Tag Archives: meaning

Anxiety – a monster under the bed?

We can’t escape it. The worrying thoughts. Sometimes a pounding heart or sweaty palms. At times the sense of unease. Anxiety in its various forms can be present in all of us at different times. It is called many names. Fear, panic, phobia, stress, freaking out, concern, etc. At times it arrives because of a specific event (like an examination or doctor’s appointment). For others it may be the sight of an unwanted visitor. Good morning Incy Wincy Spider!

None of us escape the experience of anxiety. It is in essence hotwired into us. Hotwired neurologically and like electricity runs through our central nervous system. But why do we have anxiety? This uncomfortable and even disabling experience. Why is it often part of our daily lives? Not everyone will agree on “daily “, but I find that the majority of clients presents with a higher or lower degree of anxiety. This is very often the case when anxiety was not their initial complaint or concern. I am thus not surprised when a referral to me is due to depression or other challenges , but it becomes clear that anxiety is part of the package.

When it comes to emotional obstacles, a major challenge can be fighting against what we can not see or what we believe “is part of whom I am”. In essence the fight can then turn against one self. Me versus I. Instead of me against anxiety. To see anxiety as the enemy is not beneficial and can be visualised (imaginative or symbolised by a real object) as the problem the requires management. And the starting point? At the beginning. Understanding how anxiety operates and why we experience it.

Step 1. Feelings of anxiety start with a trigger or catalyst. This may be a smell, seeing an external object or by internal feelings . The amygdala jumps into action by preparing us physically and mentally into a fight or flight mode. This response is triggered by the release of adrenaline into the bloodstream via the kidneys. As a result our blood pressure and blood sugar rises, muscles are fueled with energy and we focus on what may be the potential danger. This may stifle some into a passive state; others are thrown into chaotic action, while others become extremely focussed and structured.

The Shadow ManStep 2. To identify the threat or potential danger. The importance of this that we may be (1) confronted by a real danger or problem, (2) that we responded incorrectly to an external or internal stimulus or (3) that when nothing happens, uncertainty may be appear to be a threat. This step is within the context of anxiety being a survival mechanism. If not for anxiety, we would not have survived as a human beings over centuries. However, when exposed to anxiety on a regular basis or growing up in an environment where anxiety flourished, it might have become behavioural patterns and even part daily routines.

Step 3. Ask yourself, “What purpose does anxiety serve in my life?” Does anxiety enhance my experiences of love, beauty, creativeness and (importantly) logical thoughts. Does it impede in the pleasure I may gain from a loving relationship, my sleep or even my ability to complete my studies or a piece of art? What does anxiety steal from me?

Step 4. Finding ammunition to manage anxiety. Before you fire away, know we cannot rid ourselves of anxiety . We all have times when anxiety visits and times when it serves an important function. However, consider the following:

  • How many of your worries become true? If you write down your weekly worries. Say you start at the floor, write them down one for one till you reach the ceiling. How many did repeat? Then tick each one that became true. How many ticks? Interesting.
  • Stay in the here and now, the present. Anxiety often let us dwell on decisions we made (“Did I do the right thing?”, “What did they think …?”) or focus on the uncertainties of the future (so many “What if?” questions).
  • Know that your experience of anxiety does not imply something is wrong with you. Anxiety visit people from all ages, religions, cultural backgrounds. You are one of us if you experience anxiety. You are not alone. You are not the problem. Anxiety is.
  • Do you ever worry that someone will knock on your door and say, “Congratulations, you have won a wonderful holiday!” No, anxiety does not focus on possible positive outcomes. It tells us the potential bad stuff, what may go wrong and the worst possible scenarios.
  • Know that physical sensations are anxiety gearing you up for action. Your dry mouth, hairs on the back of your neck rising up, having cold feet and pins and needled in your fingers, butterflies on your stomach, shallow breathing and increased heart rate are all part of the fight or flight package. You can use it if you are under threat. But if all is fine, know that it is just anxiety being unpleasant. Know YOU WILL NOT DIE FROM THIS.
  • Breath in. Breath out. Slowly and deeply. Give your body and your brain oxygen. Breath in. Breath out.

Step 5. If you find anxiety overwhelming, find someone to talk to. This may be a friend, a family member, someone you trust (e.g. religious affiliation) or professional. So often anxiety grows on us as we keep it private. But bottling it up just let the temperature rise. Let it out, let it go. The monster under your bed is not real. It is anxiety trying to scare you.

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Psychology Reflections, This thing called life

Once I was 41 years old

In a wink of an eye. It truly is remarkable. It was the seasonal changes that reminded me. Four years ago, May 2012, the nights were getting darker and longer, the days more misty and gloomy in the autumn light. Working hard, probably too hard. WorkingIMG_1535 hours were stretched into the night and my commute home most often passed family homes where supper was served. And then it stopped. Out of the blue, out of the dark.

My brain tumour’s surprised arrival followed my first ever half marathon (a good one) and a second half marathon (a struggle) two weeks later. I was fit, healthy and our family was settling back into a routine following our return from England 18 months before. Life treated us well, with only run of the mill challenges. Nothing dramatic. Kids at school carving their own marks in discovering their identities in a South African lifestyle. Anneén and I  finding ways to integrate our learning curves from abroad back into systems familiar from long term memory. IMG_1604

And still with the good and the lovely came the unexpected. Loss of consciousness whilst driving on the highway. Waking up under hospital lights. First sight was Anneén’s tears. Comprehending her words, but it did not make sense. Seizure? Brought here by ambulance? Really? But it was true, despite my IMG_1582amnesia. And so the journey started. MRI Brain Scans, differential diagnosis. New differential diagnosis. MRI Brain Scan and craniotomy aka brain surgery. Chemotherapy and radiotherapy.

And in between I ran. Not away. Not in flight, even though at times in tears. But I found running as a way in between chemo sessions to find open spaces, open mind space. I ran to feel my heart beat, blood in muscles and a sense of moving forward, moving on. It was life affirming. Death denying. Even though “mortality” was suddenly written on a white wall.

When I was 41 years old, the seasons changed in our Wine-lands. The vines lost their green coats, changed into golden, red and brown outfits and were then blown apart by autumn winds. The bare vineyard fingers were exposed, like skeletons. Winter was coming, but so the knowledge that the seasons change. New life will return to the brown vines, crooked in in the morning light. New red and black fruit will return, plucked into baskets and transformed into wine. A new life, a different life. IMG_1436

I am turning 46 soon. The seasonal changes includes us, make us aware of life’s ongoing journey and routines. What will follow around the next corner, over the next hill or within the mountain forest. I am not able to tell – a true blessing.  But I can stand still on my way. Take a deep breath, close my eyes. Hear the wind in the pine trees, smell the dusty roads between the vineyards, see the excitement in our dogs eyes. Breath out. And run.

 

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life

MRI Brain Scan: a crash-bang-bang course

It’s the 23rd. It is a positive start”, I think when the receptionist said the date. 23 is my lucky number. I completed most of the paperwork the previous week when I dropped off my oncologist’s referral letter. A few more dotted lines call for my signature. I don’t know how many MRI scans I have had; today’s might be 6th. However, the last one in March was the most important. The one labelled, “all clear”.

How do I approach a brain scan? Like everyone, I suppose I my own ways. Each person will bring specific fears, unique routine and mental preparation before facing the tunnel. Earlier today my rituals consisted of the things under my control. Having a shave, dressing in my favourite light orange and white shirt, wearing comfortable jeans, putting on my trial running shoes that make me feel grounded, a call to confirm the appointment time and leaving enough time to arrive early. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it is the ordinary and familiarity that bring comfort.

I arrive at the hospital 15 minutes early. I don’t carry anxious thoughts with me, never been a great advocate of worry. But I sense the tension in my back and shoulders. It’s not possible to ditch all the anxiety. It tends to sneak in when you are not looking. Anneén arrives before I reach the main entrance. I told her she did not have to come, but it is a great comfort to have her with me. Knowing she will wait in the reception area when it’s all done. It is oddly quiet when we slowly criss-cross through the hospital passages. Most of it was renovated recently and signs warning of wet paint still serve as decorations. “They could have done with a bit of colour” we agree. No one else waits in the reception area. The school and university holidays provide a nice change from the usual hustle and bustle.

When called, I know the drill. I leave my outer layers of safety behind and emerge from the change locker in a faded peach colour garment. A further breakdown of any aesthetic possibility comes in the form of my long black running socks sticking out from underneath. Comfort? Yes. Sexy? Definitely not! I wait for a few minutes underneath signs and arrows that directs towards different scan options. A cleaner slowly sweeps the floor area surrounding me. I feel a need to focus on something. Unfortunately the small Beavers and Butthead cartoon on the notice board is too small to make out the writing.

Luckily the bad joke requires little time as it is 8:45 and the MRI scanner waits. Lying down on the flat surface is the easy part and fairly comfortable. The radiographer knows about my previous scan experiences, so she shiftily hands me the earplugs (to reduce the noise) and place two sheets of white foamy stuff both sides of my face. She moves my head slightly to the left and gently pressed down on my chin to position my head correctly. The small rubber bubble is placed into my hand, in case I need to call for help. It provides some security, as I used it on a previous occasion when the claustrophobia got to me. Finally she covers me with a blanket for both physical and emotional warmth. All I need is music to relax, but it is not available as I am not allowed any metal (not the musical type) or earphones in the tunnel due to the strong magnetic fields.

You can open your eyes if you want to”, she says as I slide into the tunnel. “There is no way”, I replied louder in my head than in words. I made that mistake once before. I don’t like narrow spaces. I admit that I don’t like being out of control either – especially about my physical space. I can feel my elbows being slightly pushed inwards by the sides of the MRI’s tunnel. For a moment I am aware that the blanket is slightly pulled back on the sides due to inwards movement. “I am covered like corpse”. I don’t know where the thought came from, but I was ready for it. “I am here because I am alive”, I counter-argue. “I am here being I want to remain healthy and value life”. And so my process in my head starts to manage the crowded space and mechanical noise.

  • I start with thoughts. Focussing on being alive. The people who matters for me. I am doing this for them and me. What I know. For example, I had no symptoms or strange behaviour (as far as I know at least!). What is important (staying healthy)
  • Visualise memories and beautiful images. Seeing my daughters jump on the “bungee trampolines” the previous day. Looking out over the sun covered vineyards with snow covered mountain peaks behind.
  • Letting go of these images and thoughts and let them flow away like thick honey.
  • Slowing down my breathing. Being aware of my breath, rather than the lack of space around me.
  • Comparing the mechanical noises with sounds I know. I hear a large mechanical bee, a dentist drill, an electrical mosquito, a loud air-pressured drill. A hammer against a water pipe.
  • Physical sensation (such as an itch that I can scratch) indicates to me that I am alive.

20130922_122050_resized

It does not feel like “about 25 minutes”, but after a short silence the radiographer returns and injects my arm with contrast dye. This makes certain tissues and blood vessels show up with greater detail on the scan. I move back inside with less tension for the last 15 minutes. I allow my senses more freedom to explore the experience. Mumford and Sons are still playing “After the Storm” in my mind when I exit the scanner’s tunnel. I am set free.

2013-09-23 12.11.21_resizedIt is 3 hours later and we are sitting at the neurosurgeon’s office. I am aware of the results CD in my hand. The CD is light, but the engraved information carries a different weight. Martin greets us as he walked passed. He needs to quickly go to the ward, but will be with us on time. On his return, Martin opens the scan result on his computer. There two brains, both mine, on display. One from the March scan. The other from this morning. They look similar. Martin shows the left frontal area where the operation took place. I dark area indicates where the tumour and some brain tissue were removed. Nothing else shows up. The scan is almost identical to that done in March. I am clean. No cancer growth or tumour cells are visible.

Once more I am set free.

19 Comments

Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life

The Tough Going

I love those moments when creative thoughts awake in the cortex and streams like golden liquid down neuro-pathways onto the white screen. Words that splatter out ideas, experiences and events into a synchronised line of meaningful thought. Or when the artist’s imagination draws a vision that flows in charcoal and paint onto a canvass to bring beauty into life.

But occasionally dark skies cloud the psyche and dwarf the imagination into submission. Troubled times arrive in the form of external events and dries the magic and steals the funny bones. And no, not all of these shadow times relate to brain tumours or cancer treatment. At times it is just life. Waves of “it happens” that saps the juice and suck the marrow from my fruit. Not so much Carpé Diem, more crap and damn.

It has been a rough 4 weeks. In between my car breaking down (twice), a broken tooth and attempts to replace it with a temporary implant (3 times and still not right), a drawn out winter the soaks Spring into a foggy memory and aiming to take that big grown-up jump again into the dark (called house hunting), the good times have been sidelined. Over the same period work slowed downed, adding pressure on responsibilities such as paying the tax master. It felt like sinking, drowning in the smoky skies.

Wet Winter

While holding up this grim picture, I am not bursting into sing and dance. I am actually not a great believer in positive thinking, or when the dark cloud comes rolling over the hills that you should start searching for the silver lining. When the dark clouds appear, find shelter. The storm while pass, but while it sweeping down and pouring gallons of water on the earth, curl up under a warm blanket. Stay dry, stay warm. It’s OK to cuddle up.

4 Comments

Filed under Psychology Reflections, This thing called life

Brain Surgery – 1 year on

6 August 2013

Special occasions don’t start with fireworks or with an extraordinary sunrise and awakening. Today was a grey, rainy day in the Western Cape and Boland’s wine region. Anneén left yesterday for Namibia for work, so I had to get the girls ready for school, sort the dogs out and tick-off my mental checklist of lunchboxes, reading-bags, vitamins (for them), Epilim (for me), dog food (for the 4 legged ones), umbrellas and signing the form for the nurses’ visit to school. Quite ordinary for an anniversary.

The trip to school was filled with playing “I spy” and “asking daddy hard questions”. Today’s clincher: “Why can only mommies have babies in their tummies?” (Do boys ask similar questions?), while filling the traffic cues to the local primary and secondary schools. Several cars with University students shot past, making the most of the current free parking situation in Stellenbosch. Dropping the girls off as the school bell announces the start of another day of learning. Close, but in time. All quite rushed, but precious moments as they turn around to throw themselves into a goodbye hug and run into the crowd of blue uniforms and playfulness. Ordinary does not rule our being touched by these moments.

Driving 45 minutes to work is more or less the norm. As is the case on my Monday and Tuesday journeys, my iPod playing the latest Kermode and Mayo’s film review podcast from BBC Radio 5 live (something I can recommend to any lovers of movies or talk about movies if, as with us, it is difficult to actually get to the cinema!). Nothing out of the norm, but the routine providing a sense of familiarity and security. Stopping at the first clinic to complete a memory assessment. Then to the hospital for a psychotherapy session at the heart unit, before arriving at our practice for two more consultations. Awareness of my anniversary is left in the car, while my focus shifts to the clinical and therapeutic tasks at hand. I am appreciating the privilege to be able to work and to be productive.

Lunch time I am rushing back home to look after our girls given that mum is doing a bit of jet-setting. My iPod’s shuffle kick-start Alanis Morrison’s “Thank You”. I am thankful that it is a year on. Should I say thank you for the brain tumour that dropped into my life in 2012? Alanis’ words resonate with me:

Alanisthank you terror
thank you disillusionment
thank you frailty
thank you consequence
thank you thank you silence

 

But no, I am not thankful that I had a brain tumour. But I know that I don’t have to fight against it (for now anyway there is nothing to fight against). Anneén and I had all of the above and I can find ways to be thankful for having these daunting experiences and what it taught us. But I am not trapped by them. I don’t have to fight. I can just take responsibility. I can look after my immune system, I can stay healthy (without overdoing it), I can run and can live life. I can love my family and friends and look after my emotional well-being. I can set challenges and we can have celebrations. Bob Dylan steps on stage after Alanis – my iPod is the coolest DJ!

In between doing the dad’s taxi service I stop off at Martin’s office. I feel a bit embarrassed about the “Thank you” – card. The options at the SPAR were limited to “field of flowers” or “laughing baby”. Flowers it was to accompany the bottle of red Tamboerskloof Syrah (no embarrassment about that choice though!). I am pretty sure he won’t allow the enjoyment to interfere with his next craniotomy, but hope he will raise a glass of the peppery and berry crimson nectar to celebrate my extraordinary-ordinary anniversary of life a year post-operation.

the moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
the moment I jumped off of it
was the moment I touched down

4 Comments

Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life

The last chemo tablet standing

And there it was. One out of the last 4 Temadol tablets to go. Even though my mind knew the relief to have reached this point, my body was not at the point where it felt it. The milestone can be celebrated on another day. But after the initial 30 days of chemo and radiotherapy and now, with one tablet to go, the past 6 months have been about picking myself up and then going into survival mode for 5 to 7 days, picking myself up again. Only one of today’s 4 left to go.

 

Thinking back, the running helped. In between the treatment stints, putting running shoes on and getting into running mode cleared my mind and my body felt stronger after been knocked down after every 5 day chemo round. I know that people respond differently to chemo. My experience was overwhelming fatigue. I felt the energy draining away and I had to work hard after each “day 4” to get going again. But I have been able to keep pushing myself. Going to work helped. Seeing my colleagues, meeting with clients and knowing when to take it slow helped. Grateful for the odd public holiday, like being able to stay at home yesterday on Worker’s Day to rest properly.

Most of all I am grateful to Anneén who took on so much more on her shoulders when I was down and almost out, when I could not be there for her and our girls. In those times when tiredness dragged me down, Anneén was strong for us. We celebrated when my last MRI scan came back clean and I celebrate her carrying us carrying us through tough and uncertain times. Thanks babes!

One last tablet.

Off you go.

Go do your dark magic.

11 Comments

Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life

The Ides of March

It had both. The incredible high was followed by the unexpected sucker punch the next day. The cliché of an emotional rollercoaster rocked me up to the top and then ran me into the ground below. Although I know that is how stories often flow, it took me a few days to recover. But let me start with a question, “Can you become friends with someone in 2 hours?

De OewerIt was a wonderful high on hearing that my MRI Brain Scan came back without any sign of tumour. The message was clear, “Live your life”. I wrote about it and received wonderful responses from friends, family and my colleagues from all over the world who read my blog or those within reach of a phone call. It was a wave of positive energy and we rejoiced. We called up the locals and celebrated at the De Oewer restaurant next to the Eerste Rivier. There was bubbly, laughter in between conversation and a feast to enjoy. Children were running, climbing, playing and flowing with the energy of innocence. It felt like the rise of a new sun that chased away the dark shadows of fear and anxiety. I felt connected to Anneén and our girls, connected to my friends and family, connected to my colleagues who unselfishly walked this road with me. The moments were golden underneath the oak leaves and besides the cool sounds of running water.

I met Gerrit once towards the end of 2012. It followed a suggestion from a colleague who knew him. His brain tumour was removed in 2007 and has been working at the Theological Faculty in Stellenbosch – my old stomping ground from the mid 1990’s. As Gerrit stopped driving, I picked him up from home, about a kilometre from ours. A breakfast at the D’ Oude Bank Bakkerij at the bottom of Kerk Straat, while we shared our stories of diagnosis, operations, survival and reprioritising our lives. Gerrit was in hospital for his craniotomy during the 2007 Rugby World Cup, mine was during the 2012 London Olympics. His tumour was hiding in his left temporal lobe, mine left frontal. We clicked. I could relate to Gerrit and his journey that started 5 years prior to mine. He came to the Cape and was given a position at the theological faculty, even though his background was in journalism and he was open up his medical status. We met for a few hours and it felt like we have been friends for much longer.

De Oude Bank BakerijWe spoke and we realised that I am 2 days older than him. Gerrit spoke about the Argus Cycle Tour he did with his son and how grateful he was for this opportunity. He spoke about his difficulties with word finding and how students will initially laugh when he tells them about this. But then he tells them again and they believe. Gerrit spoke about friends and I realised that we have met them, drank some good wine with them. Gerrit spoke about his love for his wife and sons and how he did not want his sons to worry that “this” might happen to them. Gerrit spoke and often gaps in sentences appeared, getting stuck for a specific word. But he smiled and we know it is there somewhere; it just does not come to the surface. That brokenness contributed to the truth and the integrity of present moment. There is a crack in everything; that is where the light comes in.

The day after my mile-high moment on the 13th of March, the news that broke my heart. Gerrit died two weeks before. Our GP told Anneén. A month before I made contact via SMS and Gerrit’s wife replied that he was deteriorating by the day. I was hoping that it might be due to treatment making him ill or something non-threatening. But Gerrit died. Somehow it did not upset me at first. Maybe I had to make sense of it first; logic always being my first line of defence. I send a message to Gerrit’s wife and she kindly replied, even sending best wishes to me. It was the day after, a Friday. It felt as if a heavy hand pulled my heart into the earth. I was as down as was I was elated two days before. The message of a second chance to live was followed by the messenger that death prevented my short lived friendship with Gerrit. There would be no return for the breakfast I owed him, for our broken words to again spill out of our brokenness to find meaning and truthful reflection on being human and our mortality. And I only met Gerrit once, we spoken over the phone twice. I am not his wife, his sons or his parents. I am not his longstanding friends or those who asked about his well-being at work. I was just his friend for a brief interlude. And I felt sad and lost.

Today I don’t want to celebrate the fact that I just finished my second last course of chemo or the good news about my recovery. I want to celebrate meeting Gerrit. I want to remember the brave man who smiled at his missing words and the kindness in his eyes. The love he expressed for his family and the courage to make the most of the hand he was dealt. Salute!

13 Comments

Filed under My Brain Tumour and I, This thing called life