the whipped cream conundrum

I recently watched American Symphony on Netflix. As acclaimed musician Jon Batiste composes a symphony, his wife, author Suleika Jaouad, undergoes a bone marrow transplant. While the primary focus of the movie is Batiste’s musical journey, the filmmakers also offer a glimpse into Jaouad’s treatment. While I could identify with her experience, it was the way both Jaouad and Batiste lived two truths at the same time — he was at the pinnacle of success yet she was facing a life threatening illness — that got me thinking. What does it mean to live with two conflicting truths at the same time and which ones am I holding onto?

I hold these truths … I live with uncertainty and acceptance.  In the spring of 2016, as my doctors slowly exited the exam room after informing me I had no more options, living with uncertainty in 2023, almost 2024, is actually a pretty damn good place to be. So on the one hand, I struggle daily with the feeling that some day the other shoe may drop, that this miraculous treatment which melted my tumors away may no longer do its thing, and that the good cells will stop fighting the bad cells. And it’s true, even doctors don’t know the long term prognosis for people who respond positively to immunotherapy. However, at the same time, I look back seven, nearly eight years ago, when all hope was gone, and have accepted that if uncertainty is what is keeping me alive, I will take it.

I hold these truths … I experience joy and grief. 

I watched as my father took his last breath. He inhaled deeply and, in my mind, exhaled into another world. I felt many emotions all at once including heartbreak and love and loneliness and peace. My grief, although not always outwardly expressed, is ever present. In the midst of my grief, I experienced joy. I recall a time where I danced for hours as if no one was watching. I was going through an emotional time, but I was able to let that go to feel free and joyful. I remember someone once asking, “How can you laugh at a funeral?” To me, that is what it means to hold joy and grief at the same time. At my funeral, I hope you not only laugh, but you dance, too.

I hold these truths … I am a badass and I battle my self-confidence. It’s usually others who tell me that I am a badass, but this time it’s me. As we watched “American Symphony,” my mother pointed out to me just how much I have actually been through in the past 13 years. There are some scenes in the film that could have been taken from my own life — the transfer of the bone marrow, the conversations with the doctors, the isolation from the world — but they are ones that I have compartmentalized. However, these, and many more, were my lived experiences. And I conquered them all. So, I guess it’s ok to call myself a badass. At the same time, my other hand holds my lack of self-confidence. I don’t always feel as though I can take on the world in the same way I handled cancer. Indeed, there is a scene in the film where Batiste is fighting his demons of anxiety and not wanting to face the day despite all of his talent. I have a lot to learn from holding these two truths together.

These, among others, are the truths of my life, and, I powerfully hold them in each hand at the same time. Sometimes one truth is stronger than the other, sometimes a truth rears its ugly head at the wrong time, and sometimes many truths converge to make a big hot mess of my life.