Your Wild and Precious Life

By Susan

As some of you may know, a dear friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer about a year ago. I blogged about him here. This spring, after the surgery to remove his astrocytoma, I went to Austin, Texas. I stayed with him for a few days while he--unable to drive, work, or run--walked and talked his way into recovery.

We walked together--this marathoner and me--for miles and miles each day. And he talked. About his cancer, about his brain. About his daughter and wife. About the differences between how his brain worked now as opposed to before. Pre-brain-cancer and post-brain-cancer, for some people, is never the same place. My friend was unbelievably blessed with a skilled surgeon and the prayers of many to come out of the operating room as the same man he'd been going in. As we walked, he found that words appeared differently, or sometimes, didn't show up at all--when he summoned them. He realized that one side of his body wasn't as strong as it had been before.

But otherwise? He was miraculously and beautifully well.


When I prepared to leave his home, I noticed that the refrigerator was covered in word magnets. I left my mark by piecing together, word by word, a simple Mary Oliver quote from her poem The Summer Day:


"Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?"

I thought I was leaving the message for him, yet perhaps I left it for me. He'd been adamant that he'd lived his life the way he wanted, and had no regrets--either before or after the brain cancer. Could I say the same?

Since his surgery, the Mary Oliver line has reappeared in my own brain often. I became a stay-at-home mom, completed my manuscript, The Angels' Share, and got my health back in order--including the addition of running to my routine. I didn't want to wait on a scary diagnosis before getting my diet and body in shape. I didn't want something like cancer to shake me up enough to finally force me to finish my manuscript. And I didn't need a crisis to tell me that I needed to be home with my children, probably more than anything else in the world. When I thought about what I needed to do with my one wild and precious life? That was easy. I needed to live it deliberately.

Overall, my friend made a miraculous recovery. Last weekend, he shattered his personal record for the half marathon at one hour and twenty-three minutes (That's a 6:19 mile pace.) He already qualified for the Boston Marathon and will run on Team Livestrong this spring with other cancer survivors.
At the same time, his story reminds me that life is strange with its twists and turns, and is sometimes less believable than fiction. His wife of almost a decade left him soon after his cancer surgery. She filed for divorce and gave him primary custody of their four-year-old daughter. Which goes to show you that life--even when it is its most miraculous and spectacular--can still kick you in the pants. Even when you think you've beaten cancer.

Hopefully, we don't need our lives flip-flopped in order for us to make better choices. Hopefully we can find our dreams, love our families, and finish the damn book--right, writers? without cancer and a divorce to scare us to death.

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?

I went into 2011 with big plans. Somehow, I accomplished most of them, but it wasn't on accident. What does 2012 hold for me, for you, and for my friend? We don't know. We can only live as deliberately as possible.

And keep running.

Memoir and Real Life

By Susan

This post is not about writing as much as it is about real life.

I've always been a fan of great memoir. Last weekend I devoured two great tales of life stories- Mishna Wolff's I'm Down while flying east and Mary Karr's lit while flying west on my quick trip to and from Kentucky for my grandmother's 90th birthday.

Now, I will tell the truth about my Mama, my grandmother. Her past few years have not been easy. Her body has crumpled into itself, bones shattering and nerves misfiring. Her ears are shot. Her memory may be worse off than her hearing. Yet we had a huge party with over 100 people in attendance, and she showed up at The First Baptist Church's reception hall in a dainty corsage and a fuchsia blazer and was the belle of the ball. It was a celebration of a life well-lived.

"Let's not have such a big party for my 95th," she said to my mother as we exited the church.

I thought about Mama's life story all weekend as I read the memoirs of others. She eloped with my grandfather right before WWII because of my great grandfather's disapproval--my grandfather, even at 21, had already been married before. She had my mother in '42, my aunt in '51, and my uncle in '58, well-spaced babies that each represent their own generation. She was the first woman on the school board in my hometown, she led polio drives after her pregnant sister died from the disease, and she traveled extensively--from Mexico City for the '68 Olympics to London in the 1980s to attend the theatre. When my Uncle Mark moved to New York City, she made regular trips to see plays with him on Broadway.

When I returned from Kentucky, I took a day to drive to Austin to see a friend of mine recently diagnosed with brain cancer--a grade 2 astrocytoma in the left temporal lobe, to be exact. He's 30 years old and we went to Juan In A Million to scarf down some Mexican food.

We talked about the tumor as several of the wait staff would politely interrupt us in Spanish to ask about the stitches lined up behind his left ear. He would answer them, simply, el cancer, el cerebro. We talked about his daughter, who is turning four next month, and about his beautiful wife, whose birthday is today. We talked about quality of life versus quantity of life. We talked about regrets and travel and the upcoming decisions he will have to make about his treatment options. We talked about insurance and money and the marathon--yes, the marathon--that he is training for.

I told him about my grandmother, about the party and the visitors and the funny things she would say. For a moment, we looked at each other, thinking about time and life and what we do with it all.

Now, I will tell you a little about this friend of mine. He is brilliant and athletic and snarky and kind. He's traveled to umpteen countries and continents in the last decade--including tours of India, Europe and South America. He runs a 5:30 mile. He helps others for a living and volunteers his time working with troubled youth and the homeless population in Austin. And he'd rather die young than live forever without his mind intact. His only regret is that he's not yet gotten that tattoo he's been thinking about. I told him if he found the right tattoo artist, I would pay for it.

I finished the memoirs this week and thought about us all, spinning quietly in our own lives, not thinking about death, not thinking about consequences and choices and our actions--just moving forward. I respect the writers like Wolff and Karr who write their stories--not just so they can learn from them, but so that we can too. We each have a story. Maybe like my grandmother, you will live to celebrate your 90th birthday surrounded by family and friends and neighbors who love you. Maybe like my friend in Austin, your body will rebel and scare the hell out of you well before your time--and you will be surrounded by friends and family and neighbors who love you.

Make it count, I guess is my point to all of this. Make it count even when you don't feel like it. Live your story and live it without regrets. Finish that novel, lose the 10 pounds. Complete a 5K for those that can't. Help others and donate to worthy causes. Travel. Go to the theatre. Love God, your family, and your friends. Make sure they know you love them too.

Take care.