Tag: Breast Cancer

PEACE BE WITHIN ME

by Maasaisis

Waiting with bated breath is what truly needs healing. But waiting for what? To live my life after this disease? No. The sooner I accept that cancer exists at the periphery of my life, the less I’ll be tossed around by it. I recognized the terror that surged from my gut to my throat when the doctor shared his concern. The chill that spreads and touches every part of me is all too familiar. It’s the dread of not knowing—and not wanting to know—that settles in the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone, landing with a thud.

Denial is an incredibly adaptive force, conjuring escape routes around what I do not want to accept or face. I recognize my defence mechanisms from past experiences, even when they are disguised as something else. Although they strive for reassurance, they do not change what I ultimately have to confront. My mind has been stretched in analysis, trying to explain the escalating pain I’ve been feeling lately. I chalked it up to the deep, open wound on the side of my breast, convincing myself that “pain is part of healing.”

This journey has taught me that darkness requires acknowledgment to bring it to light. Everything kept in the shadows will eventually find a way to recruit every aspect of my being and pull me in. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t heal it. I am terrified of screenings and the possibility of discovering what I don’t want to see. Accepting this fear as real—one that needs to be reframed—I did everything in my power to hold on to my peace while undergoing multiple screenings and awaiting results. My body feels like a battleground, but my spirit beckons me to stay in a place where it can’t be touched.

The flesh straddling the dark, ulcerated crater is trying to bridge the gap with formidable force. There’s an intense gravitational pull attempting to seal the opening, like the tide responding to the moon in the natural order of things. It’s like a rolling wave building as it moves toward the shore, dragging and tumbling the ocean floor with it. My right side feels torqued, stretched, and pulled in unnatural ways—like wearing a tight corset with little give. The wing of my shoulder feels clipped, but I’m reminded that I can create space in my mind where flight is always possible.

As I reflect on my experiences, my understanding of resilience is evolving. I’m beginning to embody the idea that resilience is about claiming peace, regardless of what’s happening outside. It’s about finding the still center of the cyclone while remaining within it. This place is always available—just one thought away. It can’t be reached through force; it’s found by letting go and trusting that I’m held.

It’s a choice to hold fast to faith, knowing that no matter what, I’m being guided to experience what I came here to learn. I am discovering what cannot ever be threatened and what endures. I’m learning about healing that goes beyond just healing myself.

What a huge relief it is to finally acknowledge that I don’t know anything. My suffering stems from the belief that I must know—doing whatever it takes to gain a sense of control over situations that are inherently uncontrollable. Each time, I come up with a version of what I’ve used in the past—a formula for being okay. Yet every solution has its holes, allowing familiar fears and doubts to creep back in, prompting the same defenses, which are bound to fail.

No matter what response I conjure in the face of fear, it’s always made from the same fabric of past coping mechanisms. So, I find myself questioning this entire approach to situations beyond my control. Admitting that I have no control—and no permanent fixes—leaves me with only one option: to hand it all over to a higher order.

This reckoning—the act of taking the terror of not knowing, putting it into a bag, and handing it to a higher power—feels like the only place where true refuge exists. I hand it over and say, “Here, take it all. I don’t know anything. Please, know for me.” It’s a release from the constant circling of old patterns, which only ever lead to that same desperate place, shaking and quaking, where the mind’s analysis inevitably leads to darker holes.

I tether myself to prayer, mooring my mind in peace to be guided through whatever my human experience brings. I anchor myself in the love that sustains me, believing in what can’t be changed and is everlasting. I pray that my situation does not hurt those I love. It is this love that inspires me to choose—again and again—to seek and find peace in uncharted territory.

My screening results showed regression of the disease in my liver and lungs, countered by the progression of a new lump in my other breast and possible growth in my sternum and pectoral area. It’s a mixed bag of information, but I was able to accept it without curling up into a ball. Though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, I recognized strength in my own voice as I navigated the new information and considered what it might mean.

I am utterly done with letting this disease run the show—keeping me teetering on the edge of creating my own hell, held hostage by the wait for test results and the worst-case scenarios my mind imagines. I refuse to remain a victim of helplessness. What I do know is that resisting what needs to be accepted leads nowhere; panicking or making decisions from a place of fear only perpetuates suffering. I may have to pivot, change my treatment plan, or do things I don’t want to do. There is a place in my mind where turbulence can’t reach me. It is there that I will find my way.

LESSON: “I do not know what anything, including this, means. And so I do not know how to respond to it. And I will not use my own past learning as a light to guide me now.” – A Course In Miracles

JEDI MIND TRICK

by Maasaisis

I’m continuing to explore the idea that life is an interpretation of my thoughts and feelings—experience springs from choice. Choosing peace requires self-awareness and radical responsibility. Though I’m taking baby steps with plenty of do-overs, I’m encouraged by discoveries that make my heart leap.

The root cause of my experience boils down to mindset. I remind myself that my experience is shaped by what I choose to focus on and the meaning I assign to it. Do I choose survival or invulnerability—fear or Love? This choice ripples through my perception and behavior. My mind decides between two realities: what is divine and impenetrable, or what is mind-made chaos. The latter, always shifting and crashing, reveals that I’m making it up.

I want to invest in what can’t be changed or lost—what always has been and always will be. It’s easy to focus on problems, especially when they manifest in the body. Disease is loud and demanding, using pain and dysfunction to dominate our experience through fear and survival. Yet, beneath this turbulence lies the quiet presence of salvation, always available if we have the insight to look deeper.

My eyes are like film projectors, playing the movie of my mind and keeping the focus on me. As long as that focus remains, it traps me in a closed loop of my own making. Initially, the thought of taking responsibility for what I don’t want made me angry and defensive. It’s easier to blame a raw deal or believe I was dealt a bad hand, but these are just excuses for the meanings I’ve assigned. Like a magnifying mirror that turns a tiny hair on a mole into a porcupine quill, our minds amplify what’s unwanted, making it seem impossible to remove. The only solution is to decide it’s not there.

I’m not suggesting I should retreat into denial or ignore my body’s needs. If my life reflects where I invest my attention, perhaps I should focus on what can’t be taken away from me. Everything happens in my mind. Even when my body signals pain, discomfort, and dysfunction, it’s my mind that pushes me into exasperation. I can choose to flip the mirror and see the whole picture. I can decide to give and receive what is impenetrable.

What if death is merely an illusion of the mind that believes in endings? The mortal predicament often causes scrambling and suffering. Investing everything in this body, destined to fail, is precarious.

A Course in Miracles teaches that Love created us to be like Itself. Love is the only thing that cannot be threatened or changed; its purity is unwavering. Our misery can be compared to a nightmare: we feel alone and scared until we wake up and realize it was just a dream. Can we apply the same perspective to our waking nightmares? Even within the human dichotomy, what if we could choose to awaken and understand that we are held in the immutable truth of our indestructible nature?

What if the way out of the fog that brings us together in our miseries is to lift each other up by holding each other in the highest regard? If we are truly One, healing through right relationship feels more genuine than healing ourselves in isolation. It seems more attainable to project love outward and trust that it will rebound back to us, breaking down the barriers we’ve created to love ourselves. I feel this is the next big step in understanding healing. I’ve been so focused on my own healing and feeling isolated, but now, thanks to A Course in Miracles, I’m realizing it’s not just about me. It’s about how I see myself in relation to others and how I perceive them.

If peace is our inherent right and love is our essence, then every genuine act of love—whether in thought or action—brings us closer to uncovering what we already are, hidden behind the fog of our own making. It often feels easier to see others in their perfect wholeness than to see myself that way. By focusing less on myself and holding others in absolute love, free from judgment, I feel like I’m discovering a crucial piece of the puzzle. It seems like a valuable and worthwhile practice to pursue.

I liken this viewpoint to the way of the Jedi. George Lucas, the creator of Star Wars, may have drawn inspiration from a similar place in the galaxy, as the Jedi Code emphasizes focusing on peace and being aware of rash actions driven by dark thoughts. A skilled Jedi becomes aware of triggers that lead to conflict and turmoil and uses the Force, which connects us all, to create a peaceful mindset. This reinforces the way of the Jedi.

Perhaps the Force itself is love. When we look away from it, we create things that break, hurt, and end. The dark force uses every tactic to misdirect us from what cannot be destroyed, making us believe that life happens to us and forces us into an endless battle.

It’s like a Jedi mind trick to use love as the tether to correct the belief in all things that threaten us. We feel threatened because we feel scared, alone, and vulnerable. I find incredible relief in the idea that I can never truly be alone. Every opportunity to connect with another, with my heart open, is not only a chance to heal myself but also to contribute to the healing of others and the world we create.

WOUNDED HEALING

by Maasaisis

I can now stick the tip of my pinky finger into the black crater of my putrefying tumour and watch my nail disappear. My curiosity meets my repulsion as I wiggle my finger around, discovering new caverns of hollow spaces. I remind myself that although the foul-smelling decomposition of my flesh brings me to the brink of losing whatever foothold I have, I’ve been primed and ready for this by what I’ve learned through German New Medicine. Belief is also a choice, and right now I’m anchoring myself to whatever keeps me steady in the wild terrain of my mind.

I’m cautious about certainty, but my intuition tells me that I’m witnessing evidence of cancer cells dying off and my tumour shrinking. This gruesome biological process seems to be nature’s way of degrading what is unhealthy and unwanted. I can feel the tight ball of unruly cells retreating into itself, pulling on the network of connective tissue and causing inflammation that blocks lymphatic pathways. The tension is felt from the ribs below my breast, up my inner arm, and wrapping around to my lats. The squeezing of nerves sends sharp echoes into my bones.

I recognize that the details I’m sharing may be offensive or interpreted as a cry for help. Perhaps it is. I write as a way to release the pressure building in my mind and to alchemize dark thoughts into clarity. Space is crucial for me to orbit. My intention to be transparent and honest is to invite what wants to be revealed, giving me the opportunity to heal both my mind and body. Whether driven by my ego, a need to document my journey, or as a necessary form of therapy to keep going, I also hope it may serve others in some way, as I utilize creativity as my rose compass on my healing journey.

I’m still learning to balance what fuels my spirit with the patience and care my body needs. I’m getting better at gauging whether I’m overextending myself or being too cautious and limiting my experiences. There’s always room to pivot and respond if I allow myself the space to change my mind. If I impose too many boundaries on how I think I should be or what I can and can’t do, it creates a cage that leads to self-induced suffering.

I knew that a full weekend of vending my visionary crafts, dancing flamenco, and consciously connecting with those who attended the opening of my art exhibit would test my capacity for output. Needless to say, it was a testament to how love and the joy of heartfelt connection are precious medicines for my soul.

Bare-breasted, I sit as the wound clinic nurse cleans my oozing opening. I feel deeply irritated when she asks why I haven’t had the tumor removed. I haven’t seen this nurse before; her curt foreign accent makes her sound harsh and too direct for my sensitive state after a big weekend. The sleepless nights, punctuated by sharp pain and the emotional toll of the drugs I took to manage it, along with a general feeling of being ‘over it,’ contributed to my irritation. Instead of lashing out or retreating into myself, which is what I wanted to do, I course-corrected and calmly stated that surgery is not an option for me while treating metastasis. That response seemed to soften her; perhaps the softness was already there, but I only noticed it after my intentional remark.

I can easily fall into the trap of associating what’s happening to my body as my only experience of self, especially as my keen sense of smell constantly reminds me of a part of me that is rotting away. It’s easy to feel self-conscious about the smell, but that’s the beauty of transparency: there’s no need to hide. The practice is in finding safety in the wide open.

My mind is most vulnerable when day slips into night and pain lures me into the territory of fear and uncertainty. Until recently, I relied on my superpower of being able to sleep and shut off adversity. Now, that power has been hijacked, bringing new nighttime anxieties about losing the natural ability to rest and reset.

I’ve made peace with the tiny teal-colored pellet of morphine that I’ve accepted as my ally for now. I’m having a harder time with the little aqua-colored ones that can easily send me off to sleep. There is a price to pay for this assured reset, as it amps up my already medically induced volatile hormones. It makes me question and quake.

I’m into the seventh month of treatment, and although there are days where I feel like I still don’t have a handle on anything, I’m getting better at being kind to myself. I am more patient than I used to be and have faith in what can’t be fully known but deeply felt as truth. I seek opportunities where I can open to love instead of repelling, shrinking or hiding. I do my best to remember that that pain happens, but fear and suffering is a choice. I ask for help to surrender what is in the way of trusting what can’t be threatened.

While on a walk, I saw a round of a cut-up fallen tree. Looking closer, I was amazed to see bright green foliage sprouting from what I would have otherwise thought was dead. It led me to reflect on how the will to exist and express can blossom from the most unlikely places. The force of creation is a power to behold, sustained by the remembrance of its indestructible nature.

LESSON: “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists.”- A Course In Miracles

Joy captured by photographer Clinton Johnson.

LIBERATING THE GIRL IN THE ORANGE TUTU.

by Maasaisis

I’ve taken my place on stage, and all I can see are the silhouettes of what look like hundreds of people beneath the blaring lights shining directly on me. Our flamenco group, Las Llamadas Del Flamenco, has been practicing diligently for this very moment: to dance at the Starbelly Festival in a prime evening slot. Then, it happens again. My mind goes blank, and I feel myself distancing from my own body as panic sets in. I’m experiencing myself outside of myself, and I know that I will cause a train wreck if I don’t get out of my head. This disconnect is not new; I’ve felt it when the pressure of perfectionism rears its ugly head.

The first time this happened is one of my earliest memories. I was five, maybe six, enrolled in the prestigious Miyashita Ballet School in Kyoto, Japan. The school was known for its rigorous and comprehensive ballet training, even for young dancers. I remember the day of our big performance. Mama, along with all the other moms, was getting me ready backstage, slathering make up on my face and slicking my hair back into a tight bun on the top of my head. It was so tight that it pulled my eyes up, but no amount of pulling could hide the obvious Caucasian traits of my gangly limbs and my reddish, light brown hair. Amongst the thick, silky black hair and the build of other Japanese dancers, I was already blatantly out of place.

We all took our positions on stage, dressed in our orange tutus. I looked for my parents, but the lights blinded me. As the music started, I felt my heart in my throat, and suddenly, my mind went blank. I had no idea what I was doing up there, and my only reaction to the sudden displacement within myself was to move to the music. But my dance was entirely my own and bore no resemblance to what I had learned. I vaguely remember making the commitment to keep moving, flying solo on a gust of wind that only I could feel against the unified flock of orange tutus. I was completely in my own world throughout the entire performance, a fact that everyone witnessed. When others made it evident that I had made a colossal mistake, it forced me to carry the weight of a newfound burden of shame.

Fast forward forty-five or so years later, I’m back on stage, and I find myself on the outer perimeters of myself, desperately clinging to presence. The music starts to sound out of sync with my tapping feet, and I realize I’ve missed a cue. Drifting apart from the other dancers, who move seamlessly in sync, my mind teeters on the precipice of a total blank as I struggle to regain composure. Within the crisis, my body takes over and aligns with my group in the next bar. I have no idea how long I have been out. I willed myself to focus on my sisters on stage and to calibrate with them rather than with my competing mind that was trying to hijack the performance. It was a tug of war that I somehow managed to dance through, but not without leaving its ugly mark.

The idea of preparing for and attending a three-day festival, vending my art and performing late into the night, might have been a stretch. I had missed a flamenco performance a few months earlier because my body simply said ‘no’. After five months in treatment, a couple of visits to the ER, and dealing with a gnarly ulcerated tumour, I needed a win, so I did it. I showed up anyway with a wing and a prayer.

My shame over not performing as well as I knew I could, with a mistake I couldn’t forgive, cast a dark shadow from the moment I left the stage, despite the exuberant applause of the crowd. I was deaf to any compliment that followed. Consumed by the desire to hide, I couldn’t help but feel that I let my group down. Frustration set in as I realized I’d fallen victim to my ‘old program,’ perhaps starting back when I was the rogue dancer in my orange tutu. Exhausted and upset, I couldn’t let it go. My ego had robbed me of the joy I could have celebrated simply by being there and able to dance at all.

I awoke from a restless night of sleep, still sticky with the residue of regret over what could have been. In the light of day, I realized that an old program had surfaced because it was ready to be healed. That little girl in the orange tutu longed to be liberated, but I didn’t know how, as my ego still dominated my mind space. I’ve learned to ask for help through prayer when I’m stuck. I prayed to be liberated from attacking myself. I prayed to forgive the false perception of myself and to have a beautiful day filled with meaningful connections. I sincerely prayed to let it go.

As I walked toward my tent filled with my visionary creations, a woman stopped me along the way. Her eyes welled up as she told me that the solo I performed the night before moved her to tears. Feeling her sincerity and her need to express appreciation for my performance, my heart instantly opened to receive her perspective, releasing what was holding me. The miracle was that I actually believed her.

The day continued with numerous people expressing their love for our performance, highlighting how our group moved together while showcasing our individual gifts of creative expression. I was gobsmacked. Their perception was entirely different from how I perceived it; I was so focused on what I did wrong rather than celebrating dancing with my flamencas—a typical sabotage of the ego, which only attacks to seek importance.

The Holy Spirit showed me that healing isn’t done alone; it happens with the help of others who can shed light on who we really are beneath the distortions lurking in our subconscious. What blew my mind was seeing the footage of our dance performance. As I cringed, anticipating the part where my mistake occurred, I was shocked to find that it came and went in a flash. During that time, I was entirely in sync with the music, doing something different from the others but it looked intentional and seamlessly integrated into the whole dance. Perfectly imperfect, the girl in the orange tutu was finally liberated.

LESSON: THE EGO ALWAYS SEEKS IMPORTANCE AND WILL ATTACK AND SEPARATE FROM THE WHOLE IN ORDER TO DO SO.

LOST MY MIND

by Maasaisis

I write to disperse the overwhelming pressure of indignation welling up inside me. If I don’t do something, I will implode. The rage rumbles from deep within, rising to the surface, and I can’t decide if I need to break something, cry, or scream. My hands were painting a facade over my inner turmoil with bright, happy flowers. Disgusted by the colourful lie, I left my studio before I tore into the canvas.

I feel utterly defeated by the savage return of this stabbing pain. I clutch my elbow to my chest, hoping to still the sharp intensity. Grace and wisdom have abandoned me. I want to smash something into a million pieces, but not with innocent bystanders close by.

My right breast is an angry tight fist, made up of clusters of defiant cells. It’s pulling outward, breaching the surface and spewing blood. I want to rip it out of me, but I’m stuck with it, everywhere and all the time. This unsightly disfigurement is a constant reminder of what I’m up against, demanding meticulous care that I’m forced to provide. My life is a constant work around in attempting to tame this beast that has a mind of it’s own.

I’ve violently silenced the voice of reason that tells me to be patient, that healing can’t be rushed. I want to do something reckless, like go on a wild bender, but I have two teenage kids in the house and a husband who doesn’t deserve a crazed wife after a hard day of work.

The relentless onslaught of sleep deprivation, constant pain, unyielding self-care demands, and the fiery storm of hormonal chaos has pushed me over the edge into darkness. It all began with the realization that I won’t be able to swim in the lake to soothe the summer heat with my open wound—another joy stolen by this disease. I’m utterly fed up. My mind is a minefield, and I’m stepping on every single one, triggering explosions of what I thought I’d overcome.

Why is this happening? What did I do to deserve this? Will I ever heal? The questions I thought I’d extinguished now ring in my ears. It’s an off day, to say the least. I’m blaming it on the drugs because I need something to blame. I’m granting myself this beautiful, sunny summer day to raise my fists defiantly to the open sky.

In the midst of my calamity, I want to push everyone and everything away. I don’t want to be seen caught in the trap of this disease. Love can’t reach me when I’m lost in the dark. I isolate so I won’t pull the ones I love into the abyss of self pity. It’s a relentless cycle of despair, anger, helplessness, and guilt for feeling this way. I’m ensnared by every obstacle that obstructs love’s path.

I know I need to come up for air and that means I need sleep. I disown my pride and falter back to the morphine so I can numb myself and escape. I granted myself this mercy in hopes of a better tomorrow.

There are days when I lose my grip on what I thought I’d learned, and suddenly, it all seems meaningless. Suffering has a deafening voice, often drowning out the whispers of wisdom, love, and gratitude. Sometimes, I simply need to splatter and spew, raging against my tormentor. It’s not elegant, but it’s a release nonetheless—a raw expression of humanity.

It encapsulates the perfect imperfection of our existence—the beauty, the joys, the despair, the hopelessness—all intertwined with the uncertainty of why we are here and where we are headed.

LESSON: SOMETIMES WE JUST NEED TO SPEW THE UGLY.

MEDICINE OF GRIEF

by Maasaisis

I am here, and she is not. She crossed the threshold two years ago to a place where the living can’t go. I sat with her and watched her close her eyes for the last time. I tenderly washed her porcelain body that shared a similar affliction as mine. In that extraordinary experience of witnessing true surrender, I both shattered and found healing in my heart. Sitting with death in such an intimate way brought to the surface what I hid inside. Beneath the surface of my blessed life lives the terror of leaving all that I cherish behind.

Every death caused by cancer unleashes a torrent of fear and grief. No matter how I try to reframe it with the belief that we are not our bodies, finality is a wound that heals and reopens with every loss. My beloved sister’s passing affected me deeply, and I wasn’t sure if I could show up. There was a constant tug of war between my love for her and the trauma of losing her.

How can I honour those who have passed without casting the dark shadow of death upon myself? How can I allow grief to meet grace? How can I nurture the resistance to push it away? How do I balance my capacity to honour what is mine to heal and showing up for those that I love? These were my prayers as the days drew closer to celebrating my dear friend who chose death for her liberation.

Ultimately, love wins. It was the rallying force of all those who loved her that called me back to join the circle of her radiance.The beautiful thing about grief is that it breaks us open and connects us in the most primordial way. It strips away the layers that keep us apart, exposing the glue that binds us together as One. Grieving for one thing is the same as grieving for all things. It doesn’t need to be named or categorized. It’s all the same, and there lies the medicine for us all.

Legendary stories were spun in the circle of friends who gathered for our beloved Scarlet. I was in awe that even after two years, she had the ability to bring us together again in such a profound way. In showing up, we consciously chose to harness her medicine for collective healing.

When I spoke in the circle, I couldn’t voice the truth of my grief. Instead, I found myself hovering in a safer place, sharing inappropriate stories and recalling her gift to make others shine. For those who knew her well, it was perfectly appropriate to celebrate her in this way.

I couldn’t speak out what was really there. I couldn’t say that I felt abandoned by her choice to leave or that I wanted her to fight harder because that is the voice of my own fear, and it’s mine to transmute.

I was a year into life with cancer by the time she was diagnosed. My coping mechanism stemmed from my incessant need to understand the origin of my disease. I empowered myself with discipline and sought knowledge—I refused to be a victim to the disease. She, however, was terrified. There were times when we could be together, and other times when her fear was too much of a trigger for me. I just couldn’t show up for her without completely unraveling myself.

I believed my role was to be strong, to assure her everything would be okay because ultimately I needed to believe it myself. When I couldn’t fulfill that, I thought it best to hide, to stay away, convincing myself we both needed to walk our own paths. Perhaps there could have been healing for both of us in falling apart together. Maybe I should have invited her into the domain of my own vulnerability, but at the time, I clung to the safety structure I’d built for my own survival, unable to let go. What I know now is that regret often accompanies grief, and the only path for healing is through forgiveness.

My beloved friend understood that I was shaking below the surface of my brave demeanor. She knew I couldn’t allow myself to fracture while facing my own mortality. Perhaps she thought I would try to change her mind? Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me she was leaving, and why it took the power of the Holy Spirit to bring me to her side to witness her departure, to cast aside my terror and be there when it counted.

If it weren’t for the sequence of universal nudges that alerted me to what was happening, I would have missed the greatest gift Scarlet had to offer me. It wasn’t the gift of her healing from the disease; it was the gift of showing me that grace can accompany the greatest act of letting go. She cut the cord to life and allowed us to bear witness, showing us that we can come together and find closeness in what we all must face.

She continues to help me fill in the deep groove of fear from the other side. She encourages me to fall apart because no matter how many pieces are spread out all over the place, the glue is always tacky for love to put us together again. Her mighty spirit lives on in all of us.

I oscillate between lessons on the dichotomy of mortal and immortal teachings. The teachings from Spirit reinforce that our innate nature cannot be augmented, diminished, or extinguished, while the lessons from life remind us of our finite humanity. Through these teachings, we are brought together in the human experience, guiding us to embrace the unknowable. Together, we bridge the gap through our shared grief, vulnerabilities, regrets, and imperfections, forging a path towards what cannot be broken.

LESSON: I AM NOT A BODY. I AM FREE- LESSON 199 IN A COURSE IN MIRACLES



In Memory of Scarlet Mary Rose “Mother Of All”- By Maasa

RIGHT MINDEDNESS

by Maasaisis

Two steps forward, one step back—every proverbial bump on the road is a reset, a reminder to truly be grateful to be here. My purpose is just that: to find joy and fulfillment in all that I have now, in simply being alive. This was the potent reminder as I ended up in the emergency room with another gnarly staph infection.

Round two, just three months after the last, returned with confirmation from all four vials of the blood cultures: bacteria in my blood, a perfect breeding ground for sepsis. Experience truly is knowledge. It hit hard and fast; the familiar dull ache beneath my right shoulder blade and the dead weight of my arm jolted me awake in the middle of the night. Though I remembered the last time, exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I drifted back into a fitful sleep.

When I awoke, the huge red patch stamped on my breast confirmed what I already knew. I swiftly packed up and headed to the ER with a sense of urgency. Despite catching it earlier than last time, by the time I got registered, pain enveloped me, and my bones quivered from an unshakeable chill. Triage quickly recognized the urgency of my discomfort, and I was moved through the process swiftly, aided by my clear articulation of what was wrong.

One of my favorite doctors was on duty, which felt like my first miracle of the day. Given that it was round two of what felt like a Groundhog Day ordeal, I was relieved it wasn’t the same doctor as last time. That doctor’s bedside manner left me feeling more vulnerable than I already was—the one who made me feel like I was fighting a losing battle.

I was quickly put on IV antibiotics, and although I felt like I’d been hit by a bus, I knew it was only a matter of time for the peak to subside. Armed with the understanding gained from previous experiences, I simply needed to endure. That night, I burned up with a 39.8-degree fever, shivering and sweating my way through delirium. The bulk of the healing occurred that night; it was as if my body knew exactly what to do to expedite the process because it had imprinted this particular program from last time.

The irony was that even in such a volatile state, I was awed by the vital strength within me to create such an inferno, burning away the infection. It takes an incredible amount of energy to burn that hot, and I had the capacity to harness that power. I felt my mighty spirit ablaze—a reminder that the spirit invariably outweighs the body. This is why I continue to gravitate towards practices that tether me to Spirit. My fire burned all night and smouldered into the morning. I knew I was over the hump, and the scarlet stamp confirmed it by turning the tone down a couple of shades.

It’s safe to say that the infection sprung from my ulcerated tumor, serving as a doorway for bacteria to infiltrate. Being immunocompromised from targeted treatment therapy, it’s no surprise that my defenses were breached. Despite the unwelcome presence of bacteria in my bloodstream, this experience empowered me to seek ways to prevent a recurrence. I must strengthen my immune system without compromising my treatment plan. I need to find that delicate balance, the middle way, even at a cellular level.

Prior to this bump on the road, I felt a strong urge to dive back into A Course In Miracles. It took me about a year and a half to read through the text initially, and I just scratched the surface of my understanding. The universe responded quickly to the harkening of this nudge. The very next day, I received a gift from someone I barely know. My dad texted me a picture of a beautiful, brand new hardcover copy of ACM from a different publisher than the one I had read. ‘Our neighbour gave this to me to give to you,’ his text said. I was gobsmacked. My old paperback copy was battered and falling apart, so this swift response felt like a resounding ‘yes, get to it!’

The nurse in triage looked so sad and depressed. When I asked her how she was, she curtly replied, ‘I’m OK.’ I got the swift message not to engage any further. The teachings of A Course In Miracles emphasize right-mindedness in attaining liberation from the perception of reality that divides us from our indivisible nature. Forgiveness and love lead to eternal inner peace, and this can only happen through the recognition of the inherent unity of all beings. Salvation is a collective effort rooted in reciprocation.

I decided to practice and attempt to remove the obstruction in my perception that caused me to see the woman before me as broken. The Course states that healing can only happen through a correction in our perception of what we see on the outside and by removing the obstacles of separation. As she took my temperature and blood pressure, I sat and perceived her as perfect love. I peeled away the layers of her experience that brought pain to the surface to unveil her wholeness. It was a very difficult task, as I witnessed my own brokenness.

She seated me in my chair to receive my potent dose of IV antibiotics. I decided not to fill the space between us with meaningless conversation, which is what I would normally do to try and ‘fix’ the awkwardness. Instead, I continued to practice perceiving her in her innate perfection. Behind the sadness, I saw the gentle beauty in her eyes. She hooked me up, and that’s when the miracle happened. She engaged. She could have walked away and avoided me, but instead, she asked me what I did. I told her that I used to massage, but I was taking time off for healing, and that healing had transformed me into an artist.

I showed her the rosary I’d made that I was wearing and shared that I was also a painter. I thought the conversation would end there, but she asked if there was a way she could see my paintings. Surprised and delighted, I proceeded to show her a few of my paintings on my phone. She took her time looking at the images. She shared with me that she and her daughter engaged in art therapy together, finding great benefit from the experience. In turn, I explained how intentional creativity played a significant role in my healing journey. Suddenly, I was aware that we were truly in each other’s presence. Her entire demeanour shifted before my eyes. The depressed-looking woman changed into a beautiful woman with incredibly compassionate eyes.

The doctor with the questionable bedside manner was on duty when I was ordered back to the emergency room for a re-check. It was another opportunity to course-correct from our last interaction. Bracing myself for his insensitive, matter-of-fact demeanor, I was shocked to be greeted by an informative and kind professional. He took the time to explain in detail what my body was fighting and why we needed to continue treatment even though I was feeling better. With his mask off, I saw that he was completely different from how I remembered him. No longer the doom-and-gloom doctor, he even gave me a ‘whoop’ of a cheer when I told him I was feeling much better. It was like a complete warp in reality had occurred. This is what the Course calls a miracle.

May I not get entangled in fear, doubt, and my bodily experience. May I rest in the liberated state of that which I already am in right-mindedness. May I be tethered to eternal and unconditional love. May I perceive heaven here on earth. May I perceive wholeness in all. May I find refuge in Your gentle and tender embrace. May I be reminded when I forget. Amen.

LESSON: HEAVEN IS A STATE OF MIND

The Miracle Effect

THE MIDDLE WAY

by Maasaisis

My first call to action upon waking on Mother’s Day was to reach over to my bedside table, gather the orange bottles of opiates, and put them away out of reach. It was a conscious decision to let go, a psychological statement that I didn’t need them anymore. I had relied on those pills to get me through intolerable nights of pain. As I placed them in a drawer in the bathroom, my sense of liberation from dependency was tinged with the fear of possibly needing them again.

I had strung together a few weeks, delighted by my capacity to accomplish what I could not fathom only a couple of months ago. I moved my parents into their new home, spending three full days proactively creating the next rendition of their sanctuary. I noticed that my pace in approaching life is much slower yet more meaningful, and with this approach, I managed to get more done in a day than when I used to run around like a headless chicken. Time bends when I’m synced in the moment.

My heart stalled in anticipation when the doctor called to discuss my most recent PET scan result. The test would indicate my biological response to the initial three months of treatment. I’ve noticed that I’m much more cautious about trusting my own experience now. Cancer has taught me that I am not the one in charge—that clinging to any rigid way of thinking or being will become a trap. In order to continue on this path, I must always leave room to pivot. If I cling too hard, I won’t be able to let go and flow with what is happening.

I had to repeat what she said to anchor the meaning. ‘One of my tumors shrunk by half?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘it looks as though you are responding well to treatment.’ She continued to explain that the spread in my sternum, pec, lymph nodes, and chest wall had all shrunk in varying degrees. Additionally, she noted that the numerous suspicious spots in my liver and lungs appear to be inactive. ‘We certainly have to keep an eye on your liver and lungs, but all in all, this is good news,’ she said. Beyond the positive news, I nestled into the relief that I could trust the signals my body was giving me. It’s as if I’m also healing the part of myself that feels like I don’t know anything anymore.

Finding the middle way in response to life has proved to be effective in navigating all this. In respect to who I am, it’s important to still have a ‘w’holistic approach with an eagle eye expansive view. I’ve followed the doctors’ advice to forgo supplements, herbs, and protocols that stimulate my immune system while I acclimate to treatment. However, these powerful drugs I’m taking have potentially concerning long-term side effects that I want to address. Now, it’s time to adopt a collaborative approach to assist healing while promoting longevity.

The master herbalist I connected with has decades of experience using herbs and medicinal foods as powerful allies in cancer care. When we spoke, I immediately felt a connection. We both agreed on the importance of supporting my immune response while fortifying the function of my organs. She will also be prescribing ‘herbal chemo’ to seek and destroy cancer cells. I particularly appreciated her collaborative approach and her knowledge of pharmaceutical drugs used in oncology treatments. She confirmed that I should absolutely stay on my current treatment plan and strengthen its effectiveness with her protocol.

It’s important to me to be transparent with my oncology team and to receive their support. My herbalist would need regular blood testing to ensure that the herbs are beneficial, a process that my doctors may or may not initiate. As I continue to embrace vulnerability and reach out for assistance when needed, I’ve been overwhelmed by the heartfelt support from those around me. I’m discovering that the more I allow myself to be seen authentically, help finds its way to me in one way or another. Now, I find myself surrounded by a diverse circle of powerful allies – from the experienced professionals guiding my treatment to the unwavering love and support of my family and friends, and to the One listening to my prayers and showing me the way.

After the liberty of pain-free days, the return of what feels like electric jellyfish shocks bouncing around my sternum and breast is a hard pill to swallow. While pain is never welcomed, my intuition tells me that the herbal protocol is working because it feels like the cancer cells are agitated and on the run. It feels like they are contracting and wanting to escape from inside of me. The inflamed, angry cherry on the contour of my breast has opened up, weeping blood and contributing to the burning pain. From the loss of my hair to my lopsided swollen boob with a protruded discharging lump, my ego has been kept well in check. My sense of humour remains intact.

In the spirit of the middle way, I’m leaning on the knowledge of German New Medicine as it now serves as a kind of safety net for me. I’ve learned that the healing phase in any tissue is usually painful, swollen, and messy, much like how a wound heals. Even emotional healing often precedes a messy and painful period. I’m straddling between what I think is happening and who the fuck knows, while conscious of how easy it is to fall into the dark territory of fear. So… I continue to pray. Instead of morphine pills to manage the discomfort, I’m drinking herbal poppy concoctions which takes the edge off and assists me into sleep without the nasty side effects. Currently, this plan is manageable as I ride out this wave.

The Middle Way forges a path between the known and unknown. The practice of finding neutral ground and doing whatever it takes to stay there. It’s about finding balance between what my spirit yearns for and what my body needs. It’s about appreciating my vitality without pushing it too far into expectation, and about not assuming anything while respecting change. Understanding that there is no ‘right’ way to do anything, only opportunities to respond to life without pushing it away or clinging too hard.

LESSON: The Middle Way is the path of wisdom and compassion, the path of balance and harmony. It is the path that leads to the cessation of suffering.” – Buddha

THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE

by Maasaisis

The efforts I fought for months ago have had a ripple effect with a double-edged sword. One edge inflicts deep wounds, while the other cuts out a small opening, a peephole through which I can glimpse a shimmer of gold amid the ashes. Six months ago, the PET scan results hurled me into the ‘metastatic’ category as my liver illuminated with suspicious activity. The impact of this news swiftly plunged me into denial. I sought to reinforce it with my own rationale, other than metastasis, for why there might be areas of increased sugar uptake in the fastest-regenerating organ of my body.

Since cells involved in healing processes also consume more glucose and thus appear brighter in a PET scan, I converted my shock into a more digestible explanation. To gain further insight into my liver’s condition, I requested an MRI, known for its detailed imaging of soft tissue. However, my requests were repeatedly denied on the grounds that the evidence of metastasis in the PET scan was deemed sufficient.

At the time, I wasn’t prepared to accept a treatment plan based on mere assumptions. I fought tooth and nail until my local MD relented under my plea for an MRI. I’m immensely grateful that my care providers have flexible boundaries that stretches open when I advocate strongly for myself. Finally, after all these months, I underwent the MRI a couple of weeks ago.

When the results appeared in my inbox, I leaned on the pillar of strength from my morning prayers. Despite the adversities and hardships that comes with the walk that I am walking, I’m most grateful for the enduring strength of Spirit that holds me up when I’m shaking. I was hoping that whatever was there in my liver would be gone after three months of being on treatment. The new hair growth, return of my appetite, and increased stamina seemed promising signs of healing. Nevertheless, the results revealed at least four nodules in my liver, and this time, I didn’t push it aside into denial or search for alternative explanations. I allowed the truth of what is slam right into me.

I surrendered to the cathartic waves of emotions that surged violently within me, crashing with relentless force. I felt it all without trying to cling, and in that surrender, their progression seemed to hasten. As the initial intensity of this reality settled, I willed my mind to soar high above and gain a broader, panoramic perspective of the situation. This isn’t new information; it’s confirmation of previous findings indicating mutant activity in my liver. It’s clarity that must be accepted—a crucial baseline for the path ahead.

Resisting acceptance will only erect roadblocks on the path I must walk. My journey demands unwavering faith and patience—a continuous dance of fluidity and adaptability. I must navigate my current reality while remaining anchored to what cannot be touched by this disease. I must keep the light of my spirit burning, even when the room goes dark around me. It’s in this choice, available to me, that I can discover gifts in the most unpredictable places.

The gift I received came in the form of a timely call from a different oncologist than the one I usually see. Just hours after I had read the results on my computer screen, he reached out to share his interpretation of the findings—a perspective far less terrifying than my own. He explained that in cancer treatment, success isn’t solely measured by achieving remission but also by stabilization. According to him, the MRI results didn’t necessarily indicate anything new; rather, they provided additional insight into what we already suspected. He offered me a different vantage point to consider.

Perhaps these nodules are smaller than before. Maybe they’ve stabilized, given that they’re all still relatively small. It’s possible that between November and February, when I began treatment, the nodules grew significantly, and what we’re seeing now is evidence that the treatment is indeed effective. Like light passing through a prism, every situation can reveal a different picture depending on the angle from which you view it.

The persistence in pursuing an MRI screening brought yet another gift. With a clearer baseline established, I now have the opportunity for regular MRI tests in the coming months to monitor my liver. Unlike x-rays, CT scans, and PET scans, MRI imaging doesn’t emit radiation and is non-invasive—a fact worth celebrating. When it comes to monitoring treatment, it’s crucial to compare apples to apples, so to speak, as each screening modality offers unique information.

After three months on treatment, the true gauge of its effectiveness lies in comparing PET scan results. Last week, I embarked on a solo journey, driving hours to undergo another PET scan. As I await the results in the coming week, I remain buoyant on my raft of certainties. I’m grateful for the vitality that was absent just a couple of months ago, for the nurturing love of my friends and family, and for the immeasurable power of Spirit that continues to light my way. Everything else is not evident in now.

LESSON: Life is 10% what happens to us and 90% how we react to it. – Charles R. Swindoll

LIFE IN PRESENT TENSE

by Maasaisis

I regretted asking the moment the doctor responded. Until today, I had never inquired about my official diagnosis. Did it not matter to me because I’m focused on the work to get better, or did I simply not want to know? ‘It’s stage four,’ she said. She didn’t have to finish with an extended explanation and we both knew it. My stomach dropped as her words instantly filled the hollow in my gut. Though I knew this to be true, it had been tucked away in a no-access zone, hidden out of sight and out of mind.

My coping mechanism oscillates between faith and denial, with only a thin veil separating the two. I’m learning that adversity is an invitation to awaken to my response to life. Struggles only arise when I compare myself to my past self or when I’m overwhelmed by what might happen to me in the future. Both tendencies make me miss what’s possible now.

I was fine until I asked. I even impressed myself with my ability to detect the early stage of another staph infection, which was the reason I was sitting in the doctor’s office in the first place. Instead of being upset about another recurrence only a couple of weeks after the last, I chose to be grateful that I caught it early this time instead of landing in the ER again. Instead of resisting another round of antibiotics, I accepted what needed to be done given the circumstance. I showed her my breast, and she noted how much better it looked, confirming how I felt. But everything changed when I was put into a category.

The power of two words spoken aloud by someone else instantly created a different reality. It contradicted the feedback from my body, which suggested that despite the expected side effects, the treatment is working. I recognized my visceral reaction, which prompted a sudden shift in my state. The chill that ran through me seemed to extend into the future, yet it felt like just one of many potential versions, too elusive to keep me in a state of panic. My wise friend reminded me that a diagnosis is not a prognosis. With this reassurance, I return to the baseline of what I know to be true in this moment, focusing on all that is well within me rather than fearing what could go wrong.

I continue to meet myself as life unfolds before me. Today, I was granted the grace to observe my reaction and respond in a manner that felt more authentic than succumbing to the abyss of ‘what ifs.’ I became aware that I attributed meaning to those words based on conditioning that was not mine and not based on where I’m at now. There is no future, only now and now and now.

With the residue of Doc’s words still echoing in my mind, I drove home, recognizing the weight inside me. I allowed myself the catharsis of tears to release it. Seeking solace in the forest, I clung onto a sturdy tree. Shinrin-Yoku, the Japanese practice of forest bathing, has continually brought me home to myself. Amidst the trees, I felt the cleansing stillness wash away what was not serving me. Anchored in the solid embrace of a cedar, I calibrated to its unwavering presence. My senses opened to the palpable calm around me as I slowly exhaled.

I asked myself: ‘What is true in this very moment?’ The answer came with ease: ‘I’m safe, I’m okay, I am not in imminent danger.’ Such certainty is only available in present tense.

I’m aware that my grievances stem from reaching towards life without cancer, from being free from interruptions of symptoms, and from having limitations. Yet, my quest for purpose is unfolding in the present. This is my purpose—to find a way to meet myself as I am and find ease in the midst. There is always a choice to accept or resist. The gift lies in having a choice, even when it may not feel readily available. It’s okay to shake and shudder until the moment leads to something else. It always does.

Each moment serves as a meeting place for the full gradation of possibilities of how I can engage with my life. It’s a beautiful life, filled with the diverse shades of the human experience. To be asleep to it, lost in denial, is to miss the essence of my purpose. This, perhaps, is the most profound lesson showing me the way to liberation in any given moment. .