Finding strength
The first part of this post is an edited version of a piece I wrote fourteen years ago, when our daughter, Becky, was dying of a brain tumour; this is followed by a postscript on my recent illness.
I have been reflecting a little on what it means to be strong. Physical strength we know about: aerobic fitness, muscle tone, aggressive power. But what about inner strength? How do you define and measure that? I think I know some things that it isn’t. “Be strong” certainly does not mean “Do not show grief, don’t weep, don’t reveal the emotional cauldron inside you.” That isn’t true strength at the core, but rather a false sort of toughness at the protective outer shell. In countries like New Zealand, the “big boys don’t cry” message has all too often stunted and impoverished our emotional and spiritual growth. Men in particular cover their deep feelings with a sort of armour, and end up unable to connect with anyone at any depth. That's not strength. Some people think that to be strong they must be Superman or woman; keep going come what may, not flinching, not shirking responsibilities, stiff upper lip. For such people, to break down and fall apart every now and then would be a sign of weakness. They must not allow themselves such luxuries, and so they drive themselves relentlessly. It’s almost as if they want to have the strength of a steel bar, which neither bends nor breaks. But humans are not meant to be made of steel (interesting that Stalin was a nickname, meaning “man of steel” - look what happens when we do try to emulate metal). We are living beings, flexible, growing. Perhaps a better analogy would be a tree: like a tree, we need the freedom to bend, and sometimes have our branches torn off by the wind. In really bad storms a tree might be blown over: but we have all seen pohutukawas that refuse to die even when they seem to have fallen apart completely. Or maybe a boat. Last year was the centenary of the battle of Jutland, which, although “won” by neither side, did demonstrate the superiority of the German ships as far as defence was concerned: they were almost unsinkable. Strength is the flexibility that allows a tree to resist the storm; the buoyancy that allows a ship to take the relentless pounding of guns and tempests. So where does strength come from? How do you get it? To tell the truth, I don’t know. I look at Becky, who at fourteen has not really had her mettle tested until now (unless you count being carted across the globe when she was seven to re-settle in New Zealand, far from her home and friends in France). And we find to our astonishment that within her there is an immense quiet courage, a private and determined way of dealing with pain and discomfort. Buoyancy, flexibility, strength. Where did she find them? I can only conclude that they were always there, deep within her. Then I wonder if this is so very exceptional. How many people, when crises strike unexpectedly, discover the inner reserves that were there all along, waiting to be tapped? People ask us “How do you manage to cope?” and the only answer is “You just do”. You have to, because there is no other way. And when you need them, the resources are there. I have never seen myself as a particularly strong person. In fact, in moments of gloomy introspection I have a tendency to castigate myself for weakness. All the things I might have done with my life if I were stronger; all the trivia I might have avoided if I had had more powerful drives and goals. And so on. But now that my turn has come to be flattened by the steamroller of life, I find that I’m not being totally crushed. Broken, yes. I know that on the day Becky dies I will be a broken man, my world in shattered fragments. But I believe I can rise out of that brokenness, refuse to let it become my way of life. Recreate a life from the strewn pieces; like some cartoon character, fall down a cliff, then pick myself up and stagger on. Find the strength to survive.
Postscript 2017
Well, that was then. Becky died some months later, in June 2003, three days before her fifteenth birthday. We wondered if we would ever feel happy again. Life did indeed feel as if it had shattered into jagged shards. We fell apart often, held on to each other, and survived.
Fourteen years on, I still think that inner strength is a resource we all possess. But now I know you can use it all up, and I understand so much better when people do really fall apart, and get crushed by that steamroller.
It happened back in 2013, between one massive operation and another: I lost the will to live. I must have overdrawn on my reserves through the first set of dramas: the loss of one kidney, an emergency nephrostomy (a tube poked through the skin to drain the kidney) when the other kidney showed signs of failing, an infection around said nephrostomy, nausea, vomiting, tubes through the nose and into the stomach, three weeks in hospital; and then the discovery that a second tumour, deemed benign, had suddenly started behaving aggressively, a second ten-day stint in hospital, being told they would operate, then they wouldn’t (which meant I was doomed), then they would; plagued by itchy skin, physically exhausted, weighed down by a tumour which turned out to be well over five kilos, filled with foreboding. An operation was offered, but the choice was not Eddie Izzard’s “Cake or death” - it was “Dialysis forevermore or death”.
And at that point my inner strength finally ran out and everything went dark. I was in a bad place, one I’d never been before. On the day of the operation, the family worried that I wouldn’t have the resources to deal with what was happening; one of them said “If you see a tunnel with a light at the end of it, don’t you dare go towards it! FULL REVERSE!” I didn’t want to hear that. I said to the surgeon “If you get in there and find you can’t take the tumour out without danger, please go ahead anyway - I’d rather die on the table than wake up and find I’m still carrying this thing.” Part of me wanted to die.
Was that weakness?
No, I think that would be an inaccurate and unkind way of describing what happened. I had started from a position of relative strength, had borne my trials with patience, had responded with hope to what was on offer. But gradually, through attrition, I’d reached the point of total depletion. I’m not ashamed of that; I wish I had been able to hold out a little longer, but there was nothing left in the tank.
Sometimes strength just runs out.
And when that happens, you have to acknowledge your dependence on the people around you to carry you through. Family and friends become your main resource; when you lose hope, they keep hoping for you. When you lose strength, they stay strong. There's no shame in needing other people; that's just how life works.
Coming now right up to the present, my session with my surgeon in December has given me renewed hope for survival, which is fantastic: my main resolution for 2017 is now to stay alive. This may involve another major surgical assault on an already battered body, but I’m ready for that; I’ll try to keep my inner reserves high, and will take Becky as my role model for whatever I have to face. And with the help of family and friends, of all of you, I will find the strength.
Happy New Year, everyone!
