Late in June of 2007, my husband Bill and I returned from vacation. Due to dizzy spells that kept me from participating in several events, the next step was for my general physician to order the MRI. He did so, and on June 27th my MRI was completed, and in less than an hour my general physician called me while I was traveling to my office, and told me a tumor has been found in the brain. I was emotionally frozen. I completed my drive to the office, and I’ll never be sure how long I simply sat frozen in my office chair after arriving.
I eventually left my chair, walked to my Senior VPs office, sat down and lost it. She cared enough to let me cry for several minutes. I pulled myself together and shared with her what I had just learned. She asked me to go home, and told me she would contact my managers and the rest of the leadership team. From that moment on, I focused on myself and my family.
I was scared to call my husband and children, as I knew they too would be scared and have dozens of questions. Bill was out of town, and I can’t imagine his trip back home. I also called a dear friend.
A golf ball sized tumor was removed on Tuesday, July 3, 2007 at Chicago Institute of Neurosurgery and Neuroresearch (now NorthShore Health System in Chicago). Pathology showed malignant CNS Lymphoma, left temporal lobe, B cell type. Today my MRI is every six months. Gamma Knife Radiation took place on July 13, 2007, which led to a week in the hospital. I then completed the Insertion of a Power Port Implantable Port on July 25, 2007.
Methotrexate was the first chemotherapy he arranged, given at St. Joseph Hospital in Chicago. My white blood cell count dropped significantly, and my immune system crashed. I was removed from Methotrexate and remained in the hospital for a month.
I began Rituxan in the hospital. I was placed on Temodar from November 2007 through May 2008. Recovery was slow and challenging, but through it all remained support from my husband, good friend and family. To this day I deeply cherish each one of them.
Four months after the surgery, I returned to work part-time, while on Temodar. I slowly gained enough energy and desire to return to work full-time, back into my world of learning and development at a global finance company.
A couple years down the road, after leaving the city and purchasing a home in the suburbs, my husband and I found ourselves struggling like never before. Reactivity and anger was present. Dozens of times I found myself saying, “I don’t know what else to do.” Seemingly, our marriage was in trouble, yet I knew I loved the man very much. We continually challenged each other. He would tell me “you just said it” and I would say “those words never came come out of my mouth”.
His anger, frustration and perceived lack of communication was frightening me. We entered couple’s therapy in March 22, 2011. Soon after beginning with our clinical psychologist, he requested I complete a neuro-psych exam. On July 7, 2011, Bill and I received the results of the neuro-psych exam. I knew I wouldn’t necessarily like the results, as the testing day was very trying and disturbing. I was NOT at all prepared to hear and later read the results.
The results explained why my husband and I were in such trouble. Bottom line is that I did not understand how much my language comprehension, behavior, writing, memory, hearing, and emotions had changed and were challenging me, both personally and professionally. Because I had not accepted the impact of the treatment, especially in the left temporal lobe, I was blaming and transferring way too much onto my husband. That was an eye-opening and very emotional week for me. It became clear that it was time to accept and more deeply understand myself.
We both then began individual work with separate therapists, seeing them weekly to this day. Therapy has reminded me that the birth of the human heart is an ongoing process … and my husband has been alongside me every day.
Since the craniotomy and removal of the tumor, there has been episodes of prolonged periods of fevers of unknown causes, mediastinal lymphadenopathy, Lymphadenitis, calcified granuloma of the lung, and a large cyst removed from my thyroid. During all these events I remain grateful that Lymphoma has not returned.
I remained with the global finance company until November 29, 2013. After careful consideration, I knew I needed to take care of myself. I’m a rather stubborn and independent 56 year old man who finally accepted that I couldn’t continue performing well without also giving up to much Self. My therapist was extremely helpful during these months. My manager and I talked last fall, and we agreed my disability would begin the day after Thanksgiving. I also began the SSDI process.
My cosmology has changed significantly throughout the years. Although I pastored in the 80’s and 90’s, today I don’t have a need to go to church, and am quite comfortable with family time on Sunday morning. Do I worship? For me, worship is always a verb, and therefore is not something done to us or for us. Worship is something we do … and I worship often outdoors or in other settings. I also choose not to read or hear the language from many of today’s spiritual sources.
Today I do coordinate and meet with a small multi-faith spiritual group on a monthly basis, where we learn about how science impacts our thoughts and beliefs, and also do rituals around gathering, letting go, creativity and personal transformation. Every once in a while we also enjoy walking a labyrinth or participating in a cosmic walk, reminding us of the unfolding of the Universe over the last 13.7 billion years.
I love walking outdoors, camping and marveling at the stars, listening to heartfelt music, gardening, and especially cooking. The Rossiter Cookie Castle (fictional company) had an early “closing” this spring, as my glucose was a little high!
My morning meditation is never the same, but I spend about an hour every morning stretching, siting and giving thanks.
I stretch while watching 10-20 minutes of The Today Show, listening to morning headlines and weather for the day.
I sit upright, feet on the ground, often with my palms upright, take deep breaths and wish the world well. I often breathe quietly and deeply, listening to sounds around me. I allow myself to feel how good it is to be surrounded by hearts and love of family and friends.
I end meditation time by giving thanks for three things I’m grateful for today, followed by a deep cleansing breath, and then heading into the day.
I’ve also often enjoyed ending my day in our back yard hot tub. It’s another place where I get comfortable with life’s complexities and darkness, while also enjoying the light in the stars in the sky. I simply enjoy a good soak, and particularly if I am feeling fragmented or feeling grief. I then enjoy taking Jax (our family dog) for an evening walk before going to bed.
For me, CNSL has reminded me that the sacred and the mundane of life share the same space. Over the years I’ve slowly realized that for me there is no distinction between my spiritual and secular life. And in order to keep a sacred vision in my life before me, it takes study (I can only read about 30 minutes at a time), meditation and occasional conversations mostly with my husband (longer conversations are no longer possible as remaining focused is difficult) to maintain a sacred way of seeing and living in the world. Over the years, my vision has deepened through deep initiations, painful illnesses such as CNSL and other surprises, and a willingness to take life on rather than avoiding it. I’ve learned so much from companions like Meister Eckhart, my husband Bill, my two adult children and my sister. Indeed, I can’t imagine my journey of the last seven years without each of them, my mother, grandmother, other siblings, aunts and uncles and deep and abiding friendships. I am profoundly grateful for each of them.
I am also genuinely respectful and grateful for each of the medical and clinical professionals that have cared for me since day one. Their commitment to personal medical care has been astounding.
As summer approaches in 2014, brain fatigue and not having a driver’s license are my greatest challenges. I remain very emotional when it comes to family issues. At a cognitive level, I can read for 30 minutes at a time, and then will need a rest. I can write for no more than a couple hours, and I struggle with my short-term memory. Afternoon naps are enjoyed.
Bill and I talk about moving back into the city of Chicago, as I need access to Chicago’s excellent public transportation systems. Although we enjoy our home in the suburbs, I’m not comfortable relying on family and friends for transportation. We don’t even have buses in our city. I want more of my independence back!
Jeff Foster writes a poem titled You Will Lose Everything. As a nearly seven year survivor of CNSL, the words are deeply meaningful, profound and truthful to me, so I thought I would end my story sharing it with you. http://www.lifewithoutacentre.com/essays-transcripts/you-will-lose-everything/
You will lose everything. Your money, your power, your fame, your success, perhaps even your memories. Your looks will go. Loved ones will die. Your body will fall apart. Everything that seems permanent is impermanent and will be smashed. Experience will gradually, or not so gradually, strip away everything that it can strip away. Waking up means facing this reality with open eyes and no longer turning away.
But right now, we stand on sacred and holy ground, for that which will be lost has not yet been lost, and realizing this is the key to unspeakable joy. Whoever or whatever is in your life right now has not yet been taken away from you. This may sound trivial, obvious, like nothing, but really it is the key to everything, the why and how and wherefore of existence. Impermanence has already rendered everything and everyone around you so deeply holy and significant and worthy of your heartbreaking gratitude.
Loss has already transfigured your life into an altar.
Rich Rossiter
rtrossiter@gmail.com