Cultivate

My seedlings

Each day, I spend time cultivating the lives of living creatures, giving back. I care for each little seedling, each dog, and my kiddos gingerly and with love.

Right now it is raining - a fabulous spring thunderstorm. The drops fall on the concrete sidewalk outside my window as I type in a torrent. It smells of spring, and I swear I can smell the nitrogen in the air from the rain. Thunder claps in the distance. A dog breathes in the hallway, sleeping through this beautiful night and spring storm.

I sit cross-legged and breathe in love, acceptance and peace. I breathe out judgement, negativity and hate.

I breathe in forgiveness, serenity and tolerance; I breathe out pain and anger.

I breathe in vitality and healing.

I breathe in.

I breathe.

It's funny how long it takes the soul to repair from trauma. Over the last month, now that it's quiet, all of these memories from the hospital flood me. The lovely, dream-like haze of morphine injecting into my veins and washing over me. The Asian female resident in knee-socks and a white coat at dawn leaning over to listen to my heart and declaring, "murmur. You have heart murmur." Odd, surreal memories.

And then there's the not so surreal ones - ones that are far more ominous and horrifying. Feeling like I'm being held down by a weight on my chest and drowning when my lungs collapsed...Huge man indifferently ripping open my hospital gown while I'm helpless, can't move, can't speak to stick electrodes on me for an EKG, flopping my breasts around like so much meat...callously, callously, while my oxygen reads 82% and BEEP BEEP BEEP...

Can the soul be damaged when the body is damaged?


"Self portrait" - a piece I shot while in the hospital. Many claim they see images within this image

I had no idea when I checked into that hospital room it would be weeks before I'd leave. And I had no idea it would take months to process what unfolded in that room.

So now, nine months later, I sit crying at my dining room table listening to the rain. Nine months. Is this the gestational period to give birth to trauma recovery?

I breathe. Breathe in forgiveness, serenity and tolerance; I breathe out pain and anger.

I breathe in vitality and healing.

I breathe in.

I breathe.

Ride the Tiger

Which bags are bigger: those on the IV pole? Or those under my eyes?

Could I look any worse? Drained. Pale. My sister says I have "that sickly look." Thanks sis!

But inside, I'm fighting.


The Tiger in ancient Chinese represents dignity, ferocity, sternness, courage, and protection.

Qigong (pronounced Chee-gong) is a helpful tool for healing in ancient Chinese medicine. It incorporates movement, breathing, meditation and visualization to strengthen and heal the body. Qigong is said to stimulate the circulatory system, enhancing the elimination of wastes from the body, and the increased flow of lymphatic fluid improves the functioning of the immune system. Experts have found qigong can increase the amount of disease-fighting white blood cells, and improves the supply of oxygen to the body.

Several years ago, I learned a qigong guided imagery meditation used to promote healing called the Meditation of the Dragon and Tiger. Together, the dragon and the tiger represent yin and yang. In this visualization, one pictures literally swallowing a tiny tiger and a tiny dragon and watches as they move through the body, restoring balance and increasing vitality.

So what does all of this have to do with me?

I have been practicing this visualization technique since my admit to the hospital. Like the old Jefferson Starship song says, I wanna ride the tiger. Er, uh....Tigecycline.

And ride it out I do. Every 12 hours.



For an hour every 12 hours, I am connected to the tiny bolus of Tigecycline. And for that hour, I practice visualizing that tiny tiger moving through my veins.


Saline Hep-lock: allows quick IV access when needed, but allows me freedom to roam when I'm not receiving medicine

And, things appear to be working. I squint when I write that. Could it really be that easy?

Dr. Tan of infectious disease pushes on my abdomen.

"You don't seem to wince as much when I push," he says. "I think the Tygecil is working."

We can only hope. Until I know for sure, I'll keep riding the tiger - both of them!