myself much better. Y suggested that I complete the rest of the second and third stages by myself. I agreed.

Almost as soon as Y sailed away down the ropes, I felt my balance shifting. I could not hold myself steady without her assistance. I called Y back. With Y's help, I could do it.

At the end, as I climbed down from the rope bridge, I felt good that I had traveled the entire bridge. But I wanted to do it by myself.

When everyone had completed her turn, those women who wanted, could cross the first stage of the bridge a second time.

I really wanted to cross the bridge myself.

I pulled myself up onto the ropes.

I tried to hold myself steady, to find my balance.

I could not do it. I needed help.

Once again, I turned to Y for help.

With her assistance, I was able to cross the bridge confidently.

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I was the only member of our group who needed that kind of assistance.

I was also one of the youngest members of our group.

I was also the only member of our group with metastasis (as far as I know).

I was also the only member of our group with a physical limitation (with the exception of an older woman, who did not even attempt to cross the bridge).

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As I mulled over my experience, I had an epiphany.

I need not feel embarrassed about needing help. I should be proud that I was able to recognize my limitations and to get the assistance I needed.

Asking for help did not mean that I failed. Rather, my ability to seek the help I needed meant that I succeeded.



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Beit Natan Summer "Retreat" -- Part I

I did not have to be persuaded to attend this time.

After such a strong and positive experience at Beit Natan's two day winter retreat (read about it here and here), I was thrilled to attend a one day event in Jerusalem!

I was delighted to see T, my "roommate" from the winter retreat, who came in from Petach Tikvah. She is an amazing woman. She has been living with a brain tumor for over 20 years! (I find that very encouraging)

As we entered the conference hall, we received a small bottle of "bubbles."

Haya Heller, who founded Beit Natan, greeted us. She is a very impressive woman; a psychologist by profession, she is also living with her own challenges (MS). Haya concluded her opening remarks by inviting us to let out our "inner child." Slowly, women of all ages rose from their chairs, and filled the room with the magical soap bubbles.

I did not expect to learn anything new from the first lecture, about nutriciton. I was pleasantly surprised to find the lecture both interesting and informative. Though the theory was inspiring, the practical application was... well, impractical. Healthy eating demands food preparation. Spending a significant amount of time in the kitchen has never been "my thing."

*sigh*

Next on the program, we had a choice of 4 sessions. Originally, three of the sessions were divided by topic and stage of cancer, and the fourth session was in English. I chose to attend the session for women with advanced cancer. Unfortunately, in the end, none of the sessions were determined by stage. Since the groups were random anyway, I decided to attend the group in English.

I was the only woman in that group (with the possible exception of one), with metastasis. During the introductions, three women shared that they were rejecting conventional treatment and choosing to treat their cancers solely with "alternative" methods -- I found that very disturbing. I do not dismiss the benefits of "complimentary" medicine. But I cannot fathom how someone can choose a path that is likely to lead to metastatis.

The session was lead by a "narrative therapist", who invited us to interview cancer. The fascilitator and another participant played the the roles of cancer cells. I watched as the women asked: What do you want from us? Who are your parents? How can we get rid of you?

As the "cancer cells" answered these questions, I felt increasingly alienated. I do not relate to the approach that "cancer is caused by worry and stress" or "cancer is a gift." At the root of these attitudes is the idea that we can control cancer, that if we can learn what we need to learn from it, then the cancer will go away, or not come back. Not only did I feel the session was a waste of my time, it was actually disturbing me.

I decided leave and find a different session.

I joined the session "Speaking with Ourselves and Our Loved Ones", led by the facilitator of my support group. The women were talking about communication, and the difficulties in talking about cancer, with our kids, husbands, and friends. It occurred to me that I can easily talk about the technical side of cancer (test results, treatment plans, etc), but that it is far more difficult to talk about the emotional issues (having cancer forever, being a mother with cancer, fears of dying, etc).

Towards the end of the session, we were asked to write a letter, to ourselves or a loved one. I knew right away that I needed to write to Moshe, and that I would share the letter with him. I want so much to find a way to talk about the emotional issues without being swallowed up by them.

When the session ended, I felt strong. I knew that I needed to talk with Moshe, and that I would find the courage to raise some of these issues.


(Click here to read Part II)


Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA