Riding the Scrambler

Typically, I avoid using carnival rides as metaphors for life, what with the carnie at the controls and all… but this one fits. The Scrambler is a perennial favorite in our clan. Here we are—three generations preparing to ride it just this past June.

The Scrambler, in case you’re not a carnival regular, involves three arms with four cars each, all spinning around a central pole. As your car spins in one direction, the ride as a whole rotates in the opposite direction, all at increasing speed. It gives you the illusion that you will slam into the other cars, and you are smushed into the people in the car with you despite your best efforts to defy the forces. You are simultaneously giggling with glee and a little terrified. Plus the spinning makes you wish you hadn’t just eaten that Elephant Ear. But deep down you trust that you’re ok because you know that the steel beams will hold you, you’ve got buddies in your car, and they wouldn’t really make a ride that slammed you into the other riders, right?

So, here we are in life, spinning around in so many directions over the last week. We are being propelled at speeds we cannot control through tests and diagnoses and prognoses and real estate and jobs and homework and life. Most of the time all we can do is hold on, try not to throw up, and hope we don’t slam too hard into the other riders in our car. Sometimes we scream in terror, and sometimes we get to laugh through the fear, like when the Cancer Support Team Nurse jokes with dad that her specialty is constipation, and he dead-pans back, “No shit.” Oh yes, he did.

And eventually you find that you really CAN trust that in the end you’re going to be ok on this ride, because the steel of grace surrounds you. You feel it when you overhear your nine-year-old say to his grandfather on the phone, “I’m just so disappointed that you have cancer.” And you know that you have raised a child with the emotional intelligence to persevere.

Or you feel it when, on his way to a training class in Michigan, your husband’s route takes him past the hospital just after dad’s first Oncology appointment, and so he is there at precisely the moment you need him. And he is able to reschedule the training class and spend the next day at home with you, crying and talking and planning how you will navigate this new normal.

And you know it when, after she’s already graced you by keeping your son occupied all afternoon so that you can go to the Oncologist with your parents, your dear friend has made you soup. And since the food is there, you eat. And your other friends call you, and email you, and take you to lunch, and just know you well enough to know how to love you through this.

But you especially know it when, just when you start to feel a little sorry for yourself, your dad states plainly that he refuses to feel sorry for himself, and you again have the strength to hold on, even with the spinning and the fear and the forces pushing against you.

For those of you who are wondering how to help, I highly recommend the website Circus of Cancer. I learned about it when a dear friend loaned me the book The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan, which I also recommend. I just didn’t know when I read it that the information would come in so handy, so soon.