My insurance company pays for one MRI a year, and the next one is coming up on June 24. I’ve had two ultrasounds in the interim, each one has shown a progressive shrinking of the tumors, so this MRI shouldn’t be such a big deal. But I’ve been a student for a good part of my life, and I still get anxious before big exams.
I’m preparing for this exam by 1) maintaining the regimen I established last year (I’ll outline this later), 2) following Sun Si-Miao’s 100 day exorcism program to expel “Worms/Ghosts” (definitely more on this later), and 3) gardening like my life depends on it (turns out, it just might, gardening being a major source of joy for me).
I also plan to use the next 4 weeks to reflect on this past year’s events, both external and internal. How much “history” gets covered before the Big Day depends on the June weather (remember the gardening part of the program–if it’s sunny, I’ll be outside).
It seems I was in constant motion, physically and emotionally, most of April, 2012. So many hoops to jump through at the medical center, so many health care providers to consult with, and so much information to gather up and evaluate.
By the end of the month, I felt overwhelmed by the complexity of the changes and the choices I needed to make in my life. So, like Henry David Thoreau, I went to the woods to learn how to live deliberately. On May Day I packed the car up with my dog, food, clothes, books, 3 x 5 cards, class notes, and altar materials, and drove an hour to the Wildlife Conservation Trust in southern New Hampshire. I had rented a house there for a week in the middle of nearly 3000 acres of conserved woodland.
WCT isn’t terribly remote, but the houses there are secluded, cell phone service mostly non-existent, and the forest pretty deserted during what we in Vermont/New Hampshire call “mud season.” Caretakers, a husband and wife team, live on Trust property and share a party line with the rental houses. For me, it was the ideal blend of solitude and reassurance. I needed time to figure things out sans distractions.
My goals for the week:
1. Plan a diet that would nourish me and not the cancer, be varied and palatable enough to sustain for what might be a long time, and would support my treatment goals (at that stage, to dry Dampness and to cool Heat in the Stomach).
2. Teach myself qigong from videos, especially guolin qigong, a form developed to treat cancer and other chronic illnesses.
3. Identify the stressors in my life and figure out how to minimize them and/or change my response to stress.
4. Take stock of whatever activities and beings make my heart sing and rearrange my life to do/see more of that/them.
5. Call upon, though meditation, ritual, and journaling, whatever inner resources I might have to see me through this crisis.
It rained most days, sometimes hard. The woods, which were already pretty wet from the spring snow melt, became downright boggy. Katy and I ventured out every morning, anyway, with map and compass (trail maintenance and markers neglected in recent years). We explored a different trail each day, bushwhacking our way through the woods and discovering old cellar holes and farm walls long abandoned and forested over, waterfalls, and vernal pools. Our only encounter with wildlife involved a couple of nesting geese overreacting to our presence on the other side of their pond (Katy and I fled).
I have a glitch in my brain, no doubt from one or more auto accidents, that gives me vertigo when I cross streams that have turbulent water, to the point that sometimes I get stuck mid-stream, too flustered and disoriented to move, even in shallow water. I usually walk along busy paths, so I’d always found help when I needed it. Near the end of a three hour loop on the second day of my retreat, I came to a small stream with rushing water almost 18 inches deep. Big trouble. I couldn’t turn around to get home, having engaged in some exciting mud sliding down a steep ravine just a while back where the log “bridge” was too slick to negotiate. Also, I didn’t have the energy for another three hours of hiking, even if I could have scrambled up Mud Mountain. My only real option was to cross. I took a few (or a hundred) calming breaths before devising a plan to make my own stepping stone path across the brook. After twenty minutes of searching for large rocks, prying them out of the earth, and lugging them to the brook, I managed to build a serviceable, though underwater, path to the other side. I crossed the torrent with two sturdy sticks to support me against the inevitable vertigo. Luckily the plan worked, because there would be no helpful hiker to rescue me.
I mention this episode because I had brought, in addition to a stack of books on breast cancer and on Chinese dietetics, a few books to read for pleasure. Cheryl Strayed’s Wild was one of them. Cheryl’s solo wilderness trek across the Pacific Crest Trail taught her who she is and what she’s made of. I hadn’t intended for this retreat to be that kind of challenge, but I did feel a small measure of triumph when I crossed that blessed creek! I believe it’s true that, each time you refuse to let fear stop you, your courage gathers strength for the next challenge (like video games in which you get more powerful with each victory?). I made it back to my woodland house muddy, thoroughly soaked, and exhausted, but also exhilarated and lighthearted. Crossing the brook that day quelled a sense of helplessness that had been growing in me faster than my tumors.