A LETTER TO DEATH | Clare Olivares
I arrived, all the blood trapped in my throat. The jackrabbit stopped to stare as the stone path beckoned me forth. On the distant brown mountain, I expected to hear the flap of hawk wings. We so rarely pause in life to imagine, to breathe, to taste the air and to observe like God's apprentice.
Surveying the forested grounds of Cancer Camp, I reviewed the attendee questionnaire. Questions about my specific diagnosis were expected, but inquiries about my favorite school subjects, family details, and recurring dreams seemed personally probing. Exiting my car, I wondered —would new age practitioners encircle me with smudge sticks? Would other campers have their shoulders already dusted by angels? Would I be resolute enough to open my heartache to strangers? Would I find a way to accept the unacceptable with grace and curiosity?
The camp therapist led attendees in art and talk therapy. The tribe for the week, eight women with various types of cancer, was gentle with each other. Our specific cancers were different, but navigating the confusion of Cancer Land held us in fellowship. All experienced heart wrenching “cancer ghosting,” the cruelest aspect of a cancer diagnosis —when those you trust callously abandon you without explanation or concern. We were held together in a pool of devastating grief.
The week progressed with each attendee sharing choices every patient makes: what treatment plan to pursue, when is “enough,” what side effects, and for how long? I was halfway through my treatment plan, the side effects of diarrheal pain so severe I believed death would come seated on a commode, internal body heat so intense I felt cooked from the inside, and unrelenting fatigue that made sleep my only desperate wish. As cancer patients, we’re asked to carry the sadness of others along with our own. A heavy weight to bear, so we deflect. We minimize because to speak our sorrow is beyond difficult. We do not share the reality of lives slipping into deep holes we cannot escape. We fear our hearts will not hold us. For one week, my cancer tribe shared deep sorrow, held each other in compassion and envisioned a way forward.
When treatment finishes, everyone declares how great— you survived, you’re well now. Think positive; you’re lucky; it’s over, congrats; now get on with your life. These statements stick to one’s soul as tiny cuts, implying that if you’re not grateful enough then maybe, just maybe, you brought this disease upon yourself. Maybe you deserve it. What every cancer patient wants is for their life-altering sorrow to be validated. Putting one foot in front of another doesn't require a badge of bravery. It is simply moving forward because there is no other choice. No one wants celebratory applause because no one deserves to be beaten into submission just to live.
Midweek, our therapist asked attendees to write a letter to death. What would you say to death standing in front of you? With pen and paper in hand, all eight women silently wrote their letters. I finished my letter quickly and worried as others continued to write. Perhaps I misunderstood the assignment? Was I so shallow I could not imagine more? As the last pen was put down, the therapist asked who wanted to read their letter. Instantly, my hand shot up; I wanted to get the task over. As I read my letter, the rustling of papers fell silent and no one moved. When I finished reading, no one spoke. Their overwhelming silence shamed me. Oh great, I’m gonna get kicked outta Cancer Camp. Judy, a woman quickly transitioning to death, haltingly spoke and said, “Wow, don’t wanna follow that.” But she did, and broke the spell. At the end of the session, we departed for the cafeteria. I acted nonchalant with my fellow diners, making light jokes and hoping my shame was invisible. The next morning, the therapist asked to speak with me privately. Convinced I was being kicked out of Camp, I sat down to face criticism. “Do you know why people reacted so profoundly to your letter?” she asked. I made them uncomfortable. I wasn’t serious enough about what was asked. I was flippant. “No, you made them see death in a different light. You humanized death. I want to share your letter with the whole staff if I can.” I was stunned.
In life, we drop bits and pieces of ourselves due to circumstance and temperament. Then a quiet moment happens where someone taps you on the shoulder, you turn, and they hand you back those dropped pieces of yourself saying here, you dropped this —it’s important, don’t lose it.
It is remarkable when someone sees you when you have forgotten to see yourself.
Clare Olivares is a California painter and poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her creative work has been published in literary and art journals including The Plentitudes, Tulip Tree Publishing, Star82 Review, Remington Review, Juste Milieu, kerning/a space for words and Fatal Flaw. Olivares' writing reflects daily observations of living with gratitude and curiosity. She holds an undergraduate degree in art history/medieval studies from UC Berkeley and a master's degree in painting from Mills College, Oakland, CA.