Rosslyn Lam
When retired social worker Rosslyn Lam* was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer she became overwhelmed with grief. But her fear of dying slowly fell away. She explains why.
Several years ago, in 2016, I took it upon myself to write my life story after being completely overwhelmed by my diagnosis of advanced breast cancer.
Twenty months earlier, my husband had sadly passed away from pancreatic cancer and my children and I were still trying to adjust to not having him in our lives. After my own diagnosis I was in shock for several months and when that dissipated, I drifted into melancholia.
Though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, the writing became my therapy. It was as if my memories were all that I had and I discovered that if I immersed myself completely in them, and re-lived my life, all over again, perhaps it might take away some of the sadness. This was my escape back then and at the time it proved to be a soothing salve.
But it never lasted long. During that period, I recall looking about for what else I might do to resolve the sense of gloom that continued to overwhelm me; what could I immerse myself in to stop the pain of the anticipated grief of letting go of my children, and how could I block the hopelessness of the present and any future that might be left to me?
And so, I picked up painting and tai chi and qigong, I watched movies and documentaries and tried to do all these things even all at once as a way of blocking the sadness. I prayed of course – I had been raised as a Christian, but I didn’t really have a sense of who I was praying to. I felt remote from God and continually overwhelmed by my grief. The harder I tried the more anxious I became; I was getting nowhere.
On a Gawler Foundation cancer retreat, I discovered what it felt like to take control, or in their terms, get back into the driver’s seat. I learned that if I adopted a whole food plant-based diet, undertook an exercise program, surrounded myself with positive people, managed my emotions and meditated, then perhaps I could ward off this disease, be an outlier on that statistical curve or better still, be cured. It was the beginnings of hope.
I read voraciously about spontaneous remissions, could that really ever happen to me, I wondered? I wanted to believe that it was real, it felt good to have hope but I couldn’t stop the doubts: was I just kidding myself?
Not long after that I went on a silent meditation retreat. It was held in a Tibetan Buddhist temple outside Melbourne and it was, I was told, open to people of all faiths. What I loved most of all was the gentle tones of the retreat leader and I recall taking great comfort from his words – let yourself go, there is no future, there is no past, there is only the present moment.
Over three days, we sat in silence, and I found a measure of peace in the gentleness of that routine. But on the final night, I was disturbed by a dream – as I opened the door from my room that led into the corridor, I found myself looking down into an abyss; fear enveloped me – what was this place?
The next day in the session, the same black fear wrapped itself around me again. I was terrified. In the break, the retreat leader explained to me that it was a dark night experience and knowing that I was a Christian he went on to tell me how Jesus had died on the cross and that he had suffered just as I was suffering now and yet had risen again. All I needed to do was look to him.
As we returned for the final session, Christian music flooded the temple. I recognised the songs and my spirit began to soar. I could feel the fear losing its grip on me, I was discovering a solid truth, a consciousness beyond myself; my cancer seemed less relevant. I wanted to know more about God.
As I returned to Melbourne there was something profound changing within me. I began to develop my meditation practice and I devoured Christian books, one of which was Experiencing God in a Time of Crisis, by Sarah Bachelard. I felt as though it was written for me. God was meeting me in the midst of my suffering. I recognised the illusions that I had been living under, and the ways in which I had been clinging to my past story. I saw through my inability to let go of who I thought I was and I began to discover, over time, what it might be like to live a more authentic life.
On reflection now, I know that I was becoming who I was meant to be, and it was the multiple Melbourne lock downs, with the removal of so many distractions in life, that seemed to open the way for me. The longer I sat, the more peace I felt. In my mind, I began calling it the knowing place, a place where I could go in my silent moments where I could feel Christ’s presence wash over me.
My fear of dying slowly fell away and began to be replaced by the assurance that God is real, that the spirit of Christ dwells within me and in all of us; all I need to do is let go and provide the space.
In April last year, I was fortunate enough to travel to Cradle Mountain in Tasmania with some members of the Canberra-based Benedictus Contemplative Church. I’m really glad I took that trip because. as gruelling as it was, it left me with an image that I still reflect on today.
Unbeknownst to us, a blizzard had set in on Cradle Mountain just as we set out on our pilgrimage, and so for much of the journey, the challenge we all faced was to remain upright on a wooden boardwalk that stretched for miles on into the snowy landscape.
As we set out on the second day, a metre of snow meant that the boardwalk was barely visible. I recall continually falling off, as we made our way very slowly through the hazardous conditions. Every time I fell, with a pack on my back, sinking deep into the snow, sometimes to the left, or sometimes to the right, there was someone behind just picking me up and setting me upright again. I have no idea how many times this happened, but over and over again I was picked up from where I fell, and put back on the boardwalk. And in that way, I just kept on going.
There have been many ups and downs on the journey I am now travelling. My weekly IV chemotherapy treatment often leaves me feeling exhausted and emotionally depleted. Sometimes I struggle with juggling all the various activities I get involved in. I get anxious, I lose sight of the truth, I find myself driven by egocentric ambitions about being productive, about the need to perform.
I do too much, I worry about others’ perceptions of me, I get irritable, I take it out on family, my meditation practice falls away and so I fall off the boardwalk again.
But by now I have discovered it doesn’t take much for me to get back on track. A walk along the Maribyrnong River can sometimes be all that is needed, time to still my soul, quieten my spirit and find myself back in that knowing place – where God meets me, where what I bring is enough and where I can find once more that freedom and joy of living abundantly in the present moment.
Discovering that I can enter into a relationship with my creator has enabled me to experience a reality that is beyond what I thought I knew. As I place my trust in God, my hope is not necessarily for a cure but for transformation and renewal in this world and beyond, in spite of the circumstances in which I find myself. It is this hope filled life for which I am truly thankful.
*Rosslyn lives in Melbourne, Australia. This article is an amended version of a reflection shared at the Benedictus Contemplative Church, Canberra, on 12th March 2022. See: https://benedictus.com.au/