The Surprising Gift of the "Old Age" Filter
And what a PetScan cannot see
Sweet Community,
My recent scan revealed the targeted chemotherapy treatment I’ve been doing has thus far been successful in removing the cancer from my organs, but there is a new spot in my pelvic bone. My doctors feel confident the spot can be treated with radiation, but upon hearing the news my heart flew out of my chest and raced towards Meg’s heart which was simultaneously bolting in my direction. If the PetScan machine truly worked it would have also revealed the fact that I have not, for two and a half years, had a ribcage. Neither has Meg. Since my diagnosis, our ribcages have been replaced with eternally open doors.
A few tearful hours after hearing the scan results, Meg found me in the living room, wanting to show me something on her phone. Ever since a friend told me social media can lower one’s immunity more than drinking and smoking combined, I’ve drastically reduced my screen time––and I tend to be particularly allergic to my phone in very real moments such as that one. But Meg knows me well and said, “I’ll think you’ll want to see this, baby. I just discovered an aging filter,” and passed her phone to me.
What I saw took me to my knees. I’ve never been so undone by anything as I was by the sight of Meg’s face at what I guess was around seventy-five-years old. “I know this woman,” I gasped. “I know her.” She was so stunning I couldn't stop kissing the screen. I pressed my lips to the lifelines of her wrinkles, the garden of her silver hair. Every age spot was a lucky penny falling into the wishing well of my chest. “I love her, I love her, I love her!” I kept crying, and only then did I realize how much I’d feared the possibility of never laying eyes on that version of my love. I traced my finger through the valleys of her laugh lines, and felt a peace unlike anything I’d ever experienced. A peace that seemed wildly incongruent with the news we’d just received. A peace that made no sense to me, until I found its source.
Let me try to explain. Never in my life had I seen myself so clearly as I did when I saw Meg like that. No photo had ever captured me with more exacting detail than a photo of Meg old. I had never felt so infinite, so unsinkable, so buoyed by love. I could see myself living in Meg’s eyes. I could see my spirit in the shyness of her smile. I could see that we were still together and always would be, whether I had a body of my own or not. And in seeing that, I understood anew that I could not die. None of us can. We live on in each other. We are each other already.
“Can you see it too?" I asked Meg.
“I can,” she said, and then she asked if I wanted to see myself old. The question stopped my breath. I was trembling and couldn't find words for why. But as soon as I made eye contact with elderly Andrea, I nearly hyperventilated with joy. I knew that by the world’s standards I had aged terribly, but all I could see was beauty. “WOW WOW WOW!” I kept saying, oscillating between laughter and tears. Wow. Wow. Wow.
I’m not a musician, but I write song lyrics constantly. A few years ago I wrote a song that included the words, “I saw a photo of you/ I saw the lines on your face/ I made you smile once/ so maybe one of those lines has my name.” Staring into my own ancient eyes, I knew that every wrinkle on my face had the name of someone I loved. I have so many wrinkles, I thought, because I have loved so many people. To me, that is aging WONDERFULLY.
I want to share something that feels important to include here. Prior to cancer I would have been absolutely terrified to see what I might look like in my eighties. This photo that I’m so in love with today would have sparked a panic attack three years ago when I was forty-five. I was so ashamed of aging back then that I was genuinely grateful for my pandemic mask. But now—-now I see that a body worn by time is as gorgeous as a Redwood tree grown tall into the clouds, or a three leaf clover sprouting a fourth lucky leaf.
Sweet friends, I imagine you know it’s always vulnerable for me to share cancer updates publicly. But for two and a half years now, my spirit has been whispering a very simple message in my ear–—stay present through this time and truthfully share what you learn along the way. Thank you for the open door of your heart through which you continue to invite my words to walk through. You are part of me, and I am better for it.
Love, Andrea🖤
Thank you for walking beside me on this journey, friends. If you’re a paid subscriber, or if you’ve purchased my books, I can’t thank you enough for your generosity.
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Thank you for being here.
Oh, Andrea. I am so glad that I found you and your work. A friend sent me "A Different Kind of Bucket List" and I now read your words daily. I remember the stress of waiting for scan results. No more scans for me. My cancer has metastasized to the bone. It's under control now but it it only a matter of time. I'm turning 71 in a few weeks and I don't need a filter to see what an old Jim looks like but you helped me think of a new way to look at all of these wrinkles. I want to look into my husband's eyes now, to see if I see myself in them. Much love to you. You are a gift.
(First comment on here!)
The fierce eloquence that rings out from you like a bell in the fog in these big-feeling-moments is a huge gift to the world, Andrea Gibson. It is a huge gift to me and your community here and beyond. Thank you for letting your heart blast out what it longs and needs to say - the truths that so many of us are needing and longing to hear...and remember.
I will never forget the MRI which revealed that the cancer with which I have been contending had spread to my lumbar spine. "Stage IV" - a word and number that one does not want to hear uttered together. It was a lot of work to keep greeting it all fully, to keep treating it all; to live a life with no promises. And yet my days since then have been the most stunning experience of learning to take nothing for granted and the gifts of presence and aliveness that have come from it have carried me with a quality of life and love that quantity only hopes to deliver.
I share this because I join you in celebrating the gifts of getting older every single day as the greatest of privileges, and because I join you in knowing that it is possible to pack more awe and appreciation into 24 hours than I ever imagined a year could hold, much less a decade. And I share this (tears dripping like icicles down my cheeks) because somehow I think it is important for you to know, and perhaps others as well, that it was 30 years - three decades of unexpected days - ago that I first heard that word and number spoken together. No one could predict my future and still no one can. I cannot help but ferociously hope that life keeps unfolding many more unexpected days for you to savor with Meg and your loved ones, and for the rest of us (and many more waiting) to keep being deeply and desperately blessed by your big heart and big important voice in the world. A grateful bow to you today and always, Andrea. I hold you close in the bones of my heart.