When Things Fall Apart

Tonight I was reading a book by a Buddhist nun, called, *When things Fall Apart*. A close friend mailed it to me after she'd heard about my brain tumor.

It occurred to me while I was reading that I hadn't actually meditated in some years. Since I was liking this book, and since the book kept coming back to meditation and how it did and did not work, I figured now was a fine time to just sit and actually meditate.

I was fairly relaxed. I found my mind pretty quiet for the first minute or so. A few thoughts came, but I let them pass.

Then I thought about the surgery. I was imagining--as I often do--the little square they'll cut out of the back of my head. I can feel it open up like a little door.

This thought is not remarkable. I have it a lot; I find myself sometimes, often late at night, imagining the hole. I feel it there, under my hair. Then I think back to the first surgery. The light fixture in the hospital room is covered with a screen print of blue sky. Some leaves playfully creep out of the corner. At first I think it silly. But as the pain, piercing and precise, works on my senses, as each second ticks by, spiteful, deliberate--that stupid light fixture is a tiny, but blessed, relief.

The memories quickly turn to imaginings. Imaginings of the next surgery. How will I be able to rest when the back of my head is the wound? Will I have to lie on my stomach? Or will they give me some special pillow with a firm outside and big empty hole in the middle? The pain, I understand, will be worse. The recovery longer. I have never liked pain much. I still feel pretty strongly about that.

This memory/projection is a common flight-of-thought. But tonight I do not even get past the the little door. I stop right there, aware of where my thoughts are heading. And I just notice it--the thought--like I had noticed all the other thoughts before it.

Then--like this was a surprise--I thought, "Oh. . .I'm afraid. I'm afraid of having this surgery." And then I began to feel a burning in my chest. I was shuddering a bit. Not tears, but almost.

I really was afraid. Of course I was. Silly, maybe, not to realize it. But for all the nights my mind had run through those thoughts, idly, almost meaninglessly, like one might run through their grocery list, and for all the moments I told myself in an offhand way, "Yes, I'm sure I must, at some level, be afraid of this," I hadn't really felt it--or believed it--all too much.

But for a few moments, tonight, I did.

I went back to meditating. The crying sensation passed pretty quick. I was lucid again, staring blankly at my wall. Then, more thoughts--I was noticing how the paint job was uneven, and began wondering how to deal with the crown moulding--should I paint it first? How did it fasten to the wall?

Of course--my house. Still quite unfinished, any place I look is a vision of worry and work. Having these things--toolboxes, moulding--cluttering my mind as much as my house, is so common, so constant, it's normally not even something to notice. It's as consistent as my breath. But I am noticing my breath. This is the point.

Of course I am worried about my house. How could I not? I am afraid. I am worried. But weirdly, I have been detached from the awareness of these simple facts, despite how obvious they may be.

Tonight, for a few moments, I felt I was watching myself from above. I saw myself afraid of a major surgery, worried about a ton of work I still had left on my house, and I was OK with that. It was nice to be above it all for a just a few moments, to see myself from the outside. A tiny, but blessed, relief.

I was liking this feeling, this awareness. I wanted to keep going. What else was I feeling, doing? I realized, very quickly, I had almost no other thoughts. Which was because when I wasn't thinking about the house or my head, I was taking pain and anxiety pills and watching TV. When I wasn't doing that, I was feeling bad about the fact that I was not being more productive.

This picture now made sense. My mind is active, alert, but alternatively filled with dread and frustration. After a while, I can't deal with that anymore. So I shut down, become depressed. This is drudgery; it is awful. But at least my mind is quiet. Still, I can only take so much of that, especially since I've been there so many times in the past. So I chastise myself, recognizing that shutting down is making me miserable. Be productive, Frank! Do something! My mind kicks back into gear. I'm reading some, writing some. But soon the thoughts of head and house come back, and we begin again.

Fun!

But I am feeling better. It feels good to have a little grasp of all this.