It Begins with a Call: Psyche's Story (Part 11)

Psyche’s story calls me once again.  Like her, like everyone, I have been given challenges. Which of Psyche's challenges occupies me now?  They all resonate, but the one that leaps out at me is her needing to seek the golden fleece.  Looking for the gold, to me, is finding the soul’s calling, what Seena Frost in my beloved SoulCollage® process calls “Soul Essence,” which I like to think of as how Spirit comes through the individual.  The psychic told me that I need to see beyond the obstacles and to cleanse myself of collective and astral energies I’ve taken in.  A good friend confirmed that she definitely sees me as empathic.  I’m looking at that.  I know I have taken on emotions that are not mine.

My Soul Essence card

Back to the cardiologist.  I dreaded seeing this guy because I’d seen one some years back who berated me for not being on statins (even after I had been on them and started developing neuropathy from them), who didn’t believe in CoQ10 supplementation (although everything I read said anyone on statins REALLY needs them).  When my tests back then all came back normal, I didn’t go see him again, or feel the need to see another cardio doc.  But now there is a reason to check things out. 

This new one was a pleasant surprise, soft-spoken, low-key, kind.  A mature African-American man who did not alarm me, but wanted to do some tests and who recommended a new non-statin drug for my familial hypercholesterolemia.  I liked him.  His tests all, thankfully, came back normal.  The new drug doesn’t appear to have side effects.  He explained all of the results and why I was getting the palpitations.  Then he told me that a new doctor was joining his practice, a specialist in lipid issues, and he wanted me to see him after I’d been on the drug for a while.

Several months later I went in to see the new specialist.  I was surprised to see a man close to my age, having expected for some reason that the “new” expert would be young.  He expressed deep concern for my health and really wanted me on a statin, even though my LDLs had dropped 130 points on the new drug.  Not enough, according to him.  He also wanted me to get a heart scan to see what damage had already occurred to my arteries, and he told me to take a daily low-dose aspirin.  He refuted everything I brought up from my own research; after all, he was the expert and knew all the data.  And his research pointed to my demise by stroke or heart attack unless there was serious intervention.  Finally, he cut me off saying he had no more time.

I left in a daze.  Walking to my car, I felt like a ticking time bomb.  I was overwhelmed and terrified.

I investigated getting the heart scan.  I took the daily baby aspirin.  I didn’t want to go back on statins again – I didn’t trust them or the pharmaceutical industry that make them such big business.  I’d been so proud of being in my sixties and not being on any pharmaceuticals.  Now, I was on two, with them wanting me on a third.

My acupuncturist and friend’s response was clear.  “Any time you leave a doctor in that much fear,” she said, “it’s not the right doctor for you.”

I agreed, but could not shake off the fear.  I understood that the cardiologist intended to get me to conform to his program by scaring me into agreeing.

A week and a half after beginning the daily aspirin I began getting large, ugly bruises for no apparent reason.  I went to see my primary care doc.  I told her about the baby aspirin and about my experience with the cardiologist.  She thought the bruising could be from the aspirin, but to be safe had me get a bunch of blood tests.  She had heard other complaints about this lipid specialist’s bedside manner.  The test results were normal.  I stopped the aspirin.  The bruising stopped.

I investigated the heart scan, but after a lot of back-and-forth, it turned out that my insurance wouldn’t cover it.  Considering that it would cost me $700 and shoot me full of radiation, I declined.  Plus, all they would do if the results came in as problematic would be to stuff me full of more statins.  No thanks.  So far, nothing recommended was panning out.

I decided to fire the second cardiologist.  I broke my scheduled appointment with him and made one with the first guy.  Dropping my fear and anger has not been easy.  I’ve processed, meditated, started an EFT/tapping practice, and still have felt distressed.  Really, wasn’t this worse for my heart than any high cholesterol issue?

With some trepidation, I went to my appointment with the first guy.  He is personable, easy to be with.  We don’t agree on everything, but I don’t feel like a “case” with him.  He tells me he’s conservative with pharmaceuticals and even with supplements (thinking I take too many), but push come to shove, he ultimately agreed with the other guy.  It was just easier to take it in from him.  I left feeling a little teary, resistant to going back on even low-dose statins, but I told myself that it’s just one more med, that I can try it and see if I get side effects from it or not, and go from there.  I calmed down.  My genetics are what they are.  I do what I can with diet and exercise, but some conditions may require more serious intervention.  He was holding off on the heart scan.

Part of my quandary is, of course, over these specifics about my physical problems.  But there is an even deeper issue: How am I working with my fear, my habitual responses, and my tendency to catastrophize?  These are apparently increasing as I age.   I might have expected that when I got older I would be wiser, more at peace.  That I’d have learned how to work with my core issues – or even transcend them.  Right?  What has actually happened is that they have come into sharper focus and are now in the forefront of my life, not just in the background.

Maybe this is one of the secrets about aging.  I certainly saw it in my father, whose tendency toward cranky, short-temperedness increased as he got older.  At the time, I chalked it up to him not doing inner work.  Certainly not like me.  And here I am, aging and replicating the pattern of intensified negative qualities of personality.

Maybe, as awful as it is, this is the wise gift of growing old.  This is the work.  It is clear and undeniable.  Do it, or descend into bitterness.  Look, this is hard.  Friends are dying.  People are getting cancer.  My symptoms, all the strange ailments I have had in the last few years have given me ample opportunity to catastrophize.

It isn’t how I want to live my life, whatever time remains to me.

I tried the statins again, despite the fact that I don’t trust or like them and that my LDL numbers had dropped considerably.  Not long after, I began experiencing some neuropathy in my hands.  No more statins for me, thank you very much.  I sent the cardiologist an online message, but got no response.  I already knew he wasn’t diligent at returning emails, but I decided if he wanted to talk to me or change treatment, he or someone in his office would get back to me.  Never happened.  My primary care doc agreed that statins didn’t seem warranted.  So, that’s that, at least for now.  There is definitely a place for western medicine; if you need surgery or help with a broken bone, it is a godsend.  But I distrust it because the whole set-up is not truly about health and well-being.  It’s about unquestioning adherence to the “experts,” throwing pharmaceuticals at every problem, and not looking at underlying issues and health of the whole person. (Sorry for the rant.)

And so, back to Psyche.  With help, she managed to collect the golden fleece.  It involved knowing when to do it and how to be tricky.  I hope I can trust my own knowing on issues with my body.  That would truly be collecting the gold.  

It Begins with a Call: The Work of an Elder (Part 10)

And the wind in the body moves again.  Pancreas issue handled, I am now waiting, again, to see a cardiologist.  Palpitations.  Skipped heartbeats. Again, I think, “Am I still in the underworld?” 

This is not the life of the elder I pictured for myself when I was younger.  I always saw myself in a garden, content, long gray braid hanging down my back, attending to my herbs and vegetables and flowers.  Peaceful.  Wise.  How innocent I was!

But this is what I need to do:

The Work of an Elder

When the years pile up

and what is visible ahead

is the dark doorway into

the otherworld, it is time

to drill down to the old childhood wound,

to lift it up out of the soil of the past,

hold it in the light of noon time,

cradle it in soft arms, rock it to a gentle sleep,

and let it breathe in the naked air.

It is time to take up your staff

and walk with determination,

with grace, if you’re lucky,

towards that portal,

without hiding your burden.

When you meet others,

bless them.

When you fall,

rely on helping hands to

lift you back up.

There is the pride of

work well done, and

there is the pride of

armor and walls.

You know which one

you want to wield.

There is no need to hurry.

Only the need to persevere.

I had a psychic reading.  She saw me needing to remove obstacles in order to see the big picture.  According to her, I am a stabilizing force but have been hurt by energies that are not mine.  What is the big picture, I wonder?  It must be that the invisible is real, that Spirit is real. My karmic work, she said, is to trust Spirit.  She told me that my fear is an automatic response and that in actuality I’ve been pretty fearless.  That's a new perspective!

I am spending a lot of time at home, and a lot of time alone (even if my husband or others are around).  I don’t seem to want to go anywhere or do much of anything.  The world’s a mess and so am I.  I do love my home, though.

Part of the trouble with looking at this as a “healing story” is that this implies a linear progression; there should be a beginning, a middle, and an end.  But what I’d like to consider is a cyclical model, a spiraling cycle.  Isn’t that more how nature works?  I once heard Ram Dass say, “We never lose our neuroses.  We just lose interest in them.”  That has always stuck with me.  We cycle around and around, hopefully coping better as we go.

(Note:  This was originally written a year and a half ago.)

It Begins with a Call - Part 9

I had a session with my friend, a medium who channels.  We hadn’t done this in a long time.  What emerged was that I was the same age when my health problems began six years or so ago that my grandmother was when all her trials (death of her husband and oldest son and the ensuing shock therapy that followed) happened.  Interesting.  The theory is that I took on some of her fear.  Not that I don’t have plenty of my own, but not all of what I carry is mine.

Something moved me to go back to the Psyche story.  My version. 

Another Psyche Story

Here is what I know:

Persephone’s path is

a downward spiral into

the core of my heart.

She took me in hand

when I was just a child,

led me to the darkest remote

chamber contained therein

where I interred the box

of grief and shame I bore,

the one bestowed on me

by a loving mother

who wished only for me to thrive,

who constructed the cask

with hands of humiliation.

All these years

Persephone has kept it for me,

tended it, aware that

I would need to claim it one day,

that one day I would recognize it

as treasure and be astonished

by its beauty.

What I know:

The underworld is in

the core of my heart.

I must believe

that what led me in

will also guide me out,

that love and a certain tender kindness

will revive me when

I open that box.

 Suddenly, I was struck with insight about my last SoulCollage® card (the one with a tower on it).  

As is often the case with making cards, I had no conscious understanding of why that tower had to be in the background.  Aha!  Psyche’s last task, to go down to the underworld and retrieve the box of beauty from Persephone, involved her ascending a tower; she had decided to throw herself off in order to die and so to get to the underworld.  But the tower gave her instructions that helped her descend without dying.  

So, I had a little conversation with the tower in my card.  One of the ensuing revelations was that my fear began even earlier than the incidents with my grandmother; it started in utero.  My mother had had several miscarriages and one infant death from hyaline membrane disease before I came along.  She must have been terrified throughout my pregnancy, and her fear ran through the umbilical cord along with blood and nourishment.  I was grown on fear.

Everyone insightful that I have consulted, including the gastroenterologist, has told me not to worry about the enlarged pancreatic bile duct; no one is seeing red flags.  I, however, am in constant fear.

I thought to look up the symbolic significance of the pancreas.  Get this (from the website humanityhealing.net):  “The pancreas is the main organic structure that processes the emotion of fear because its function is to maintain the stability of the organism and any threat at the emotional or physical level can cause a structural imbalance to the entire system.”  This is all starting to make a certain amount of sense – my blood sugar issues, this duct problem, my fear….  Truly, I do feel I could be getting to the crux, the hub, the core. 

My dangerous, beautiful assignment.  Beauty?  That’s what was supposedly in the box for Psyche, right? Right now my assignment seems to be waiting, sitting with the unpleasant sensations in my body, and attending to the fear.  Dangerous, I get.  Beauty, not so much.

The other curious aspect of that tower card is the fire being, hand on heart like the figure I associate with myself.  Another mystery.  But the subsequent card I made also has a fire spirit on it.  I made it in a session focused on shadows and light.  I had had a dream in which my man chose me over another woman.  This woman wore a horned headdress and was young and beautiful.  She looked down on us from the roof of a tall building.  She looked powerful and clearly did not mean me well.  I found an eerie picture of a horned woman and one of a woman with an owl on her shoulder, looking concerned – the chosen one.  But behind the horned woman was a third figure, a powerful fire spirit, with flames emerging from her outstretched hands.

So, somehow I am back - or still - in the realm of fire.  It is quite mysterious to me why these figures came to be on my cards.  But they are protective, strong, empowering.  What exactly they mean or bode for me I do not know. 

It Begins with a Call - Part 8

My SoulCollage® Fire Element Card

More fire?

There are little fire gremlins in my stomach now.  I have no idea what they want or how to get them to leave.  Weeks go by, and I am nauseated.  I have literally visited over twenty practitioners, both allopathic and alternative, in the last six or seven years.

The story shifts again.  The story is, I see now, about fear.  I am beginning to realize that my fear is what damaged the hub of the wheel.  Yes, I can try to connect to Spirit, but until I find a way to live with or accept or deal with or get rid of or I-don’t-know-what about the fear, I will continue to break or damage or crush or ignore the hub repeatedly.  All my repair work will be for naught, because, for the last number of years, with all of my little unpleasant and undiagnosed (and often seemingly undiagnosable) illnesses, with all of my mortality, deer-in-the-headlights’ reactions, the common denominator is fear. 

My acupuncturist and friend tells me that the moving symptoms are called wind in the Chinese system.  Moving around, now here, now there, because every time I realize this set of symptoms is not deadly serious, another one pops up.  Back to Oya, goddess of wind, lightning, storms.  But why?  Perhaps to inaugurate new fearful scenarios and more opportunities to handle my core issue?  If so, up till now I have failed dismally.  I am only beginning to get this.  It’s been pointed out to me, and yet I didn’t get it.

How interesting that my state right now (it is January 26, 2017), when fear permeates the country, and Donald Trump is, in short order, instituting all of the things he ranted about in his campaign, is a perfect reflection of the collective.  I can hardly figure out what to be afraid of first or more. But the nausea and the gremlins demand my attention.

Finally, a diagnosis!  Here is the question – is it possible for me to come to terms with any of this?  I am now in a waiting game to find the cause of and the cure for an enlarged pancreatic bile duct and my 7 weeks of nausea and distress.  It could be an easy healing, or it could be my death, or anything in between.  Assuming I survive, will I then, Chinese-wind style, be off into the next fear-provoking episode?

Right now, the waiting feels somewhat like doldrums, but worse.  Maybe I’ve gone deeper down.  No one has to tell me to go down now.  I’m down.

I didn’t intend to write this part.  I certainly don’t want anyone to read this epistle of self-pity.  I think, “Well, I can edit it out later.”  Whatever.  Right now I need to write.  I need to write because it is how I process.  I need to write to fill the time.  I need to write to be truthful.  I need to write so that it shows up somewhere that I am facing this darkness, that I don’t know what the fuck to do, that I am pretty much a wreck.  I wanted to say that I’m “at my wits’ end,” but I stopped myself.  Why?  Is there further down to go?

I had the thought this morning that this facing up to my fear is what the brilliant Caroline Casey calls my “beautiful, dangerous assignment.”  I may never know why this is so.  It is a useful reframe, though.

The box is open.

How did I get so fear-based?  A few years ago while getting a cranial-sacral treatment, a story about my paternal grandmother surfaced, out of the blue.  She lost both her husband and her oldest son the year before I was born and moved in with my parents.  Grief-stricken, she cried for several years, apparently endlessly, according to my mother, her daughter-in-law, who, at her own wits’ end, took my grandmother to the doctor.  He prescribed shock therapy.  My mother then had to take my grandmother across town on the bus (in the days before we owned a car) for treatments, and my grandmother begged her repeatedly to stop.  My mother replied that when my grandmother got a grip on herself, she could be released from the therapy.

So, my insightful practitioner asked, “Where were you when this was going on?”

I’d never thought about it.  I must have been on that bus, too, and observing this whole drama.  No wonder I got scared.  Maybe if I didn’t behave, my mother would take me for some terrible treatment, too.