Warrior Pose (50 page)

It's the first time I've set foot in the McDonald Center since the day I checked out of the detox ward. The staff stares with disbelief. No Clamshell brace, no cane, no dark circles under my eyes, and I'm more than twenty-five pounds lighter.

“Whatever you've done, keep doing it,” says Don, the counselor who once told me I would fall flat on my face.

“Thanks, Don. I will.”

Nurse Ratched smiles and gives me a warm hug. I don't even know her real name and now realize what a wonderful person she was, giving me the firm hand I needed. It was just my ego and resistance to being told what to do that made me so defensive with her. She was never the problem. I was.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, “especially for putting up with me.”

“I've had worse!” she answers with a laugh. “Good luck to you. Stay healthy.”

The good-byes are longer at the Pain Center, with a few more hugs and tears. “You are our greatest success story,” PJ tells me with a warm smile. “Stay with it.”

Beth, in her usual soft, often cryptic and insightful way, says lovingly, “One day you will help others to heal.” As so often happens with Beth, her words strike a chord within me, but I can't really imagine such a thing. With so much healing still left to be done on myself, the idea that I will one day help others heal seems like something for another lifetime.

Savita and I share few words, communicating with a smile, a hug, and a glance of mutual knowing.

“I'll never forget my first Yoga teacher,” I whisper to her.

“I won't forget you, either,” she answers with her palms together in
Anjali Mudra
at her heart center. This gesture, which Savita taught me early on, is also known as
Namaste
, a common Yogic greeting that means “I acknowledge that the light in my heart and the light in your heart are the same.” I flash back to almost a decade ago in Hanoi when I was guided to a hidden temple in the old quarter of the city and given the golden Buddha. This is the same gesture used by the Vietnamese man who gave me the gift; only I had no idea at
the time what it meant. I bring my palms together at my heart, gently bow toward Savita, and whisper back, “
Namaste
.”

I take my last walk down the two flights of stairs from the Pain Center into the lobby that connects to the residential program. I pause at the bottom, turn around, and jog all the way back up the stairs, then turn around and head back down again as fast as I can. As my feet hit each stair, I sing out at the top of my lungs, “I am alive!”

Once I'm back in the lobby, a friend of Richard's rushes toward me. She looks like she's in shock. “Did you hear about Richard?” she asks with such alarm that my soaring heart immediately sinks.

“He told me he was leaving a few days ago,” I say. “That's all I know. Is he all right?” I'm thinking he's had a nervous breakdown and been hospitalized.

“He left the program. Disappeared. They just found him last night. He overdosed on pills and booze. He passed away.”

The news stops my breath. I remember the anguish on Richard's face during our final conversation. His wounded walk as he departed.
Dear Richard, why? You could have found a way to stay with it. Lived in residence and studied Yoga on your own. We could have been in touch. Guided one another along the way. Figured it out together. Oh, my brother, I'm so sorry. I'll never forget you.

I realize, too, that this easily could have been me. There were so many times I just wanted to check out of the world before I found Yoga.
There but for the grace of God go I.

As Rick the bellhop drives us south from La Jolla, downtown San Diego comes into view. I feel like I'm seeing the city for the first time, with its burgeoning skyline, glistening bay waters, sailboats, yachts, and cruise ships in the harbor. It's been more than seven years since I left Hong Kong and moved to Coronado, but I was so often bedridden, always drugged up, and never really had clarity. I missed it all. Now, everything appears new and filled with possibility and potential. I whisper an old adage that I always liked, but now can actually feel in every cell of my being: “This is the first day of the rest of my life.”

“What's that?” Rick says.

“Nothing,” I say with a laugh. “Just talking to myself.”

The drive over the sloping, blue Coronado Bridge is a thrill. All my senses come alive as we reach the top of its arc. The blue waters of San Diego Bay are sparkling on the east side of the island. The vast Pacific Ocean is glistening on the west. Point Loma peninsula juts into the ocean like a giant finger pointing south toward Mexico. On the horizon are the Islas Coronados, a group of four remote, uninhabited islands that look exotic and alluring, like someplace Morgan and I might take our imaginary sailboat in search of buried treasure as we sit on the “story bench.” Then I gaze down toward the village. It holds the greatest treasure on Earth: my little boy, in our home, not even knowing Daddy is about to hold him ever so tightly and never let him go again.

Finally, we're on my street, pulling up to the curb. The moment we park, I thank Rick, quickly slide out of the passenger seat, pull my bags and the bulky portable lounge out of his trunk, and hug him good-bye. Then I stop on the sidewalk and stare at my home. It's two stories tall, with natural redwood shingles that have turned a rich, deep brown with age. The windows and doorway are framed in white wood. I chose it because it felt earthy and inviting, like an old friend. Never so much as it does in this moment. Yet I also feel like a stranger. It's been so long since I was last here. As I find my keys, unlock the front door, and step inside, the home's warmth immediately envelops me.

“Morgan!” I cry out so loud it reaches every corner of the house.

“Daddy!” His tiny voice comes from upstairs, filled with surprise. I hear the precious patter of his little feet as he runs to the stairwell and hurries down to meet me in the living room. We rush into each other's arms and I sweep him up, hold him high above my head, then hug him to my chest. I can hardly believe my little boy is two-and-a-half years old. I never want to miss another moment of his life.

As Morgan nestles his face into my neck, he says over and over again, “Daddy's home, Daddy's home.”

“That's right, Morgan. Daddy's home. Daddy's home forever.”

Pamela comes down the stairs, polite but distant, and offers a more formal welcome as she conceals the surprise of my return. “Hi,” she says with a subdued and guarded tone as I reach out tentatively to hug her. It's a brief embrace and feels stiff. Inauthentic on both our behalves. I would love for her to mention how much weight I've lost, that I look healthier and stronger, but she doesn't. I can understand, especially given that this is an unexpected homecoming. As she pulls back from the hug, I smile and say, “It's so good to be home.”

I know there is still love lurking somewhere deep within each of us, but we both feel an unspoken pain, the silent recognition that there is a chasm between us that might be too late to bridge. I know we also feel a commitment and responsibility toward our child. It's far too early to make any decisions. We need to have some deep and honest discussions about healing old wounds and starting anew. But now is not the time.

Morgan quickly brings me back to the present moment by crying out with glee, “Upstairs, upstairs, Daddy.” I know what's in store and it's joyous. I'm going to get all the news, see his latest toys, visit his favorite teddy bear, and, of course, be asked to draw on his back. I've slipped the magic drawing stick into my pocket to be ready for this special moment. I scoop him into my arms and carry him all the way upstairs, hugging him to my chest like a papoose. The whole time he continues to snuggle in closer, murmuring, “Daddy's home, Daddy's home.”

CHAPTER 32

Himalayan Cave

M
ORNING COMES SOFTLY. I squint my eyes open and see a vaulted ceiling above me with a wide crossbeam at its apex. A hint of light flows through the white plantation shutters covering the windows. An abstract Matisse print on the wall portrays a blue figure lost in ecstatic dance. I've slept past my normal time and feel completely refreshed, but my mind is a little fuzzy and I'm not sure where I am.

“Daddy!” Morgan whispers as he sneaks into the room. It all comes back in a flash. I'm home in my bed and have just enjoyed the best night of sleep I've had all year. “Daddy, pick me up!”

I lean over, reach out, and lift Morgan into my arms and hold him high over my head.

“What a big boy you've become,” I say, wiggling him gently in the air. Even though it's only been a few months, and we had a few visits when I was at the Pain Center, Morgan has entered a new stage, getting bigger by the day and speaking with even greater fluency and ease.

“You stay home, Daddy?” I feel like the euphoric Matisse dancer on the wall when he seeks this reassurance.

I bring him down, hug him closely, and say, “Yes, Morgan. I'm never, ever leaving you again.”

Then I roll him over onto my knees and grab the magic drawing stick, which I placed by the bedside last night, right where we always
used to keep it. “Did you see the sailboat I drew for you and pinned on your playroom wall?” I whisper. “Yes, Daddy,” he coos. “I love it.” I draw the sailboat on his back and we launch our adventure on the high seas as the fullness of dawn bathes the room with soft light. When I trace a sun with rays streaming down his back I ask, “Did you think about me when you saw the morning light?” “Yes, Daddy,” he says, and it makes me ecstatic. This time we share together is the greatest medicine of all, and I savor every moment.

After half an hour, Pamela enters the room and takes Morgan for a bath. She chose the guest bedroom last night and, given my abrupt return, I imagine this might be her choice for some time to come.
Don't push it. Give her space. Remember what a burden you've been.
As I roll out of bed, I'm reminded that my back is still unstable. I get down on the floor and do a Yoga practice at the foot of the bed.
Must keep at this. Every day. Deeper and deeper. Only just beginning. Give it everything you have.

When Morgan goes down for a nap, I get on the computer and search for Yoga in Coronado. Nothing. No studios. No teachers. There are a few in San Diego, but I don't feel ready to drive a car yet, and commuting over the bridge is out of the question. Even if I was ready, I'm not strong enough for the energetic styles of Yoga that seem to be the norm from what I can see on the studio websites, which show people doing powerful standing postures, even headstands and handstands. I can't imagine such things. I still need more deep healing, profound relaxation, and rejuvenation. I doubt I'll ever even try a headstand. And a handstand? Forget about it.

Also, the Yoga studios seem to focus solely on
Asanas
, and while these are an essential part of my practice, I'm drawn to transforming my life in body, mind, and Soul. I know this is essential for me. I want to heal my back, but at the same time I need to face my emotional imbalances and continue learning to view the world from a new, richer, and deeper perspective. I already feel this happening in subtle ways. I have no idea who it is that I'm becoming, and I still have so much to face on every level, but the process is well underway and I don't want to lose it. The key is to find a way to be self-reliant, to step up and look at myself squarely in the eyes, to dig down even deeper
and summon every ounce of courage, energy, and power within me to chart a course and give it all that I have. Otherwise, I fear I'll be lost. Then, as I close my eyes and contemplate this, the inner voice speaks up again.
Do it yourself for now. Study more. Practice nonstop. Get stronger. Go deeper.

As I ponder this, a shot of adrenalin rushes through me, as it does every time I remember that my stage IV cancer diagnosis was in mid-1998 and I'm toward the end of the two years my oncologists predicted I had left. I close my eyes once again and repeat the Serenity Prayer to myself:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference
. I have to focus on my Yoga practice for now, find a space at home where I have solitude, create a new daily ritual, take it further, and change the things I can.
Remember
, I tell myself,
You're all in, one hundred percent, no matter what. This is your path… Get up, Daddy.