July 31, 2013
I have dealt with chronic debilitating physical pain three times in this lifetime. The first (and probably the origin of the others), was the result of a plane crash. I survived the crash of American Airlines flight 1420 in Little Rock in 1999. The details of that experience seem old, but thoughts of it have been re-kindled by the recent crash in San Francisco. Imagine being properly strapped into a lap seatbelt and then suddenly hurled about while the thousand-pound metal vehicle to which you are strapped begins breaking apart, swirling violently through rock and swamp land at over 200 miles per hour before coming to an abrupt stop after colliding with a steel stanchion and breaking into pieces. I was sitting an aisle seat—at one point, I remember my head hitting the floor, my waist still strapped to the seat.
I was one of the fortunate ones—my seat remained bolted to the floor, so that my legs were not crushed; I was in the aisle and so the luggage falling from above bins did crush my head. The sheared metal cut only small pieces of my skin—it did not sever my limbs. The fire broke out two rows behind me—I was not burned, nor did the smoke from the fire burn my lungs. Many suffered these damages. So I consider myself fortunate.
And yet, my back took a beating, not only from the crashing but also from the two-story fall from the top of the plane—the only escape route for many who were able to get out.
Before this experience, I had not yet studied meditation. I had few skills with which to deal with the emotional trauma of it. And so the physical pain often consumed me and left me angry and hopeless. But I healed.
Then in 2008, the disks in my lower back began to bulge causing severe sciatica, which lasted almost a year. During this time, however, I was studying meditation and had gained some mental tools to help me remain hopeful and sometimes even grateful for this physical experience of pain that allowed me to examine on a very personal level the truth of suffering.
I eventually had surgery, which did not help me at all—but the help of alternative healers (mainly a master yogi whose understanding of the body far exceeded that of the western doctors I had gone to) “fixed” me. The human body (and the mind that drives it) has miraculous abilities to heal itself given time and assistance.
Now, here I am again, waking at 4:00 a.m. as the pain medicine wore itself out during my four hours of sleep, cringing as I wait for the relief of pain killers (such an odd term because they do not “kill pain;” rather they mask it for brief periods of time) to ease the burning nerve in my leg.
This time, not surprisingly, things are different. While this sciatica pain cripples me and binds me to a wheel chair, I have more pressing concerns. The pain from reconstructive breast surgery following a double mastectomy, and the even more challenging situation of watching my husband suffer through the final stages of colon-rectal cancer—his body being decimated by both the illness and the chemotherapy meant to treat that illness.
This last has been a slow, eighteen-month progression of deterioration. And just as his condition becomes so critical that he is totally dependent on others (me) for care, I find myself nearly paralyzed with pain. Helpless to offer even the simplest of support of sitting with him in the hospital for more than a few hours at a time because my own pain forces me to leave him and seek the semi-comfort of a self-constructed respite space at home where I can elevate my leg and support my spine.
And so, I find myself in a very difficult position for a person as independent and stubbornly self-sufficient as I am. I find myself at the mercy of kindness from others to make it through this. I am humbled by the kindness offered. I am grateful. I have surrendered myself into the hands of human angels who are so strong, so self-less that they have made it possible for me to remain hopeful and loving—and at times, even happy.
I am also in the unfortunate position to experience the other side of humanity—a selfishness that says something like, “my own pleasure or minor stresses are more important than your pain—and so I cannot help you.” This I try to ignore and forgive. It is human, and I have done it myself. More times than I care to remember. And so forgiveness is not only easy, but natural—like a mesquite tree straightening itself after a fierce wind.
I also find myself thinking about how much suffering there is in our world. The workers in China, the sick and needy in third-world countries who have no access to even the most simple pain relief. And I re-dedicate myself to being of service to anyone in pain. That kind of service doesn’t work on my schedule—it works on the schedule of those in need. It is a self-less dedication to offer what I can when it is needed. And now I know how deeply helpful and beautiful that offering is. A feeling I could only know by being a receiver of it.
I have used up all my free time, and now must rush to dress and get to the hospital to spend a few precious hours with Charlie before I then rush to my own doctors . . . Something I could not manage if it weren’t for one of those human angels who is here to help me, drive me, be a friend to me.
But my original intention was to give an update: the doctors drew two gallons of excess fluid from Charlie’s abdomen two days ago. His white blood cells are up—he was strong enough to get chemo yesterday. His fight continues. He will not come home anytime soon, but rather move to a palliative care where the doctors will try to balance prolonging his life with making him comfortable enough to return home to spend his final days here. The latest prognosis is he has between two weeks and two months left of this life
May the Angels protect him here and on his next journey.
Special thanks to my Aunt Lilly (as lovely as her name) for this beautiful statue to remind us of grace, love, and hope.
Angle from Aunt Lilly at Sunrise
Prajnaja Blog 