“I love when people that have been through hell walk out of the flames carrying buckets of water for those still consumed by the fire.”
Stephanie Sparkles
The one thing that I could feel just then was that I was walking out of hell itself. I had just left the hospital after my sixth and last hospitalization following chemotherapy treatment for non-Hodgkin lymphoma. Sitting alone in my van on that frigid January morning, my head pressed against the steering wheel, I wailed and hollered for twenty minutes until all of the anguish had been expelled. It was done. It was over. I had made it. I had made it. I had made it. Dear God, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…jagged breaths breaking the sentences into fragments. My heart still jagged as well.
The 18 weeks of cancer treatment and multiple hospital stays were finally over. They had been complicated by my 79 years of age and by pandemic isolation, fear upon fear. I wouldn’t be going back to a life that bore much resemblance to the past.
I had been my only caretaker, and the side effects of the chemo were still debilitating and sometimes terrifying. Concern about blizzards, middle-of-the night life-threatening fevers, and ambulance rides to the hospital had all added to the unending nightmare of the life that I had had to endure.
Now I had to learn to live life all over again. I had survived. I already knew that the cancer was gone. Yet I also had a recovery to navigate, and that would turn out to be more challenging than I had thought it would be.
In the days after my outburst, I asked again – as I have had to ask more than once – the iconic question that poet Mary Oliver poses, the one that hangs over all of us when we cannot go back to who we were and now can only look blindly ahead:
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
I knew I was changed, but I didn’t have a clear picture of what that even meant. This question is profound, but I wasn’t feeling profound; I was just drifting along, being carried by time and shifting shadows, casually watching for some new purpose, some clarity to show up.
Then – at just the right moment (isn’t it always that way?) – this quote came across on Facebook. And I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to carry buckets of life-saving water for those still consumed by the fire.
One by one, I began to gather up the new lessons that I had learned. I began my Bucket List to share with anyone who is still in the flames and wondering how they can possibly endure. Six months later, these are the things that I know so far about suffering:
- You will learn more about yourself than you ever knew. Your profound courage and your deep cowardice. Your crippling fear and your overcoming of your fear, if even for a moment. Your ability to hope against hope. Your capacity to walk in total darkness. The weight of your vulnerability.
- You may feel as if you had to lose some of your mind for a bit before you regained it, stronger than ever.
- You may find the truth of the words of Friedrich Nietzsche that, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” And that you are stronger than you knew.
- There will come some times of profound peace. Often, they arrive after an avalanche of tears. They are usually accompanied by some amazing grace and a healing of your spirit for a while.
- There can be at least one person who understands deeply and profoundly what you are going through and what you need. This will be your soulmate…the one who can and will walk the journey with you without faltering.
- If you have a faith in the love of God – or a Higher Power – or the Universe – your faith will likely meet you in new and unexpected ways.
- Life will mostly consist of baby steps. But they will eventually get you where you need to be.
- When you realize the power of your own suffering, you can find yourself in solidarity with all who suffer, for whatever reason. You know the truth in your bones now that we are all one. Perhaps that is the most profound bucket of flame-dousing water that there is.
I know that my list is not complete, but I feel the strong call to carry at least these buckets so that no one needs to give up hope. I carry the responsibility of that calling with love more than duty, and it’s a pretty darned good reason to look forward to what else lies ahead. I’m just 80, after all, so there’s still time to bring more hope into this wild and precious life that we share.
And I’m very okay with that.
(The list grows as we share our own experiences. I would love to know what you might add. We haven’t all had cancer, but we have all lived in the midst of our own challenges, including this endless pandemic. I invite you to feel free to grow the buckets in the comments section.)
white hair grace 
Hello Martha, So glad to have stumbled upon this post! I’m sorry you had to go through the effects of chemotherapy treatment on your own. I’ve just had my last of 26 weeks of treatment, with radiation still to go. Blogging became a way I could try to process my thoughts and faith while encouraging others as best I can along the way. I love that analogy of the buckets! I look forward to reading more. Blessings, Jo š
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Thank you for this encouraging perspective on going through trials in life. There was a time that it seemed I was going from one inferno to another with no hope of dousing the flames of trauma. But there were people in my life who would pour water over me, even as the flames raged on. Now, years later, I have finally emerged from the flames thanks to those who carried water to me. Through it all I learned empathy for others going through similar trauma. It is a worthy thing to seek how to carry water to those still in the flames.
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Thank you so much! I’m guessing that you are a strong water-carrier and that you have been an encouragement for many who are still in the flames. It is a worthy purpose in life!
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Thank you so much for this challenging post Martha. I can identify with everything you’ve written as my daughter and I have both had to face rough times in the last number of years. 2Cor. 1v4 comes to mind… “that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”
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You are welcome! Thank you for your kind words. I’m sorry for the tough times for both you and your daughter and agree that there is much wisdom from Scriptures that can see us through. I hope that the waters are smoother now and that your witness to overcoming is evident to others.
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As I was leaving job that finally ended my higher education career, which had become a soul-sucking abyss, I was surprised by the number of colleagues who thanked me for my kindness to them. If I can keep my bucket filled with simple kindness towards others, despite what I’m going through, I’m very happy with that.
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It is enough, indeed, Liz. I am not surprised at all by the response of your colleagues. You are the soul of kindness!
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Thank you, Martha. My parents brought me up that way.
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This is the best kind of bucket list…using your experience to help others who are still scared and hurting and sometimes feeling as if they don’t have the strength to cope. You are an amazing person, Martha! And you continue to inspire me.
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A late reply, Ann, but no less heartfelt. Thank you for your kind words!
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You continually bless us with your honesty and love for others. Thank you for sharing your bucket list. People often have deep hurts and many never breathe a word of them to anyone. I think talking about it is a sense of healing in itself…a sense of letting the pain go. Gratitude is the spark that seems to emerge whatever the ordeal. It is either gratitude or bitterness. Only gratitude heals, and is a spark that can be passed on to others. Thank you for sharing that spark. God bless you!
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Yes, yes, and yes! You bring up so much that is healing here. Having the chance to talk about what you’re suffering lightens things so often. It opens a door that’s been closed. And gratitude, oh goodness, that is the Big Gift that emerges at some point. Thank you for sharing these insights. They definitely go on the bucket list!
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Martha, When my beautiful son, Andrew, was 26 he overdosed and didn’t receive medical attention for 15 hours. He ended up minimally conscious and quadriplegic. He lived 15 years in a care facility. My heart was broken open and I learned to see how much goodness there is in the world. I became a finer person because of this horrific event but at a very high cost. I don’t usually write about this part of my life but your words spoke to me today.
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Oh, Bernadette, you just broke my heart open, too. All suffering is not equal, but your road to becoming a finer person is a testament to the power of our spirits to carry the heavy load and still transcend it. You are in my heart. Thank you for your vulnerability in sharing this profound story. You are indeed a fine person.
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Martha, I will tell you, the price I paid for wisdom was entirely too high and if I had a choice, I would trade all the wisdom in the world for my son’t life. But, fate doesn’t allow us choices.
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Of all those profound and beautiful buckets of water, the one I love most isā¦you!
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From hundreds of miles away, you understood those days and knew what to say and when. That’s what love looks like, and I am so grateful to have you as my unfaltering friend!
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You have learned a lot through your time in the flames. Thank you for sharing your insights and challenging the rest of us to look at our buckets, see how full or how empty they are, which ones need to be cast out, and which ones could be topped up.
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You are welcome! There are those times of reflection that arrive just when we need them. I hope you enjoy the journey. You are certainly full of love and your energy is amazing, so I’m guessing you’re carrying more than one bucket of hope.
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This is so profound. Bless you, Martha.
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Thank you, Joy! So grateful for your blessing.
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