Warrior Pose (49 page)

I have no illusions that Yoga will make me a sage of any sort, but the more I tune out the noise around me and listen to the silence within, I'm able to access an inner wisdom I've been unaware of most of my
life. I now realize there's a natural and intuitive knowing within me, an inner guidance arising like a whisper from my Soul. I repeatedly commit to listening even more closely to this voice, which always seems to be saying
Take it further, commit ever more deeply, and never look back
. My intellectual mind, of course, offers me a million ways to judge or dismiss all this esoteric spirituality, but I've decided not to listen to that mental voice any longer. This is life or death for me. My only chance.
I'm all in. One hundred percent.

CHAPTER 31

Homecoming

R
ICHARD IS WAITING for me in the downstairs lobby as I arrive at the Pain Center this morning. I'm surprised to smell tobacco on his breath. He quit smoking last week when he started Yoga, and has been exuding a real sense of hope lately. Now he's gripped with anguish as he grabs my arm with force and almost yells, “Did you hear the news?”

I wonder if there's been a cataclysmic world event I've missed since I no longer watch TV, or maybe someone we know has had a relapse.

“No, Richard, what is it?” I ask softly, trying to calm him down.

“I just found out that the Pain Center is shutting down!” He exclaims with tears welling up in his eyes as he trembles with anger. “They're out of money. The insurance companies say there's no proof any of this works and it's out of the mainstream, so they won't reimburse the hospital for our treatments. There aren't enough patients who can pay the full price and there aren't sufficient funds to continue.”

He says all this so fast I have to ask him to take a few deep breaths and slow it down. “One of the nurses told me in confidence,” he says, on the verge of breaking down. “I can't believe it. Why would they enroll me and give me this hope when they knew they were closing?”

I remember my first day at the center when two other patients said their insurance company had rejected all their reimbursement
requests. Mine have been rejected as well. It's been a source of frustration for all of us. Although I'm fortunate to have enough saved to afford the program, it's been a major financial burden. I hold Richard in a bear-hug and whisper that it will be all right, everything will work out as it's meant to be. Then I go investigate. PJ is always the one who's most dialed into what's going on, so I hurry up the stairs and find her as she's coming out of a staff meeting with a worried look on her face.

“PJ, is it true, about closing down?” I ask, a little breathless.

“Shhhh,” she says secretively. “I was going to tell you this morning. Come into my office and we can talk about it, but you can't tell anyone else right now.”

When we sit down, PJ is on the verge of tears. It's the first time I've ever seen her down. “The staff has been in meetings trying to find some way to salvage the program, or at least persuade the hospital to run it at a loss while they attempt to locate funding, but it's not going to happen,” she tells me as she wipes a tear away. “They just can't attract enough patients to sustain the center without insurance company reimbursements. The closure date is uncertain, but the end of the Pain Center is inevitable, and it's coming soon.”

Like Richard, I feel a sense of betrayal and anger at a system that so often puts profits above patients. Is this a business or a place for healing? And there's this irony: Most of the expensive procedures and medications my insurance has paid for only made me worse. The Pain Center has been an oasis and has the capacity to help people find true healing and wholeness. Now, it's going to close its doors. It feels like the rug is being pulled out from beneath my feet just as I'm finally able to stand firmly on the ground.
It's outrageous. They can't do this to us. I won't stand for it.

Wait
. I stop myself in the middle of this psychological drama I'm creating, take a deep breath, and let it go with a loud “AHHHH.” Instead of giving in to anger or reacting with fear, Yoga would advise me to meet this challenge with confidence and faith in myself. I close my eyes and focus on the situation.

Yes, my healing has just begun. I've risen from the bottom of the abyss, but I'm still clawing my way up the side of the cliff and my grip remains tenuous
.
But I can do this. I have to deepen my resolve if I'm going to pull myself all the way up. I have to reclaim the courage that I lost long ago. I must begin believing in myself again. I can do this.

Just by repeating this to myself, my resolve begins to deepen.
I can do this. Even if I have to do it all on my own, I can do this. Stand in Yoga. Get up, Daddy. Get up and stay up.
Then I give PJ a hug and ask that she give me an extra rigorous session. She smiles and says she's happy to oblige.

This morning toward the end of my practice as I'm doing some more self-reflection, it dawns on me that my first step into Yoga wasn't at the Pain Center. It wasn't the epiphany when I walked into the Yoga room. It wasn't when Savita helped me get my legs up the wall or taught me how to breathe. It was nearly four months earlier, on the morning I discovered my family downstairs and the intervention began. That was when I began to face myself, realized I had lost control of my life, chose to let go of all resistance, heard my inner voice telling me the truth about what I had become, and said, “It's about time.” I had no idea this was Yoga. But it was.

Yoga teaches the immutable law of Karma. Karma says we are the architects of our happiness and our misery. We can hope for new outcomes from old behaviors, or realize that only new behaviors will change our circumstances. It's our choice. We can continue to suffer, or we can take responsibility for our lives. We can live in our illusions, feeling frustrated and victimized, or we can surrender our egos and see the bigger picture. This means we learn to listen to our hearts, reclaim our power, step up, and take skillful action.

I surrendered a truckload of ego when I entered detox. It was an experience of humility that wasn't easy for me but ultimately proved invaluable. I began to reclaim some of my power when I listened to my heart and chose the Pain Center over the residential program. Now that the center is closing, Pamela is still insisting that I'm not ready to come home and that the residential program is my only option. I think she's afraid life will quickly go back to what it was.

Who can blame her? I think she also wants her way right now, which I can understand. But I've been away from Morgan far too long and my inner voice has been telling me there may be other agendas in play of which I'm unaware. Every cell in my body is almost screaming:
If you don't go home now, you might lose your son
. As I end my morning practice I commit to following this inner guidance. If I can repair and renew my marriage, I'll do so with humility, energy, and effort. The likelihood of this seems uncertain right now, and I'm unsure how many mountains I can climb at once. Either way, my mind is made up:
I'm going home
.

The final days at the Pain Center are difficult for all of us. Staff members have hushed conversations in the hallways. They're angry, sad, and fearful of the challenge of finding work somewhere else. The small number of patients at the center are in despair. Enrolling in this program was a huge step for them, a final effort that offered a glimmer of hope after years of suffering. When I see them now, their physical and emotional pain is palpable. I'm deeply disappointed as well but do everything in my power to accept it and remind myself that I have to move forward as skillfully and courageously as possible.

“I don't know what to do.” Richard is dark and despondent in his rage. “I'm not going to stay in the residential program without the Pain Center.”

“Richard,” I plead, “don't walk out. You know what will happen. You can make it here. I'll give you some of my Yoga books. You can study. Practice. Believe in yourself. Stay strong. We can talk on the phone. I'll come see you when I can.”

“I don't have it in me,” he answers sharply. “Everyone has betrayed me. I'm done with it all. I'm out of here.”

“Richard,” I say again, looking for words to break through his agony and shift him out of his darkness. He puts up a hand with his palm facing me, indicating a wall, letting me know he just can't listen right now. As I watch my friend walk away, limping painfully toward
great uncertainty, my heart begins to sink. I know that without my newfound Yoga philosophy I'd probably have the same reaction. I'd get furious and feel like a victim. I'd judge and condemn everyone involved. Then I'd take meds again. Drink beer and wine. Blame the whole world. Fall back into the abyss.

Instead, I go back to the hotel and deepen my commitment to my studies and practices. As my final week at the Pain Center comes to a close, I get up an hour earlier, at four in the morning, and practice poses, controlled breathing, and visualization until sunrise. After breakfast, I take longer walks along the pathways behind the hotel, go to the spa, and soak in the hot pool, then meditate in the steam room before going to the Pain Center, always asking myself,
What is the next step?
The answer is always the same.
Go Home. Be with your boy. Stand in Yoga.

At the Pain Center, I take as many sessions with Savita as she has available, paying close attention to her every instruction. At night, I practice with even greater commitment. I pore through my books, ponder how to integrate the moral and philosophical principles more into my life, explore new poses and breathing techniques, then do a little meditation. After that, I strum my guitar and chant a few simple mantras, surrendering in every breath to whatever the future might hold.
Take it deeper. Don't stop now. Get up and stay up. One hundred percent in.

It's a Friday morning in late March 2000, and I'm ready to return home even though Pamela still hasn't agreed and doesn't know I'm coming today. The hotel staff has been like family to me over the past several months. We hug during our good-byes, share some tears, and make promises to be in touch. I tell Sandra that I'm not sure what I would have done without her as I give her a bouquet of flowers from the gift shop. The head bellhop, Rick, has come in on his day off to help me pack and drive me home. He loads my suitcase in his car and we head for Scripps so I can say final good-byes at the hospital.