Destruction and Recovery

Another lesson from nature

Photo by Rick Lamplugh

Recently, Mary and I were hiking up a canyon that was once heavily forested. Back then, an abundant mix of conifers would have covered the rocky slopes on both sides of the trail. High above us, inspiring summits would have risen above treeline and called to us. But fire rampaged through the canyon, destroying everything from floor to canopy. Some grasses and shrubs have returned. The remnants of mature conifers that once stood proudly now lie everywhere, covering the floor. They lie across each other and across the creek that cuts through the canyon. Having turned over time from green to black to gray, the fallen trunks are dusted with a layer of fall’s first snow.

Early in the hike, my first thoughts were focused on the obvious destruction. But ever so slowly, I began to spot signs of recovery here and there. Young pines, five feet tall, some still dusted with that recent snow, were slowly growing back in the soil that the intense fire had made repellent rather than nurturing. The higher we climbed, the more living conifers intermingled with their fallen ancestors. At one point, there were ten-foot-tall pines on either side of the trail, making us feel, just for a few moments, that we had left the barren burn and entered a fledgling forest.

Now, as I write this, I’m struck by the similarity of that fire’s destruction and recovery with what my aggressive prostate cancer has put me through. The diagnosis, on our wedding anniversary of all days, was the start of the burn. A brief phone call, a flickering flame. As we struggled to decide on treatment, the fire, fed with fear and uncertainty, intensified and spread. As I entered treatment, radiation and hormone therapy, the blaze raged, torching everything in its path, changing my life in ways I never imagined.

But thankfully not forever. As treatment wound down, recovery began. Just as it took time for those new pines to sprout and stand tall, it took time for me to start feeling healthy again. As months of recovery passed, there were days when I felt almost normal. Then I realized—and had to accept—that it was a new normal, just as it was with the burned canyon.

The mix of trees returning to the canyon after that intense blaze may differ from the mix consumed by the fire. Some trees will thrive in the full sun of the open burn area. Others will need the shade of those pioneers and won’t reappear for years or decades. But eventually—if fire doesn’t return—the canyon we hiked in will again be forested, and those majestic peaks will rise like magic in the distance above beautiful dark green slopes.

So may it be with my heart, mind, and body. I hope to gain back the muscle mass lost as a side effect of hormone therapy and weeks of limited activity. I hope to shed fatigue and gain energy. I hope to finally replace a nagging fear of recurrence with a joyful sense of recovery. One day—if cancer doesn’t return—I will be similar to the man I was before the diagnosis.

But I won’t be the same. I’ll be older and feeling the effects of aging. Where an eight-mile hike up that burned-out canyon would once have been expected, now a four-miler with lots of time to stop and stand and stare at the changes around us feels just right.

Nature has taught me another lesson. I’ve learned that with fewer miles comes greater appreciation and a delight that I’m still out there with Mary walking in wild country. Distance no longer matters. What matters most is being surrounded by healing nature as I walk through a healing burn that reveals how recovery follows destruction.

For more stories like this, check out preview chapters of my forthcoming book, The Wilds of Cancer: A Life-Affirming Journey.

Order your prepublication copy HERE.

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Disclaimer

I’m a writer, not a doctor. I’m very qualified to write stories about my journey. I’m not qualified to give—nor am I giving—medical advice. As these stories show, Mary and I came up with many approaches to deal with my cancer. We always ran our ideas by our medical team to see how the approaches fit medically. Everybody’s body is different. What worked for me may not work for someone else. If something in these stories generates an idea of an approach that you or someone you know might use, first consult with the medical team.