Paradigm Shift at Simches 3

My name tag and notes from yesterday's SCAD Meeting at Mass General Hospital

Did you feel it yesterday, a paradigm shift under your feet? The epicenter was Simches 3 Conference Room at Massachusetts General Hospital where women from different points of SCAD care came together to present an educational meeting for survivors and their partners. 

The afternoon had all the aspects one would expect from a meeting: the conference room, data and facts in slide presentations, name tags. But the tone, the delivery, the energy in the room was not the old model of "sage on a stage" and passive patient listeners wrestling with information (along with their own emotions) as cold, hard data is tossed at them.  

Instead, Dr. Malissa Wood brought together a group of women to share, inform, and guide. It was a powerful example of the "Divine Feminine" in action, the idea that the world needs to move toward actions associated with what is considered traditionally feminine energy.

What did the paradigm shift look like? It was collaboration among doctors and researchers rather than competition. It was networking with others and collecting our shared experiences rather than going it alone. It was a blending of science and technology with the social and emotional pieces of healing rather than ignoring those pieces because they cannot always be measured or quantified. It was respectful listening and speaking from all levels of experience rather than top-down communication.

Best of all, was the nurturing-- the nourishing lunch waiting for us when we arrived to the meeting, cookies and coffee at the break, hugs, tears, laughter, smiles, flowers. There was deep appreciation from all directions. 

A huge thank you to the women who gave us the very best of themselves yesterday: Dr. Malissa Wood; Dr. Nadita Scott; Dr. Sarah Tsiaras; Dr. Jacqueline Saw; Dr. Esther Kim; Life Coach Viktoria Munroe; Cardiac Rehab Specialists Nancy McCleary, Maria Shea & Kate Traynor; Patient Advocate & SCAD Alliance Founder Katherine Leon; and NE SCAD Facebook Group Founder Robyn Harris. 

A few hours in a conferences room yesterday tipped the world a few more degrees toward problem-solving through powerful respect and kindness.

Maine Women Magazine Article Feb. 2018

What Does a Heart Attack Survivors Look Like?

What does a heart attack survivor look like? It was easy to spot us in the crowd at the American Heart Association's Southern Maine Heart Walk today. Here and there amid all the many, many supporters were the AHA-issued cap-wearers. Heart attack survivors got a red survivor's cap (a pretty nice one, I may add!); stroke survivors got white.  

Onward and together we walked, through the inflatable start gate and onto the 3.5 mile course around Portland's Back Cove. We were a tight pack of sneakers, water bottles, sunscreen, baby carriages, and wet dog noses of all sizes pressing against backs of calves.  

I couldn't help but look for us. Who were the others that had survived?  I know, of course, my small circle of SCAD-survivor women. But in a crowd of hundreds, how do all heart attack survivors stand out? How do we compare? Who are we?

All along our route I observed us, the Red Capped Ones, and by the end I can tell you I have nothing to classify. No tallies. No likenesses. There was no particular visage, or gait, or girth of heart attack-ness among us. We looked like everybody. We looked like no one in particular.  There were red-capped women younger than me pushing baby carriages. There was a red-capped teenage boy.  I noticed a slim, athletic-built man; the sign on his back said he was a heart-transplant recipient. 

Heart attack survivors come in any form, any age, male or female. For one morning, though, donning our red caps, we shared footsteps and hearts beats as we each carried our unique stories of survival under a clear blue sky.

A Flop of Faith

My first week of Advent was a flop. I don't know for sure what happened but by Thursday, after coming home from a third night of parent conferences, there was the faith candle, stooped over and looking pitiful.

If you are not familiar with the Advent wreath, it is a Christian tradition in which three purple candles and one pink candle are placed in a wreath and lit in celebration of the Advent or the four weeks leading up to the arrival of Christ, aka Christmas. In my Unity faith, we are not literally waiting for a messiah to come to earth to clean house or anything like that. We are symbolically celebrating our "indwelling Christ," acknowledging that God is in, through, and around all things. We turn our hearts and minds to what the four candles represent: faith, peace, hope, and joy.

The practice involves lighting one purple candle each Sunday until the final one, the pink joy candle, is lit and the whole wreath is aflame just when we need it -- around the final days of the darkest time in the Northern Hemisphere, the Winter Solstice.

 When my children were little, we would light a candle every night, say an affirmative prayer, blow out the candle, and open a very small gift.  Now that my kids are grown, this year I decided I would light the candle each evening just as a gift for myself.  I planned to meditate on what each candle represents for a few minutes and maybe do a little journaling before I went to bed.

I was gung ho Sunday evening. The piny scent of the Christmas tree with its sparkling lights and the dull glow of the candle's flames lulled me into a place of confidence, faith, and strength for the coming week. I even wrote a few pages in my journal.

Monday was good too. I kept my thoughts centered on the faith and gratitude of my healed heart and affirmed that I continue to heal in all ways. By Tuesday, I glanced at the candle and was able to muster the word "faith" in my mind until laundry piles got my attention. By Wednesday, however, it was all downhill. I had allowed myself to get tangled in thoughts of all that I had to get done and questioned if I had the strength to do it.  I'm pretty sure that's when the candle started to keel over too.

Now the faith candle hangs over as a waxy drip threat and I must face the truth: I lost faith this week. I worried about getting my students' work graded for the close of the trimester. I worried about how I would find the time to complete my final project for the online writing course I am taking. I worried how my paycheck would stretch across the bills marching in this month. It felt like a long, weary week.

The good thing about time, though, is that is passes. I'll call last week the week of little faith and I'll also call it over. Done with.

Tonight I'll slip a piece of foil under the faith candle and let it drip its bowed head all it wants. The worries may encroach upon me again. Sometimes we are imperfect in our faith. Sometimes we wander into the darkness of our worries.  But I'll light the next purple candle this evening. I'll blend a little peace in with my wilted faith and enter a new week with an open heart.

Of Stress and Gratitude

If something had to break, better my night mouthguard than a coronary artery. This is what's left of my tension-surpressing night guard that is supposed to keep me from clenching my teeth during sleep. It's a tiny thing, custom-made by my dentist, that clicks on over my front bottom teeth. As you can see in the photo, the device is not much wider than a couple of Franklin D. Roosevelt heads, but it does a mighty job. It has been holding back the over 250 lbs. of pressure a human bite can exert.

I got it less than a year out following my One and Only SCAD when my dentist suggested perhaps I was tense. Well...she didn't exactly suggest that I was tense. She outright told me: "You've been through hell-and-back with your heart. Of course you're tense!

I had come in to see her with tooth pain that turned out to be a diagonal pressure crack from the surface of the tooth to the gum line. The film of my molar, enlarged on her screen, looked like the aftermath of an earthquake, like an image from my undergrad geology textbook. All that pressure had opened up a pathway for bacteria to make its way into the roots and I ended up with four root canals, a complete crown, and this small clear device that I was to wear every night to prevent anything else from cracking in my mouth. 

It looks pitiful now broken in two. This wasn't supposed to happen. 
It's fabricated out of a forever substance that the manufacturer's website only refers to as a "Discluding Element." Somehow my jaw clenching had decimated a substance that can dangle whole elephants from steel building girders and act as a crash barrier between locomotives. 

Now what? The Thanksgiving holiday is about to dawn and I am days away from my dentist's office being open. Can I actually try to sleep over the next few night without clenching? That is harder than it sounds. 

My dentist has explained the clenching behavior and the hell-and-back to me a few times now and in a few different ways. My favorite analogy she uses is that people who clench their teeth at night usually know how to keep themselves calm and are high-functioning during the day. It's as if they put the stress and worries that come up in their minds away in a file cabinet during the day to deal with later and go on with their jobs or responsibilities at hand. But guess when they start rummaging through those filing cabinets? In my case, I think I am probably a researcher pulling an all-nighter.

Sound familiar?  How many of us SCAD survivors are also high-functioning filers by day and teeth-clenchers by night?

Maybe the only solution is to reverse it, at least until I get a new night mouthguard. 

At the dinner table this Thanksgiving I shall say: "I am grateful to express my stress and worries during the day, rather than all night long."

There!

Look out, family. 

Tears at the Starbucks Counter

All I wanted was a grande Pikes Place half-decaf coffee with steamed coconut milk. It was my last stop of the afternoon after what had turned out to be a stressful Saturday. It was my treat to myself after dealing with a string of irritating events. I has stopped at Starbucks to relax, to breathe, to do what so many of us have learned to do and do well as SCAD survivors and that is to take care of ourselves and not sweat the small stuff.

There had been too much small stuff for me on Saturday. First there was the constipated bearded dragon. I am caring for the magnificent lizard while my son is traveling and I had been up at the crack of dawn, swishing him through 103 degree bathwater, massaging his abdomen, and dripping onto his tongue -- ever so slowly and patiently -- a laxative of warm olive oil and mashed kiwi from a tiny syringe. The situation was dire because Beardie had not pooped in ten days and that can sometimes result in death. (I'll spare you the details but things did "pass," quite rapidly, the following day, so I am happy to report that he lived!).

Next there had been the mad crunch to get a project done for my digital writing graduate course. Between the bathwater swishing and the olive-oil dripping, I had been cobbling together voice-overs, special effects, and musical interludes to create a podcast that was due Sunday night. I had not intentionally left my project until left-minute, but my week teaching 7th grade had been a busy one and Saturday was my only free day to get the project done.

And then my laptop ran out of battery power. When I reached into my bag to pull out my charger, a sinking feeling ran through my guts as I realized it wasn't there. I had left my charger on my desk at work. My school is a 40-minute drive from my home and I am not entirely sure how to work the building security system. With only hours now to get my project done, the quickest -- albeit most expensive -- route to get power restored to my laptop was to dash over to the Apple store and purchase another charger. 

Our local Apple store, which is located at the mall, is a special sort of circus on a Saturday. Upon approach, it appears to be a serene assemblage of human life inside a glass tank. The floor-to-ceiling glass that forms the facade, is sound-proof and all appears orderly. Once you have entered, though, you are in a swirling buzz of technology. There are people lined up along counters with their laptops, iPads, and iPhones, sitting upon stools, all murmuring at the same time to salespeople about their tech woes and wishes.

I forged my way past the counters to the back of the store where, after a spell of waiting for a salesperson, I was able to secure a charger and make my way again to the front of the store, out of the mall, and into sunlight. 

As an extra topping to the stress of the day, I decided to stop at a Christmas Tree Shop and run in to get some nuts. I had been out of nuts, which are a staple of my healthy diet, and I knew they had good prices on almonds and cashews. More wading past humans, this time dodging carts filled with all the accoutrements for happy holidays - scented candles, flag poles with spinning windsock turkeys, and glowing wreaths composed of fake pine boughs and seashells. I located the cans of nuts, inched my way through a checkout, and was able to return to my car without getting run over by drivers competing for the nearest parking spots.

It had all felt like too much. I needed to slow down my Saturday, just for a few moments. 

Not too far from The Christmas Tree Shop is Starbucks, with the green, twin-tailed goddess beckoning me inside to order my half-decaf Pikes Place with steamed coconut milk. Perfect! I would take a little break for myself before I returned home to begin my long evening of finishing my podcast project.  

The ordering part went smoothly despite many customers ahead of me and a steady line forming behind me. It was the pick-up counter where the snag -- and my meltdown-- occurred.

I waited as orders were called and their people stepped forth to claim them. Salted caramel macchiatos and peppermint mocha lattes went sailing by under my nose. I worked on the crossword puzzle. 

A couple blonde roasts with soy and something made with creme brulée was slid to waiting customers. I read an article on the front page of the local newspaper. 

More caffeinated delights sailed past, this time by people who had ordered after me. 

"Excuse me. I'm waiting for a Pikes Place, half-decaf?"

Eye roll. 

Oh dear. The barista was cranky. 

She left her post and returned a few moments later with a steaming cup. She called, in a voice too hearty for the two feet of distance between us: "PIKES PLACE DECAF!"

"That would be me," I whispered.

When I turned and popped the lid to splash a bit of honey in, I noticed it was black. No coconut milk.

Back to the counter.

The barista's arms were now flying faster than before, as a large order had just come through. Pitchers of cream were steaming, ice was being crushed, and whipped cream was being shot out of canisters at an alarming rate. As each drink was placed on the counter, its name was barked out and new waves of people were claiming them. 

"Excuse me."

No response.

"Hello?"

No eye contact

"You forgot"

More barking.

"...my coconut milk."

Nothing. She just kept going on with the other orders. 

At first I felt irritation, then anger and then.. oh God, what was this.... tears! Really? I started to tear up. 

I was crying at the Starbucks pick-up counter!

It was a raw feeling of unfairness. I had been working so hard all week; I still had lots to do ahead of me. I had done everything right. I had ordered correctly and waited patiently. The raw feeling of unfairness began turning larger in my mind and connected to the place which equates with the unfairness of SCAD, with all that I went through with open heart surgery. Suddenly and quite forcefully a small voice wanted to be heard: I did everything right and I had a heart attack. It is unfair!

There is was. Beyond the coconut milk, a voice that could only be heard through this rather silly situation. Even in my teariness I wanted to roar: I've had a heart attack and I've had a hard day and I just want my coffee order to be right!

Of course I said none of this out loud, but my expression must have been sour because a manager appeared and asked me if something was wrong.

I was able to muster: "I've been waiting a long time to get my coffee order right."

Very quickly my coffee was made and served to me as ordered, a refund was issued, and a gift card for $5 was given to me with lots of apologizing by the manager.

Tearing up like that and feeling so small and vulnerable is not typical for me. Yet there it was. And I understand now that it is just another post-SCAD ghost lingering in my mind, a small trace of the sadness of having gone through SCAD. There is a piece of me that feels vulnerable, changed, and asks for recognition of the injustice of SCAD. And it came out in a most surprising way.

It wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was only asking to be heard.

Once again, I am reminded to have compassion for myself, to slow down, to be brave and live my life but to also hear the sometimes sadness of the survivor's song.

I Just Let Go

My daughter Kari in Western Australia. She is currently traveling the world and has taught me a great deal about letting go. Photo by: Tom Kelley.

It was the worst time for me to leave for the weekend for my Unity Women's Retreat. It is the start of a new school year with all the complications of being part of a team of six teachers trying to steer a team of 120 thirteen-year-old students down a shiny path of enlightenment and academic achievement. (If you're not a teacher, think "herding cats.") In addition to this I am taking a graduate course online. Throw in all the fuss that comes with a big family wedding for me to help with on the following weekend and the conditions just aren't prime for a getaway. That also means it's the best time to leave. Just leave. Let go.

It was worth every moment! We were a group of 40 women of every age and background. We talked, we meditated, we held each other in tears and laughter, we swam in the ocean, released our fears into a campfire, ate together and healed. Much of what I released was residual fear from my SCAD.

My weekend Women's Retreat opened with a reading of this poem. My first thought was that I must share it with my SCAD sisters as well. With so little known about SCAD there comes a point where we just simply must let go.

So here is the poem. Read it slowly.

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

~ Rev. Safire Rose