Tag: FaithandHealth

LIFE IN PRESENT TENSE

by Maasaisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mind Matrix

by Maasaisis

It’s not unusual to have multiple biological programs coexist at the same time. One trauma can piggyback on another, usually from the fear of our symptoms or from what we are forced to face. Currently, I find myself in the midst of an activated phase of the periosteum program. The telltale sign of this activation is the excruciating sharp, stabbing pains reminding me of intense labour contractions but in my breast.

The periosteum program arises from an extreme separation trauma, and it’s no surprise that it results in intense nerve pain. The neural network covering the bones’ surface swells and pinches the nerves during this active phase. I’m certain this program was initiated when I faced the agonizing decision to undergo a mastectomy, the ultimate separation from my breast, or perhaps it’s the fear of ultimate separation from life itself.

After days of being debilitated on the couch , every sharp pulse reaffirms the intimate connection between body and mind. I recognize that the manifestation of disease symptoms is a primal survival response to the thought files of my mind. Despite this understanding, I am having a hard time convincing my mind that it is safe when it is busy responding to the pain, perpetuating a seemingly inescapable and vicious cycle. The struggle is real, the awareness is clear, yet finding the exit from this intricate labyrinth remains elusive.

Even at the precipice of my limit, I hold fast to the faith that I’m exactly where I need to be. It took me four years to reach the peak of my ultimate surrender. I finally understand that surrender doesn’t mean giving up or defeat; instead, it’s about widening the breadth of understanding while letting go of attachments to any kind of outcome. For me, the letting go is happening in increments—like releasing one finger at a time, each one tightly gripping the matrix of mind that wove my safety net.

Awaiting the results of recent scans to detect metastasis left me stranded in a terrain of terror. What has become clear to me is that the terror I felt was tied to the possibility of being proven wrong in my understanding of the disease process. If cancer had “spread,” it would mean I misunderstood, potentially jeopardizing my life for a belief that once made me feel safe. The stakes are high; if cancer does spread through the lymph and blood, my prognosis wouldn’t be good. However, if what I learned through German New Medicine is correct, and if a new significant trauma was not triggered, the results would show that the cancer remains localized in my breast.

The realization of the significance of being right in the way I invested in my healing journey, rather than being physically okay, was something I need to examine closely. Was it my steadfast and unshakable belief that actually kept my body free from metastasis, as the results ultimately proved, or did I find truth in German New Medicine?

Trauma is unavoidable, but armed with the understanding from my own experience, it’s about finding ways to mitigate fear and our survival response by doing whatever it takes. Recognizing this, I am taking every measure to avoid responding in high alert to my frantic mind. Even if it means relying on the assistance of opiates to seek refuge, allowing me to come up for air and gain a new vantage point for perspective.

I am convinced that continuing to endure the intensity of my current physical experience is a sign of a healing phase, where my tumour will eventually decompose or encapsulate. The intense pressure I feel on the surface, the heat, the swelling and the pain suggests that it is moving in that direction. However, I am realistic enough with myself to acknowledge that an open, rotting, oozing mess on my breast would likely trigger other trauma programs in my body and I am unable to risk more.

Understanding the potential trauma of losing a breast torments me. I recognize that opting for reconstructive surgery with implants may alleviate the trauma of that loss, but the thought of replacing my tumor-swollen breast with a foreign object repels me. As I witness the circling of my mind, I can feel my skin respond and I know I just need to stop.

I am reciting the Lord’s Prayer, placing emphasis on “Thy will be done,” visualizing myself opening my hands and letting go. God answered my prayer by narrowing down my options. The surgeon suggested chemo and hormone therapy to shrink the mass over possibly six months, but there isn’t even an iota of space in my capabilities to accept that option, no matter how much I try to surrender. This means that I will require a skin graft to span the space of what will be removed since I won’t have enough skin to cover my wound. Reconstruction is not an available option at this point. Strangely, I find myself able to accept this alternative.

Our minds excel at creating safety, but my fortress is crumbling, revealing a terrified child curled up inside. It’s taken this long to see that she’s always been there, yearning for that special way that only I can comfort her. As I yield to more tests and await the opinions of specialists, I wonder if they will be able to bridge the gap between how much I can let go of and how far they are willing to go, so that I can live with whatever will be done. It’s a delicate balance between what I know and what they know, and my only hope is that we can meet in the middle where I may be finally liberated.

LESSON: SURRENDER DOES NOT MEAN GIVING UP OR DEFEAT; INSTEAD, IT’S ABOUT WIDENING THE BREADTH OF UNDERSTANDING WHILE LETTING GO OF ATTACHMENTS TO ANY KIND OF OUTCOME.