Diana Martin

gardening club on Facebook. Recently, one of the members posted a photo of a nest filled with three light blue eggs and one odd-shaped speckled one. She was determined to find out what bird had laid such interesting eggs.

The site blew up with responses. The blue eggs were from a robin, but the brown speckled egg was from a cowbird. Apparently, cowbirds are known to lay their eggs in the nests of other birds because they are too lazy to raise their own young.

Then came the unsolicited advice: “Remove the brown egg immediately. When the cowbird hatches, it will be bigger than the other birds and push them out.” And also, “The cowbird will take food from the other birds, and they will starve to death.” On the opposing side: “If the egg is removed, the robin will sense that humans have tampered with her nest and not return,” and “Cowbirds are becoming extinct. If you remove the egg, it will die.”

The debate was intriguing and heated. What would this woman do? And then it hit me. There is no right answer.

Somehow this made me remember all the opinions people shared with me after my husband died from bile duct cancer almost five years ago. How was I to heal with all this coming at me? What decisions should I make when everything had a consequence that didn’t seem good or right?

At times, I did nothing and let nature take its course. Other times, I branched out — and then became overwhelmed. I started a new relationship, which ended badly, and suffered consequences I was not prepared for. I also found a group home for our 26-year-old son who has autism. That, too, has been a challenging adjustment.

A few months before the cowbird dilemma, I took a class called, “The Healing Power of Your Personal Narrative,” offered by Rachel Nusbaum of Orchid Story. In the class, she presented an illustration of a tree and asked us to write on the trunk how we felt when we first experienced the traumatic event. I wrote these: 

My life is over. I have nothing to give. I am not loveable. My heart is broken. I have no future. I will never know love. I am hopeless. 

Next she asked us to write on the leaves how we feel today, since most of us were several years out from the loss. On the lower leaves I wrote: 

Love will find me. I have a purpose. I have more to give. I am loveable. 

As I wrote my way to the upper leaves, I became even more positive: 

I will survive. I am strong. I can be happy. I am enough. 

I continued around the tree with more positives: 

I am capable. My life has just begun. I am not alone. 

Although I was in an average mood that day, I did this exercise and it showed me that I had begun to heal — and that it was not all bad. I had made some progress.

My tree had grown fresh green leaves that I wanted to color and add pink flowers to. Today I look at the tree, and I still see that hope. Some of the leaves have turned brown and withered away. Some are tiny sprouts still waiting to fill in. If I nourish the tree, it will grow strong, but a wind may blow it down anyway. Some things are out of my control.

I also know that just when I have mustered enough faith and hope, a cowbird will lay its egg in my perfect robin’s nest. I wonder what I will do?

This questioning is, of course, what keeps us all alive. It is an ongoing process, as is my story, which has made me stronger and helped me heal more deeply.

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Exploring your story can bring awareness and closure &mdash; and help you love this new version of yourself.
 

The Healing Power of Narrative

Life will never be the same. That's the way I felt after my husband died from bile duct cancer in 2015. Today, I sit alone in my living room knowing that what I felt almost five years ago prepared me for today. My fellow 

 contributors have captured so well what it means to be frightened and isolated. What I have is my own unique experience which I hope someone will relate to and feel a little less alone.

Much like the virus today, cancer changed the way I live. I became an empty nester when two years after my husband died, I decided my son with autism needed to be in a group living situation because if I were to die, there would be nobody to take care of him.

Cancer forced me to make that decision. Now he is on lockdown, and the state of Maryland is not allowing parents to visit. He doesn't speak and the most time I have with him is a few minutes on FaceTime where he looks confusingly into the screen. I'm not even sure he connects the person on the screen with his mom. For all I know, he feels abandoned inside. Still, I am grateful for the staff that risks their lives every day to take care of him and his roommates. 

Except for FaceTime, Skype and Zoom, I am isolated in my townhome for no one knows how long. Sometimes I see a person cry on Zoom. I have realized that I am better dealing with tears in person. Other times I need a break from Zoom. Too much computer interaction causes me sensory overload. I hate being uneasy, helpless and not in control. This is not unfamiliar territory because cancer gave me a head start on dealing with those feelings.

If my goals were to be at peace and have all the uneasiness, fear and pain subside, I would have. I try to put it all in perspective by being positive, but psychologists say it’s better to sit with the uneasiness rather than pretend that everything is going to be fine.

In the five years since Dan passed, I discovered that everything was not going to be fine, but that it would work itself out. This self-awareness came from terrible circumstances and took several years. I am still evolving, and the world is still changing.

Today, people are receiving treatment for many life-threatening conditions, cancer and Covid-19, among the most visibly covered in the news. To me, connectedness, whether with each other, or nature or anything else is more important than control.

I no longer feel "different" than others, because we are all isolating together. But I do still need the support of other widows and widowers who are dealing with this crisis alone because they have lost their spouses to cancer.

I am grateful that I have the technology to receive this support. I send prayers to the people who are in treatment for cancer at this time. I can say with some certainty that if you're sitting at home alone because you lost your spouse or loved one from cancer, it is important to reach out to others in your situation by looking for on-line or telephone support groups on MeetUp.com or by searching the internet for organizations in your state.

This is also a good time to remember the oncology nurses and staff by donating hand sanitizer, gloves, food or other items. However excruciatingly difficult, cancer prepared me for this crucial moment in history. I'm not sure if I should be grateful or not. 

Dealing with isolation is not new for widows and widowers who lost their spouses to cancer.
 

Diana Martin | Contributors

The Healing Power of Narrative

Cancer Prepared Me for the Coronavirus

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