Lessons Learned from My Cancer

Now that I’m 63, I have noticed a change in my world … for the worse. I’m not talking about climate change or even politics; they’ve been awful for a long time already. The change I’m now noticing is that my doctor used to be a fount of optimism and good news, and isn’t reliable in that department any longer. I don’t know what may or may not be going on, but for the last couple years his prognoses have become downright depressing, a nattering nabob of negativism. A few years ago, he told me I had an odd growth on my back. That odd thing turned out to be melanoma. If I had been born 50 years earlier, that cancer would have killed me, but it hasn’t.

 A year ago, I went in for my annual physical. I have memorized my doctor’s usual scripted response, which we’ve practiced for 30 years. He was supposed to announce, “your results are normal. See you next year.” That’s what he has always told me. But he didn’t say that this time. Instead, this time he responded, “you know, the numbers look funny. You should get that checked out.”

So checking into it is what I did with last year’s summer vacation. 

The Mishnah teaches, “Against your will you were formed; against your will you are born; against your will you live, and against your will, you will die.” That’s the essence of what it means to be a creature, to be alive. We are all of us living that inexorable reality in various stages at various moments. It is the inescapable reality of all perishing things, of every creature. 

One of the traits I love about our ancient rabbis of blessed memory is that they were, above all, realists. A few decades ago, when I was in rabbinical school, I had the pleasure and privilege of volunteering as a summer chaplain at Sloan-Kettering, one of the premier cancer hospitals in the world. The senior chaplain at the time was Rabbi Pesach Krauss, a deeply spiritual and wonderful stoic of a rabbi, who embodied that same practical wisdom. My first day as a chaplaincy intern, he allowed me to accompany him by the bedside of a patient. He approached the patient and asked something I didn’t think you were allowed to say. 

Rabbi Kraus asked, “What has your cancer taught you?” 

Despite my surprise at the question, the amazing reality was that the patient had an answer. Right there, unrehearsed, in the hospital in the bed, there was an emerging clarity about the wisdom one can extract even from a terrifying and painful experience. Not just this patient, I discovered, but almost every patient that summer: They all could derive insight, ways to change their lives, ways to affirm, reclaim or strengthen relationships. Learning to focus on the moment, to live with fear or uncertainty. 

Some of them were even eager to talk about what they were learning from their cancer. 

I learned that there are two kinds of lessons in the world. There are the lessons where you’ve never thought about it before, a completely new insight. We can receive those lessons all the time; we can learn once and then we’re done. 

And then there are the really deep lessons, the transformative lessons about love, struggle, meaning, compassion and being present. Those lessons we learn again and again and again, throughout our lives. The lessons one can learn from cancer, if receptive, are of this second variety: transformative, evocative and sometimes ephemeral.

To return to our primary storyline, my recent cancer: I had my annual PSA test, and the numbers came back funny. I went for an MRI, which came back with some shadows on it (that’s bad, for those keeping score). That result forced me to have a biopsy, which indicated that I had two growths on my prostate, and that they were aggressive, which is a word you don’t want to hear in the context of cancer. That result meant that my only option was surgery. 

I am one of the lucky ones: great surgeon, superb medical care and very good results. The margins were clear. And so there’s no further therapy needed at the moment, my doctors will continue to monitor my results, and they’ll take regular blood tests to check my PSA levels (so far, so good).  

In the process of prepping me for the prostate surgery, the doctors ordered a complete body scan, which revealed a second cancer, unrelated to the first, in my thyroid. So after I had some time to recover from the surgery last fall, in the spring, I went through another round of surgery to remove my thyroid. That surgery preceded a treatment with a pill of radioactive iodine and a week of complete isolation to remove any remaining traces of the thyroid cancer. And thus far, my blood tests come back clear. I have a cool scar on my neck, and take a daily pill to compensate for not having a thyroid. But other than that, it appears to be clear sailing ahead.

I’m one of the lucky ones. But my cancer was also real: Terrifying, threatening and carrying with it the possibility of deep life transformation. I want to focus on a few of the lessons I have harvested this time around, because those are exactly the lessons of this penitential season, and indeed, of being alive. 

I’m one of the lucky ones. I know that. I know that for a lot of people that awful moment at the doctor’s where they receive the news that there’s something irregular in their test results is the beginning of a process much more dire. I know that. And I know that there are people reading this article, and people out in the world, who are struggling with much more challenging realities. I’m one of the lucky ones. But my cancer was also real: Terrifying, threatening and carrying with it the possibility of deep life transformation. I want to focus on a few of the lessons I have harvested this time around, because those are exactly the lessons of this penitential season, and indeed, of being alive. 

There’s a wonderful Talmudic story, in Masechet Sanhedrin, that asks the question, “Why were Adam and Eve created on the eve of Shabbat?” God had a whole week, but only produced people at the very end of that unprecedented week, not at the very start. If humanity is such a significant and complex creation, why not highlight us by advancing us to the top of the list, first among created things? 

The answer that I most love is that humanity was created last, after everything else had already been completed so that the feast would be ready for them. Everything had already been prepared. There was bounty in the garden, there was a table set. The world was ready to welcome and to celebrate them. 

The ancient rabbis compare this situation to a sovereign of flesh and blood, an earthly monarch, who first has the palace built, then hires the staff, then has them plan and prep the meal, and then develop and invite the guestlist. And only at the very end, when all is ready for the feast, do the guests actually enter the palace. 

And so it is for us, my friends. The world is already prepped for us — long before I thought I would need it. A whole lot of people created a world-class medical center at UCLA. Everybody there is amazing. And the level of care I got could not be better anywhere in the world. A whole lot of people put in the thought, planning, resources and energy long before I ever expected to develop prostate or thyroid cancer. Walking into that hospital lobby, one is greeted by a healing center full of other struggling patients, all of whom are beneficiaries of those who came before them. Generations of physicians, nurses, administrators and philanthropists who anticipated their needs, so that at the moment we walk into the hospital lobby, it was as if someone said, “Oh, you’re finally here. We’re ready for you.” 

There is a wonderful Hasidic teaching that each person should carry a slip of paper on which is written the words “for my sake, the world was created.” I used to think of that as egotistical, but I now realize it is simple reality. The world really was created for each of us, which means that in addition to being grateful for those who prepared for my need in advance, this insight suggests that we, each of us, have the privilege of becoming support staff and advance team for everybody else, for those who will follow. 

The second lesson is related to the first: Western people like to think of themselves as radically separate and autonomous: you and me against the world. That sense of independence is a delusion of bad metaphysics. There is no such thing as being that is not becoming, and there is no becoming that is not becoming in relationship to every other becoming. We are connected in a web of life and connection to each other and to all. In fact, we are no less than a manifestation of those others of which we are a part. Not only does it take a village metaphorically, but also all life actually constitutes a village. We are each of us participants in that living village, Earth, that we call home.

At no point in life were we separate from the world. When we were inside our mothers, we were absorbing voices and nutrients that linked us to thousands of other people. From the moment we were born, people were caring for us, cleaning us and attending to us: sometimes, well, sometimes less well. But at no point were we separate from all the other becomings that are permanently now part of you and me. 

That interconnected network of relationship became so clear by the way my loved ones mobilized on my behalf. My wife, Elana, and my sister, Tracy, stepped in and took over. I am the recipient of the strength of these two Amazon warriors. And I’m also not in it alone. They connected me to a network of medical advice that located a wonderful surgeon at UCLA who, it turns out,  has been attending the very High Holy Day services at Sinai Temple, where I have been officiating for the past 24 years. When I had my first appointment with the surgeon, I told him that it’s only fair he gets to anesthetize me, because my sermons have been putting him to sleep for over 20 years! Same with the talented physician who became my endocrinologist for the thyroid treatment.

We are each of us a collectivity of everyone who has touched our lives, of all the people who have loved us, wounded us, cared for us, abandoned us, disappointed us, thrilled us, taught us we are the living integration of all of them. And our privilege is in turn to be that for the rest of the world, to be that for each other.

I am marinating in love. This insight doesn’t make the cancer worth it, but I now perceive that love and care at a level of profundity I had never previously known.

The third lesson: I am marinating in love. This insight doesn’t make the cancer worth it, but I now perceive that love and care at a level of profundity I had never previously known. I had no idea so many people care. My amazing Elana has been, as she always is with the people she loves, tireless, indefatigable, generous, loving and wise. My sister and my sister-in-law, my brother, my children, my mother, my niece and nephew, my friends, my Ziegler students and faculty and AJU administration have been more than an institution; they’ve been extended family. Ziegler alumni all around North America and the world have reached out and I’ve had Mi Sheberach prayers (prayers for healing) recited for me on four continents. Rabbis here and around the world and my own amazing IKAR community, the clergy, the staff, my fellow congregants, have been so present, so affirming, so caring in all of this that they take my breath away. We first joined IKAR almost 18 years ago. We’ve never questioned why we’re here. Being a recipient of their graciousness, courage and kindness has been extraordinary. “Olam Chesed Yebaneh,” Psalm 89 says, “the world is built on love.” I am, you are, we are all built on love. And together we fashion an extraordinary home for each other.

We’re born into a world that has already been prepared for us. We are part of a village across time and space, in our bodies, in our identity, our memories, our values, and we are bathed in love. 

These are the lessons that I discovered while grappling with my cancers: We’re born into a world that has already been prepared for us. We are part of a village across time and space, in our bodies, in our identity, our memories, our values, and we are bathed in love. All that bounty cascades in a fountain of timeless gratitude, and out of gratitude, emerges our responsibility to shoulder our role as givers in turn. I am so grateful. 

Just enunciating the acts of chesed, of lovingkindness, renews my gratitude. But here’s what we do with gratitude. Hopefully, our gratitude manifests as quiet, resilient joy. It also manifests as a responsibility to make sure that this village is here for others too, to make sure that others can experience the sense that the world was prepped for them, to make sure that love abundant can lift us up and carry us forward. And finally, to build a world in which such grace is there, not only for the privileged few, but for all! 

We have our work to do this season and through the years, but for now: To God, to creation, to us all, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Rabbi Dr Bradley Shavit Artson is a Contributing Writer for the Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles (www.bradartson.com). He holds the Abner and Roslyn Goldstine Dean’s Chair of the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies and is Vice President of American Jewish University in Los Angeles.