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My Story, Our Story: A
Journey of Healing
I have a story to tell you. It’s my story, and it’s also much larger, demonstrating that what is most personal is most universal. You could even say that this is our story, and by “our” I mean a very large “our,” one that encompasses you and me, all humans, in fact all life on Earth. But let’s start with my story. My Story In July 2006, while attending a conference in Chicago, I noticed the slightest change in my perception. It was as if, just the tiniest bit, I was partially in the dream world. I’ve always been very good with cardinal directions, have always known where North was and could orient myself to my surroundings. But in Chicago, for the first time, this was not effortless. It wasn’t a big thing, barely enough to get my attention. But it did get my attention. And then I dismissed it: it was the heat, or my first time in Chicago, or something I ate. But this subtle shift persisted after I returned home. Not one to visit the doctor without a damn clear need, I don’t know why I listened to the small, inner voice, but I did. I made an appointment with the doctor.
Because I expected only clear results from my first-ever MRI, I found the experience the following Monday a thoroughly intriguing one. I am still in awe of what human ingenuity has created, this magnificent tool that makes the invisible visible. Liquid helium at only 4 degrees above absolute zero (-452°F), superconducting current with ZERO resistance — science fiction made manifest, in fact, mundane. My subtle symptoms had, in the meanwhile, completely disappeared. I felt perfectly myself, so much so that I called my doctor on Tuesday afternoon to cancel the follow-up appointment: “There’s no reason for me to come in, is there?” “No, I want to see you. There’s a reason to come in,” he said. “And bring your wife.” After an understandably difficult night, Ruth Ann and I arrived for the appointment the following day. The nurse ushered us into an examining room. The usual uneasy waiting for the doctor’s knock and entry was, this time, excruciating: 10 minutes seemed like 10 hours. And then it came. The doctor entered and put the MRI films on the light box. “I have hard news. You have a brain tumor.” He was pointing to the MRI and explaining, but neither Ruth Ann or I heard much after that first sentence. We were in shock. One thing we did get, as much through non-verbal communication as words, was This is serious. After a few minutes the thought came to me, This is important. Numb isn’t going to help you. You’d better wake up so you can hear what the doctor has to tell you. I made a huge effort, and then began to hear him say, as in a dream, “Put your affairs in order. You have an appointment with the brain surgeon next Tuesday.” And then, “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I cried last night when I told my wife about your case.” Over the next few day as I waited for the scheduled appointment — beset, on the one hand, by a desire to simply pass the time mindlessly and, on the other, by the hyper clarity that comes when you know you are to be shot at sunrise — I began slowly to piece together a plan for how I was going to approach this journey. How I engaged was critical, the most important choice I could make. I’ve long believed that we have much more choice than most of us realize. Of course, I couldn’t choose not to have the tumor, but I could, at least theoretically, choose how I would respond. I was now being given the opportunity to move theory into practice, to “walk my talk.” This threshold or liminal period, waiting to meet the surgeon, was also the time an intuitive insight was forming: My story was larger than just about me; indeed, it might be a representative, parallel story to the current state of our collective human–Earth story. When we met the surgeon, his clear expertise and confidence increased my confidence and comfort. “This is your tumor,” he told me. “No one has ever had a tumor exactly like this one. No matter what the statistics say, every tumor reacts differently. Don’t pay too much attention to statistics.” I found that advice hopeful and empowering. Helpful also was his observation: “To you, the surgery will be a blink. To me, it will be four hours. To your wife, it will be an eternity.”
And then, a surprise. The doctor said, “You’re scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. Check in at 6:00 a.m.” Though we knew a swift response was critical, we expected surgery would happen within a week; a mere 15 hours was unsettling. My intuition was very clear. I told the doctor I needed at least a couple of days to prepare. After a long pause, he told me he would check the schedule.” He came back in a few minutes and said, “We can do it next Tuesday.” This felt right. I knew in my heart that any downside from postponing a few days would be more than offset by having time to prepare mentally and spiritually. Looking back on this, I also see that this was a turning point of reclaiming my conscious role as active partner in my healing. I had six days. I made the very most of it. It was a week filled with fun, family, friends, and appreciation. I arrived at the hospital very early on Tuesday, turned myself over to the doctors’ agenda, surrendered quickly to the anesthetic, and a blink later snapped back into full consciousness in the recovery room. There was no grogginess: one moment I was out, the next instant fully present. And the first words that came into my consciousness were, We have come here to be moved to tears. We have come here to inspire and be inspired. I was surprised by the wisdom in this statement. Tears — tears of sorrow, tears of joy — are the mark of the depth of an experience, the degree of life in an experience. This deeply meaningful gift was just one of the many unexpected and powerful blessings we’ve received as the story continues. We’ve had many tears, many more of joy than of sorrow. The morning following my surgery, I awoke very early and then began to drift in and out of that sweet state of hypnogogic consciousness between wakefulness and sleep. And then it happened. I got it! I really got it! I had the undeniable experience of Oneness with all creation. There were no boundaries, no time, no separation of any kind. I was the universe, the universe was me. I have no idea how long this state lasted in worldly time; it was an eternity — not in the sense of a perception of a very long time, but in the sense of timelessness. I have long had an intellectual belief in our Oneness. I understand how everything emerged from the single point, the source of Oneness, 13.7 billion years ago in the Big Bang. I have been a student of the Universe Story, the amazing story of the evolution of emergence that has resulted in the beautiful, complex diversity we see everywhere we look. I know intellectually that this almost infinite diversity offers such a compelling illusion of separateness that few are able to transcend it. I have lots of words to talk about Oneness, but at that moment all the words fell away, and I had, for the first time in my life, the blessed experience of Oneness, and I will be in the world differently from that point on. My story continues. I am doing well. Well is how I am doing, and well is what I am doing. I will continue on chemotherapy through December 2007. There is both uncertainty and certainty in my story, as is true for every one of us. Here is what is uncertain: Although every step on this adventure has been accompanied by the best possible results — every MRI has been clear, showing no sign of recurrence — the statistics for my situation are quite daunting. Here is what is certain: I am not a statistic. And I am alive now, more fully alive now than before the tumor.
Our Story We humans are at a crucial time in the unfolding of our human–Earth story. Learning together will be the most important factor in the survival of the Earth and ourselves. I see many parallels between my personal story and our collective story. I offer these glimpses in the hope that they may inspire you, in your own way, to live more fully.
The greatest blessing of all is my experience of our
Oneness. May we all be so blessed. For all beings. Namaste. |
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I was able to mine the many layers of this observation. The
blink reminded me of the almost magical
sophistication of our medical technology. The four hours
suggested that this surgery was routine, just another day at
the office. The eternity recalled just how precious
this life experience and our relationships are — what a
blessing and privilege to be alive on Earth. All three
perspectives worked together to bring me to a place of
comfort and peace.