(Editor’s Note: Dirk Hollebeek was recently diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer.)

After battling squamous-cell carcinoma for several years on various spots on my face, neck, and hands; a cell or collection of cells finally made it below my skin and metastasized just above my right elbow and within my right armpit. 

The resulting tumors were visible, palpable, and painful as they grew daily.  The process of removing those growths included surgery and a course of radiation therapy to “mop it up,” as my radiation oncologist put it. High dose radiation every weekday for five weeks was prescribed.

By my second full week of radiation, I felt somewhat accomplished and buoyed by that milestone. So, as I gathered my things and left the treatment room, I greeted each of the four radiation techs working that day by name. 

One of the techs, Bob, had taken the lead in each session by ushering me in and out of the treatment room, answering questions, and being my contact with the whole team.

“Well,” I said with some exuberance as I left the treatment room and turned for the lobby, “Thanks again, Bob. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re welcome,” he responded.  “But there is one more thing,” he said a bit uncomfortably. “My name’s not Bob. It’s Colin.”

So much for my renewed confidence. In my defense, a bit of brain fog is normal during this sort of treatment. I do have the habit of looking at my medical team members’ name tags to learn and use their names as quickly as possible, which is a relic from my teaching days. But Colin wears a lab coat whose lapel often flips his ID revealing only the barcoded backside. I’ve gotten his name right ever since.

These days I’m doing my best to roll with the details I miss. I focus, instead, on my memory successes.  That strategy has allowed me to feel less anger and fear and more peace and contentment. It has helped me realize that I’m not in control of much beyond my own reaction and that I must try to react accordingly. It helps that this phase is projected to be temporary.  

Some readers may also be facing the likelihood of confusion and memory loss on a permanent basis because of injury, disease, or age. Loss of any kind is unwanted, difficult, and frightening, so fear and anger are understandable natural responses. 

Lapses in memory and cognitive abilities, however, can trigger a special panic that causes us to question our worth and dignity. After all, who are you if you can’t remember the events of your life, especially the ones that shaped and defined you?  Birth dates, anniversaries, school and job experiences, old houses and neighborhoods, friends made and lost, love found and made, all are the hallmarks of a life lived. In the event that we can no longer recall them, do they lose significance?  And who am I when I cannot manage the small details of life? Where are my car keys? The grocery list? My jacket that I thought I just put on? What is going to happen to me if I cannot manage the minutiae of my own life?  

Who am I if I cannot remember what I want or need to do?  

Our culture perpetuates the myth of personal independence. Most consider dependence on someone else as repugnant, instead of simply seeing it as the inevitable result of living. I remember when I was recovering from a traumatic brain injury, which featured short term memory loss as one of my main deficit issues: it drained me to continually ask for help with finding something or for cues to track whatever conversation I found myself in. It led me to resent my dependence and, inevitably, my frailty.  

It wasn’t until later that I could recognize the depth of the relationships fostered during that time and the love bestowed on me by my patient, enduring, and selfless caretakers and friends.  

If we believe that our own worth is found in what we do, produce, or can remember, the impact of being diminished can be catastrophic to our self-esteem, mental health, worldview, and life outlook. But if our value is committed to something else, something more, our sense of self and inherent meaning will surely weather changes in our functions and abilities.  

For me, the anchor to my dignity rests not in my ability to let go, but in holding fast to the divine inheritance we all have in common: breath.  

Genesis describes how all of life came into existence through the will and words of the Creator. The Lord spoke; and light, land, sea, vegetation, and all the animals came into being.  But for Adam, the first being made in God’s image, creation was different: The Lord formed him from clay with his own hands, his own dirty fingers, and then breathed his own breath into the man’s nostrils and brought Adam to life.  

We are the inheritors and vessels of that ancient gift of life through breath.Our abilities, functions, positions, dreams, and politics aside–all of us through God’s breath have inherited an essential dignity as human beings, 

So go ahead, breathe in that breath of God. 

Header photo by George Becker on Pexels