I have never been described as a patient person. Patience moved too slowly for me. Waiting seemed like such a chore.

I WASN’T the kind of impatient person who couldn’t tolerate delay, trouble or suffering without getting angry or upset. My mother raised me better than that.

I WAS the kind of impatient person who hurried things along, making big decisions in small time frames and gobbling through life, even when I should have been taking smaller bites.

These days, however, I am very patient.

To live with cancer is to practice patience. To part with the notion that I am in full control. I have learned to wait patiently for results of tests and for doctors’ appointments. I wait somewhat patiently for pain to subside. I wait for better days.

Patience requires flexibility. Being open to accepting a new plan, adapting goals to be achievable. Oh, have I had to FLEX these past 10 months. (And I suspect I’ll need a lot more flexibility going forward,)

Patience requires acceptance. Acceptance is surrender without the negative connotations. We surrender to gravity, to seasons, to light and dark. When we cannot change a specific reality, surrender makes sense, doesn’t it? Surrender can feel like dropping down onto a comfy mattress after a full day or settling into a warm bath.

Patience begets gratitude. Patience helps me sharply focus on the beauty in my path and to be thankful for all I have. When pain and circumstance threatens to pull me off track, patience gently guides me back to gratitude.

As I navigate through whatever time I have left in this world, I know that my patience will be tested, my flexibility challenged and my acceptance required. It is true that these challenges have existed throughout my life. It only now that I am patient enough to recognize them.

I am adding onto this post purposefully. A chance to come clean. Patience is easier to write about then to practice, and I don’t want to pretend that I have things under control. It’s like when you are in a traffic jam. You try listening to the music, checking your phone and gently trying to distract yourself from the fact that the traffic is just not moving through this traffic light. It works for a while, until you find yourself yelling to no one in particular “oh, come on,” maybe throwing in some choice expletives and banging on the steering wheel. After a few minutes of raging, you have to go back to acceptance and wait. There isn’t much choice. My cancer is my traffic jam. I allow myself to feel the frustration, the anger and the helplessness of my situation but not for too long. The light changes and I drive forward.