to feel as if the universe was trying to tell me something. If I ever believed in such a thing as a sign, then I was getting signs from all over the place, and they were all pointing to the same thing—YOU’LL GET IT HANDLED!
Holding the slip of paper, I thought, “Hmm, maybe this guy is one of the bread crumbs, the signposts along my path. I’ll give him a ring as soon as I get back to Malibu.”
On my way home from the airport, holding the slip of paper in my hand, I felt an unexpected anticipation building. I could barely wait to see where this new signpost would take me next.
With a spring in my step I bounded through my front door in Malibu, reached for the phone, dialed the number on the slip of paper, and got the massage therapist’s secretary. She apologized profusely, but he didn’t have a single opening for one month. Did I want to schedule for then?
A month? I didn’t have a month! I had less than three weeks left.
I felt as if someone had stuck a pin in my balloon. How could it be that he couldn’t see me? I was just so sure he was part of my journey—one of my signposts. So far everything had flowed so perfectly, so gracefully—as if I was somehow in “the zone” that so many athletes speak of. This couldn’t be right. I asked her if she was absolutely certain.
“Yes, I’m sorry—he’s completely booked.”
Deflated, I put the phone down, still somehow unconvinced. Two minutes later I redialed—“Could I at least speak to him?”
“He’s with a client.”
“Well, could you pass on my message?”
“I’ll let him know you called.”
That night at 10:45 I received a phone call beginning with a flurry of apologies for calling so late. “My name is Benjamin—I’m the cranial-visceral massage therapist you phoned.”
We talked until 11:00 P.M., and he said, “Listen, if you don’t mind coming at 7:00 A.M. I’ll fit you in for as many sessions as I can between now and your time to go back for tests. Can you make it that early?”
“I can’t afford not to. I’ll be there at 6:45.”
Though early mornings have never been my best times, I was thrilled to be actively working toward physically healing myself, and glad that things once more seemed back “in the flow” and on track.
At the end of the first session, Benjamin turned to me as I reached for my coat, and said, “You know, I don’t get the feeling that this is really going to be a problem for you; I almost get the feeling it’s already healing itself. I know it sounds crazy, because your examination is less than three weeks away, but I get the feeling you are going to get this thing handled!”
I practically repeated it out loud with him! What was this, a mantra? I shook my head, smiled, and waved goodbye—“See you tomorrow.”
Benjamin had given me the name of a very good colon therapist. I promptly followed this up, and got an immediate appointment. During our colonic session she felt around my belly and said, “You know, I get the feeling this is going to move out very quickly, but there’s some old emotional stuff stored in there that you need to let go of.”
“I know,” I mumbled quietly. I was already all too aware that although I was actively taking care of my physical body in preparation for the healing, I still had not yet addressed the emotional side—I had not got to the core of what created the tumor in the first place. I checked inside to see if I was avoiding facing the issue, and I honestly didn’t feel I was. I was just staying open and trusting I would be guided, and I hadn’t yet felt “called” or pulled to dive into the emotional cause of the tumor.
It took a lot of courage, and more patience than I was normally accustomed to, to keep trusting, as I was fully aware that time was marching on! That night I got a phone call from my dear spiritual friend, Kabir, in San Francisco. He happens to be an oncologist, a doctor who specializes in cancer, and I listened as he gave an hour’s earful of technical medical detail, most of which I didn’t fully understand. I kept feeling, “There’s got to be a reason I’m listening to all this.” Finally, toward the end of the conversation, he got out of doctor mode and back into friendship mode, and I was able to get a word in edgewise. I let him know that it was not my intention to go the orthodox medical route. I intended to try healing on my own before giving the surgeons a chance to cut me open, and I really wanted to get at the emotional issues that I knew were at the core of it all, and get the learning that this pelvic mass had to give me.
“Brandon, I just got an idea! You should come visit me for a couple of days; I’ve got this great bodyworker who helps people let go of the emotional issues stored inside while working on your body—it’s fabulous work. I go there myself about once a week. She’s magic! I really have got a lot out of her sessions.”
For a doctor, sometimes he sounded so dramatic, but something in what he said called to me, and besides, even if she wasn’t that brilliant, I could always go over to the local meditation center there, meditate, and attend some programs—plus I’d get a chance to hang out with Kabir and have some of our spiritual chats.
“I’ll see if I can get good flights. If not, then we’ll assume it’s not meant to be.”
As grace would have it, I got one of those super-duper special discount deals on two tickets to San Francisco only forty-eight hours later. It was only two and a half weeks before I had to reappear at the doctor’s office and here I was once again—TRUSTING, TRUSTING, TRUSTING!
I was delighted to find Kabir had already organized a couple of appointments for me. Being a doctor, he himself had next to no time to see me, which suited me fine as I had a feeling when I stepped off the plane that something important was going to happen in San Francisco.
I made an uncharacteristic decision not to go to Kabir’s home, but to book Don and me into a great little bed-and-breakfast inn just down the street from the therapist. Figuring I had only a few short days there, I thought I might like to rest between sessions and keep quiet and let myself heal. Plus, the bed-and-breakfast was virtually down the street from the meditation center, where I could go to meditate and sit in silence.
Some part of me instinctively knew that the time had come to face the music—to turn inward and keep to myself. I didn’t know how important that decision would turn out to be.
As I went up the steps to meet Surja, the massage therapist, something inside began to feel wobbly and a little scared. I wondered what that was all about, and dismissed it as I rang the bell.
A lady with a kind face answered. With very reassuring tones, she took me to her treatment room, which was warm and clean and somehow nurturing in a simple, homey way. I asked her what the teddy bears on the chair were for. “Oh, for kids when they come here. It makes them feel secure. Some adults like them too.” I smiled, and got the feeling that they were really there for the adults. It seemed a little quaint, but sweet, just the same.
She was burning some fragrant incense, and had pictures of a couple of spiritual masters she had studied with. Though massage was her speciality, I could see she had a great love of Spirit, and probably had the same thirst for learning that I do.
We got to chatting before we started, and I told her the whole story from beginning to end—that it was my firm belief that emotional memories are stored in the cells of the body and get passed on from one cell generation to the next, and that real healing begins when you let go of these cellular memories. I prayed, with all my heart, to finally face whatever was stored inside that tumor. I hoped she could help.
I admitted to her that, being in the mind-body field myself, I’d probably tried and done everything over the past twenty years. I felt I’d experienced every healing technique available,