Many
years ago, as I walked onto the children’s cancer ward, I was taken aback by
the scene of a young mother holding her daughter tight to her chest. The mother
was sobbing uncontrollably and the little girl was saying softly, “It’s going
to be OK, Mommy. It’s going to be OK.”
Tara
was 8-years-old and had been trying to comfort her mother during the hours it
took them to travel from their First Nations community to the neurosurgery
ward. Unfortunately Tara had an advanced
brain tumour which had spread throughout her brain and spine. I soon found out I would be her Radiation
Oncologist. Meeting Tara officially was
no less remarkable than when I saw her from afar on the ward. Looking into her
dark brown eyes for the first time, I felt the world fall away and time being held
completely still. My mind seemed to expand with a sense of peace and joy.
Kids
getting radiotherapy for this type of cancer need to lay face down in a mask alone
in the radiation room for about twenty minutes daily for six weeks. We bribe
them with toys from the ‘Tickle Trunk’ to help encourage them to stay
completely still. However, Tara was not
interested in receiving toys. Instead, she regularly went shopping for gifts to
give to the Radiation Therapists. At Walmart she had created a picture of
herself in a wedding gown to give to the staff. Her smile was beautiful, a
white veil framing her dark hair. My heart ached when I saw that picture – her
chances of living to adulthood were so slim.
On
the last day of radiotherapy we give the kids a certificate signed by their
treatment team to celebrate their bravery. However, Tara seemed more excited to
give me a gift instead. She presented me with a dream-catcher (a web-shaped
lattice garnered with a feather that, according to native tradition, wards off
the bad dreams and helps us remember the good).
I was so touched by this gift the
tears welled up in my eyes. How can an
8-year-old know that I watch my dreams closely – listening for messages from
God to guide me on my path.
I
continued to see Tara in follow-up – and I was not happy. I had chosen a dose of
radiation that was too high which caused her more than expected side effects.
She was struggling in school, and I felt she had lost her shine. But Tara and
her mother seemed happy in their lives. The time was rolling on and Tara had
gotten through the first four years of follow up when these tumours are mostly
likely to come back. Tara’s Mom smiled
more and more with each visit.
Tara
suddenly died. We were all crushed.
We
began to question why she died. I believe she had had an uncontrolled seizure
caused by radiation scarring. An autopsy was planned and I was invited to
attend. I knew from deep within my soul that I would not walk away from the pain of this experience. A
few days later I held Tara’s brain in my hands.
It was the strangest experience. But there was no reconciliation. No
brilliant reflections. No moment of meaning. Just one big ‘DON’T UNDERSTAND’.
I
have learned a lot about the power of staying with the difficult emotions since
Tara died. I knew I could grow and heal by staying open when I was feeling most
vulnerable. I remember standing outside the door of a young mother whose tumour
had just come back in her brain. As I reached for the doorknob I didn’t know
what words I would use to tell her this terrible news. I was scared and upset
by how it might go. But I knew again, I would not run away. I would be
completely present to her and the awful feelings coming up in my gut.
As
the years go by and I continue to stay with my anxiety it seems that the
awareness I bring to the act of breaking bad news has grown. I believe I create
a space of peace and connection that people can palpate at some level even if
they completely break down. In those
times we are sharing life’s wholeness – we can hold both the terrible implications
of the news and the preciousness of the moment. The person in front of me seems
to sense that I’m not scared of dying or being with people who are going to
die, and it gives them permission to enjoy their lives now.
My
understanding of the healing process and the power of staying with our difficult
emotions has evolved over the years. I
work with a brilliant Mindfulness Teacher, Dr. Timothy Walker, in offering
weekend retreats for people affected by cancer.
Tim describes certain types of emotional pain as a knot or an
entanglement of psychic energy. The
steps to transforming the energy is to first recognize when it comes up as a
physical or emotional sensation – then to simply stay with those feelings (and
to temporarily drop any storyline we are telling ourselves about what is
happening). When we stay present it
seems the emotional tangles begin to unravel by some unknown process, and the
blockage can be released. When I practice this technique in daily life I feel
more alive, like the stuck energy has been liberated to help me be present to
the next person I will see.
Part
of the ‘work’ of spiritual growth is to look more carefully at the storylines
and assumptions that cause our distress. For instance, I had to clearly
question why I felt so awful breaking bad news. The thought “this shouldn’t happen to young
mothers” was changed to “this is happening now - how do I want to
respond?” and “how can I bring love into
this terrible situation?”
I
also found that seeing a therapist was invaluable in transforming feelings and
issues I couldn’t figure out on my own or that were just too overwhelming to
contemplate (like the fear of death). The feeling of not being good enough is
not so dominant in my life because I worked with a therapist, and I have
learned to reframe immature core beliefs.
Remarkably
the process of staying with the difficult feelings somehow facilitates
conscious understanding. It seems to me
there is something within us that wants us to grow and heal. When we sit with our pain, and allow the
emotions to shift and change, the miracle of new insights seems to be released
from within.
Tara’s
dreamcatcher hangs on my office wall. And
on the days when I’m feeling like I want to run away from my awful feelings, it
seems to whisper to me “Stay. Simply stay”.
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