Five years have passed since I last visited the tiny park in Newport News, Virginia, that’s nestled between a branch of Lake Maury and the Riverside Regional Medical Center. The area is wooded, remnants of a mixed forest of loblolly and oak that used to surround the slow green water of the lake. Stone walkways wind through a landscaped area where the local garden club has placed benches and planted azalea, abelia, and gardenia. In the heart of the park, a labyrinth invites anyone to follow its coiled brick path toward the center and back—an exercise in meditation.

Five years ago it saved my sanity.

A cancer diagnosis is an odd thing. Friends have described it as a punch in the gut or a shot in the heart. For Rich and me, it was a cruel fog that seeped under the doors of the house and slowly settled over everything in our lives. Neither one of us can remember a specific moment when we recognized its gravity, rather it rolled out bit by bit, a mystery about which we continue to debate the details—who discovered what, which happened first, why did we do that?

Five years. The park is quiet today except for the drone of cicadas. Rich didn’t accompany me. The experience for us now mostly rests—a story lodged in the hull of a ship, each year drifting farther out to sea. He’s had his five-year cancer-free celebration—a couple of toasts with friends and a hearty Malbec. I’m the one who wants to reflect, to plumb for meaning, experience gratitude, reread my journal. I want to walk the labyrinth again.

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I need a mantra and a ritual. Not sure why as I never seem to stick with it. I’m helpless to assist him when he’s in treatment. Can’t bear it when he’s in pain. I could sit in the waiting room and work on the jigsaw puzzle with the other companions. Or I could be outside. In nature. Moving. I’ll walk the labyrinth each day.

The symbol of the labyrinth is found throughout the ancient world etched or painted on pottery or coins, and remnants of labyrinthian structures have been discovered in Egypt, Italy, India, and around the Baltic Sea. The classical Greek or Roman design, called unicursal, is a single serpentine path that leads toward the center of a circle and back out again. Ancient Greeks believed the Minotaur—a creature half man and half bull—lived in the center. Walking the labyrinth was a quest to conquer the monster. Along the coast in Sweden, labyrinths were constructed to trap, in their center, the ill winds or evil spirits that could destroy a Viking voyage. Later, when labyrinths grew tall hedges and their spiral paths branched out to add mystery and confusion, they became multicursal mazes entertaining guests in English gardens or testing the skills of noblemen to escape without getting lost. In the twentieth century, the simple labyrinth with no dead ends and no requisite decisions became popular again as a setting for quiet contemplation in gardens or walking meditation in churchyards. And someone in the James River Garden Club must have known I needed one to visit every day of my husband’s radiation treatments.

Skin cancer is tricky. Thousands of premalignant lesions are removed every day from people with fair skin and those who spent their youth in the sun. These basal or squamous cells are easily burned or scraped from patients in routine outpatient procedures. The object is to get a “clean edge,” to ensure that no potentially malignant cells remain. Occasionally these cells run amok, and that’s when it gets interesting. Although generally confined to the epidermis, sometimes a cancer will grow, penetrating underlying tissue or bone. Or a few metastasize, meaning they spread, sometimes fatally, to distant tissues or organs.

This is what I need. This is what I will request each day.

                        Courage, to face what lies ahead.

                        Love, to support him as much as he needs.

                        Strength, to hold on to my own sense of self.

                        Grace, to accept the outcome.

The journey bringing Rich from first biopsy to radiation, and me to the park, lasted nine months—enough time to grow and produce a baby, had we been young enough and so inclined. Instead, his body produced tumors, inviting more and more complex forms of surgery. The first significant wound, after six hours of Mohs surgery, lay open over his right eye for a week, raw and gaping, and I would excuse myself in the midst of dressing it, escaping from the bathroom to our bedroom to shake and shiver in a silent scream. The sight (or even thought) of him in pain would start as a prickling sensation at the base of my skull and shiver all the way to my gut. Neither the doctor nor I would allow Rich to see the hole. The day we consulted with the plastic surgeon, another doctor was enlisted for advice on grafting a half-golf-ball-sized depression. “Damn!” was all the specialist said when he saw the pictures.

For the next three months we lived with the surgically repaired wound, Rich increasingly self-conscious about the dent in his forehead and his new Spock-like eyebrow, me constantly fighting that unusual prickly sensation that shuddered through my body whenever I looked at the four-inch scar above his steel-gray eye. Both of us assumed we would soon be finished with the ordeal.

The next surgery involved removal of the parotid gland, one of two salivary glands in front of each ear canal. It’s a delicate procedure; a slip of the scalpel can permanently damage the tiny muscles of the face. Rather than squirm on the sticky vinyl waiting-room furniture for the three-hour ordeal, I needed to walk. A friend had told me to check out the small park nearby that was often visited by patients and family members during hospital times. It was August. Hot. The trek across the parking lot was brutal.

In the shade of the giant sycamores along the lake, the breeze is delicious. It scans my body.  I unclench my jaw, my shoulders, my fists, my gut. Am I really that tense? Just a few minutes to enjoy this. Refreshed, I need to hurry back to surgery, but I stop to check out the labyrinth as I pass. The damn prickly sensation shudders through me, and for an instant I flash to him in pain. I have this weird feeling I will return. I’ll need this place where I can walk among green living things.

We were up to five doctors by then, and on a first name basis with some. Tony. Pierre. We liked them all, but we didn’t want any more. We imagined ourselves on a plateau, a break in the action. It would be an easy downhill slide from here.

But the docs conferred, and radiation was prescribed. Daily, for six weeks. We added a specialist, Dr. Layser, in charge of radiation treatment. The humor of it lasted a few minutes, then the prickly sensation returned. I started to journal in earnest. We dug in for a longer haul. It was time to walk the labyrinth.

There are no dead ends. No decisions to be made. The way in is the way out. I step into the circle—the ancient symbol of wholeness—as though into a stream, intentionally, footsteps soft, each placement a comfortable walking stride ahead. The labyrinth twists and turns as it coils toward the center; at times the sun is warm on my face, moments later I step into my shadow. A faint breeze whisks a handful of dried leaves across the pattern of bricks. The maple they abandoned not long ago is crimson against a cornflower sky. Two titmice squeak and hop among the blood-red leaves of a dogwood.

This time is my own—every day at 2:15, an afternoon I never would have experienced if not for this daunting cancer experience.

For treatment, Rich was fitted with a mask similar to the ones fencers wear into competition. On one visit, I witnessed the following process.

The mask was placed over his head and screwed onto the table where all six feet, three inches of him lay, keeping him perfectly still so that the radiation would be zapped into an exact, minuscule spot on the side of his face and another on his neck—a technology, I imagined, like firing a rocket into space with the precision to intersect a specific target light years away. When the hulking machine was in place, its meticulous beams ready, the two technicians retreated to a nearby room and a huge metal door swung shut behind them. One watched through a small window, ready to halt the procedure at the slightest hint of his discomfort. The other stood before a computer screen like a starship captain, monitoring charts and graphs and an eerie sucking sound as the radiation was applied. In less than 90 seconds, it was over. I was exhausted.

Week One is finished. So far so good. Rich is feeling good, no side effects yet. It’s a gloomy day. The air is thick and damp with last night’s rain, and what is yet to come.

A treatment regimen is like walking a fence rail wearing a backpack—always holding the balance, one eye on the physical, one on the emotional. For Rich, physical side effects loomed. He ate his cruciferous vegetables, applied his creams and walked even on the days he was tired. I plastered my desk with affirmations. Things aren’t falling apart. They’re falling into place. We made time to sit and talk, planned outings for the weekends, immersed ourselves in books on tape. The Harry Potter series joined our treatment team—we craved our time in the car engrossed in that archetypal unfolding of bravery and friendship amidst the challenges of life. Or maybe it was a fantasy to lose ourselves in as we worked our way through the endless days. The characters and their stories lingered with me as I walked the labyrinth and surprised me as I rounded the corners of my mind.

Hot today like a last gasp of summer. There is a hint of fall—mostly in the stillness. Rudbeckia frames the labyrinth in soft gold. The lake is deep green and tranquil. My companions are occasional sounds—the rattle of a kingfisher, the chatter of mockingbirds.

In the center, someone has left a dozen roses, withered and browned at the tips. An odd composition of grief and hope. I search for some words to accompany me as I gaze out around the tiny park. The garden club has planted autumn azaleas around the rim. They are blooming wildly, relishing their chance to flourish in a second season.

There’s a moment upon waking that belongs more to the night before than the day ahead. It’s a moment when life is neutral, when recognition of events hasn’t burst into consciousness. Before you remember it’s your birthday, or a beloved friend is coming to visit, or you have a dentist appointment. Or you glance at your loved one’s face, startled by the radiation burns, and think, “Yes, it’s still here.”

Roses on all the benches today. The pain of the unknown contributor lingers in the air. I’m edgy, not centered. Small. I’ve lost focus on my third affirmation, the strength to keep my sense of self. Just finished reading Still Life by Louise Penny. Fun to escape into a mystery again. But I’m haunted with the thought of a “still life”—no movement or growth, just the waiting for someone or something to intervene. My deepest fear, I confided to close friends, is not of losing him (I’m sure I won’t), but of becoming my mother—living out my years caring for my husband. Prickling his pain.

Around the halfway point of treatment, a dear friend, who ran a national nonprofit organization, died of colon cancer. I had emailed him just a few weeks before, promising to make him key lime pie martinis when he finished chemo. I stared at the computer screen watching my inbox fill, drip by drip, friends and colleagues from across the country, until I thought I would drown from the shared grief. I walked the labyrinth in a numb haze.

It’s the midpoint—the time when our current state has become normal. Haven’t we always spent our afternoons like this? The first half seemed so long, and the end is so far ahead I’m afraid to start longing for it. Peter’s dead. What good will come of it? More awareness? Cures? For us, the timing sucks. Rich is unfazed—eternally optimistic. I refuse to allow doubt to permeate the wall of belief I’ve built. I’ll keep walking. This disease will impact us no more than these few months in the park.

There’s a delicate balance to the science of treatment, a careful consideration of optimal dose versus how much the patient can tolerate. The more discomfort tolerated, the fewer the obstacles to completing treatment. With one week to go for his face and two for his neck, Rich was bullish, slogging ahead. I raced to the labyrinth each day as though my circumambulation was powering his healing, smoothing the fissures and blisters, soothing the burn.

I walked yesterday under an umbrella, still experiencing the beauty of the labyrinth, its twists and turns, the continuous forward movement. It’s not a surface thing for me anymore. I’m walking to quell the prickling sensation I get when I think of him in pain, but I’m walking for him, too. Each step resonates. Each day I confront the Minotaur and survive. The end is in sight.

Today I switched my meditation to gratitude. It’s time to think about moving forward—taking the lessons and gifts and moving on. All along I have been asking for courage, love, strength, and grace. Now I’m grateful these were given to me in abundance.

Week Six we were marathoners staggering to the finish line, some days exhausted and irritable, others focused and serene. Although our races had been different, our steps were synced. We avoided talking about Friday, perhaps fearing the end day would be delayed. Someone might move the finish line. Then Rich announced he didn’t want to “ring the bell”—the highly emotional tradition for patients who are exiting their final treatment. Instead he chose to mark the occasion by baking a cheesecake for the staff whose loving care had touched him deeply.

Day 29: Sunny, 70, light breeze. Last day in the park. Tomorrow I go in with Rich for his final treatment. I have no thoughts or insights. I’ve really done nothing but walk around in circles. But today it’s enough to sit on this bench under the intensely blue sky. When we started six weeks ago, 2:15 felt like high noon. Today my hand makes a deep shadow across the page. I have watched a season change. The reds and golds along the shore are reflected in the still green water. Dried sycamore leaves skitter along the path. Fall warblers are gone, replaced by robins feeding drunkenly on the holly berries. The azaleas are still blooming—the intense pink of a winter sunset. I’ll never know how long they last. There is no reason to come here again.

 

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Yet I have returned. I don’t know the truth of the five-year mark’s significance. I know it is a long time—two Olympiads, two presidential terms, countries have formed and ended. Even so, my presence here feels recent. The landscaping is a bit ragged; the abelias are dying. But the gardens are weeded and pruned, and the breeze is sweet. A guestbook is stuffed into a small box on a pole by a bench. Entries span the cycle of life and death—folks finding inspiration and solace in nature. But there are entries from fishermen, too, and apparently the park, for a time, was a great place for Pokémon GO.

I step into the labyrinth and stroll the familiar twists and turns. There’s no mystery; it’s just a walk. I’m struck with the importance of ritual in crisis, how the mind craves a scaffolding around which to build out the moments, days, and months. For me, the labyrinth offered the perfect practice—feet grounded on the earth but always in motion. I must have known intuitively that in my helpless state as partner to the patient, I would need a sense of my own agency. I couldn’t take on his pain, yet I couldn’t be blind to it. Walking the labyrinth allowed me to weave a safety net with my footsteps. For both of us.

Cindy Carlson grew up in the snowbelt of western New York, and, when not traveling and birding with her now cancer-free husband, has spent most of her adult life along the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. After a long career in youth development, she is enjoying retirement as a writer. A winner of the Hampton Roads Writers contest for creative nonfiction and a reader for WHRO radio’s Writers Block, her work has appeared in several travel journals, The Quotable, The Wayfarer, Bird’s Thumb, Chautauqua, Tiferet and Barely South Review.