Tag Archives: take back my health

“We Found Something. You Need More Follow Up Tests.”

As a Newlywed

Many years ago I had a health scare. A routine exam turned into, “go to a specialist to get this checked out.” Many phone calls and appointments were made and  many big scary words were uttered.

Between the onset of this foray and its resolution, I became a raving lunatic. I didn’t do well with living in suspension and fear. My greater fear is of the diagnostic procedures rather than the verdict, only because I can’t seem to get past the fear of procedures, not because I have no fear of the verdict.

During this time my new husband was patient with me as I pitbulled on my plight. After weeks of my hand-wringing and histrionics, he finally said in exasperation, “I can’t deal with all this drama! You’ve got to find a way to calm yourself down!”

Instead of taking it as a rebuke, I chose to take it as one of those interventions that only a loved one can offer. I chose to believe that he wanted me grow up and, not exactly to be a better person, but become a better version of myself. Was I up to reaching for that?

The needle aspiration revealed nothing alarming and all was well.

Freak Out, Take 2

Years later we relived a similar scenario. Though I didn’t score quite so high on the histrionics scale, I would say I was still past yellow, well into orange. I told dozens of people — family and close friends. And maybe the occasional dry cleaner or barista. It was important to me that everyone was thinking of me, rooting for me. At the time I had a strong victim mentality and thrived on such attention.

After a few weeks, this near-crisis resolved through a core needle biopsy that revealed no malignancy.

Dealing a Third Time

A few years after that, again I got to spend an entire summer chasing down knowledge of my own health as I visited doctors, specialists, radiology departments, and finally the surgeon who performed a two-part stereotactic biopsy. This time I had small children. I was a still a wreck, but I was able to keep more of the anxiety inside.

follow up mammogram© Nevit Dilmen [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL, via Wikimedia Commons.
(Not my images.)

It was not only the diagnostic procedure that was causing me angst. It was also the scary thought of going through treatments while parenting and the even scarier thought of leaving my kids behind as one possible ending of this story arc. Though I kept the outer drama down for my kids’ sake, inside I was churning churning churning.

My coping mechanism this time was to make deals.

  • Dear God. If you make this OK, I’ll ____________.
  • Or I’ll give up ____________________ if I get to keep my health.
  • Or I promise I’ll never ________________ again if Benign is the word.

Benign WAS the word the surgeon delivered and I was flooded with relief. I can’t actually remember any of the deals I made so I don’t know if I fulfilled them.

Life went on.

Growing Up

Just this spring, I found out I needed a follow up mammogram, possibly with an ultrasound.

I’ve been through a lot since that last time. I’ve moved fully into the role of Mom, which caused me to grow up and stop being the child (not to say that people who don’t mother don’t grow up; just that it made a difference for me). Now I am the one calming others down, helping them face and release their fears. Plus, I’ve discovered yoga and meditation, and I’ve practiced for thousands of hours of bringing my mind back to the present moment, a moment in which all is well.

So when I got the news I’d need more tests, I was annoyed that I’d have to add phone calls and appointments to my ToDo list — but I didn’t feel  debilitating fear.  I knew I was healthy (well, I was pretty sure). I know my body; I live here.

And I wasn’t crazy about the hefty price tag for additional testing — several hundred dollars, funds that already had a line of claims on it. I saw this as money I’d have to pay to have someone outside me tell me what I already knew — that I was OK.

But  I wasn’t fearful.

Should I spend the time and money for certainty? I had to decide.

Without the fear, this time I had no need to tell everyone. Instead, I wanted to make a private decision. I knew what virtually every other person would tell me to do, implore me to do. But the decision needed to come from inside me, not outside me.

Without the fear, this time the specter of treatment and beyond did not overshadow my days. In fact, I rarely thought of it for several weeks.

Eventually I made a a decision with my wise mind, not just my emotional mind (to use DBT terms). Last week, I got squished again.

The waits  from check-in to radiology and from dressing gown to actual squishes were not too long. Neither was the wait to have the images read.

Without the fear, during these waits I did not make deals. I stayed present. I breathed. I didn’t anticipate all the possible futures I could be facing in mere moments when the verdict would be in. I remained drama-less. I remained alone and calm, knowing I’d have the resources to face whatever I’d need to.

“All right, Lori,” said the very kind squisher after about 15 minutes. “You’re all set. It’s just extra tissue. Go ahead and get dressed and I’ll show you out.”

I texted “all clear” to the few people I’d told on my way to the appointment. None of my loved ones were in suspense for very long, except for my husband.

When I told him the news, I flashed back to our first time at this rodeo and was astonished at how different I have become — thanks to him, thanks to becoming a mom, thanks to the passage of time, thanks to my own efforts.

No matter what the results might have ended up being, I can attest that the process is a lot more manageable without the fear.

Forgiving the world

We sit on the floor in criss-cross applesauce at the beginning of yoga class, and Jane instructs us to close our eyes and remember a time during childhood when we were hurt or scared, in order to find if there are areas in which we need to release and to forgive. Her soothing voice and evocative words take each of us back to address our own personal boogeymen, troubles that loomed large because we were so small.

This won’t work, says my inner voice.  I’ve already exorcised all my demons.

I open my eyes and peek around the room, surprised that my fellow classmates are going crimson in the face as strong emotions rise from their bellies. Something powerful is going on, and if I can surrender my thoughts to my emotions, I may have the chance to release something I’ve carried for a very long time.

Hah, that’s what you think! — comes a reply, also inside my head.

With an exhale I allow my hips and tailbone to feel heavy, to sink into the earth. With an inhale I lift my spine, filling the space between my vertebrae with, well, more space. In an instant

xray childI see Mommy and Daddy walking away. I see them through the droplets of the dank and cold prison they’re leaving me in, the plastic walls and ceiling I’m sealed inside, where I’m having trouble breathing. Don’t leave me! I’ll be good! I won’t scare you any more please just don’t leave me here! I scream and still they walk away. AGAIN. Every night they leave me here. EVERY SINGLE NIGHT! They leave me here in the care of my torturers who stab me with sharp things and make me bleed and hurt me over and over again. They leave me here in a wet and cold bed. They leave me here in a place where I get only icky food. They put masks over my face  thirteen times a day and it smells bad. I am suffocating. I am so afraid and uncomfortable and….ANGRY. I am so angry at all of them for putting me here, for leaving me here.

I hate this oxygen tent. I hate the nurse who give me shots. I hate the doctor who keeps adding days and nights I have to stay here. I hate all the white, and the smell of someone they call Auntie Septy. I hate my lungs for getting New Monya again. I’m mad at my parents for leaving me behind again. I’m mad that I’m so small and powerless still. I’m mad at my body. I hate my life. HATE HATE HATE HATE!

I am shocked to meet my hate-fueled (and scared) 5 year-old self. I am amazed that I could uncover all that in about 5 mindful breaths.

Now what?

We begin our sun salutations, stretching the sides and back parts of our bodies with forward folds and crescent moons, strengthening our cores with plank pose and chaturrangas, then simultaneously grounding and lifting in downward dog. Yoga is a practice of alternating currents, of balancing opposites to bring about wholeness: right/left, upper/lower, front/back, sun/moon, rising/melting, strength/stretch, inhale/exhale, tension/release.

Antao brownd, apparently, my past and my present.

As I move through the rest of the practice, I focus on my breath. With the inhales, I abide with that scared little girl I once was. I am acutely aware of the tension in her body, the balls of wadded up anger, of densely packed fear. With my exhales, I mindfully aim to dissolve those balls of heavy energy, some still residing in my body — mainly in my lungs and hips — using my breath and intention.

The oxygen tent is where I began laying victim patterns that would serve as my template for 30+ years. It was in that cold, wet, lonely place that I realized I was at the mercy of others, that I did not control my circumstances, that I was not the subject in my life but rather an object in others’. The doctors made me endure procedures that hurt, my parents made me swallow icky medicines and stay in fearsome places, my body continually disappointed me by not functioning as it should.

I do my thing: I look at this childhood scene through a rational lens. Of course my parents weren’t persecuting me. Of course it was as hard for them to leave me each night as it was for me to be left. Of course the doctors and nurses weren’t trying to hurt me; they were trying to heal me. Of course I wasn’t abandoned; people were there to make sure I was going to be okay. Of course my body wasn’t malfunctioning on purpose; it was doing the best it could.

But the 5 year-old on my yoga mat with me is not a rational being. I have carried her emotional energy of being scared, alone, abandoned, bereft, unwell. She’s pissed. Mad at those who left her, mad at those who poked her, mad at the body that put her in her predicament. She’s been having tantrums ever since, not having an outlet for her fear and anger.

With my teacher’s invitation to dig deep and excavate what lurks beneath my awareness, I am able to give the girl a voice. I feel my face turn crimson as the anger rises from my belly. Now that I know such a well of fear and anger is there, I can access it, breathe through it, release it.

And forgive. One breath at a time.

Image courtesy of Praisaeng / FreeDigitalPhotos.net