Meditation for Breast Cancer: I Just Can't Get the Hang of It

During the series of tests following a diagnosis of breast cancer, I was not looking forward to the MRI. Rumor had it that they can be claustrophobic, noisy and having to stay still can be downright painful. I admit it – I’m a total wimp, and if it were an option, I would be tempted to accept morphine for a teeth cleaning.

In order to ease my anxiety the night before the MRI, I felt it was the ideal time to try out one of my new meditation CDs. I dug up the old DiscMan and put on my reading glasses to examine the teeny tiny black-on-black control buttons so I could navigate it by touch in the dark.

My brain has a hard time shutting down at night, so while waiting for my husband to come to bed, I created a mindful preparation ritual. I turned on the lamp on my nightstand, and fashioned an elaborate pillow arrangement for the DiscMan so it wouldn’t slip off the bed. I snuggled into a comfortable position, focused on the soothing ripples of our back yard waterfall, and practiced deep breathing.

Once we both settled into the dark stillness, I put in the earplugs, pushed the button, and listened to a soft, gentle... shshsssshsshhhhhh... Off button, on button... shshsssshsshhhhhh... Change the track button... shshsssshsshhhhh... I sat up, stretched over the pillow arrangement to turn on the light. The rumbling knocked the DiscMan onto the floor. I climbed over the pillows to retrieve it, put on my glasses and bent forward to closely examine the situation. I checked all the buttons – the disc was spinning... shshsssshsshhhhhh...

I unplugged and replugged the headphones a few times until... "THE BODY HAS THE POWER TO HEAL..." at a decibel level that jerked me back with enough force to yank the earplugs out of my head. I turned down the volume, put the earplugs back in, did another sound check and returned to bed. I rearranged everything, reached over to shut the light and realized I still had my glasses on. I tried to take them off, but the hangy-down chain guard had become tangled into a cat’s cradle with the earplug lines during the unplug-replug-fly-out-of-the-ears episode.

That’s when the laugh attacks began – the kind where your eyes water and squish shut uncontrollably and you get cheek cramps.

Phew, OK, settle down. I untangled the mess, shut the light and relaxed into position. I took a few moments to collect myself, enjoy some deep breaths, and put in the earplugs. Or at least try to. While releasing their grasp from the eyeglass chain, the cords had knotted into a mess resembling a four-year-old's first attempt at knitting.

Another laugh attack. All the commotion had my sweetie patiently burying his head under the pillows, but it did not dissuade my pursuit of Nirvana.

As I finally listened to the melodious voice, I realized this particular recording was more of a monologue on positive thinking than the music-meditation I had anticipated. I was on a mission to be soothed and healed and nothing was going to stand in my way. There had been two boxes in the package, so I went to the kitchen to get the second one.

I felt pretty smug, remembering exactly where I had left it on the counter so I could find it in the dark. What I hadn’t taken into account was that it was bound by that impenetrable plastic blister pack that doesn’t impede it from gliding into a shoplifter’s pocket, but does prevent anyone from ever actually opening it.

Deep breath... Aummmmmmmm...

Turn on the light, find a paring knife, slit the plastic. As I sliced away in the dim light of the stove, I noticed the box shape seemed unusual for a CD. It was. But it was perfect for a cassette tape and a little booklet. And the cassette player was on a shelf... in the garage.

I closed everything down, poured myself a big glass of water, popped a handful of my favorite herbal remedy for sleep/stress and went back to bed. I slept like a rock.

Epilogue I have an iPod.