Tag: cancer

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.

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

METAMORPHOSIS

by Maasaisis

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.

TUG OF WAR

by Maasaisis

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.

LESSON: THE RULES CHANGE MOMENT TO MOMENT

SILVER LINING

by Maasaisis

I woke up feeling as if I’d been dragged behind a running horse. I had to keep my breath shallow so my ribs wouldn’t expand against the hot pain wrapping beneath my breast and around my back. I immediately sensed that something was terribly wrong. The reflection in the mirror confirmed my dread—a wide, bright, red welt wrapped around me on the outside of where I felt the pain inside. This significant change occurred rapidly during a disturbed sleep after a mind-fucker of a day. Perhaps my discombobulated state that day was a foreshadowing of what was to come.

Something was undoubtedly wrong, but it was Sunday. I’d been visiting the local oncology department regularly lately; the last thing I wanted was another hospital visit. In the blue welcome packet I received from the oncology nurse was a special neon pink skip-the-line slip. Having this slip was supposed to expedite any emergency visit for a cancer patient. Guess I might as well play my cancer card, I thought. I slung my arm around my husband, and he dragged my limp body into the ER like a big sack of potatoes.

There should be no contest to suffering; everyone in that room was suffering profusely. Slumped in the waiting room, overwhelmed with pain, fever, and nausea, I sobbed like a child, completely helpless. Even in that state of despair, the common thread of suffering in the ER connected me to a greater force. What bound me was compassion and the indivisible nature of suffering.

Hours had gone by with me in and out of consciousness by the time I was assessed and diagnosed. It turned out I had a staph bacterial infection that had spread from my tumour. Out of the bloodwork and cultures taken, one sample showed that it was in my blood. I was immediately put on IV antibiotics in hopes that I wouldn’t go into sepsis.

The doctor on duty did not have the best bedside manner. I could tell he was annoyed, dealing with a tedious patient and a case file he needed to comprehend thoroughly. ‘You’re in rough shape, and you’ve got a lot going on you should be concerned about,’ he said matter-of-factly. I didn’t have the energy to stand up for myself, a concern in itself. I just nodded and let him be who he was. He suggested trying to needle aspirate the pulsing red protrusion of my tumour in hopes of drawing out some infection. The last thing I wanted was this man sticking a giant syringe into my breast, but that is what happened, and unfortunately, there was no pus, only a bloody mess to show for it. Thankfully, that was the last I saw of him as I drifted in and out of delirium.

I slept in between bouts of nausea that would wake me up and bring me back to my predicament. Eventually, I was given the option to continue to stay in the ER or go home, as there was nothing more that could be done except continue IV antibiotics every 24 hours. I was torn between staying under the care of physicians and wanting to be in my own space with my family. I didn’t trust what my body was doing and was afraid of how compromised I felt. It was a terrifying feeling that I couldn’t shake even in the comforts of my home.

For the following 5 days, I continued to receive treatment in and out of the ER. The oncology nurse suggested I take a break from the targeted therapy drug I was taking in conjunction with the hormonal therapy medication. She told me that it’s an immunosuppressant and would hinder my healing from the staph infection. I suddenly understood what had most likely happened. I’d been on my cancer treatment plan for just over 2 weeks, during which time I was more immunocompromised than usual.

I’d been battling skin rashes and inflammation around my tumour for months. Fevers would come and go, but never did it cross my mind that the cause could be an infection. The oncologist waved it off as a cancer symptom, and I accepted the pain that came with it. I believe I’ve had this infection going on for a long time, and my immune system would fight it off every time it reared its ugly head. With the new medication that suppressed my immune system, it finally broke free into its full expression as a nasty staph infection.

I’m one to always look for the silver lining even amidst dire situations. Every day my body improved with antibiotics pumping through my veins. As the raspberry-red giant welt began to recede, I also noticed that the evidence of rashes that plagued me for months started to disappear. The pain in my breast slightly alleviated, which also has to do with the infection leaving my body. So even though this was a horrid experience building up for months, I’m grateful that it happened so that it could be addressed.

My way of being continues to morph through my experience with this disease. Time has stretched out like taffy, soft and malleable, unlike how I used to feel pressed up against it, always trying to stay ahead. I’m learning that I create my own suffering by planning how to fill the space of time. Life is happening to me in ways that I cannot control or predict. It’s asking me to be gentle and present with whatever is happening, and it requires a whole lot of compassion. To hold myself in high regard, to be worthy even when I’m responding to life from my couch.

LESSON: PATIENCE IS NOT WEAKNESS- Detective Katagiri from Tokyo Vice

THE HOLY INSTANT

by Maasaisis


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 be oncologist 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.

THE SPACE IN-BETWEEN

by Maasaisis


It’s terrifying to face the realization that options are running out, and what remains is what I’ve desperately avoided. The expansive realm of possibilities suddenly funnels into an ominous direction-pushing me towards where I thought I would never go.

The integrative private clinics that I’ve researched hold great promise, offering targeted treatment plans that I can at least align with my understanding. They all claim a gentler and more assured approach with an emphasis on extensive testing before formulating a treatment plan. I spent 20 minutes on the phone today nodding my head and feeling my optimism blossom until she smashed that possibility with a $200,000 US estimate for my “personalized plan” and wished me luck before she hung up.

Every potential avenue for assistance, particularly those I see as a middle ground, seems out of reach unless finances are not a concern. It’s disheartening but unsurprising that the realm of cancer treatment operates as a lucrative industry. Access to effective treatments with minimal harm to the body appears to be a privilege reserved for those with significant financial resources.

The long-awaited callback for my initial appointment with an oncologist finally arrived, scheduled in a few weeks. Anticipating this moment filled me with dread, as it signifies confronting what I’ve fiercely resisted for years. While friends and family impatiently awaited this call, seeing it as a positive step, I secretly viewed it as a window for a last-ditch effort to execute alternative cures.

My kitchen now doubles as my apothecary, where I diligently consume an array of concoctions every hour. At night I take it the other way and shove a suppository of potent cannabis in hopes of taming my lump. I’m pummelling my body with anti cancer agents that are accessible to me, resulting in a pristinely alkaline body and less twenty pounds of weight. Living with cancer for over four years has gifted me with a reservoir of knowledge empowering me to assist my body during this “space in between”.

I’ve acquired the wisdom to attend to every aspect of my being, not just my physical but recognizing the crucial role of nurturing my mental and spiritual well-being. The irony lies in the current situation, where day by day I’m moving into alien territory. I know I must confront my fears and make space for what is beginning to feel like the inevitable which is a system where I will have to poison and burn my body to cure it. How can I make sense of it and accept it? That is the work that I must do now.

Remarkably in the mean time my body has shown significant changes with my homemade protocol. Just a month ago, my condition was dire—my breast inflamed, angry, purplish-red, and only opioids provided relief at the cost of depression and endless sleep. Drugging myself was an easy escape and one that could have taken hold of me. Climbing stairs left me breathless, and my skin was covered in ugly, itchy rashes.

I’ve always gauged my health by how I feel, my optimism, inspiration, and physical abilities. Since committing to my extensive healing protocol, I’ve ceased pain meds, reduced napping, and managed to calm my angry breast which has allowed me to reclaim my precious energy. If I can keep going with patience and perseverance will it eventually heal me? Do I have the time to keep going?

I continue to consistently be saved by my unyielding spirit, tirelessly determined to keep shining. No matter how many times I end up in a puddle of despair somehow I am given the opportunity for a different perspective that forces me to yield what I can not control. It an ongoing dance between acceptance and resistance. I know this yet I still continue to get trapped until I have the wits to know that I hold the key for my release.

Time is ticking, and there’s a discrepancy between my actual feelings and what the doctors are conveying about the state of my health. I am being informed of something that contradicts my own experience. Am I now to distrust my own experience and trade it in for what’s seen on a piece of paper and relayed over a phone call? It’s like walking up to a stranger and asking “hello, please tell me how am I feeling?”

Ultimately, the fact remains that this lump must be addressed one way or another. Additionally, there is a concern about potential metastasis amid conflicting scan results that requires confirmation. I have exhausted my resources and continue steadfastly in my commitment to do all that I can to support my body. I have approximately three weeks until my meeting with the oncologist, where an entirely different treatment plan will be recommended to me. I pray every day to be shown the way, to not hinder my progress, to avoid making assumptions, and to discern the difference between valid guidance and fear-driven beliefs.

LESSON: “If we can’t change our fate, at least we can accept it, adapt, and possibly undergo inner growth even in the midst of of troubles” – From Daniel Goleman’s introduction of Viktor Frankl’s book “Yes To Life”.

Returning home over and over again.

by Maasaisis

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.

RESOLUTION

by Maasaisis

Resolution came in a way that emerged from a perspective that did not want to be seen. I’ve been praying for clarity, ease, and peace. God responded, but not in the way that I wanted.

Lately, the acute pain in my breast has left me feeling vulnerable. It’s only natural for humans to seek refuge from pain by resorting to what makes them feel safe. Often, we persist in our familiar ways, even if they keep us on the same track. As Albert Einstein wisely said, “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.” It’s a reminder that to find true resolution, we must be willing to explore new paths even if we don’t want to go there.

I’ve been on this healing journey for four years, primarily navigating it on my own. I’ve now reached a turning point where it’s evident that the very thing I’ve been resolutely avoiding from the beginning of this journey is what I need to embrace.

When I reflect on the day I received my diagnosis, my initial knowing, before fear overwhelmed me, was that cancer had arrived as a teacher. It came to me so that I would change my life and reveal aspects of myself that needed to be seen. Looking back from where I am now, deepening my relationship with myself turns out to be an extremely humbling choice.

What has sustained me through the most challenging time in my life has been my unwavering faith in my ability to heal myself. This faith has given me the courage to persevere. The trail I blazed brought me close to God and to my true Self. What I know now is that there are more layers that are ready to be lifted.

It’s ironic that my practice has been about letting go because I’ve finally come to the realization that I need to let go of what I have been holding onto so tightly. I’ve been holding onto the day that my lumps would dissolve and that the discipline of staying on the path of faith would finally pay off. How can it not, when I have been so dedicated, so strong?

In this moment, I honestly can’t tell if it was my strength that kept me going or my stubbornness to be right. I have endured so much and did things in the name of healing that still blows my mind. I thought I’d surrendered everything necessary to heal, except for one thing that I adamantly refused to release.

In all this time, I have never given one iota of thought to a mastectomy. It was something I refused to let into my field of consciousness. It was my hard “no,” and that was the only energy it got from me. I have never allowed myself to look at pictures of women who have removed their breast(s) or have had reconstructive surgery. It was just not an option for me… that is until now.

It’s a humbling realization that what I’ve been praying for may only come through the very thing I’ve been avoiding. The persistent pain in my breast is a constant reminder that something needs to change. My pain tolerance is exceptionally high, particularly when I’ve convinced myself that enduring it is the key to ultimately preserving my breast. This unwavering stoicism, ironically, may well have hindered my progress in healing.

Letting go of my breast is hard, but letting go of the belief that I could heal this on my own is even harder. I see that so clearly now. I know that I have grown because I am able to accept my reality without going to a place of defeat or failure. That would have been the old me. Instead, I now hold myself in deep reverence for finally reaching a place of acceptance.

I have to let go of the identity I’ve built around being on this incredible healing journey. Let go of the one who had been walking on the road less traveled. Let go of the part of myself that I have been protecting. Let go of the idea that healing means that I would save my breast. Let go of my judgments toward the medical system. Let go of what I think I know and having to be right. Letting go of this idea that I have to do this on my own.

This time, I approached things differently, reaffirming that I’ve indeed healed in less obvious places. I called on my family and beloved sisters to let them in on my grief. This was something I was incapable of doing at the beginning of my healing journey. I let my pain seep out and onto them to receive. I let them hold me as I dissolved not my tumours but the part of me that was holding on so tight. I let myself be vulnarable, scared and clear all at the same time.

Now, I go to a place I have not been before. It’s uncharted territory where I will surrender my faith to another to help me. I’ll draw upon the lessons I’ve learned in the past four years to approach this with a different kind of strength. It’s a strength that’s all-encompassing, one that can find grace even in the most challenging of places.

LESSON: Growth may come in ways that we resist.

“Leaning In”- Still in progress.