Tag: wellness

UNFORESEEN VISITOR

by Maasaisis

Lately, I’ve had several graphic dreams of giving birth. I wake up wondering what they’re trying to tell me. Maybe it’s about birthing something new—a sign of the life that’s been extended to me—or perhaps it’s my body speaking, mourning the loss of the monthly cycles that abruptly stopped over a year ago when I began hormone therapy. A rhythm that often synced with the full moon and had accompanied me since I was twelve.

I didn’t have the capacity at the time to make sacred the closing of my fertility. I skipped the slow transition and dropped straight into the volatile swings of menopause within a month of starting treatment. Not that I was planning on having another child at this stage of life, but it still felt too soon, too sudden, and too permanent. With my life on the line, it was a sacrifice I didn’t give much credit to—just something I let go of without a proper goodbye.

Life in survival mode barely registered the radical shift from mother to crone. I felt myself aging from the inside—losing weight rapidly, aching joints, thinning hair, a fading sex drive, and dry skin. I couldn’t tell whether it was my body under siege by cancer or the absence of the hormones that had kept me feeling bouncy and womanly. All of it took a back seat to the tremendous effort it took just to keep my mind from cracking under the relentless pain of my lump unraveling over those months.

With my monthly cycle dormant, the familiar waxing and waning of my internal rhythm has shifted into a new tide—one of unpredictable waves, where heat rises without warning and chills follow like a shadow.

My husband and I decided months ago that whatever sleep we could get in separate beds was far more valuable than insisting on sleeping together. At first, it was hard—after twenty-four years of sharing our bed and sleeping within arm’s reach. But now he can snore away without worrying about keeping me awake, and I can thrash around, kicking the blankets on and off, fiddling with the wireless fan all night long. It works for both of us—and yes, date nights still happen, even if I have to talk myself into it. I wasn’t about to let that spark die, even as my body smouldered quietly in the background—my sense of identity rebelling against the slow withdrawal of my sexual desire.

I stopped hormone therapy when my cancer shifted from HER2-negative and hormonally driven to HER2-positive and protein-driven—a mutation I believe was triggered by starving the cancer of its hormonal fuel. At forty-eight, it was unlikely I’d regain fertility, even seven months after stopping the hormone blockers. For someone who once relished deep, uninterrupted sleep and napped regularly, the hormonal upheaval and circadian disruption stole what had been my superpower: sleeping through just about anything. I even became an early riser—for the first time in my life.

Recently, I’ve turned a corner—sleeping better, feeling less discomfort, and no longer riding the thermal rollercoaster. I convinced myself that the initial storm of menopause had run its course, that I’d paid my dues and finally got the hang of being a crone. I even packed on some weight that, just a few months ago, felt impossible no matter how much I ate. I took it as evidence of my body returning to homeostasis—a healthier new normal.

Another vivid dream of blood between my legs—and today I finally understood: these dreams were heralds of a reckoning with what was lost. At first, I was baffled. Then I burst out laughing, holding the evidence on toilet paper, and announced to my family, ‘No way—I got my period!’ Suddenly it all made sense: the weight gain, the return of vitality, the longer nights of deep sleep, my tender breasts. My womb has resurrected to it’s normal function—and it’s shedding what’s left of my eggs! I’m giddy, even as the familiar cramping and bloating return—sensations I haven’t felt in so long. My body is staging its own comeback, offering me a gentler, more natural transition into cronehood—a redo of what was taken too soon.

I’m amazed by the intelligence of the body—how it can pick up where it left off, even after everything in between. I carry a map of scars, proof of my undoing and remaking. To reclaim what was lost feels like a quiet miracle. This return reaches far beyond a biological comeback—It’s a homecoming to myself, and a reminder that what was once lost can be found again.

LESSON: WHAT WAS LOST MAY RETURN IN ITS OWN MYSTERIOUS TIMING.






WOUNDED HEALING

by Maasaisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy captured by photographer Clinton Johnson.

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

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.