health – Page 22 – One Woman's Quest

On Suffering

“All I need is to win the lottery,” Mae often proclaims.

“That’s not true,” I tell her.

“But if I had enough money, my problems would all be solved.”

“No. If you had lots of money, you would still be schizophrenic.”

She takes this in and nods solemnly. Then she laughs. “You’re so funny.”

“I am studying the dictionary, though. If I can get smarter then I’ll be better, don’t you think so?” (Mae finished nursing school with 96%).

“Schizophrenia has nothing to do with intelligence, it’s a chemical imbalance. You are smart already.”

The conversation is redundant. We will revisit it many times.

Mae, like many people, just wants an end to her suffering.

As a student of alternative health care techniques, and a caregiver, I too have looked for answers to the riddle of why suffering exists in the world. I have witnessed parents watching their infant die, and young children sitting at their dying mother’s bedside. I have met those whose disease has debilitated them to a point of total dependency; and others whose lives have changed in an instant due to an accident or violence. And I have met many, like Mae, who are born into suffering, with no hope for a cure. Void of answers, I am only left with more questions.

What I have come away with, though, is a sense of awe for the spirit that drives each and everyone of these people. In the midst of so much tragedy, I have encountered strength, willingness, compassion, and incredible resilience.

I don’t believe, as some do, that suffering is a choice; I believe it is inevitable. And in some instances, I believe that suffering can open the doors for much discovery.

Racing Towards The Abyss

Ice, c’est Radio Canada. Il est neuf heures quinze, et maintenant…..

“9:15! If traffic goes my way I can be at work by 9:30, and with a half hour lunch, be done by 5:00”, I calculated while racing through the yellow light. My day had started early with a brisk power walk to get me going, a quick shower, breakfast for the kids, then off to morning French class at the University. Fortunately for me, my job offered flex time, so I could catch the early class before starting my shift.

I strained to catch the gist of the radio program. Something about the funding of English schools in Quebec, and a debate about immersion. A hole opened up in the line of traffic to my right and I weaved around the slow driver in front of me, just grabbing the tail end of a yellow to turn the corner and enter the parking lot. I would make it to my desk with two minutes to spare.

“Bonjour!” I greeted my co-worker on the other side of the cubicle. I had been thinking in French since I left school, and forgot to switch back. “When is my mind going to shut off?” I wondered. It seemed like it was always racing these days, but I did have a lot to juggle.

I landed this job in early February, at a time when most corporations were not hiring. I got lucky. Just as the receptionist was turning me away, the Human Resources Manager was walking into the room and caught my eye. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “Can you speak French?”

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

“Follow me.” She grabbed some papers off a nearby desk and led me into a conference room. “Write these tests,” she said pushing the papers towards me. “There is a job freeze on right now, but if you do well, I’ll keep your name on file.”

The call came that same afternoon asking me if I could come back for an interview.

“No one has ever scored so high on the tests”, she said. “We’d like you to start right away. There is an eight to ten week training program you’ll have to do first in Toronto. We’ll put you up, all expenses paid.”

I was both excited and anxious. I hadn’t worked full-time since the my first baby was born, and I while I was happy to be able to provide for the family again, I wasn’t sure how we’d all manage. I’d made the promise to my husband though, that I would support the family while he took some time off to establish a new business. He hadn’t been happy for some time, and so we decided to swap roles.

I completed the course in five weeks, wanting to reduce my time away as much as possible. A year of training on-the-job proceeded the initial training. I was exceeding all expectations within months and at the approval of my manager enrolled in a fourth year French course to be paid for by the company. A pay increase followed as I was now their bilingual representative. I was moving up in the world.

My husband was not having the same success. Caring for the house and children turned out to be harder than he thought, and he finally admitted that it just wasn’t “his thing”. I found a sitter, resumed the cooking, housework, shopping, and laundry. He bought himself a race car. He was looking into starting a mail order business. Worrying that my income wasn’t enough, I picked up a job working weekends at a restaurant.

Sometime in the middle of all this, my oldest sister’s health took a turn for the worse. The doctor’s wanted to hospitalize her, but she refused, saying she wanted to die at home. A nurse was assigned for eight hours a day, but she needed around the clock care. In the beginning, the family rallied around, and we all did our part, but that was waning. Now it was only my mother and I who were committed to seeing her through.

“Can I see you in my office?” My boss’s voice brought me back to the moment. I followed her brisk walk down the hall. “I have been reviewing your work and there are a few areas for improvement.”

I couldn’t believe it. “I don’t understand,” I protested. “I thought I was meeting all the quotas.”

“You are,” she said, matter-of-factly. “There is always room for improvement.”

Driving home from work that night, I felt particularly exhausted. What more could I do? I arrived home to realize I had forgotten to pick up the kids. It was Wednesday night. Stuart wouldn’t be home till late. He was meeting with the car club.

Don’t ask me what happened next; the night, like many others, passed in a blur of cooking dinner, trying to keep the kids from killing each other or themselves, completing homework, baths, and then bed. Then when my husband got home, I’d grabbed my schoolwork and headed to my sister’s for the night shift.

I don’t remember Thursday at all.

Friday, Stuart headed off to the racetrack for the weekend. He’d be gone five days. It was the Thanksgiving long weekend. Even though he had a cell phone, he didn’t anticipate it would work where he was going, and the track did not have a contact number. I would not hear from him again till Tuesday evening.

It was later than usual before I got all the kids to bed that night, and even though I still had work to do, I just couldn’t face it. I decided to go to bed early. I was asleep within minutes, but not for long. I was jolted out of my sleep by an all too familiar image – myself alone with the children, living in a townhouse complex. Although I had dreamt of this place many times, with no emotional attachment, this time I woke up crying. What was wrong with me? The tears just wouldn’t stop.

Saturday was recreation day, and each of the children were enrolled in different programs. Marie was taking art, Ester dance, and John was attending some sports clinic, all held in the same building. This had been our Saturday morning routine for two months now, but somehow after I loaded us all in the car, and set out on our way, I could not remember where we were going. I drove up one street and down another, and with each miss, grew more and more anxious. Ester began to scream in the back seat. Marie asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know. I started to tremble. The tears started to come again. I turned the car around and headed for home. Our street ran off a main road, and all I had to do was turn left and we’d be there, but suddenly, I froze, mid-intersection: mind, body, and emotions no longer under my control. Ester screamed louder and the other two began to cry. A siren flashed behind me and a police officer stepped up to the driver’s side.

“Is there a problem, Ma’am?”

I looked at him through a flood of tears. “I don’t know where I am.” I handed him my license. He was young, and I could just tell he hadn’t expected this.

“Ma’am, your license says you live just down this street. Do you want me to follow you there?”

“Yes, please.” I don’t think I’d ever felt so humiliated. We crawled down the street and into the driveway.

“Is there anybody you can call?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. My husband’s away, and my sister’s dying, so my parents aren’t available.”

“Well, you need to call somebody.”

“Thank you, officer. I will. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

In the end, I called my Dad. Between choking sobs, I told him I needed help. He came right away.

That was the day I discovered that I have limits. In those days we called it a breakdown, but in retrospect it was a breakthrough: the beginning of a new way of being, one that took me out of the rat race.

(Image: fineartamerica.com)

Mindfulness

“Can you consistently eat when you eat, and sleep when you sleep?” asks Derek Lin in “The Tao of Joy Every Day”.

Therapeutic Touch is a practice which teaches how to stay fully present and centered in the moment. Practitioners learn how to set aside all distractions so that they can focus completely on the treatment itself. Like many others, I struggled with this concept in the beginning. I would quiet my mind, focus on my breathing, and then remember I had forgotten to change the laundry over, or return my mother’s call. My mind, I discovered loves to travel in multiple directions at once.

To train myself, I would pick random times during the day and “check-in” on myself. The first thing I discovered was that I was driving without actually being aware of what I was doing. Behind the wheel, I felt an inexplicable need to be in front of the traffic, weaving in and out, tailgating, and exceeding the speed limit. I decided to replace this behaviour with mindful breathing, always bringing my awareness back to what I was actually doing. Instead of passing the car in front of me, I would take deep breaths, and will myself to stay aware. It didn’t take long before I began to notice other drivers like myself, driving aggressively. Ironically, I noticed that many of those drivers did not gain a lot of ground, having to stop for the same lights, and succumb to traffic. Remaining conscientious and choosing to drive mindfully, I knew myself to be a lot less stressed than those other drivers. It was an aha moment.

I learned how to bring my full attention to my clients, effectively able to sense the subtleties and different patterns they presented. I felt I had mastered this art.

Yet, in response to Lin’s question, I have to confess that I usually eat as an aside to whatever else I am doing, and when I sleep I toss and turn with thoughts of what was undone from the day before, or what needs to be done tomorrow.

I can’t help but think that if I could just focus on eating as a solo activity, I would be more conscious of the taste of the food and the response of my body, and maybe, just maybe, not eat to excess. I would have to turn off the t.v., and the computer, close the book, and just eat. It is a effort worth exploring.

As for sleeping, well, that is another matter. How does one clear the mind enough to just sleep?

(Image: healthyhappyhumanbeings.com)

Path Rights

Born underweight, and with a hole in her heart, my oldest sister seemed doomed from the start. By the time I was born, her condition had deteriorated, and she spent most of her time in hospital. My parents were told to expect the worst. Open-heart surgery was the great new procedure that saved her life at thirteen. She got better.

Two years behind her peers at school, she was hell-bent on catching up. Years of being pampered had not helped her emotional development, and she was not afraid of acting out. She loved being the center of attention, and didn’t care if it was for being good or bad.

Eleven years her junior, I found my sister’s volatility scary. It was almost a relief when she would lock me out of the house, or ignore me for long periods of time. Our relationship didn’t really develop until she gave birth to her own daughter, then she needed me. I was a built-in babysitter.

I watched my sister jump from one bad relationship to another. I witnessed my parents rescuing her time after time, and I was dumbfounded at her disrespect and lack of gratitude in return.

She could be sweet as anything when she wanted something, but if she wasn’t interested, or changed her mind, look out.

When she got sick again, I decided to explore ways to help her. The more I learned about the body-mind connection, the more I was sure I could save her. She laughed in my face. You are so naive, she would say. Or, You are playing with the Devil. Personally, I’d always thought she was the devil.

One day, I decided that I would just let her be, and stop trying to change her. I told her as much. She tried to fight with me. I stood my ground. She cried. Then finally, we talked.

“Everything I’ve been studying and doing is to help you,” I explained. “But it’s not working, so, I’m not going to push anymore. You are sick, it is your life, and you have to do what is right for you.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. She was right, I didn’t. “I don’t know how to be any different.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I did what you say, and got better, then what? Being sick gives me power. It lets me get away with whatever I want. How could I do that if I got better.”

She had a point. Being sick gave her enormous power. How could I argue with that.

In all the years that I had judged, and fought with my sister about her life, I had not appreciated that it was working just fine for her purposes. We all have the right to our own paths.

Humility

Good, better, best. Never let them rest. Till your good is better and your better best.

Dad made us recite this whenever he thought that we were giving less than our best effort. Like the time I came home with a 96% in OAC Relations and Functions. If I could get 96, I could get a hundred; I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

The message I heard was that if wasn’t the best, I wasn’t good enough. I told myself that there was no point in trying, but under it all, I just wanted his approval. Of course, I couldn’t be the best, so I learned to act like I was better by putting others down. As a young woman, I was constantly angry and intolerant of stupidity or lack of common sense. I had no patience for weakness, and though I hate to admit it, I found fault with anyone who I thought was better than me.

Lucky for me, I learned the importance of humility. Not all at once, but over a progression of events.

The idea of humility was first introduced to me by my Religious Studies teacher, in university. He said the humble man was the happiest man, because he could just be and appreciate life. I didn’t quite understand, but the idea intrigued me.

My second child added to the learning. Baby number one was a calm and very manageable baby: a testimony, I thought, to my excellent parenting skills. Other people clearly didn’t know how to parent, I told myself when I would see a screaming child. Then Ester came along, and shattered that illusion, humbling me in the process.

Perhaps the greatest lesson came at the age of thirty-one, when my mind snapped. A mother of three, I was working full-time to support the family, taking courses at the university to improve my qualifications, caring for my dying sister, and trying to find time to work out and diet so I would be more appealing to my husband. I thought I could do it all. I couldn’t it. The walls of my carefully constructed existence came tumbling down, and I was lost in a black abyss of nothingness, unable to function.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Clawing my way out of the pit of despair, I came upon this quote (author unknown):

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to find that God was shaking my foundation.

“Get off your high horse, and come down to earth where you can be more useful!” Not God’s words, but my interpretation.

Do you know what I discovered? Letting go of having to be the best meant I could start to celebrate the successes of others rather than try to bring them down – a much more rewarding use of my energy.

Oh, and I let go of the fear of not being good enough.

In fact, I decided that I am good enough.

No, scratch that. I am good.

Wait, even that is overstated.

I am!

First Glimpse Of ME/CFS

Hesitantly, I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door ajar. A waft of warm, stale air accosted me.

“Hello?” I’d been told there might not be a response.

Something was resting against the door, so I pushed harder to let myself in. The beam from the light of the open doorway was thick with dust and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I was walking into a little foyer, with stairs ascending to the main level. The walls on either side of the entrance were stacked high with boxes, and laundry baskets full of stuff. Something lay on the floor at my feet – a coat, or a blanket, I couldn’t tell – the object of resistance. I stepped over it and closed the door behind me. The smell of the place accosted me then, a smothering aroma of dust, and cigarettes, and cat fur. I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

“Hello?” I called again, more desperate for a response. None came.

She’ll be in the bedroom, at the end of the hallway, her mother had told me. She likely won’t awaken.

It was the middle of the day, but dark blankets covered the windows, allowing for minimal light. I waited for my eyes to adjust before climbing the steps to the kitchen. The rows of boxes and debris continued and flowed into the kitchen, where dirty dishes and takeout containers littered the counters and floors. Who could live like this?

I felt my way along the hall, carefully stepping through the hordes of items stashed there, until I reached the last bedroom.

Politeness made me knock again. Again no response.

The situation was worse than I thought, and I seriously doubted my ability to be of help. It all started when she was seventeen, her mother told me. She had a terrible case of the flu, followed by encephalitis, and then one thing after the other. She rarely gets up, and has trouble putting a sentence together. The doctor’s have given up on her. She hasn’t been out of the house for ten years, and we can’t get anyone to go in. We’d really appreciate if you’d go see her.

Two tabby cats greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, as did the fetid odour of a litter box. Shooing them aside, I approached the bed. Rumpled bedding was tangled up in the middle of full size bed, but no sign of any thirty-three year-old woman. Now what?

I decided she had to be somewhere within the mess of sheets and bedding, so centering myself, I began. I ran my hands just above the bed, hoping for some sense of heat, or thickness, that might indicate there was a body inside. Instead, I just felt foolish. So, I stood at the foot of the bed and took some deep breaths, re-centering in hopes of some divine inspiration.

“Well?” A thin, croaky voice emerged from under the covers.

“Hello,” I said again, beginning to feel like a parrot.

A thin, waif-like hand appeared, followed by a matted head of hair. She was tiny. “Any hope?” her voice sounded as if it was coming from under water: slurred and thick.

I was at a loss for words. Here was this wisp of a woman, holed up this house with no daylight, and no fresh air, locked away from humanity, and all I could think of was how could she possibly survive. I would have committed suicide long ago if it had been me. What could I tell her about hope?

Then I remembered something both Joan Borysenko and Bernie Seigel had said during their workshops: There is something to love about everyone. Find it and you can help them.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe there is.”

“Really?” The word came out stretched and squeaky.

She had survived this long. She had beaten odds, and continued to live. It wasn’t much of an existence, but something kept her going.

“You have an incredible will. Now, you just have to learn to channel that to get better.”

* * * * *

Patty’s story is for another day. Meeting her taught me the importance of an idea that works. There is something to love about everyone. I use it everyday in my teaching practice.

(Image: www.experiencewellness.co.uk)

Acceptance

“I know what I want to give my Father.” Dee looked at me through her veil of blonde hair. Her face always bore such sweetness, yet the young girl I knew was so intense.

“Tell me.”

Dee was dying. This was her third dance with cancer, and the doctor’s said it would be her last. I visited daily, at her request, and we talked about fears, and dreams, and spirituality. Lately, it had been on her mind that if her life was to be a short one (23 years), then she had to make it purposeful.

“I have decided that the best gift I can give him is to accept that he loves me, even if he doesn’t show it the way I’d like. What do you think?”

Dee and her father had been fighting since the news came. He wanted to take her home, but she refused. She wanted to die here, in the town she had been living the past four years. He couldn’t understand her unwillingness to fight in the face of death. He wanted the doctors to do more. She wanted him to let it go, and to be more emotionally available to her. We had been discussing their relationship during my past two visits.

“I think that is an amazing gift, Dee. I am forty years old, and I haven’t even been able to do that with my own father. That’s the best gift ever.”

* * *

Dee had me thinking. What would happen if I were to accept my father, just as he was?

Dad’s 75th birthday was coming up and I hadn’t yet bought him a gift.

He had asked for my acceptance once, and I’d said no. It was the night he shared with me his awful secret. He sat the family down and told us all. He said that all he wanted was acceptance, and when he turned to me I said I couldn’t do it. I said I needed my Father, and what he asked of me was too much. I stormed out.

So, on his 75th birthday, I wrote him letter. I apologized for that girl so many years ago, and I told him that I never really understood his problem. I told him that I knew he loved me, and that I loved him too. And I said that when I got past all my self-righteous anger and frustration, I had to admit that he was probably the best teacher I ever had in life. If it hadn’t been for his struggles and the challenges they presented for all us, I might never have been the person I was. If there is a divine plan, or higher purpose for life, I wrote, then he accepted a hellish existence in order to give us the opportunity to grow and evolve.

He cried when he read it, and he called me up after, and said I had an odd way of looking at life, but that he appreciated it. He appreciated it that I was willing to accept him as he was, but he wanted to be better. Did I think it was too late?

I told him what Alan Cohen said: “Look in the mirror. If you see yourself looking back, then there’s still time.”

* * *

Dee’s father liked his present, too. His anger had broken the next time I saw him, and he even let me see him cry.

Calming Breath

Imagine being able to clear the clutter of your mind; to set aside all your thoughts, worries, obsessions, and just breathe. Imagine letting go of all the tension in your body; setting aside pain, and discomfort in favour of just being. Imagine the noise and distractions of everyday life just floating through you without sticking; your awareness not blocked, but heightened.

Through the practice of meditation, I have experienced this feeling of being suspended, at peace, in a state of harmony. It is calming, reassuring, refreshing. Reaching this place offers renewal, and at times, a sensation of bliss. It is amazing how, no matter how stressed, this state of being offers such relaxation, that it shifts perception.

Breathe deeply, slowly, and let your exhale carry the tension out of your body and mind. Take your time. Let thoughts flow in and out. Perceive them, and let them go. Everything that is important will be there later. Affirm it. It’s safe to set all thoughts aside.

Let your in breath fill you with clear, calming energy, washing over you, helping the out breath carry away the tension. Give your self permission to relax. Empty yourself, body, mind, and spirit. Surrender to the nothingness. Suspend your grasp on reality.

Just be.

Hints for success: Practice the same time each day. Create the opening. It doesn’t take long, it takes discipline. Practice in the same place, establishing a routine. One of my teachers suggested taking 2-3 minute intervals throughout the day where you stop and breath consciously. She said she would find a tree, and focus on that tree, imagining what it would be like to have roots that run deep into the earth, and branches that reach high into the sky, and bend with the breezes. She described it as strong, but calm, centered in peace.

Aside: I learned to meditate when my children were babies, which meant that the only place I could get any alone time was the bathroom. Meditating in the bathroom established a correlation that still exists today. Some of my best inspirations happen when I visit the bathroom.

(Image: quotesgram.com)

Relief

The verdict is in: there is no cancer!

Relief is immediate. I find myself breathing easier. I feel lighter.

So, what was that about? Months of uncertainty, unknowing, like a cloud hovering over each day. Dare we plan….? What if…..? What about…..? The questions were there, but unanswerable. Just as quickly as it arrived, the cloud is gone. The sky is clear again; life is back to normal.

But I am not the same. I am more aware. I more aware of how important my love ones are to me, and that I let them know. I am more aware of how fortunate I am to be working at a job I love, but that my health and well-being comes first. I must look after myself. I am more aware that as I grow older my body is less forgiving, and it needs my care. Health is not a given, nor a promise; it requires work and commitment.

I was lucky. Not everyone is. I have been given another chance. I’ve got some personal work to do.

An Unexpected Lesson

On April 15, 1978, I married for the first time. It was also the day my eldest sister was diagnosed with leukemia and given one month to live – a year, if she had any fight in her. I was nineteen.

As a young woman, I viewed life’s issues as black and white, and was often intolerant and impatient of others. Now, thrown into a world of uncertainty, I was ill-equipped to cope. Jo was a single mother of one, and asked for my help and support. I vowed to be there for her, but had no idea what that would entail.

Even though we were siblings, my sister and I could not be further apart. Eleven years my senior, Jo was born with a hole in her heart, a condition that saw her constantly in and out of hospital as a child. At thirteen, on the brink of death, a new procedure, open-heart surgery, saved her life. Much of our family’s energy and attention centered around Jo’s well-being, which was always a difficult task. Coddled as a child, and setback by illness, Jo was temperamental, self-centered, and high-spirited. If there was a fight to be had, she would instigate it. She was reckless, impulsive, and emotionally immature. At nineteen, she was unwed and pregnant. She insisted on marrying the child’s father, but it didn’t last. A string of bad relationships followed, along with several moves, in and out of our family home. It seemed, Jo had a knack for creating chaos.

In contrast, although fifth born, I played the role of the responsible, sensible child, often trying to mediate calm in our tumultuous lives. It was the natural order of things for Jo to turn to me for help. I signed on as legal guardian of my niece, and accompanied my sister to medical appointments. She underwent intense chemotherapy, and many times we thought we were losing her, but Jo would rally round again.

I learned from my sister, that life is often grey – that uncertainty, and change are givens – and this rattled my sense of self-righteousness. I felt inadequate and overwhelmed. Pursuing education in the medical field was never an option for me, as a I was a fainter. Instead, I sought understanding of the psychological and spiritual aspects of illness. It would lead me to years of study and a career.

I don’t know how much I actually ever helped my sister. She was never open to any of the ideas or approaches that I studied, and she never became any easier to get along with. Her survival, fourteen years beyond the initial diagnosis, can only be attributed to an incredible fighting spirit and will to live. She never changed. I, however, was forever altered because of her.

I was with my sister the night she died, holding her hand as promised. She was one of my greatest teachers.

(Image from Pinterest)