First of all, apologies to those who turned up at the Dojo on Monday or Gillespie on Thursday and found emptiness in the past two weeks. I only managed to send a message in the group chat about the cancellation as I was not able to be there because I’ve been having a strangely fast and rich in experience two weeks.
As some of you already know, two weeks ago I was admitted to hospital straight after an appointment and had surgery the next day. At the appointment, upon seeing the fresh x-ray showing my lung collapsed quite a lot more than last time, “no no no no,” the surgeon turned to me, put his hands together in prayer, almost bowing down, “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go home this time.” I had stopped resisting by then and handed myself (whatever that is) in. After that, I was not in control (have “I” ever been anyway?), well, most of the time – when the nurse, with a straight face, ordered me to swallow two painkillers I swiftly put one away as she turned around. Other times: needles, tubes, knives, camera, welcome to this body.
When I was little, I fainted when I had my finger poked for a blood test. So my mum was rather shocked when I went to study acupuncture and practised on myself, and on her. Now, watching the nurses put the needles in is a time for practice. Is there fear and aversion arising? How does the body feel? Do I know what’s happening? And it makes it a more fun experience. Going into the procedure I was trying to stay awake and watchful, but I failed pretty quickly, after asking the anaesthetist why on earth does it need to be so cold? Her reply was, “the surgeons wear a lot of stuff while they work very hard”. And the next thing I remember was a clear knowing state while I heard the nurses repeat a dozen times “open your eyes.” I struggled to open my eyes and answer their question asking if I was cold. I gathered all my willpower, but could only nod my head a fraction; inside though, my inner voice was shouting, I am bloody freezing and don’t want to open my eyes. They must have heard it and put about five blankets on me and wheeled me back to the ward.
Adventure didn’t stop there. It had been a long while since I needed to be fed; coming out of surgery I got the opportunity to be a baby again, or maybe to practise for old age. The body was very weak and needed nourishment even when my eyes and mouth didn’t want to open at all. While I was like a half asleep baby being fed some leek and potato soup, I knew the visitor at the opposite bed was watching and thinking, oh dear, she looks so poorly. What happened to her? My inner voice was telling her, don’t worry, it’s all natural.
Perhaps it’s being natural for too long, the body didn’t tolerate pain medicine well. I was asked to walk to the bathroom with all the stuff attached to the body, and before that could happen, making sure I could cope with that three metre walk, the nurse made me press the pain relief button (a self-administered pain medicine) and take oral painkillers. On the way back I threw up all the leek and potato soup, not very pleasant, but she was gently comforting me, “it’s okay lovely, take your time, anymore?” At the time aversion started to arise, a few gentle words woke up mindfulness, hey, are you resisting? What are you resisting? Who is resisting? Remember when you do Qigong, not pushing forward, not holding back?
In hospital, suffering and compassion both appear in high concentration. It’s a wonderful training ground. I feel so fortunate. So many times, the thought kept popping up: they are all bodhisattvas - the hospital staff, family and friends, teachers and students… I’ve been filled with love and gratitude.
It has been good Dhamma practice. It has been a time to pause, reflect and recollect. The simple truth is that we are all dying from the day we were born. We came to this world alone, with nothing, and will go alone, with nothing. When we suffer, we suffer alone. Nobody can suffer for oneself. And we all suffer. Yet, in this world of interdependence, someone will look after you.
Days and nights are relentlessly passing. What’s important? Why are you here?
Comments