Moments of Serenity

 I appear set for another extended period of diagnostic uncertainty. After a small new growth appeared on a regular MRI during April, I have had two further scans. Some indicators suggest this might be the beginning of a new tumour, while others indicate something more benign, such as minor new scarring following the treatments of last year. So far, the growth is too small to biopsy, so most likely there will be more scans required before any more decisive intervention is considered.

 

In the meantime, I can continually remind myself of my good fortune. I don’t have any new or worsening symptoms and can live an unencumbered life. If anything, my peripheral vision is improving a bit, though most likely that is due solely to adaptation. This weekend we embark on one more extended trip to Europe, including singing courses at the start and the end and the chance to catch up once again with our precious grandchild. I must remain on the lookout for symptoms and will have a few pills in my back pocket in case they emerge.

 

This is planned to be our last trip before our much-anticipated permanent move back to Europe. That prospect fills us with excitement, and gradually we are ticking all of the boxes required to enable the move to take place before many more months have passed.

 

While it would be ideal to be finalising our move during a period of less medical uncertainty, we will not let that get in our way unless pressing practical reasons emerge to stay in New York. This is all a part of our ongoing challenge to stay ready for good news and for bad news at the same time. If at any point we veer too far towards pessimism, it would potentially sacrifice the joy of living in hope, but swing too far into optimism and we may not be ready to respond effectively to setbacks.

 

We have become quite adept at navigating this narrow path along the cliffs of life, with its sheer drops on either side. Our main asset is that we are traversing the path together, holding each other tightly and warning each other of any pitfalls ahead. We do stumble on occasion, often before an appointment or when its news is frightening, but, so far, we have avoided major falls.

 

I like to envisage the two sides of this narrow path as being represented by embracing life and accepting death, two of the attributes displayed by the people I characterise as “second chancers”. Sometimes it is easier to embrace life, to glory in its wonders, to anticipate in what it may be about to bring, to celebrate its awe. At other times accepting the prospect of death comes more to the fore. That is about acknowledging death’s inevitability. In my case, it helps to believe that after death there is only peace, nothing really, no suffering. Helped by some lovely homilies during advent, I feel I have developed quite a strong acceptance. I don’t have a fear of death, and I am reassured greatly by observing that all of those I love are in strong places, with good chances of thriving after I have gone. Every time my wife shows the same acceptance, or when one of my children displays maturity, I can more easily find a peaceful acceptance myself. Thankfully, these reassuring events occur all the time.

 

I find that the view from my pathway along the cliffs can be magnificent. My illness has turbo-charged my emotions, even while I am not taking steroids, and many of those emotions are wondrous. The path has helped my wife and I to find a new closeness, and we can enjoy the breathtaking view together.

 

Periodically, I have what I am calling moments of serenity. Originally, I labelled such events as “take me now” moments, but that description could be misleading. When they occur, I am not asking God (or however I characterise a higher power) to take me now. Instead, these are moments of such wondrous awe that they enable me mentally to pronounce that I would be ready to die in that moment. In my thinking at these times, my life has been filled with such wonder that it would be a fitting moment for a peaceful closure. It is not “take me now”, far from it, but more like “Thank you, and I would be ready whenever you are”. I hope this formulation makes some sense. I only know that the feeling comes powerfully and clearly at times, and when it does it fills me with awe and gratitude.

 

Triggers for moments of serenity can be as simple as a marital hug, or of witnessing joy from an act of kindness, given or received. Movies and TV series can trigger them too. I have always enjoyed shows with complex developments of human character, and I have recently been seeking these out. If death or serious illness Is one of the core subjects of a well-made show, it becomes more likely to engender serenity. A good recent example was a recent PBS serialisation called Maryland. The show explored suicide, betrayal, companionship and all aspects of human relationships, notably communication within a family.

 

Perhaps it is not surprising that singing can bring about serenity in me. Most commonly this happens during Sunday mass, where I am privileged to be a part of a high-quality small ensemble that can really express good music. Nowadays I often sing bass in that group, and that new experience has opened up new joys for me. I find that is much easier to feel the entire effect of an anthem from the bass part. It is the root, the core, the foundation for everything else. When singing tenor, I can duet with another part, but I am usually too engrossed in my own line to be able to feel the whole song. From the bass line, that is much easier.

 

Last Sunday at mass we sang Mozart’s Laudate Dominum, and a moment of serenity duly transpired. It fitted the most common pattern. The writing is peerless and expressive. I have sung the piece countless times and know it very well. But I had never before sung the exquisite bass line. As we finished, I was close to tears. “If I am taken now, then I can find peace in having enjoyed a full and blessed life”.

 

While there is high uncertainty about the new growth, we must expect our cliffside path to be narrower and more treacherous than usual. We will surely stumble, perhaps catastrophically. But until then we will soldier on together, ready to embrace life to the full and accepting of its inevitable end. High on the cliffs, emotions are powerful and often wonderful. And special moments of serenity might be the most wonderful gifts that path has to offer.