Tag: healing cancer

THE JEWELS INSIDE

by Maasaisis

Enlightenment is each time I awaken to something that brings about a radical, positive shift in my state. I don’t believe it to be a destination, attainable only by those who possess something others may not. You don’t have to be a spiritual master to wake up to yourself. The Holy instant in which I received such an awakening sprung with the budding energy of spring.

I’ve had this insight before; the remembrance emerged from the familiarity that resurfaced. It broke free from the heavy layers of symptoms and survival that had kept me from retrieving it. When I landed back in my ‘aha’ moment, it became abundantly clear that I had become a victim of my circumstance and operating from a place of brokenness. I was living life intently focused on the need to be fixed.

The cascading effect of my physical deterioration over the last five months tested every aspect of my being. There were times when I felt the absence of the only thing that gave me a semblance of assurance: my faith. When my connection to the Divine felt lost, I retreated into shutdown mode and escaped into drugged sleep. I latched my mindset on surrender but in doing so, I allowed myself to primarily be a cancer patient.

The grace of all that is good always finds its way back to me. This is how I continue to have faith. In one auspicious moment, I clearly understood that, even with many insights along the way, the frequency of how I was operating stemmed from a place of sickness. My language had morphed into a lingo of struggle, amplified by my symptoms. But how can I hope to heal if I continue to put out signals of being diseased? If my cells need to remember what they were before they became mutants, I must remind them with my imagination and infuse it with feeling. Energy flows where attention goes.

The challenge lies in catching my response to strong physical sensations that screams disease. If I can just acknowledge it’s presence without suppressing it or labelling it, it creates an opening to transmute it into something that I can let go of. In that sense, surrendering truly becomes a tool for living rather than merely surviving.

My legs are pumping the pedals on a smooth incline that weaves through the dense forest. I can smell the earthy, damp essence emanating from the tribe of trees. My heart pumps vital blood for the optimal functioning of my athletic body. My muscles are solid and strong, every cell nourished and exuding vitality. Sunlight streams in between the trees, revealing the emerald green of moss blanketing rocks and the base of tree trunks. My bike is an extension of me, responding to my will with speed and clean lines. Gratitude overwhelms me as I take in the beauty around me. I can hear Al riding right behind me. He is always there in moments that count the most. At the summit, overlooking Gaia’s magnificent vista, we respond to awe with presence.

I continue to revisit this visualization as often as possible, engaging my felt senses. Even though I’m not there yet, it’s important to acknowledge how far I’ve come rather than focusing on the distance left to travel. There has been significant improvement compared to how I was between December and February, when getting out of bed was a monumental task. Now, I can take long walks without crashing after, go grocery shopping and cook dinner for my family.

The evidence of my healing is showing up in unexpected places. I’m recognizing that this stripped-down version of me has created a much wider space in my heart to feel. Allowing others to see me as I am has enabled me to soften into their presence. I’m able to receive love which has become my medicine.

So many have prayed for me and held me through the most vulnerable of times. Living in a small community where I’ve resided for the last two decades, the kind folks of this town remind me that I’m loved and that I matter. I’ve fallen into the arms of people whom I barely know, in tears when asked how I’m doing, only to be held in the loving way of a long-time beloved. My heart swells with every meaningful gesture from another. To forgive myself when I forget and lean into remembering. I didn’t have the ability to be this way before this wisdom disease came to mentor me. My outer shell was too hard to crack for the jewels to be found inside.

LESSON: ENERGY FLOWS WHERE ATTENTION GOES

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. .

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.

SOULFIRE

by Maasaisis

Learning anything new requires practice before the frustration and discomfort start to ease. It’s akin to arriving in a new country with unfamiliar language and customs. We crave familiarity because within what we know, we can navigate predictably. We gather life experiences to establish a standard of living, so when that is forced to change, struggle is inevitable.

We must learn to crawl before we walk, but returning to crawling after knowing how to walk can feel demeaning. However, viewing the world from a different perspective can bring new meaning and challenge what we thought we knew. Certainty is a perception that does not leave any room for growth.

I used to be so confident in my certainly which allowed me to attain so much in my life. The attainment accelerated as I got older and gathered more to be confident about. My appearance, my vitality, and the knowledge I consumed and shared crafted a narrative of success. But why then was it never enough? Why didn’t I feel satisfied?

I’m contemplating the borders of what success once meant to me. It was crucial for me to be recognized as a strong, beautiful, talented and independent woman capable of achieving anything she set her mind to. The umbilical cord of my value was always attached to serving others in a meaningful way, yet beneath the surface of that admirable pursuit lay a less glamorous reality. My outward expression was a super imposed version of what I did not want to feel. I buried my insecurities deep within, amplifying my mission whenever they tried to resurface.

The fire of ambition was fuelled by big dreams and new challenges, most of which I attained. Still, it was never enough, and I continually sought new ways to feed that fire by learning and integrating fresh approaches into my expression. I’ve taken countless courses and pursued numerous endeavours, always seeking something new, exciting, and noteworthy to satisfy the hunger deep within.

Now, in my inability to blaze my way forward, I’m granted the opportunity to make peace with the domineering doer and allow myself to be exactly as I am. To seek ease of being without the pressure to become anything more or less. In exchange for my willingness, I’m given glimpses of aspects of myself that are ripe for healing. What would it be like to approach the unfolding path with curiosity about where it leads, rather than a relentless pursuit of achievement? What will be known by not knowing anything?

The irony lies in this soulful invitation occurring at the most fragile time in my life. Without the loud expression of the persona I once strove to embody, I’m beginning to hear wisdom from a quiet yet powerful voice. This disease is unveiling the stripped down version of me so I can let her be just as she is and be enough. What I want now can’t be found by reaching for it. Peace, containment and ease is like the space in between the breath. It’s always there but easy to miss.

Even in this vulnerable state, I’m cradled by an invisible, tender embrace. Held in this way, my heart unfolds gently, like a rose unfurling to reach the warmth of the sun. There’s a beckoning to return to that which I’ve always been and to what yearns to be known. Not all at once, but in meaningful ways that keeps my Soulfire burning bright.

LESSON: EASE OF BEING IS NOT SOMETHING TO ATTAIN BUT RATHER TO ALLOW.

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

BELIEF AND BIAS

by Maasaisis

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.

LESSON: HEAVEN IS A STATE OF MIND.

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.

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.