Chapter 64: Acknowledge our neurosis as neurosis

Left image: Two days after my second brain surgery, March 2020. Right image: August 2020

I went a long time without being able to smile, but I never stopped trying. For me, that was key. :)

Book Update: For those of you interested in my upcoming book, please continue to find updates on this blog. If all goes to plan, my new book, Difficult Gifts, will hit shelves by January of 2021. I will eventually have a link to pre-order on this blog.  

Today, I feel overwhelmed. I woke up early to get in a few hours of studying before heading into work at the hospital, but in place of successful studying, I found myself feeling an intense need to write.

 So, here I am, writing away. Somehow, I have once again seemed to pile up multiple daunting events in my life into a very short time span. I always seem to do this. This week, I have my next MRI. This will be my first MRI in two months.

As a reminder or a start for my new readers, I was diagnosed with grade 2 brain cancer in February of 2020.  This was upgraded to grade 3/4 in March of 2020 right before I started chemotherapy and radiation.

In June, I had my first post-treatment MRI, which showed “miraculous” results according to my neurosurgeon. As far as technology could see, the cancer was essentially gone. Erased, as if it had “melted away,” my surgeon said.

My surgeon and I talked for a long time about the inability of science and medicine to fully explain these “miraculous” results. My surgeon, a world-renowned specialist in gliomas, was as perplexed as my incredible radiation oncologist and neuro-oncologist (yes, it takes a village) to see that what was concerning in March for possible glioblastoma, the “terminator” of cancers with a mean survival of around 6-18 months, was “miraculously” gone. At least, gone for the time being.

 It honestly doesn’t make sense. On one hand, this was incredibly exciting to hear. On the other hand, however, it makes me even more nervous for my upcoming scan. Rather than knowing what to expect, I seem to have a type of brain cancer that will do whatever it sees fit, confusing the hell out of a number of incredible doctors and one decently intelligent patient.

All I know is, when I lay down in the MRI machine this Thursday, I will try to meditate. I will try to focus on gratitude for the moment and I will practice tonglen meditation, sending mental feelings of love and compassion to all those who need it. This is what I try to do when I need to keep my mind off of my own suffering. 

When I change my perspective and remember the number of other people in the world who are also suffering and could benefit from compassion, I focus my energies on them and my own suffering feels much less important. 

In addition to my MRI in two days, I start cycle 3 of maintenance chemotherapy in three days. On top of this, I also just bought a house and have my home inspection tomorrow. I finished my book manuscript and am waiting to hear back from my publisher to see what she thinks (yikes). As if that wasn’t quite enough, I take one of the most important tests of my life, the internal medicine board exam, in two weeks.

 Ok. Deep breathing…that is a lot. I need to remind myself of one of my favorite Dalai Lama lessons, “There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”

I’ll try, but I can’t promise it will be easy. As the strange pandemic world continues to fill us all with anxiety, inability to plan, and loneliness on top of the constant demands of work, family, illness, and life, it seems as though the buildup of suffering is so overwhelming it may suffocate us.

I recently bought a new book, The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times, by one of my favorite spiritual teachers, Pema Chödrön, and I highly recommend it. This is like our COVID-19 Buddhist survival handbook.

In my absolute favorite chapter of any book of all time, Pema talks about a Buddhist concept called the lojong teachings, or teachings for training the mind. These are ancient teachings designed to help us transform obstacles into fuel, allowing us to develop a mind that is focused on compassion rather than fear.

When I feel overwhelmed, utterly stressed out, I find myself becoming irritable. My loving friends and family become targets in my line of emotional fire. Despite my best efforts, I find myself feeling angry, resentful, and alone as I push away the love of others when I need it most. Have you ever felt this way?

In this book, Pema says “always meditate on what provokes resentment.” Before responding to a stressful comment, an annoying call, etc, we can train our minds to catch our habitual emotional reaction and acknowledge our “neurosis as neurosis” (ha! I love this line), aspiring to try something different this time, or next time. We can’t expect perfection from the beginning.

 This is the mindfulness practice I am currently working on. It is not easy work, especially when I feel overwhelmed. But, it gives me something to focus on apart from COVID, my scan, my home inspection, my exam, my fear. Perhaps it can help you, too.

Thanks for continuing to follow along on my journey. Let’s hope I have good news in a few days.

Fondly,

Courtney B

©CB2020