The Prodigal Vampire

I'm afraid if I don't post something soon you guys are going to stop believing in all that stuff I said before about how "fine" I am with the cancer, so here's an update: I'm still fine, more or less. One chemo down, 3 to go, and I think the worst of the first chemo has passed. Or maybe it hasn’t. It’s sneaky stuff.

But I've been thinking a lot about cancer and vampires and prodigal sons in the past few months – and about healing, too, since that's what practical vampire slaying is really all about – healing, that is.

And here's the thing: When I first got my diagnosis and started looking at books about chemotherapy, I kept finding stories about people who saw themselves as being "at war" with their cancers. They'd say how they were envisioning these little chemo-soldiers with little grenades or whatever, going in and slaughtering all their cancer cells…and that’s okay, I guess; people can see themselves as going to war with their cancer if that's what they believe in and that's what works for them. But for me, the old "war" imagery just wasn't working at all.

I have a favorite story that you've probably heard at one time or another in your life (at least I bet you've heard about "the fatted calf" -- admit it, you have) and the truth is that I think it’s just about the most beautiful story that’s ever been written: it's called The Prodigal Son.

You know it?

Now there are so many things I love about this story that I could pick it up at any point at all and talk about why that particular part of it is so great, but for the moment let me just say that, for me, it is simply the most perfect story about the transformative power of Surrender, of Love, and of Community that I’ve ever heard.

It goes like this: A father has two sons. One day one of the sons comes to him and says, “Dad, I’d like my inheritance now. I don’t want to wait around for it, and I’m wondering if I could just take my half now instead of later.” So the father divides all he owns into half and gives one share to the son.

The kid takes off for faraway lands and has some pretty good times – times reportedly filled with wine, women, and song, and then what finally happens, of course, is that the money runs out, the booze dries up, the women disappear, and the kid wakes up one morning to find he’s squandered it all, and is living with pigs.

He takes a look around the pen and thinks to himself: “Even the servants in my father’s home live better than this. I know I don’t deserve to be a son anymore – I gave that up – but maybe I could go to my father and ask him if I can be a servant in his house.” And he starts down the road back to his father’s home to ask him.

Now if you’ve never heard this next part about how the father sees his son coming from afar – then up until now you’ve missed one of the most beautiful images in any story, anywhere, ever.

Because when the father sees the son coming from so far away, what do you think he does? Does he say, “I’m going to beat the crap outta that kid,” or, “I’m going to let him back in but first he’s going to get the lecture of his life?”

No. What the father says is this: “It's time for a party.” He calls to his servants to set the tables, bring out the finest robes, find the anointing oils, and kill the fatted calf – "My son,” tells them, “My son – who was lost, and now is found – is coming home.”

When I think about cancer and vampires and prodigal sons like that, I remember the father in this story -- the father who never thinks to abuse or even reprimand his son: there are no grenades being thrown from afar, no mean words waiting at home for the son – only love, only gratitude, and a big, beautiful celebration.

I’ve always been hard on myself, full of mean words and grenades. I have a series of lectures and cruel one-liners I’ve used on myself: “You’re fat, you’re stupid, you’re foolish, you’re ugly, etc.,” – vampires brought out with such regularity that I hardly even notice their feeding anymore, you know?

When I got my diagnosis – that very hour, that very second – all that stopped. It occurred to me to let loose some vampires, I guess: “This is no more than you deserve – all those years of smoking and drinking and being such an asshole,” but then it stopped. I think I realized for the first time that I couldn’t go on that way anymore, that I was going to have to start saying nice things to myself and loving this body and mind that’s given me life and taken me here and there – wherever I’ve chosen to go and without complaint, too.

"What a nice body!" I thought, "What a good mind!"

“I love you,” I told it, “and I’m sorry for all the mean stuff I’ve done to you and said to you, and I’m going to do my best to love you from now on, my good old pal,” I said. And then I gave my shoulder a little pat, and my hand a little kiss.

It seemed pretty weird, but I have to tell you, it was NICE – nice to love myself as I would my daughter or my husband, or any friend, to love myself without reservation, like the father in the story.

I won't be using the imagery of soldiers or grenades in my meditations about chemo. So far I'm trying to see the chemo as transformative light and a gentle touch to each cancerous cell.

And we'll see how that works instead.