Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul Read Free Page B

about the future. Alone in bed at night, I looked at the white walls and wondered who would want a 39-year-old cancer patient. Life in my apartment was dismally quiet. Then, Flora entered my life—a skinny feral kitten about four weeks old, full of ringworms, fleas and ear mites. Shivering and alone under the wheel well of my parked car, Flora looked desperately sick. I grabbed hold of her scraggly tail and tugged. Within seconds my hand was scratched to shreds, but I hung on and brought her hissing and complaining to my apartment. At that point, I realized that my lonely life welcomed the commotion of a tiny, angry kitten who would distract me from my own depressing thoughts.
    With the arrival of the kitten, I pulled my energy away from myself and my fretful imaginings and concentrated on healing Flora. Along with ringworms and fleas, she had a terrible viral infection that had ulcerated her tongue, cheeks and throat. I knew all about ulcers in the mouth, so I sympathized wholeheartedly with this miserable condition. It took weeks, but slowly Flora healed, and along the way we bonded. Soon, she was a loving, trusting ball of black-and-white fuzz who met me at my door each evening when I returned from work. The loneliness of my apartment vanished, and I cherished the success of our health venture together. Although my own future looked uncertain, success with Flora was something I could achieve.
    Only weeks after I’d finally nursed Flora back to some resemblance of healthy kittenhood, she was diagnosed with feline leukemia. Cancer. Her veterinarian gave her the same sorry prognosis my oncologist had given me: Flora would most likely die within a year or two. My response was instant and unconscious. As soon as Flora’s vet handed down the diagnosis, I wrote her off as a lost cause. Quickly, my emotional attachment to her ceased as I began protecting myself from the pain of her death, which I knew would come. The veterinarian told me Flora would die and I simply accepted this. I stopped speaking and playing with Flora because when I did, I ended up sobbing hysterically for my kitten. I even found it difficult to look at her. But Flora simply wouldn’t let me pull away. When I’d walk past her, she’d chase after me. Her paw touched my cheek hesitantly each night as she curled up next to me in bed, her purr resonant and strong. If my mood was chilly, she seemed not to notice. Flora did what cats do best: she waited and watched.
    Her patience finally won out. One night I had an “AHA!” experience about my attitude toward Flora. How could I believe my own cancer wasn’t a death sentence when I couldn’t see the same hope for her? How could I dismiss any being without dismissing myself? Although I was busy blathering about hope and healing, I knew that I honestly saw myself in the grave.
    That realization was a profound turning point for me. While slow in coming, it finally hit me like a downpour of hailstones. How often in my life had I turned away from pain and loss, and from honest feelings? Living at “half–life,” I’d put away emotion at the first inkling of loss, and nearly lost myself in the process.
    One night shortly after my awakening, I lit a candle for Flora and myself. We sat together looking at the flame, and I vowed to Flora that I would love her with wild abandon for as long as she was with me because loving her felt so good. In loving Flora, I knew I would find a way to love myself as well—poor diagnosis and all. For the both of us, each day of life would be a day we could celebrate together.
    I began a quest to heal Flora that included many of the same gems of complementary medicine I attempted on myself. Flora got acupressure, vitamins, homeopathy, music and color therapy, detoxifying baths and unlimited quantities of hugs, love and affection. Her water bowl had tiny, colorful crystals in it. Her collar was a healing green.
    Most important in this process, though, was the attitude change I