Therapy

     Last time I was stuck in the pokey (that's my euphemism for the hospital, the pokey)... as I was saying, last time I was stuck in the pokey for the long haul, they sent the occupational therapist to see me. I had to demonstrate my ability to dress myself by removing my socks, then putting them on again, over and over. They watched me hobble to the sink and brush my teeth. I suppose they would have been interested in watching me brush my hair, except I was bald, so no go on that. I was asked to demonstrate that I could retrieve an object from the floor or a high shelf. Easy enough I guess. They really wanted me to walk, yet they kept me tethered by  i.v. lines and a g-tube and drains hanging from my belly. They didn't want me to hobble to the toilet without help, yet they lectured me for not walking enough. They asked if I was depressed. Who wouldn't be?

    When I was a student, I worked and volunteered at the Good Samaritan Retirement Village. Some days,  I helped with the arts and crafts. I thought arts and crafts was silly. How could paste and scissors and markers help someone in a wheelchair? After my stay(s) in the pokey, I understand. It's not about the result. It's about the process. It's about the act of creation, the focus of attention, the healing that occurs when you participate in something, anything. That occupational therapist who wanted me to improve could have helped me by bringing me some paste and scissors and markers.

   Now that I'm home, I find myself drawn to arts and crafts. I get lost in the process of creating something, anything. I call it the Zen of Chopping. I cook not really to feed myself, but to prepare health for myself. I take my time preparing the ingredients. I find the beauty in a nicely sliced onion. A perfectly cooked egg.
But, it's not about the egg. While I enjoy eating a perfectly cooked egg, I benefit more from the process of creating it. By sinking my attention into the maybe mundane task of stirring, I am giving my mind focus. Focus that distracts me from the details of what has happened, from cancer. An ovarian cancer sister once compared cancer to a radio you can't turn off. That radio is poorly tuned, never clear, but always emanating sound. Some days the volume is loud and demanding, other days are a low hum, but that radio is always on. The task of preparing a perfectly cooked scrambled egg turns down that volume, dampens the static of that radio. "coming at ya from station OVCA.." 

   As a side effect of my search for Zen, I make almost everything from scratch. I relish the hunt for ingredients. I read cookbooks. I watch all the cooking contest shows. It's both a quest for health and a remedy for that  radio. Last night, I wanted cake. I made my favorite recipe from scratch and served myself on my grandmother's plate. I was satisfied and that radio was a faint buzz in the background. That therapist would very happy to see me cooking. Who cares about my socks? I hardly even wear socks.