[This article was published in "Itineraries," a newsletter of SecondJourney, in August 2007: www.SecondJourney.org]
My Story, Our Story: A Journey of HealingBy Rich Henry
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 I was 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. I have always known where North was. I could always orient my self 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, explaining it away as the heat, or my first time in Chicago, or something I ate.
But this subtle shift persisted after I returned home. I've never been one to visit the doctor without a damn clear need, so I don't know why I listened to the small, inner voice, but I did. I made an appointment to see the doctor.
My doctor looked me over thoroughly, did some simple tests, and said, "There's nothing wrong with you.” He paused, and then said, “But let's be thorough. Let's do an MRI." He got me an appointment for the next week.
Because I did not expect my first-ever MRI it to disclose anything wrong, I found it to be a thoroughly intriguing experience. 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 MRI was on Monday, with an appointment scheduled with my doctor on Wednesday to discuss the results. Meanwhile, my subtle symptoms had completely disappeared. I felt perfectly myself. In fact, I called my doctor on Tuesday afternoon and said, "There's no reason for me to come in, is there. Shall we just cancel my appointment for tomorrow?" His reply, "No, I want to see you. There's a reason to come in. And bring your wife." This dramatically changed the atmosphere of this, up until now, interesting adventure. It was a very difficult night for Ruth Ann and me, but not nearly as difficult as it would have been had we known the full impact of what we were about to hear.
We arrived for the appointment. The nurse ushered us into an examining room. The usual uneasy waiting for the doctor's knock and entry was, this time, excruciating. What was 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, "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 began to hear him say, as in a dream, "Put your affairs in order." "You have an appointment with the brain surgeon next Tuesday." "I'm so sorry," he said. "I cried last night when I told my wife about your case."
In looking back on that day, I'm struck most by the deep compassion of my doctor contrasted with the harsh reality of doctors' crammed schedules that require getting on to the next patient.
The next few days were a roller coaster, alternating between numb - trying to simply pass the time until we met the surgeon - and hyper clarity - "There's nothing that clears the mind like knowing you are to be shot at sunrise."
Slowly, I began to piece together a plan for how I was going to approach this journey. I began to come to the realization that 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. At this point, 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 liminal period, waiting to meet the surgeon, was also the time when an intuitive insight was just beginning to form, that my story was larger than just about me, that 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. I knew I was in good hands.
One of the most hopeful and empowering things the surgeon told me was, "This is your tumor. 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."
Another thing he said about the surgery that was very helpful was, "To you, it will be a blink. To me, it will be four hours. To your wife, it will be an eternity." For me, this had many layers. The "blink" reminded me of the almost magical sophistication of our medical technology. The "four hours" reminded me that this surgery is routine, just another day at the office. The "eternity" reminded me of 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.
And then, a surprise. The doctor said, "You're scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. Check in at 6:00." We knew a swift response was critical and expected surgery would happen within a week, but just 15 hours away was unsettling. My intuition was very clear. I told the doctor I needed at least a couple of days to prepare. He looked at me like I was crazy, paused… then responded, "Let me 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 awake and asleep. 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 chemo-therapy 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 diagnosis are very 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 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.
• I was asleep, unaware of the trouble I was about to face. I was distracted by a very busy life. If I had paid more attention to my health, I would have noticed sooner. The call to awaken comes gently at first, then ever more insistently, until it can no longer be ignored. In like manner, the subtle (and not so subtle!) signs of trouble on the planet are apparent, if we pay attention. The Earth is giving us a wake-up call; how dire must things become before we awaken and do something? The longer we wait, the lower our prospects for recovery.
• Even after taking the first step, seeing the doctor, I was all too willing to step back into comfortable denial ("There's no reason for me to come in, is there."). It's very painful to accept the truth - "This is serious" - but there is no hope without that acceptance.
• The Five Stages of Grief, as named by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, are equally applicable in individual and our collective cases: 1) Denial, 2) Anger, 3) Bargaining, 4) Despair, 5) Acceptance. I've gone through these stages, as have so many individuals. These stages also provide a helpful framework as we collectively come to grips with what we and the Earth are facing. For our collective story, once we get to the stage of acceptance, it opens many choices of practical significance. Although Kubler-Ross is talking about acceptance of inevitable physical death, acceptance includes coming to a place of choice about how to live the time that we have left. We may, if we are wise, choose death to the unsustainable ways we have been living in order to give birth to new ways of living in sustainable harmony with Earth.
• Cancer is a very interesting illness and metaphor. The overriding characteristic of every kind of cancer cell is unrestrained progress; they literally do not know when to stop replicating. As we look around at human impact on the Earth, most of our problems arise from too much of a good thing. Advances that offer the promise of great benefit when first introduced become untenable when wide spread. The automobile is a classic example; will the world be a better place when every family on the planet has a car?
• We all are beneficiaries of our miraculous technological progress. I am acutely aware of this truth. At the same time we also are all impacted by the negative consequences of that same progress. It's time to rebalance the relationship between knowledge and wisdom, between more and enough. As I've discovered in my own experience, this rebalancing is not something to be feared, but is actually a path to greater peace and joy. And I am convinced that this is true at both individual and collective levels.
• "You have to do the work yourself, but you don't do it alone." One of the greatest blessings of this journey is the love and support offered to us through our various communities. It has been difficult to receive so much. I can attest, it is easier to give than to receive. But this journey has put us, over and over, in positions of having no choice but to receive - from doctors and nurses, from family, from friends, from community, from strangers. Although difficult, learning to receive has been an experience of beauty and grace. The work of healing the planet will be work that we do together, with each of us both giving and receiving.
• This is the time for loving right action, individually and collectively. One of my first and greatest fears following the diagnosis was, "I won't have time to complete my work." I now know I will have all the time I need to complete my work on the planet because I am approaching it from a different consciousness. Rather than fear, I am now working from a place of love, peace, calm, faith, and without attachment: fully engaged, and not attached. I do know how crucial and time sensitive our work is, both to ourselves and to the planet, but it doesn’t have to come from a place of fear or frenzy.
• Another gift of this journey has been the opportunity - no, the necessity - to reevaluate what truly matters. Many things I used to think were so important have simply fallen away. I have greater clarity about what is my work, and greater peace in trusting others to discern and do their work. As Buddha said, "Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it." Yes, the situation is urgent. The paradox is that frenetic, martyring action is not an answer. Action from a calm, centered, principled place of love will have the greatest impact.
The greatest blessing of all is my experience of our Oneness. May we all be so blessed. For all beings. Namaste.
About the author
Rich Henry is the co-founder, along with Victor Bremson, of For The GrandChildren, "a global network of all people committed to unleashing the power and joy of generational responsibility. We are devoted to bringing forth an environmentally sustainable, spiritually fulfilling, socially just human presence on Earth for all generations." ForTheGrandChildren.org
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