When the Bough Broke

My mother didn't know that when she sang "Rock-a-bye Baby" to help me settle down at bedtime every night she was terrifying me:

Rock-a-bye baby in the treetops
When the wind blows the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all.

All I could picture was the baby in the cradle falling, and I knew first-hand the painful consequences of falling.

Last Sunday morning I awoke and realized that sometime during that night of restless sleep, the bough had broken and my cradle was falling. In this very dark place, I wrote,

"Walking into this dark tunnel of disease is taking more courage than I have. I've grown skittish over the past few years. I wear the arched, standing-up furred back of a cat that knows it's in danger. Even getting ready for a music gig feels dangerous now.

In a few days I'll bleed into a needle in preparation for my 6-month appointment with the oncologist. I expect him to tell me coldly that my lymphocyte count has multiplied, but I'm still in the "wait and watch" Stage 0 of CLL (leukemia). Night sweats, the thrush (yeast infection in my mouth), and extreme fatigue are the only symptoms right now, and still I'm peering into the unknown darkness wondering what's next. It can't be good.

Even as I go alone into the unknown of this disease, I know I'm in lockstep with a billion others on this planet who have begun their own descent, with no choice of turning back to a younger, healthier life." 

This was the Sunday I was scheduled to provide the music for Rev. Ron Fox's Center for Spiritual Living (CSL) 10 a.m. service. Trying to decide on which music to play to fit Rev. Ron's "Remaking Ourselves" topic had given me a week-long angst. I'd made the selections and practiced them through the week, but on Saturday night, I was certain the songs were the wrong choices. I spent hours going through each piece of music in four file drawers, finally deciding on a new set, and then feeling the panic that happens when I know I might not have time to adequately prepare.

On this Sunday morning, I knew that I was broken, falling helplessly like the baby in the cradle beneath blankets of issues. I had to leave my house at 8:20 a.m. to arrive at the church by 9 a.m. My mind/body doesn't obey my commands at that early hour, and singing with a tired voice is always a struggle, if not a disaster. And who wants to hear the performance of an inspirational singer who lacks inspiration? Another blanket covered the rest: the strange dilemma of ministering to a congregation through music in a church, when I can no longer, in my truth, subscribe to a belief of the existence of an invisible deity "God," and certainly not to the concept of God healing me. And now I was smothering in the thickest of all blankets--the fear for my unknown future. My integrity cradle was on the way down, with a cowardly me buried under the blankets.

I thought about calling Rev. Ron and telling him I was sick and couldn't make it. Then I thought about the disaster for a minister of having to conduct a church service without music. I arrived on time, dressed and fronting a belying smile. Rev. Ron's talk was about living life and our ability to focus and change direction. I sang the songs I'd prepared about living life. One was David Beede's song titled "Trite Secrets," the story of an old woman in the park who always sang this:

"Play like a child in the park,
Sing like no one can hear,
Sleep like you're never afraid of the dark,
Wake like there's nothing to fear
Dance like no one is lookin'
Love like you never cried,
Eat like it's always home cookin'
Work like your dreams never died"

Rev. Ron's talk was lush with encouragement for focusing and making changes in ourselves, along with quoted passages from many of my favorite authors. Afterwards (thanks to the freedom of song selections in New-Thought churches), I sang a medley of Broadway show songs in which two women make commitments to change their lives: "I Ain't Down Yet" from The Unsinkable Molly Brown and "Before the Parade Passes By" from Hello Dolly. I had a new understanding of the words as I sang them: "When the whistle blows and the cymbals crash and the sparklers light the sky, I'm gonna raise the roof! I'm gonna carry on! Give me an old trombone, give me and old baton, before the parade passes by."

The combination of Rev. Fox's talk, the music I'd chosen to sing, and the loving reception of the people there restored me to a new awareness of that balance of living the life I have while preparing for the eventuality of what is ahead.

Sunday afternoon was wonderful. I went online to the CLL support groups my sister had bookmarked for me, to try to find out what's next for this disease and found out that what's next is, as one patient expressed it, "accepting CLL and sleeping at night and not being sad, angry, afraid. Stress makes the WBC go up." Another one wrote, "I appreciate everything and everyone around me." Another one wrote, "I thank God for each day and all that it brings, good or bad." They wrote about the importance of getting exercise, eating healthy foods, having fun, and keeping up immunizations for pneumonia and flu. My doctor gave me those shots last week. Yes! Yes! Wait for me! I'm getting there! 

I was up all Sunday night, pulling out and packing up everything I don't need from all the closets, drawers, and storage areas in my house while the song played over and over in my mind "To everything (turn, turn, turn). . . .There is a season (turn, turn, turn) And a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. . . ."  On Monday morning, by 9 a.m., my driveway was stacked four rows thick with piles of stuff that had been oppressing me, and at 1 p.m., the AMVETS truck arrived to carry it all away, minus some items the neighbors had already taken.

My storage area in the shed is neatly stacked with empty plastic file boxes and bins with lids for the day when someone will come in and pack up everything valuable. I have a new Will and Living Will, and every other important document resides in a thick black 3-ring binder with instructions and the address and phone number of the great paralegal firm here in town who can make everything happen for fraction of the cost of an attorney.

The baby is warm in the gently rocking cradle. The landing was soft. The lullaby has an ongoing happy ending: when the bough breaks, the cradle catches on a lower, stronger branch. I have plenty of time left to live a happy life in the comfort of truth and balance.