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As I sit, snowbound, watching fat heavy flakes of snow fall outside my new townhouse in Nanaimo, I reflect back over the past four years and am amazed ... at how far I’ve come, how much I’ve learned, and the huge role that The Haven has played in all of that.
I’d always dreamed of retiring at the coast after a long and satisfying career in Edmonton. It would be a time of rest, reward, copious time together, and new adventures for me and my beloved husband, John. We imagined lazy walks on the shore at Long Beach, kayaking together with orcas in Johnstone Strait, maybe a trip to the Queen Charlottes.
And more Haven work, of course. We’d done several workshops together already, loving the deepening intimacy we experienced in witnessing and supporting each other’s journeys. Phase I had been such a highlight for us, and helped us to cope with everything from dysfunctional family dynamics to John’s mother’s Alzheimer’s disease. We felt keenly alive and close even in the midst of considerable chaos around us, and John had begun to say “I think I’m finally getting the hang of life.” We were excited about diving into Phase II together as soon as possible.
We were just settling back in to our “normal” life six weeks after our second Come Alive when I took John to Emerg with gut pain. The diagnosis was as cruel as it was sudden and unexpected: emergency surgery revealed that cancer had invaded his bowel and spread throughout his abdomen. He had, at best, weeks to live. He never came home again. In less than three months he was gone.
To say that I was shattered is a woeful understatement. In nearly twenty-four years with my soulmate, I never dreamed I’d be helping him die at age fifty-five. My John, who had always been so healthy, eating well and exercising to keep his body trim and strong.
My heart broke wide open and I was determined to keep it open, to apply all that I had learned at Haven, and be fully present and open for every moment I would have left with my beloved. We talked, touched, rested in silence, laughed and cried together. Hand in hand we surfed waves of joy as well as deep grief.
I’d seen John release old patterns and limitations through Come Alive and Self Compassion. I’d seen him step into his strength and claim it at Phase I. Lying in his hospital bed after the removal of his bowel, he expanded into that strength even as his body shrank away. Friends, many from Haven, rallied around us, flying in from the coast, emailing, and calling. John’s heart blossomed and I will never forget him saying to me in a tone of awe one night just before he fell asleep, “People love me.” That knowing was what I had always wanted for him.
When John died, I was both exhausted and satisfied that I had given him everything I had to give. Now it was time for me to rest, grieve, and somehow find my way back into life. One of the first things I did was book into “Transitions” at Haven. Stepping onto the Haven property for the first time without John at my side was symbolic of moving forward into my life. It was also symbolic of a new way of being for me: I asked for help.
I had always been “the strong one”. I had been “successful” in my life (whatever that means!), and I had no clue how to ask for support or receive it when it was offered. Now I couldn’t even get it together enough to book a flight to the coast. So Haven friends walked me through that, and then walked me onto the property when I arrived.
Since that time, I’ve carried on with my Haven work, and with the business of building a new life. I’ve moved to Nanaimo, realizing that putting off a move to the coast until retirement could very well mean it would never happen. As I move forward, I’m more conscious about my strength and my softness, and getting better at asking for help, at putting my “don’t know” out there. I extend my heart to the new friends I’m making here through Staying Alive and other venues, and accept their support. When I need to, I go deeply into my grief, feel it fully, and then flow back into whatever comes next ... joy, loneliness, fullness, connection. I can feel my strength consolidating in concert with vulnerability.
When John was sick, we joked that our journey through his cancer was Phase 463. What we realized was that life is the ultimate Phase program ... unexpected challenges exquisitely crafted to grow our edges and bring us forward into our fullness. I’m determined to engage with life and whatever it brings me, to feel and grow and expand into all that I can be. In the words of the song Ernie McNally and his brother, Steve, wrote for me, “like the phoenix, I rise and fly again”.
I’m convinced that The Haven will always be a part of that rising and flying for me. It nurtures and supports the best in me as I grow and expand my heart. Haven learnings have been a key part of what got me through the last difficult couple of years; the whole Haven experience is a priceless gift I give myself.
I’ve taken several courses in the past couple of years, including Phase II, without my beloved at my side, and I’ve booked three more courses for 2009. The more I learn, the more it seems to me that this life we’ve all been gifted with is not an easy journey, but it’s rich and full and astonishing. I hope you’ll give yourself the gift of The Haven as a support in living your best life. Maybe I’ll see you on the property one day, and we’ll gaze together at the big stained glass window in Phoenix and muse on how our journeys are reflected there.
Judy Hancock
Judy Hancock is an educator and therapist living in Nanaimo. You can contact her at haven54@gmail.com.
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