Integrative Hope: the prison of a diseased body

Perhaps Stephen King in some way delivered a beautiful metaphor for living in a body that’s turned into a prison by disease. Yet hope springs alive in each one of us regardless of circumstances. No one deserves a killer body, just as an innocent man doesn’t deserve to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.


Integrative Hope

22 years ago my best friend died in my arms as he struggled to hang onto his ravaged and painful body. At 37, neither of us knew the fear of death’s presence, of having to let go of life. I climbed into the hospital bed with him to hear his voice, by now hardly audible, the Karposi’s sarcoma and thrush making his throat inhospitable to words. He looked at me and said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Ilene, I’m so afraid. I’m not ready.” I whispered into his ear, “don’t be afraid, Allan. If you can let go of this body, you’ll be free of all this pain. It’s too much pain to hold onto.”

He was frail and his 6’ 2” frame held about 90 lbs of what once was a robust man. I breathed in his last breath and held it as long as I could. Cradled in my arms he died of AIDS related illness at 3 a.m. that morning. Death has no respect for longevity, for time, or for fear.

Fast forward to last week. My partner hadn’t seen The Shawshank Redemption yet so we sat home again and watched a movie far too late into the night. At the end of this hopeful and infinitely quotable film, there’s a dedication to Allen Greene. He had died of AIDS around the same time as my lost brother, best friend, and partner in mischief making. His name was Allan Green, too.

“As fear can hold you prisoner, hope can set you free.” The clarity of spirit even as narrator’s voice gives us a play by play of an army crawl to freedom through five football fields length of sewer pipe filled with the collective excrement of an entire prison population. Yet, as our protagonist emerges with a rope tied to his ankle, the last shackles of prison life are washed away. The sky rains down to cleanse the soil from his body and his soul. “Get busy living or get busy dying.”

Or, in other words, as my friend Waz of the Cancer Help Program at Commonweal ( said to me, “if you want to grow get, you have to step into the garden.”

An adaptation of Stephen King’s novel “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption,” played to lukewarm audience reception about 20 years ago. I suppose the lackluster response due in no small part to its existential themes as well as the overwhelming human need to find deliverance in an uncertain and unfair world. It’s a prison to live in a body that’s trying it’s damndest to kill you. A body with metastatic cancer provides no safe haven and certainly incarcerates all who reside inside of one such body.

Perhaps Stephen King in some way delivered a beautiful metaphor for living in a body that’s turned into a prison by disease. Yet hope springs alive in each one of us regardless of circumstances. No one deserves a killer body, just as an innocent man doesn’t deserve to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

But where a new day exists, so does hope. I know some reading view hope as another four letter word, but regard your life without it. If we lose our hopes and our dreams we lose the present moment. A gift of hope in the human condition raises our heads to feel the coolness of rain, the warmth of the sun, and when our eyes open each day, the knowledge that for now at least we are still alive. Death doesn’t frighten me. Death interests me. But not enough yet to want to leave all the green of our earth behind quite yet.

So I hope you can understand while I’ve seen my share of loss, each day I get busy living. To sit around waiting to die would mean the garden in which I grow withers and dies along with me. And what a beautiful garden it is.

13 comments on “Integrative Hope: the prison of a diseased body”

  1. Hope is a solid core theme for me as I stay determined to keep living well while living with cancer. I can’t allow fear to suck me in and swallow that hope. I choose hope.

    1. And hope chooses us in response – why lose hold of something so personal and so imperative to our healing? War metaphors cannot coincide with hope – hope has no losers.

      1. Your so welcome IIene! I have been reading your heart felt and amazingly informative blog! Nicely done dear one❤️☀️🌹🙂

      2. You’re so welcome IIene! I have been reading you heart felt and amazingly informative blog. Nicely done! 🙂❤️☀️🌹

  2. What a painful and at the same time beautiful post, Ilene. I love the quote from Shawshank: “As fear can hold you prisoner, hope can set you free.” I believe very strongly in hope – and it’s true that fear can hold us prisoner. I’m not sure that I’m totally free of fear about dying, yet, although I’ve managed to let go of fear of recurrences of mets. I never plan, and my favourite saying is “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” – I guess that applies to dying too.

    1. Julia, I thank you for the high praise -I respect your perspectives and writing a great deal. I think my fear isn’t so much of death. You’re “not” – then *poof* birth and you’re here – then *poof* death and you’re not here again. Consciousness is the only difference as far as I am aware in this state of being.

      Life truly is so short in the grand existence of the infinite universe; I often feel so small in comparison. I just finished listening to a book called “Lost Connections” – highly recommend the audible audio book – and the author, reading his own book, notes that it’s hard to be sad or depressed when you’re in the mountains, or outside of city life generally. He claimed a mountain with a woman studying depression and how being in nature positively effects those who struggle with the disease. He muses that he feels small – infinitesimally small – when he looks around during an awe inspiring hike with her. Indoors, he admits, it’s all about the self, and satisfying the ego that is the environment when we are inside at home. We become larger than we really are. I struggle with this very notion – craving a natural environment and not getting out enough at all because of my current cancer treatments. I’m trying desperately to not allow the fact that most of my time is absorbed by the disease in one way or another.

      We plan a move very soon. The prison of the suburban life doesn’t appeal to us and it’s time now for us to explore larger skies and fresher air. But will it happen soon enough and will the stress agitate my cancer and cause some new growth? That’s a fear I’m grappling with. But my friend Allan would have literally kicked me in the ass and said – Honey, puh-leeeeeze. Move already. And right he’d have been.

      I sure miss him. Mourning and loss of my friends and my parents have punctuated my life for as long as I can remember. So it’s not so much death but leaving people behind here with sadness that scares me more. Both the suburbs and mourning can be prisons if we allow them to be. I hope to stage a jailbreak very very soon!

    2. I took care of the commenting problem and thank you for bringing it to my attention! I had no idea there was a toggle button in the settings that defaulted to setting up an account with WordPress to comment, but now all you’d need is to enter an email address and your name. That minimizes the spam. I was wondering why I was getting so few comments, and now I see the problem.
      With techno gratitude,

    1. Thank you! Appreciate your kind feedback. It’s hard to write about loss but so therapeutic to put it in perspective.

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