Many years ago, a dear friend of mine asked me to be godmother to her daughter Jess. I’ve loved following Jess’s development from infant to competent professional, but over the years there’s been little opportunity for us to catch up, for a variety of reasons. I often need a nudge to contact her outside of Christmas and birthdays.
We’ve all been there - that heavy, dragging feeling when we just don’t want to do something. It could be a workout, a difficult conversation, tidying the house or sitting down to a creative project. There’s a quiet tug inward, a little voice that whispers ‘not now… maybe later’. Resistance creeps in subtly, sometimes disguised as tiredness, distraction or apathy. If we’re not careful, it can pull us into full withdrawal, disconnected from what we intuitively know is good for us.
When Chris* reached out to me he’d been experiencing chronic back pain for almost a year and low, grumbling pain for far longer. It was only when it had become unbearable that he contacted me.
A great sadness was how much his world had shrunk. He’d loved sport and playing Tag Rugby in particular, as well as enjoying the social life that accompanied it. Now none of this was possible because of the debilitating back pain.
On Christmas Day last year I agreed to join a group of visiting family and close neighbours for a quick dip in the sea. It was my brother-in-law who led the charge, proclaiming that he’d only go in if we all did. Never one to duck a challenge, I raced to get ready. It felt wonderful to be part of a large, rowdy group leaping into the freezing cold water. The experience was brief but exhilarating, and as we sauntered home we chatted about how lovely it would be to do this regularly.
One of my neighbours did some investigating and discovered there was a small local group who swam occasionally. He asked to join them and went a couple of times, but I didn’t. For some reason I was reluctant to ask if I could join, and remained hovering on the outside.
It felt different when, more recently, I was invited by a group of friends to swim in the sea to celebrate the solstice. This sounded to me like a wonderful idea. Several of them regularly celebrate the solstice at organized events, dressing up and having tremendous fun, but I’d never been able to join them. This sounded like a happy alternative and I couldn’t wait to take part.
I threw on my swimming costume and gathered up warm clothes and a towel. Only as I approached the beach did I start to feel a little apprehensive. Don’t panic, I told myself, you’ve done this before. It’s all good. I spotted a small group of women and a couple of children along the beach and went to join them. Introductions over, the excited chatter died down and a serious silence fell as we began to get ready.
It was then that I began to feel inadequate and unprepared. The others peeled off warm layers of clothing and put on hats, swimming gloves and socks. The only thing I’d got was swimming socks as I hate the feeling of stones under my feet. What was I doing here? I fought the feeling that I didn’t belong.
Without warning, several women whooped and began running towards the sea. One of the children joined in but the other declared she was just going to watch. I felt she might have the right idea and hesitated. Then I caught the adrenaline and general excitement, and bounded towards the water. I waded for what felt like minutes (probably only seconds), scooped up water and swam. Oh my goodness, it was chilly! Others were yelping around me and one experienced swimmer had a large red float which also told her the water temperature - unquestionably too cold. We swam for a few minutes and raced back out.
Several enthusiastic swimmers yelled ‘It’s always warmer the second time you go in!’ and I turned and hovered. I was saved by the child who looked appealingly at me and another swimmer, saying he was just too cold to go back in. We generously agreed to get out with him so his mum could stay in the sea, and wrapped him up in his towel. I was grateful to him as it helped me feel better about myself and less like a wimp.
As everyone returned to the beach we shared hot tea and cakes. The excitable chatter was punctuated by breathless balancing moments as we struggled into dry, warm clothes. When one of the women casually asked me ‘So shall I add you to our WhatsApp Swim group?’ I readily agreed. Wishing each other a happy solstice, we dispersed.
I may have felt like an outsider to begin with, my dignity had been battered and I’d certainly been pushed a little out of my comfort zone, but ultimately it felt good to be among such a welcoming group and to share the experience together. In time, and after a few more swims, I may feel able to say I belong.
Last year, reflecting on the purpose of my work, I found myself examining the true meaning of ‘healing’ and ‘curing’. These words are often used interchangeably. When we refer to healing a fracture, for example, it usually means that the crack in a broken bone is fused back together. In this instance, healing and curing do actually mean the same thing. Often, though, they’re not the same at all.
Many of you reading this blog have worked with me. Maybe you sought me out because you had read about Dr Sarno and TMS, or about Pyschophysiological Disorders (PPD), now called Association of Treatment of Neuroplastic Symptoms (ATNS). Perhaps you had even read the textbook or watched a pain video or a podcast referring to neuroplastic symptoms. Some of you have also found me through my connection with Dr Lissa Rankin and Whole Health Medicine.
I love my job. It can be hard, but it’s fulfilling. I love registering the softening of taut lines on the face of someone I’m working with as their physical pain eases. The teaching methodology I employ in resolving chronic pain works. At the same time, there are always new things to learn and new challenges.
One example is when I was asked by someone if I would consider working with a relative who had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. The prognosis was shocking, and it was clear that family members were struggling to cope. I had recently worked successfully with this person’s child, who had experienced a complete turnaround within a matter of weeks. But this was different, and my immediate reaction was to point out that this was something I hadn’t been trained in. What could I offer?
This is when I began thinking about the difference between healing and curing. In this case, the latter it seemed was not possible. To be cured means to be free of disease or symptoms. The word ‘heal’, on the other hand, originates from the Old English word ‘haelan’ which means ‘to make whole’. To heal is to restore someone to a state of wholeness, which may be emotionally rather than physically. As Lissa Rankin points out:
“it is possible to be healed but not cured, and to be cured but not healed.”
Ideally both take place concurrently, but it's not always that way.
I wondered whether my methodology could address the issue of healing, even if the notion of curing remained elusive. The patient’s husband wanted his wife to simply have someone to talk to, someone that she could trust and share her fears with. My understanding of the wider concept of healing, and the reported experience of patients who told me what a difference it made to their recovery to feel both safe and listened to in their process, persuaded me to meet the relative in question. I’m so pleased I did.
I always remind my clients to be mindful of their own needs, limits and boundaries and the same is true for myself. After doing some research I found an end-of-life supervisor and we embarked on the work. As you know, I have nothing but admiration for all the people I work with. It takes such courage to request an initial consultation and to continue with the work as we progress.
Almost a year later the courageous woman I saw weekly passed away. It was time, and although she could not be cured, she was healed.
References
1.Mind over Medicine Lissa Rankin M.D. Hay House 2020
Almost nine months ago I wrote about how my husband had somehow ended up letting a friend talk him into doing a 100km cycle in April last year. He was quite nervous about making sure he was prepared for it, and spent many a freezing morning in February and March frantically training. In the end, he had a wonderful time, but his legs were so sore the following day he vowed never to do anything like that again.
Of course that resolve didn’t last, and he ended up doing another, much shorter, cycle in October, and somehow convincing me to join him. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised, then, when I somehow ended up signing myself up to join him as he attempted the same 100km cycle again this year.
I loved the idea of cycling in the fresh air and enjoying the countryside, and it was a surprise to me when people began asking about my “training plan”. There were times when I wondered what on earth I had done (most of them after several hours on a bike, often in the rain!) and I did briefly worry that I might have had bitten off more than I could chew. However, it was with mounting excitement that at 4am one Sunday morning last month we got up to get ourselves to the start line, having travelled to the location of the race the night before. It was surprisingly light, and we could hear the birds chirping as we gathered alongside many other excited riders.
As we inched our way towards the start line, a sense of camaraderie began to build. People around us shared stories – in one case of an airline losing bikes the night before the race, and rentals having to be found last minute. Another fellow cyclist had done all their training in the gym and never been on open road before (they did brilliantly, apart from the hill climbs which threw them off a bit).
And then off we went! The first 60km was wonderfully invigorating, and I could still feel the buzz of the atmosphere, camaraderie and beautiful scenery. It must be said, the hills then began to take their toll, and the final section was something of a slog. But throughout the ride, I really valued the occasional cluster of spectators cheering us on along the route, as well as the support from others taking part.
It was an amazing experience, and in the days since, I’ve forgotten the difficult bits, and remember only the highlights. I know my legs felt a bit sore at the time, but I can much more easily recall the huge feeling of achievement as we finally crossed the finish line. I’m even tempted to do it again! I don’t think we’ll be reining in our ambitions just yet.
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who lives in the UK ran the London Marathon. He has run several marathons, even including a few in fancy dress, and by all accounts always enjoys the experience. This time was no different - he had trained well, and even though it was a hot day he managed to pace himself well, so he didn’t end up overdoing it. He was thrilled after completing the race, and proudly posted photos of himself and his new medal on social media.
It just so happened that another friend of mine also went for a run on the same Sunday, except hers was much shorter. She has been struggling to get back to running after an ankle injury a few months ago, and while her ankle is completely recovered, she has faced some other difficulties. She is having to build her fitness back up from a very different place to where it was a few months ago, and while she previously loved running, it has now fallen out of her routine and she finds herself struggling to find time around work and childcare. She also struggled with feeling a little nervous after her injury, not wanting it to happen again. We’ve spoken before about how this has had a negative impact on both her self-confidence and her mental health, and I tried to encourage her to get back into her runners even just a little at a time.
You can imagine my delight when she sent me a message on Sunday to say she had finally managed to get back out for a run, going for a short distance and making sure to return to the activity gently. She was utterly thrilled with herself, and I was delighted for her. Unlike my marathon-running friend, she didn’t post about the run on social media, and only mentioned it to me as we had spoken about the issue before. I was so proud of her – and felt strongly that just because she didn’t run 26 miles, her achievement was no less than the marathon my other friend had breezed through.
