Facing Fear
“We can experience paralyzing fear, without becoming paralyzed by fear ourselves.”
As I reread that line from my previous blog, I realized I didn’t quite give fear its full due.
In that blog, “Wake Up Calls,” I talk about the sustaining power of mindfulness in a time of personal crisis in my life—beginning with the moment I first learned that I had an abnormal mammogram, up to the time of my scheduled breast cancer surgery.
That interval—between diagnosis and treatment—was a lot longer than I thought it should have been: three additional weeks of testing followed by three more weeks of just waiting. In all, six long, hard weeks during which I could either allow fear to metastasize or face it mindfully.
Because I’m an avid practitioner and teacher of mindfulness, I chose to face it. But because I’m human, that path wasn’t always perfectly smooth or straight. Those six weeks were among the most challenging of my life. I needed help, and I received it from both expected and unexpected sources.
Remembering to exhale
After the shock wave of the initial diagnosis subsided, I remember thinking, “I’m going to die from this.”
On the day I met my surgeon, the first thing he said was, “I have good news. You will die at some point, everyone does, but you’re not going to die anytime soon from this cancer. It’s not a medical emergency. It may feel like a mental or emotional emergency, but physically, it isn’t.”
The surgeon’s nurse went so far as to say, “If I could pick a cancer, I would pick yours.” She was just being lighthearted, and at that point I needed some humor.
They made me feel good, and that allowed me to finally exhale, a lot, which brings up another topic: breath.
Breath—or better yet, consciousness of it—is such an essential component of my mindfulness practice. I used it a lot during those early weeks of what seemed like endless tests, biopsies, mammograms, and scans.
One test, a core needle biopsy, I remember quite vividly. Because of the location of my tumor, they had to approach from underneath a raised platform. It’s not like lying on your back in any traditional sense, more like being face down, suspended.
I had been given pain medication, but mid-procedure, it wore off. As I was being given an additional dose, I began to use a belly breathing technique I teach, which involves breathing deeply into the diaphragm, focusing on long extended inhales and exhales as the diaphragm expands and releases. This particular type of breathing activates the parasympathetic nervous system, which is responsible for calm and relaxation, and can help us better manage pain, stress, and fear.
It turned out to be incredibly helpful at keeping the pain at bay, and several of the medical team, who had been in the room and observed what I was doing, commented later on how amazingly well it worked to keep me comfortable and still.
The resonance of meditation
Another of the battery of tests involved an MRI scan. I’d never experienced one before, but had heard that it can be a stressful, even panic-inducing, experience—being trapped in a tight space with lots of loud noises and strange sensations for a considerable length of time.
I can’t really tell you how long it actually took—perhaps an hour—because I meditated during the entire procedure. I recall practicing open awareness, focusing on my breathing and experiencing the noticeable sounds of the MRI scanner throughout, as well as the physical sensations of an injected fluid surging through my body. I was able to explore the various sensations and accept that the technology was doing its work.
Instead of experiencing fear, I felt amazingly calm and peaceful, with a sense of being in a safe place, where everything was as it should be, And, as an added bonus, this time allowed me to escape from the distraction and constant flow of daily emails. When the procedure finally ended, the technician again commented on how still and calm I had appeared throughout. And again, I could attribute it all to being grounded in mindfulness.
Knowing too much
I’m naturally very curious. I’m also, unfortunately, quite good at catastrophizing. And, I own several electronic devices that can take me instantly to the internet anytime, day or night.
That’s not an ideal combination when you’ve been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease, especially one with such an infinitely searchable name—invasive lobular carcinoma.
Immediately after getting the news that I had it, I wanted to know all about it. I went online and read and read and read all I could—causes, diagnoses, therapies, outcomes, prognoses. I rejoiced at the happy tales of recovery and wept at the stories of despair.
The more I searched for information, the more rabbit holes I went down, and the more convinced I became that my cancer had spread. “Oh my gosh,” I would think, after noticing an ache in my leg, “I might have bone cancer because lobular cancer often spreads to bone,” and it would go on and on from there.
In one of my many early appointments, I remarked on something new I’d learned about my disease to my oncologist’s nurse. She looked me straight in the eye and gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever received: “Stay off Dr. Google. If you have a question, reach out to me.”
And she was absolutely right. Being curious and open to learning are good things. Diving down rabbit holes obsessively just because you can is not. It elevates fear and stress and triggers our human negativity bias.
I took what she told me to heart. I did reach out, not only to her, but also to others. And in doing so, I reconfirmed in my own mind what I already knew: one of the most powerful mindfulness attitudes is trust.
That brief encounter was one of the first of many moments of trust I’ve experienced during this journey. I’ve found that contrary to some conventional thought, the antidote to fear isn’t courage. It’s trust. And through trusting, I found courage in the face of fear.
I plan to tell you more about trust and other mindful attitudes—including patience—in subsequent installments of this blog series. But before I close out this one, I just want to note that my ongoing experience with cancer has opened my eyes as never before to the amazing medical community present in our world today.
It’s also important to recognize that the people in the medical community are human too. There are things that they know and things that they don’t know. To expect them to know everything, to expect guarantees or promises is not realistic. To expect them to share what they do know, to have an open space to ask questions and advocate for yourself, and to listen with discernment, this is what we can and should expect.
When I hear people calling into question the validity of science and medicine or creating confusion or doubt for all the wrong reasons, I lean into my own experience knowing without a doubt that my trust was well placed and that I was in good hands. Kudos and thank you to all.
Mindfully yours,
Ashley
Some Resources I’ve Found Helpful:
In my first blog in this series, I noted that every individual’s experience with cancer is different, and we each find our own pathways throughout. For those who are interested, I’d like to share two resources that I have found both valuable and inspirational.
Recommended viewing: Locating Yourself - A Key to Conscious Leadership is a wonderful two-minute video that describes how we're hardwired for fear and catastrophizing, i.e. below the line behaviors. Staying above the line requires more effort, but is possible through specific practices. We teach practices at Inseus that help us shift Above the Line. Please check out some free practices in our Inseus Library.
Recommended reading: The nurse who told me to “stay off Dr. Google” also gave me a book that she and my surgeon feel is the only book that someone with breast cancer needs to read to prepare themselves for the challenge: Breast Cancer Treatment Handbook, The Comprehensive Patient Navigation Guide, 9th Edition by Judy C. Kneece, RN, OCN. It’s all about understanding the disease, treatments, emotions, and recovery from breast cancer and I couldn’t agree more with their recommendation.