Energy. (Archive)

This was originally published in March of 2009. Soon to come are two new essays: "Teenaged" and "Worry".


I made my cat sick. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Delaney (the Cougar), a stunning orange-striped 8-lb. beauty, laid calm on my chest for hours on end, days in a row. I was remarkably ill, unable to function in any other capacity than keeping myself alive. She stayed still as did I. I studied her hue because there wasn’t much else to do. Orange, though a wonderful word and exciting color, didn’t do justice. Parts of her fur are the color of marmalade, fading into what matches the bark of sequoias. Maybe some sorrel, threads of caramel, and a rich brown, not like chocolate, but more like truck-stop coffee. The white on her chin and around her eyes has a depth to it, more matte than gloss, kind of like chalk. Near-sighted and without glasses or contacts, I studied strands of fur while she was trying to heal me.

Here’s the deal: for a very long time, my method of overcoming sickness was a trough of hooch and an internal bawl out--- my bloodthirsty, jackhammer-voiced drill instructor thrashing my yellow-bellied, sniffling pansy. Pill-popping was rare; doctor appointments never happened; health ailments equaled weakness and weakness equaled vulnerability. I was determined to never be assailable, thus I could not admit that I didn’t feel well. If I wouldn’t admit that I was sick, then the concept of treatment, whether conventional or alternative, was wasted time. What changed all of that was serious illness, debilitating illness, life-threatening illness. Facing the prospect of premature death, I found the appeal in all possibilities of wellness. My attitude changed from thinking they were looped-up wah-hoo to thinking, “Hey, let’s give this a whirl.” Suddenly, therapies I may have previously sneered at took on the aura of miraculous. My closest friend, Lara, has always been open to the mystical possibilities of healing. She is a massage therapist, a maker of essential oil ointments, and a witch. She is a good witch, but unlike Glenda from “The Wizard of Oz” she isn’t creepy sweet and swathed in light and white. Her pagan rituals and appreciation of ancient healing arts have in the past made me smile; I found them cute. But then, I hadn’t needed additional methods to provide relief from pain, stress, and a physical downward spiral. Desperation is an excellent eye-opener.

Through my studies of Taoism, I have an understanding of Chi, the flowing energy circulating through the universe, inherent in all things. Motion and heat and coolness undetected by vision, balanced or imbalanced, powerful yet calm. A side note: for those golf enthusiasts who haven’t read about Taoism, Chi is entirely different than Chi Chi Rodriguez. Wanted to clarify that. Onward. Lao Tzu wrote frequently about water; indeed, it is an excellent example of Chi. A prime example of its energy is the Grand Canyon, formed by the Colorado River over a period of six million years, continual flow of channels working their way through solid rock formations eventually creating a gorge a mile deep. Now, that there is some powerful energy. Water, something we can effortlessly step into and through when it is in its liquid form, used its flowing touch against the atoms of the rocks, reshaping minerals to create one of the most magnificent natural wonders of the world. Well done.

When I am ill, my energy doesn’t flow with the power and grace of water. Mine seems to have more of a slime essence. There is no efflux through my body, but rather a sticky mucous leaching around nonsensically. I trust Lara implicitly, and when she suggests energy work, I am more than ready. She can explain polarity and Therapeutic Touch to me time and time again. I will listen dutifully, but my head is thinking, ‘Make me better. Make me well.’ That’s a tremendous amount of pressure to put upon someone, thus my thinking as opposed to talking. Whether she is rebalancing my essential energies or meditating upon my energy field to remove blockages, I stay still and await her magic. Lara has magic. People sometimes mention others who have an aura about them, those who radiate a distinct power, those who emanate some intangible striking quality; she is one of those people. I consider her a healer. As a registered massage therapist and student of naturopathy, she has studied many methods of sanative remedy. She’s not a flaky nutter, though, summoning snake gods, spinning round like a Stevie Nicks record, and chanting humpback whale ditties. Once she took a class on reiki, thought it was screwy bullshit, and stopped. Not everything works for everyone; we all know this to be true. And, some things are just plain frightening, such as Rolfing which scares the crap out of me. I’ve seen those pictures in alternative health magazines, that little boy in his saggy BVD’s, first all twisted and weird and contorted and then straight as a board. I always think something really not right happened. Plus, it’s a stupid name that I can’t take seriously. One website actually has a link that reads, “Become a Rolfer.” Um… no. Icky.

Days after Delaney tried to heal me, Lara visited. I mentioned that my dear feline friend was lethargic, eating very little, and just didn’t appear to feel well. Lara held her for an hour, performing energy work on this small wonder. Shortly thereafter, she was up and about, spunky and back to playing with her favorite toy, a squishy stress plaything shaped like a politician. It seemed a marvel, the quick transformation, the power of touch from the right hands. Through therapy from Lara, Western medicine, rest, nutrition, friendship, prayers, well wishes, and most significantly, time, I overpowered my illness, too. My body stopped attacking itself and reverted to its natural state of repairing itself. I have continued on the road to wellness: exercising, resting, eating, resting, regular follow-ups with my doctors, resting. I still have the continuous battle with MS, but no longer have to wearily fend off viral and bacterial invaders.

Delaney and I had a talk recently; I informed her she can no longer attempt to extract disease from my being, that it was under control and she could go back to continually grooming herself. She took the role of nursemaid seriously, though, and still watches over me. When I rest, she purposefully touches my pulse points. Her paws, the size of quarters, seek out my arteries, delicately monitoring my blood flow, making sure I have one. The radial arteries and aortic arch are of comfort to her. Mostly though, she reaches her forepaw to my carotid arteries, nails retracted, never leaving a mark, her digital pads performing a feline effleurage. That’s the thing about energy, it’s always there, flowing from one being to another, unbroken continuity, smooth and graceful, the intense force of vitality.

Paralysis.

This is Part One of what happened last week. The conclusion will appear soon.

On Monday, the lower portion of my body was particularly weak. At work, I was having difficulty standing; I am accustomed to challenged walking but not to trouble with staying upright. I left work early and upon my return home, stumbled upstairs for supine rest. When I awoke, I experienced additional issues. I called to my dad: “My legs, I can’t make them go.” I tend to speak in simple terms when paralyzed with fear. This manifestation was new. Although MS alters, tweaks, and increases and decreases symptoms regularly, I have always had the capacity to maintain minimal functional bipedalism. I’m rather proud of that. Alas, I couldn’t stand and hold steady; I shuffled and wavered, always seconds away from falling. A myriad of thoughts sliced through my mind and immediately became jumbled, as if my skull was filled with steel tavern puzzles intertwined with Rubik’s Cubes. How was I going to disentangle all of these light-speed velocity thoughts?

First, I got my Taoist groove on. I do not claim to be an actual Taoist because it requires a tremendous amount of discipline in regard to acceptance and serenity and my lack thereof would be insulting to actual Taoists. With that said, I have read many works concerning its precepts and wisdom. I thought of wu wei, action without action, creative quietude, and yin yang, opposing, rooted together, transforming, and balancing. The Tao, it is indefinable, unlimited; it exists and I have no control. After many calming deep breaths, I panicked. What the heck was this all about!?! If I had had the capacity to be a whirler, I would have. I wanted to ululate and yaup and waul. I wanted to beat the living piss out of something: my fists through drywall, stones through windows, just to run wildly and kick and thrash and leave a wake of destructive rage. Funny thing about partial paralysis, those reactions are negated immediately due to the nature of movement stoppage.

My close friend, Andrea, was at my house within an hour. We talked seriously for a few minutes and then ate some cheese, as dairy products always assist with contemplation and problem-solving. I needed her to help me escape my present terror. While I smoked cigarettes, we sat on the porch, her following my lead singing an altered chorus of the most famous Bangles song: “Ay oh whey oh… walk like a paraplegic.” It was horrifying in its irreverence but quite necessary. I couldn’t fathom that this was it, that this was the beginning of my life in a wheelchair. I needed to mock the possibility, ridicule my body, its actions and limitations, scorning my own soma for its despicable behavior. I may have well punched at my legs, pinched and scratched them for some response. This is why having a friend beside you is so important. I wasn’t given the opportunity to sit in my own vat of misery, my own swill of self-pity. Instead, Andrea and I watched a clip from “The Simpsons Movie” time and time again. We sang along to, “Spider Pig, Spider Pig, does whatever a Spider Pig does. Can he swing from a web? No, he can’t; he’s a pig. Look out! He is a Spider Pig!” It was silly; it was immature and irrational. It was the best thing in the world for me because it provided a diversion, keeping me from sobbing and injuring my own being out of fear and madness.

The next day, I was scheduled for my regular IV infusion, a two-hour process that fills my body with medication on par with chemotherapy, its intention to slow the progression of my disease. That appointment was nixed due to circumstances, and I was instructed to go to my neurologist’s office. My doctor steadied me as best as possible as I attempted to traverse the hallway; it was not going well. One symptom of MS is spasticity--- think of clenching your muscles and holding them clenched as long as you can. Then, think of never being able to stop the clenching. It’s rather uncomfortable. My legs were trembling and my right foot was curled inward. My physician wanted to hospitalize me. I explained my philosophy that it was much easier to crawl out to my parents’ front porch for a cigarette than to take the hospital elevator down four floors, meander through the hallway and the main lobby, exit the doors in search of a proper smoking area outside, and then reverse the entire journey to return to my room. He shook his head and touched his temple as if a pulsing vein was igniting a migraine. We agreed to start the five-day process of outpatient steroid IV treatments with a dosage strong enough to make a wildebeest batshit.

At this juncture, I was barely mobile, my skin tone was ashen, I had black circles beneath my eyes, and I actually was a tad nervous. The spasticity was horrific; the pain was excruciating; I was angry and scared. Often I run a dialogue through my head, questions and responses that help me analyze the situation. It is not that of a child vs. adult, or angel vs. devil, or any of that. It is my emotive self conversing with my intellectual self, utilizing everything I have learned from books and mentors and friends and family and age and experience. On the drive home from the doctor’s office, I began.
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“We don’t know.”
“Do you think this is it? I’m going to be in a wheelchair?”
“We can’t predict the future.”
“I need to know something right now.”
“No. If you need to know anything, know that you cannot be reactionary. Do not project. Do not panic. Let’s see what happens with the medication.”

Upon my return home, my mother brought me dinner and I wrote and I rested. The next day, I would start the intravenous treatments.