My morning ritual involves cupping my right breast and feeling for magical changes while I slept. It’s natural to assume since my cherry-sized tumour transformed into a baseball rapidly, the reversal will be just as swift. The transformation erupted like a volcano, spreading ‘lava’ to distant sites within my chest wall, sternum, and liver while I was preoccupied with life. But the recession of this rapid process diverges from the original route and crawls through uncharted territory. The path backward is slow, hot and sticky, lava begrudgingly receding from whence it came, and only God knows if it will return at all.
After a month and a half of treatment, the ball feels tighter, and perhaps even slightly smaller, though my optimism could be playing tricks on me. Doc says that the visible changes we anticipate seeing in the coming months will reflect what I can’t see inside. My lump is the barometer of my healing and it’s slow going like watching my hair grow. Rarely do things happen quickly when we want them badly. Rarely does hope make predictable affirmations.
It’s only when we look back from a different vantage point that we sometimes glimpse just how adept we are at avoiding conflict. During the months when my tumour supersized, I gave myself every reason not to worry. Those reasons were convincing enough to override the alarming rate of growth that suddenly became evident through my shirt. My rationale for not worrying was firmly rooted in what I’ve learned and confirmed over the years while walking with this disease. Yet, it was only when pain arrived and amplified that my rationale became a threat. Survival is a great motivator to ditch the rule book and rewrite it.
I’m sitting in the waiting room, caught between who I was and who I am becoming. I’m waiting to become the person without this disease. I’m waiting for a time when I’m not orbiting around cancer. But what will change? There is some kind of slow metamorphosis underway, yet it’s impossible to recognize it’s shape. Will I wake up one morning and leave the waiting room? Will I emerge as a version of myself that knows what’s next?
Creativity is my compass. Through art and words I’m making some kind of a meaningful artifact of this time in between. It’s a place to direct my energy other than to focus on what my body is doing or not doing. This refuge can be elusive at times, yet it often reveals itself in surprising ways, giving me clues to where I am. I suppose this is how I’m getting to know myself in different ways than before.
I continue to fight the urge to pick up and leave, to act on my nature of movement and momentum, and to embark on a solo adventure. Beyond the anchor of my physical limitations that keep me from leaping into this fantasy, there is a wise voice telling me to stay. It reminds me that the pilgrimage has already been well underway, that the destination remains unknown, and that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Perhaps we are all in a state of continual metamorphosis. Change can happen rapidly or simmer slowly, taking time for the ‘goo’ to take shape, only to shift again in response to life’s experiences. Perhaps we never recognize ourselves as transformers until something compels us to look back. The only constant is change, and perhaps we are meant to make peace with that cliche—not to resist it, but to watch it unfold and mold ourselves into it as it happens.
I thought that if I played by this new set of rules, I would be able to maintain at least some semblance of my old life. If I took a long enough nap late in the day, I should be able to gather enough energy to be in fine form for the flamenco show. That’s what I thought. What was supposed to be a short nap turned into over an hour. I peeled my eyes open, groggy and heavy. The voice inside said, ‘Get up, shake it off!’ so I put on my flamenco shoes and dragged myself into position to practice our set.
I noticed right away that the music was coming in muffled through my right ear, the one that’s been plugged periodically for the last couple of months. Nausea set in after my first spin, and every stamp of my nailed shoes reverberated through my bones. This distraction threw me offbeat, and suddenly, I had no idea what the next move was. I panicked and tried again, but my body lagged behind. I just couldn’t keep up.
The doctor said these medications would make me feel old, physically and mentally. The thought of getting ready for the show overwhelmed me. There are many voices arguing in my head: ‘Do it again, practice!’; ‘Just lay down, you’ll be okay’; ‘Forget it, who are you kidding?’; ‘Tough it out! Stop being dramatic!’ I fall into bed, sobbing uncontrollably because I know it’s not going to happen.
There is a tug of war between the part of me that is fighting for what I feel should be mine and having to let it go because I have to. The new set of rules is that it changes moment by moment. The lesson? There is no wisdom to be found in the midst of a messy meltdown. I only have this blank page to spew out my discontent because I need to let it out so I won’t implode. I’m angry that what I was looking forward to was snatched away from me. I’m grieving the fact that I can’t plan to look forward to something. I’m grieving the days lost in sleep.
I understand the lesson about letting go and living in the moment—an enlightening way to strive to be. I keep receiving this message repeatedly, but when the moment takes me away from what lights me up, I feel utterly defeated. Then, the guilt of admitting defeat drowns me under the wave of self-loathing. The internal conflict rages on – one side mothering the wounded child, the other seething and clinging to all that I used to be. One side yearning for a sense of control and predictability, the other acknowledging the futility of such desires on an unpredictable health journey.
People keep saying how strong, courageous, and beautiful I am. The truth is, that is how I used to see myself. That version of me is fading into something else that I can’t find. I don’t recognize what I’m morphing into, and it’s scary. I’m at that place that happens in every painting process—the place where I have no idea how to move forward, where everything doesn’t look right, and I don’t know how to fix it. I feel vulnerable and exposed in this stuck place. The only thing that keeps me going is trusting the process. If I just keep showing up in front of the canvas, something eventually shifts, and my whole perspective on the painting changes, allowing me to break the spell — to find beauty and meaning where it wasn’t before.
I know I will come up for air with a fresh look around. If not now, it will come. Thank God for my angel of a husband, who envelops me in his love no matter what state I’m in. Even when I want to push him away, he holds me until I eventually melt into him. He cries with me, and in doing so, he helps me open up the floodgates so I can just let it all rip, allowing me to feel everything just as it is.
I’m battling the Saboteur, determined to resist its attempts to tarnish the glow following a delightful stroll in the sunlit forest. It lures me into exchanging it for a darker version of my circumstance. During the walk, I was impressed by my ability to maintain a brisk pace without compromising my stamina. Even on the uphill climb, I sensed newfound strength compared to my previous treks.
Returning home, exhaustion engulfed me, my focus latched onto the energy being syphoned out of me. The electric pain travelling through my body brings my attention to a new, suspicious discolouration under my breast. Now, the Saboteur transforms into the Victim, and a sense of helplessness drags me into shutdown mode. The mind, once uplifted in the forest, now succumbs to weightier thoughts-dragging me into numbing sleep.
Negative thoughts possess a density capable of overshadowing the light without a moment’s notice. They filter out the wisdom I’ve gathered into a blank void. The Victim induces temporary memory loss of all that I have to be grateful for. It’s evident that I’m not a patient patient, and I’m frustrated with life revolving around the central axis of my health. I’m frustrated with being frustrated when I know the only way through this is to allow it to be whatever it is. I’m looking for ways to escape but this will follow me wherever I go.
A sickly-looking woman is gazing back at me in the mirror. She has a shaved head with patches missing and dark spots decorating her skin. Who is this person looking back at me? What is her purpose?
The judgement values that have served as a measure of my self worth is suffocating me. I can no longer rise to the gold standard to satisfy the insatiable need to achieve more. These unreasonable expectations, even at the best of times, demand ‘you should be’ orders, kicking me while I’m down. Curled up with my hands pressed on my ears, guilt washes over me.
A chasm exists between the part of myself witnessing this self-abuse and the one perpetuating it. The witness sees the dominating pattern that has been running the show all my life. She shakes her head with her hand on her heart while the abuser is barking orders, pushing me to do and be more. The irony lies in the fact that the relentless drive to achieve more has been a fundamental building block shaping who I am today. Now, I’m being forced to find a new way to satiate the need to do more to feel of value.
It feels like the stripping away of what used to give me a sense of purpose is bringing me closer to my real purpose. I still don’t know what that is, but I sense that I’m immersed in it without fully recognizing its value. This is where the healing needs to happen. Instead of feeling weak and aimless, how about translating it as a sign of healing? How about taking this exhaustion and the need for rest as a sign of my body recalibrating? How about viewing my unstable emotional state as a reflection of the beauty of my vulnerability, rather than something to dismiss with a smile? How about the grace of love to be enough as I am now?
Perhaps a deeper alchemy is unfolding beneath the biological changes induced by these medications, maybe budding beneath the layers of depression and exhaustion. This slow, sticky, stagnated state could serve as the perfect incubation ground for whatever needs to be realized and embodied in preparation for my next phase. At some level, I’m still in denial about what is happening inside me, clinging to the idea that life should continue just as it did before. Amidst the complexity, there are numerous layers—some more readily peeled away, while others need to be left as they are, forming the foundational base of what is to come.
Is Rumi referring to the quantum field when he said, “What you are seeking is also seeking you”? If the universe consistently responds to the vibrations we emit, could all experiences be inherently personal, rendering the concept of an absolute truth obsolete?
The very framework of my identity is now undergoing construction. Growth demands space for expansion, and the residence I’ve inhabited is no longer conducive to my evolution. The challenge lies in recognizing what no longer serves my development. I must rearrange some structural elements that supported me, even if it’s scary to build in a place where safety isn’t guaranteed. This new design must be created as I go, and I have no idea what I’m building.
The last few months have been a kick in the gut for my ego. Clumps of hair fall out in fistfuls, and gray hairs populate what’s left. At the peak of my angry tumor, there’s a loonie-sized scab with a mind of its own. My ears are taking turns blocking out this reality, and it feels like I’m underwater. For the first time, I feel like I know absolutely nothing. Electrical pain communicates from my breast to my sternum and into my ribs. Breathing feels like someone sitting on my chest. Rashes come and go, confirming my inability to rein in the rapid changes my body is undergoing. I’ve been in denial about the metastasis of this cancer, but I can no longer ignore what my body is telling me.
This lump resembles the ego. Cells that have separated from the whole, adopting a dominating existence, attempt to convince other cells of their singularity and importance. It’s a mutiny against homeostasis, recruiting cells at a rapid rate. They all seem to have forgotten their origin, and it’s up to me to help them remember their harmonious nature. A significant inner renovation is taking place, and new methods will be utilized for this next version of me.
The contradictions I encounter daily are becoming amusingly apparent. The only certainty is that there is no Plan A or B, no right or wrong—only the entirety of existence. What I’m uncovering is that every idea is steeped in bias, supported by evidence that is subsequently contradicted by opposing biases. For instance, a deep dive into a study by a doctor claiming cancer feeds on glutamine and sugar, portraying cancer as a metabolic disease, is countered by another study refuting the entire notion. Whom do I believe? Whom do I trust for my cure?
This perplexing disease reportedly afflicts 40% of the Western population. Despite substantial investments in research and resources, the understanding and treatment of cancer remain elusive in the long run. The presence of conflicting information prompts a crucial question: How can we discover effective and curative treatments without a clear understanding of the truth about the disease? Why do some people heal while others don’t? Does it have to do with our own beliefs and biases, or is there something at the soul level that decides?
I’m starting to discern a connection between belief, bias, and the seemingly supportive evidence—a sort of quantum revelation. Like physicists studying subatomic particles, there was a debate about their nature. Some believed they behaved like matter, while others argued for an energy-like behavior. The revelation was that the behavior of these particles, essential for everything living and even non-living, shifts depending on the observer and their predisposed beliefs.
As the structure of my metaphorical house undergoes reconstruction, I question the trajectory that brought me to this juncture. Would I be facing this health crisis if I had followed the initial recommendations of doctors? Was it a mistake to exclusively embrace German New Medicine to understand this disease? Despite the numerous case studies supporting GNM with 100% accuracy, did my cancer resurface only when doubt and fear crept in? Am I a victim of this disease, did I unconsciously create it, was it part of my soul contract, or none of it and all of it? Will I ever know why? These questions will have to be laid to rest beneath the earth of what will be built.
In the midst of treatment, there will be no gradual ceremony marking my transition from mother to crone. The crone archetype embodies wisdom from a lifetime of experiences. I strive to enter a slower, empowered, and all-encompassing phase of life. This choice is available in every moment, even if momentarily forgotten when things get really messy. I embrace the conscious leap across the threshold into medically induced menopause, honouring the fertile grounds that gave rise to my daughter.
I must strive to find stillness at the center of the cyclone. My purpose is to come back to myself when external forces try to pull me out of orbit. In my center, there’s peace and recognition that everything that came before is a vital piece of the giant puzzle. This place beckons me to be gentle, to love myself, to have faith, be grateful, and bless this treatment so it will work. I’ll have to bend like a willow tree, flexible and resilient, embracing the winds of change.
There is profound grace when we are able to respond to life in ways previously unimaginable. Within this newfound awareness and understanding, the vantage point from which I operate shifts to a new perspective.
In my personal journey, the Holy Instant, as described in A Course in Miracles, has consistently unfolded in ways beyond my assumptions or imagination. It arrives in divine timing, clicking so perfectly, when least expected, and I’m finally able to exhale completely. It’s like a surprise opening of a portal, revealing an entirely new way that echoes the faith I put into it.
There is no greater sense of security than receiving confirmation that I’m not operating alone. Miracles happen when this powerful force co-creates with us in both mysterious and unpredictable ways, and, most importantly, when we become aware of its workings. It’s an instant when we see how we’ve been stuck and what it takes to be free. This revelation always comes in ways we could not have fathomed due to the confines of our minds and past experiences. That is why it is Holy — because it has the ability to transmute fear into clarity which proceeds with the kind of peace that trumps everything else.
This is what I experienced after I finally let go. My healing journey in essence, has orbited around my self awareness and the lack of it. My struggles always seem to precede resistance, and the support or shift in awareness occurs when I am ready to let go of something.
The last bout of supreme struggle originated from a conversation with my husband. Over the past couple of months, we had been haunted by the implications of the seriousness of my condition. We took turns having meltdowns, and it was particularly challenging when we wallowed in the mess together.
It’s another day where cancer has hijacked the lead role of my life. My husband is sitting at the foot of the bed as we are about to have a conversation that can go any which way. I had strung together previous days consumed by frantic internet searches. I needed an alternative, any other way than the direction I’m headed. He is choosing his words carefully, but they are shaky behind his emotional plea. Suddenly, I am violently annoyed that he is crying as he asks me to consider chemo. ‘Stop crying!’ I snapped.
In that precise moment, something miraculous occurred. I could observe my behaviour from a distance, recognizing how my reaction to his request stirred the fear I couldn’t or wouldn’t confront. It made me angry and cruel. Acknowledging this allowed me to stop reacting so I could truly listen to my husband. As he spoke, I felt the iron door of my firm “no” starting to creak open. The annoyance dissipated, replaced only by love for this man who has steadfastly stood by me throughout this unpredictable healing journey. What he was saying began to make sense to me, marking the greatest miracle of all.
I believed that surrendering my breast was the necessary sacrifice for my healing. It took years to get there, but when I finally did, ironically that option was not made available and suddenly my situation spun out of control. Despite the chaos, I’ve uncovered the truth that I would much rather be disfigured than have chemo in my body. This is why I have suffered tremendously as my options began to narrow pointing towards chemo.
Where did this rigid aversion come from? When I delved deeper, I recognized what was longing and ready to be healed. It became clear to me that my experience with chemotherapy constituted a profound trauma that demanded a sober and thorough examination. The aversion to confront it served as a clue, indicating the necessity of revisiting this painful chapter—not by the person it happened to, but by the person who now has the choice to perceive it differently.
I’ll never forget feeling her terror in my bones as I held her. My beloved friend was certain that the chemo was going to kill her. The strength and convictions that carried me through my own healing journey shattered as we fell into the abyss of terror together. In that moment, my psyche marked that experience with a formidable sign: ‘Do Not Approach – Extremely Dangerous, and Certain Death!!’ Her death cemented that signpost so I would not forget.
Understanding the root of my fear gave me the ability to surrender it to the Holy Spirit. If it hadn’t been for that initially charged conversation with my husband, during which I woke up to my reactivity, I would have missed the opening of the portal. Now, I’m presented with the opportunity to perceive it as her unique experience, distinct from mine and from the experiences of many who have been saved by chemotherapy.
I ceased my frantic, desperate search for external answers and turned towards a new ‘yes’ within myself. It took less than 24 hours for the response to my “yes” to come via phone call on a Friday evening. I was surprised that the surgeon who denied my mastectomy was on the other end of the line.
The first time I faced this surgeon, my prepared questions dissolved into sobs. I tearfully revealed a history of trauma with male medical figures. “I’m so sorry, I must be making you very uncomfortable right now,” he empathetically said. He has kind eyes behind his mask and somehow I was able to bridge the gap so I could hear him say that I needed “systemic treatment”.
Over the phone, he tells me that he’d reviewed my recent biopsy report and discussed my case at a panel with other doctors. Present was my soon to beoncologist whom I’ve discovered to my relief is a female doctor. Could she have possibly taken my case influenced by what my surgeon knew about me? I can interpret this as nothing or as a result of the Holy Spirit’s work in my life.
The biopsy confirmed Ductal Carcinoma, now in the intermediate to advanced metastatic category. Hormone receptor positive, it thrives on estrogen and progesterone but is HER2 negative. I’m told that this is considered a less aggressive form of cancer compared to others, but i’m too nervous about what he’s about to say for it to register.
Bracing myself for the anticipated treatment plan, the surgeon surprised me with unexpected news from the circle of doctors. It caught me off guard because their recommendation was not the expected chemo or radiation; instead, they proposed starting with hormone therapy.
When hormone therapy was suggested to me in the past, I looked at all the potential side affects and declined treatment. After navigating through all the recent challenges, facing and accepting what seemed inevitable, and preparing to let go, a completely unexpected option surfaced, altering my reality.
I had firmly believed that chemo was the only logical next step, especially when the surgeon ruled out radiation as a viable option for me. After accepting chemo and the challenges I was willing to face, hormone therapy is a step that I know I can take. My hard “no” from my past has metamorphosed into a “yes” only made possible by the things that happened in-between.
The surgeon didn’t have to call me on a Fri. evening to share what was discussed. He could have left me in suspense for another three weeks, fretting about my upcoming meeting with the oncologist and what it would entail. My case could have easily fallen through the cracks; instead, a dedicated group of doctors took it upon themselves to devise a gentler plan then I expected.
I choose to interpret this as a timely intervention by the Holy Spirit, working through those I least expected. This is how my faith continues to keep me afloat, even when I feel like the sea will swallow me up. I’m being guided to recognize the ways that are not serving me, in ways I could not possibly navigate alone.
LESSON: THE WORK OF THE HOLY SPIRIT CAN NOT BE ASSUMED. IT LIGHTS UP THE PLACES THAT ARE YEARNING TO BE SEEN.
A.I. art by my mama Sonia Aichi. To me, she depicts the kind of peace proceeding a Holy Instant.
As my nervous system gradually returns to regulation, I’m reminded that healing is an ongoing journey, a continuous return home to oneself. The last few months have been like a bad acid trip shaped by the opinions of medical specialists that have transformed my life into a state of emergency. It’s incredible how radical a change can take place when value is given to meaning.
The foundation that supported my vibrant life with cancer began to crumble swiftly, and I was horrified at the rapid rate at which my health declined in response to my state. For over four years, I managed without the physical ripples of what society teaches us about cancer. My mind was steadfastly convinced of my body’s healing, until doubt set in.
My psyche was triggered, prompting my body to signal that surgery was the inevitable next step for my healing. This meant re-entering the medical system I had resolutely avoided for the last few years. Once I stepped in, a PET scan was required before meeting the surgeon to discuss my surgery. Previous scans indicated localized cancer in my breast, affirming my long-held belief that cancer does not “spread” but is born of separate traumas that accumulate along the way, often in dealing with the initial diagnosis and the fear it triggers.
Given my understanding of German New Medicine, it has become a double-edged sword, particularly in navigating the medical terrain filled with personal triggers from my past. Despite my reluctance, I underwent the PET scan to honor the commitment I made towards my healing, believing it meant the removal of my breast.
The shock was palpable when the results placed me in the category of systemic treatment before a mastectomy. Other areas showed higher sugar uptakes, hinting at potential cancer activity elsewhere.
In fight or flight mode, every ounce of knowledge abandons you when you need it the most, leaving you paralyzed in a state of fear. What made it worse was knowing I was only compounding the situation by staying in that state. Despite my spiritual training, I couldn’t break free except through drug-induced sleep. So, I resorted to opiates to escape my mind and pain, turning off my switch and hoping that in another realm where I existed, I would find my way through this.
I thought mastectomy was my ultimate offering, a fair trade for my freedom. Never did I fathom hormone treatment, radiation, or, God forbid, chemo! Was this some cosmic joke, the gods mocking me with, “You haven’t surrendered it all, honey!”
My entire system went berserk—angry rashes, swollen eyes, a clenched jaw, and an inflamed breast causing a constant fever. I’ve shed too much weight in too short a time. Terror shadowed me, and the woman in the mirror seemed unrecognizable. Worst of all, my faith wavered, and I sought refuge in opiates to evade confronting it, weakly promising myself that a good sleep would provide the strength to deal with it all when I woke up.
The opiates plunged me into depression, disempowered me, worsened my symptoms, and transformed me into a groveling victim. I knew that I needed to gather myself up and face this mother fucker of a situation- that meant a break from numbing myself. Around that time, my attuned parents responded to my SOS and decided resolutely to be by my side. Within a few days, my Da was giving me acupuncture treatments in my living room while my mom cooked beautiful macrobiotic foods and insisted on a strict schedule of copious supplements.
My DNA donors mirror my essence, blending my Japanese mom’s practicality with my Da’s stoic faith. They, along with my incredible husband, don’t have the answers, but together, we’re navigating the path. I sense myself returning home to the sanctuary within, anchored in love.
I must not fear the journey ahead but trust that clues will guide my way, as they always have. Recognizing the significance of remaining utterly open, I continue to trust in the guidance that will unfold. My task is to stay open until I know and to decipher what is not serving me, a process that can be a quagmire of stubborn belief systems.
God certainly works in mysterious ways and I am reminded that is through the extension of God’s Creations. I have to believe that help is on the way coming in ways that I can’t predict. Most importantly, I must not forget the boundless place within me where peace always abides, leaving my mind behind. I must continue to return there over and over again, whatever it takes.
LESSON: HEALING IS A JOURNEY CONTINUALLY COMING HOME TO YOURSELF.
I’m at the point where I am beginning to realize what I actually signed up for. It reminds me of that feeling on a roller coaster ride, steadily ascending to its highest peak and dreading every second of it. At the top, in the brief pause, I am forced to face the terrifying reality that there is absolutely nothing I can do to change what is about to happen. There’s no turning back, no changing my mind, and no amount of fight will alter the course of the next few minutes. The only thing left to do is to surrender.
My right breast is taut from pressure on the inside. It’s a likeness of a perfect grapefruit—swollen, round, and oddly perky. Under different circumstances, it might have fuelled my vanity, but it’s due to the palm-sized tumour underneath. Now visibly larger than its twin, it throbs and sends sharp, electric messages to surrounding areas.
I’ve had to adapt to this new reality. I’ve become a left-hearted hugger, a back sleeper, and I keep my right elbow at the ready to shield my throbbing breast from any kind of impact. I am adjusting to new ways to support my healing and sleeping as much as I need.
This mass resembles a slowly shifting continent, inching its way toward my armpit. Its relentless pull restricts the mobility of my shoulder and diminishes the strength in my arm. Everything I hold dear about myself finds expression through my hands. It’s not what I say but the authenticity of my hands that allows me to connect with people on the deepest level. As both an artist and masseuse, my hands serve as the language through which I communicate.
Though I should be celebrating the promising signs of healing that I’ve come to understand, it’s innate human nature to react to pain with fear and resistance. I am uncertain if the mass will eventually erupt to the surface or if it will become dormant after raising a ruckus. I remain to be my own test subject.
In recent weeks, the pain has intensified significantly. Every time I pressed my fingers to catch a hook in the tissue of the person I was massaging, I would feel a painful echo reverberating in my breast. It became a disruptive distraction to what is otherwise a practice of serenity and prayer.
This week, I finally arrived at the point where I had to release my massage practice. The decision left me grappling with the aftermath—my self-worth plummeted and landed on questions like : “Who am I if I can’t massage anymore? What if I can’t paint anymore? Who am I if I can’t use my hands?”
When the heart falls out of harmony, it recruits the mind to conjure up the worst-case scenarios. We do this in an attempt to prepare ourselves, even though most of these scenarios never materialize. It’s a convoluted way of trying to find comfort in situations beyond our control. While we’re entangled in these thoughts, life continues to move forward, often slipping by unnoticed. We miss the gifts of what each moment can bring us even though it may be uncomfortable.
The irony is that I’ve been praying for this to happen. I’ve been asking for my “biological program” to reach its completion. I’ve learned from German New Medicine that cells heal best in a warm, liquid environment. Healing brings swelling, heat, and yes, pain. It’s the body’s way of signalling us to rest, to refrain from using that part so it can mend itself. This is why we often reach the peak of discomfort, also known as a healing crisis, before the body can return to homeostasis.
Against my better judgment, my well-being is compromised by toggling between my worst fears and my faith in what I’ve learned in the last four years of this healing journey. Nevertheless, I continue to remind myself to extend forgiveness to the part of me that still falls prey to these “what-ifs.” The only way is through it. I always have the choice to embrace pain and the unknown with surrender and faith, trusting in my body’s innate ability to heal. There is always the right time to remember when I forget.
I’m grateful to be reminded of the opportunities within every obstacle. Now that I’m not massaging, I have more time for my creative projects that had been shelved. This newfound time allows me to nurture and listen to what my body needs. I’m embracing this journey, wherever it may lead me, much like taking a deep breath at the peak of a rollercoaster ride—relaxing and surrendering to the wild ride ahead.
(Pls read my previous post about GNM/GHK as a precursor to this one. Since the last post, I have discovered that there has been a name change from German New Medicine to Germanische Heilkunde which means Germanic Healing Knowledge. In this post I will be using the abbreviation GHK to reference this biological science.)
How German New Medicine revealed the meaning of my cancer so I could heal. By Maasa Craig edited by Pathways Magazine
When I received news of a ductal carcinoma on the periphery of my right breast, I put on my detective hat and worked backwards from my “know” to my “why” with help from a Germanic Healing Knowledge (GHK, or GNM) practitioner. GHK’s process of ascertaining the precise conflict that initiates a particular cancer process is based on biological science and embryology. Dr. Hamer, the pioneer discoverer, found that different conflict shocks impact different brain relays, each adapting a corresponding organ. The organ will change, or adapt, with cell-multiplication or cell-ulceration depending on the embryological germ cells that compose the tissues. For example, organs composed of endodermal cells such as the intestines, will respond with cell multiplication. Most importantly, each organ and germ layer responds only to a specific “kind” of conflict shock that applies to that organ’s function. Using this knowledge as a map, the exact organ and symptom will tell us what “type” of conflict shock occurred, and where the biological program is, in regards to the tissue- adaptation process. Often, the symptom we have indicates that the organ is in a healing phase, after the conflict is resolved.
Here’s what I discovered
Ductal “carcinoma” is the healing process, or tissue-replenishment phase, after a separation conflict that had caused the ductal tissues to ulcerate. We experience this conflict, for example, when a loved one is “torn from the breast” through an unexpected ending of a relationship. It can also occur if we suddenly want to separate from a relationship due to a conflict involving betrayal, fighting, abuse, etc. The purpose of the ulcerations is to widen the ductal passageways—relating to a primitive nourishment response in the breast. After the conflict is over, an internal swelling occurs, sometimes seen as a tumor (it’s more akin to an internal swollen “scab” designed to heal the ductal passages.)
For many organs, including the breast ducts, our handedness (or dominant laterality) will determine which side of the body gets affected. Conflict shocks that center around a “partner” will affect the dominant side (for me that’s my right side). And if the conflict centers around a “mother or child,” it will affect the opposite, non-dominant side. Since the cell-replenishment, swelling, and “tumor” was on my right side, and I’m right handed, my first clue was that the conflict had nothing to do with my mother or daughter. Instead, it had to do with a partner, colleague, or friend.
I also learned that the moment I experienced this conflict, concentric circles appeared as lesions on the left side of my cerebral cortex (sensory cortex to be exact) because the right breast is controlled from the left sensory cortex of the brain. What piqued my interest is how the “psyche”—our innate survival knowledge below the level of our awareness—related to the conflict. This is of utmost importance for the detective work and for healing. GHK is not only a healing science, it is a process to get intimate with your inner workings.
For myself, it was vitally important for me to pinpoint the exact conflict shock that caused the whole process to unfold. I believed that understanding why my body was doing what it was doing would be the key to assist my body to homeostasis.
Finding my Why
“I want you to think of an incident that made you feel like someone was ripped from your breast. This person did something that shocked you,” the GNM consultant said to me during our session.
I’d spent 7 months cleaning out my proverbial closet and releasing my can of worms. I scanned through my major traumas that I made peace with, but none fit the bill. I went through my memory catalog unsure of what I was looking for…until I found it. And it hit me like a ton of bricks; so much so that I had to catch my breath, my heart stilled, and the blood drained from my face.
“Yup, that’s the reaction we get when people discover their DHS. They just know it,” she said. (Note: DHS is the term denoting the moment in time the biological shock occurred)
How did I leave this giant worm buried at the bottom of my can? I’d literally dealt with everything else except for this one! That’s how deeply my subconscious packed it away. The GNM practitioner asked me, “Looking at the size of your tumour, I’d guess this conflict lasted for about 3 months?”
Stunned, I nodded my head.
As I write this, I’m amazed at how I’ve grown. I had the ability to pick up the worm and hold it in my gentle hand. I was able to look at it without my entire system going berserk. I saw a creature made of the earth with its own story and place in the world. I was able to get intimate with it from a place of closure. I wasn’t a victim.
My story
Everything in me told me not to hire Sam. Living in a small town, I was well aware of her history with past employers. My gut twisted as she handed me her resume, looked me in the eyes, and promised me she wouldn’t let me down. My spa was in full swing and I desperately needed another esthetician. I’d worked with her in the past, in another spa and the same aversion I felt for her then resurfaced. Instead of shutting her out, I invited her in—deciding to take the high road. And so I hired her.
I used my uncertainty as fuel to overcome my judgment toward her. After all, she never did anything to me directly. I wanted to be a better person and give her the benefit of the doubt. I was growing as a business owner and saw it as an opportunity to grow as a person as well. My strategy was to give her love. It was obvious that she came from a troubled past and lived a rough life from the little she shared with me. She had great skills and clients were happy with her service, so I held fast to that. I allowed my mothering instinct to take over and as a result she opened up to me as I did to her.
Did I do the right thing? It’s only in looking back from where I’m now that I know for certain that I did, because this biological program was a catalyst for my evolution. After a couple months of employment she started to call in sick for personal reasons. I picked up where she left me and rearranged my schedule to cover her shifts. It happened enough times that the knot in my stomach turned into chronic acid reflux. In late November, I ended up in Emergency at the hospital with my guts feeling like it was ripping out from the inside.
Knowing GHK more now, I understand what I had then was an “indigestible anger conflict”—a situation I couldn’t digest which caused my stomach lining to ulcerate with pain. (Note: In the lining of the stomach, ulcerations cause symptoms of pain because the stomach is wired to the post-sensory cortex of the brain, unlike other parts of the body, such as the breast ducts, which are wired to the sensory cortex where there is no noticeable pain during conflict-active ulcerations.)
I just didn’t know how to deal with Sam’s unpredictable nature. I couldn’t fire her with the busy season coming up and potentially lose her clients. I was stuck in a rock and hard place, doing my best to accommodate 9 staff members in the midst of my turmoil. My core crew was a solid group of skilled women who helped me grow my business. It was my priority to treat them well in a business where staff typically came and went. She was the new addition, and it was obvious she didn’t quite fit in.
Sam approached me one day wanting to report something of importance out of loyalty for me and my business. She proceeded to tell me that an employee of mine disclosed information about my business to a competitive spa in hopes of retaining a position.
What this employee apparently shared was sensitive information which put me in a precarious position.
The news came straight from left field. I was shocked that any staff member would do such a thing after working closely with them for several years. I was devastated and confused. I won’t get into the tedious drama of the event. What I discovered, however, was that Sam, who I took in against my better judgment, had fabricated the whole story, with fake texts and emails to try and get my lovely employee fired.
Why would anyone make up such a story? The whole situation mangled me mentally and rippled out into work. I couldn’t deny the strong intuition that something was very wrong—even with the apparent evidence at hand. I started digging for the truth. To my horror, I discovered that there are apps to make emails and texts look like they’re coming from someone when they’re not. The evidence that Sam showed me to frame my other employee was all made up. Not only was the story fabricated with documents to support it, Sam was the one who was trying to jump ship.
As I put the pieces together, I felt sick to my stomach. Expensive items had mysteriously disappeared from the spa around that time. It didn’t even cross my mind to think that an employee would steal from me. (I can never prove it, but my gut knew.) I felt totally betrayed after opening my heart to her and a fool for overriding my intuition to not hire her. Upon her immediate termination, I received official looking emails from her lawyer stating that she was suing me for wrongful dismissal. I knew she had the ability to make fraudulent documents to serve her purpose, but I had no way to know if they were for real or not.
Email demands for compensation came in regularly, so much so that I was afraid to open my email. My heart constantly raced, haunted by the worst case scenarios. I struggled to keep the high pace required to run my business and my home life. What if I lose my business after everything I put into it? What if I have to go to court? What if she shows up at my house and does something crazy? My sleep was disturbed with cold sweats and nightmares…physical symptoms of a “conflict active phase.” The emails went on. The conflict continued.
Why would she do this?
Resolution
It took about 3 months of me being in emergency mode to finally let it go. I accepted that I may have to go to court, that I may have to hire a lawyer, and that I may lose the spa over the whole ugly process. I was just breaking even with my new business. The cost of going to court would flush all my hard work down the toilet.
In an attempt to find closure, I even went as far as accepting the crazy event as an act of love. Didn’t she say she was doing it because she cared for me? Maybe the hardships in her life made her show her love in a twisted way. If that’s the case, doesn’t she deserve compassion? I moved on and resolved my conflict. I must have buried her deep in my subconscious, because when she resurfaced, I could not for the life of me remember her name!
After those 3 months, my conflict was resolved, and that’s when my healing phase began. New cells came in to replenish the area where there was prior tissue loss, accompanied with swelling. During those 3 months of conflict activity, my brain was impacted, and the corresponding organ—the milk ducts—ulcerated in proportion to the duration and intensity of “wanting to separate” from her. The biological purpose for the inner lining of milk ducts to ulcerate and lose cells is to widen the ducts for easier milk flow—a primitive mothering response. Though by the time I resolved the issue I understood there was no need to nurture this person anymore with my metaphorical milk.
The healing phase of cell proliferation and swelling was diagnosed as a ductal carcinoma, and deemed to be “abnormal cell activity.” The growth of these particular cells do act differently from normal cells, since they are the body’s way of healing the ulcerated tissue.
Blessed by life
The nail hit hard right on the head and drove straight down unwavering. My why was finally answered. Learning more about GNM, it made sense that the reason my tumour only grew by two millimeters in six months was because the cells only proliferate in proportion to the duration and intensity of the prior conflict. And because my conflict was never reactivated, it was done proliferating.
Everything I did since my diagnosis was a meaningful stepping stone to finding my why. I was elated to know that healing was already well underway by the time I discovered the lump. Truth rings like a bell. It rings so clear that the reverberation dissolves all the gunk out of the way. My mind was blown into pieces and put back together again to form a clear picture. Everything I was learning from GNM reflected what I intrinsically knew all along.
LESSONS FROM MY LUMP 