Throat Chakra Girl

Back to Hamilton I went for the first of 4 treatments for my ocular rosacea.

I signed my waivers that warned of the risks of bruising, and pondered the time I had a couple of broken blood vessels lasered off my face. I was in my 20s and had been informed I had rosacea by my dermatologist. A dilation issue, exposure to heat, alcohol, or even spicy foods, can cause flare ups. If the flare up is bad enough, it can cause blood vessels to rupture.

I had no clue how bad the bruising would be. If I had, I wouldn’t have gotten it done 2 days prior to working a charitable event. I looked like a had a child-drawn, solid black flower tattooed on my face, just beside my mouth. Someone even asked me at that event if I had gotten a new tattoo. Oh sure, I just decided to get this prison style tattoo put permanently on my face.

I walked into the room wondering if I would look slightly sunburned, or bruised all over by the time I walked out.

My first treatment consisted of 3 parts. First was the IPL laser. It was going to be used at each appointment to target the rosacea. You could have just the eyelids done, or include the cheeks, or the entire face, for the same price. I had opted for the full face. I would be saying goodbye to my ever present rosy cheeks.

Prior to the laser, I was going to be having an extensive lid exfoliating treatment. That was definitely my favourite part.

Once that was done, we started the IPL. They cover your face with cold ultrasound gel to minimize the pain and heat you might feel. Numbing drops are put into your eyes. It was the same type of laser used on my broken blood vessels, except much stronger.

Each section would start with a snapping sensation. Some made me jump, involuntarily. Around the nose was definitely the most sensitive.

She stopped to talk me through the eyelid portion. She would be using a different attachment, which was due to the sensitivity of the area. The worst part of this would be the protection for the eyes. She pulled out two small metal discs with a little nub on one side.

“I am going to place these over your eyes. It is going to feel uncomfortable, and you will feel some pressure. For most people, this is the worst part. Now look up towards the ceiling.”

I watched the first disc coming down towards me. Darkness. Pressure. The odd sensation of her tucking my eyelid around the edges. My brain was telling me to run. Deep breaths.

“That’s it. Keep breathing. Okay, now look up at the ceiling again. I know that will feel hard now that one disc is in place.”

My remaining eye watered. It was struggling to move while the other felt like it was in a vice.

“Okay good. Both discs are in place. Now this is going to sound strange, but you can close your eyes now.”

From dark to darker, my eyes rolled back in my head. She treated the upper and lower lids and in less than 10 minutes, the IPL portion was over.

The last part of the treatment was a plasma pen. This is a type of procedure that is done to the lash lines to promote improvement of the meibomian glands in that area. Those are the glands that die off when you have ocular rosacea.

This was mildly uncomfortable simply because they also flip the eyelids inside out to treat the inner lash lines.

Once again, I was being told what a calm patient I was. I think I am just resigned to the fact that that some of these things have to be done. I might as well just get through them.

Upwards of 70% of people with facial rosacea will have the ocular version as well. If nothing else, hopefully sharing this information will make more people aware of it.

I have 3 more visits until my treatment is done. The next will be IPL, plus the plasma pen, and the last two will be just IPL.

I’m still in that weird headspace of wanting my days off back, and not riddled with medical appointments, and being grateful that I am even aware of some of the ailments I have.

Many of the diagnoses I have received, or am in the process of receiving, are accumulative. Things that could snowball, and advance, or even lead to cancer. Let this serve as a reminder to not put things off, even if it means spending some time doing things you don’t enjoy.

Yesterday marked 14 years since my mother passed away from cancer. For the past 13 years, that reminder has haunted me. Sometimes as early as Christmas time, my mood would change. I would feel the memories coming back. Our last Christmas. The shift from the events she wanted to live to see, to the events she didn’t want to die near.

As the anniversary of her death drew closer, the memories would become stronger. Her edginess due to the pain. The dogs pacing. The death rattle episodes that nearly cracked my siblings and I wide open with grief. Her book on the nightstand, forever stuck on the last page she would ever read. I even packed it away, just like that. I couldn’t bear to take out the bookmark. Getting the call the she had died 2 hours before I was due to return. The urge I had to call her at the exact moment she passed. Driving over like a zombie to lay beside her dead body until it was icy cold. The guttural cries at her funeral that took me a moment to realize were coming from me.

Every year that was my hell loop.

Last week I realized I was days away from the anniversary and I hadn’t experienced the loop. It was startling. It was then that I realized the true impact the last year has had on me. It has fundamentally changed me as a person. My beliefs, and the way that my brain works, are altered.

My Mom was one of my favourite people in the world. Her loss felt like part of me had died. Part of me was forever stuck in that series of moments.

I realize now that her passing has led to my own personal growth. Recognizing some of the struggles she faced to connect with me have led me to working towards healing my inner child. I have been able to turn inward and focus on having a positive relationship with myself. A relationship that will help me be a better partner, and a better mom. My favourite receptionist at work, the one I think of as a grandmother, said something to me the other day. She told me about how it took her so long to realize that some of the ugliest moments in her life had lead to some very beautiful things. Things she hadn’t even been able to fathom at the time.

I now believe that we all willingly sign a soul contract, an agreement before we live each human experience. My Mom had completed her life, her contract. My purpose wasn’t to stay stuck in a cycle of grief. My purpose wasn’t to leave part of my heart behind in the bed she died in. I could miss her, and still move forward.

When my path ends, and it’s my time to go, we will meet at my life review. We will see the moments of my life that added value. The lessons learned. The lessons taught. We will be reunited in a place where suffering doesn’t exist, and we are surrounded by pure love.

I had seen my biopsy results almost 2 weeks ago, and the scheduled phone appointment with my oncologist had arrived.

In the time I had viewed the benign report online, I had felt a sense of relief. I hadn’t given it much thought beyond that since I had my hands full with other things. The possibility of having Sjogren’s, the appointments and testing required for that, the unexpected diagnosis of ocular rosacea, and the appointments needed for that.

While I was at the optometrist’s office, awaiting what I thought would merely be some clarity about whether or not I had Sjogren’s, my phone rang. If you know me, you know my ringer is always on silent. The “hardest person to get ahold of”, according to my husband, I would literally toss it in the lake if it ever made a sound. I watched it ring, my doctor’s office, and go to voicemail.

I read the transcript. She was ordering a neck ultrasound. She didn’t say why. Minutes later the ultrasound clinic called to book an appointment. I watched them call. ‘Not today, Satan’, I thought. I was not booking anything without knowing why. She lags behind sometimes. Calls with test results we’ve already discussed. I called her office back and asked for clarity. They told me she would call me back.

“Do you remember the ultrasound you did back in October? The one for your face?”

“Yes, the one checking my blocked saliva gland for Sjogren’s.”

“Yes, that one. You had an enlarged lymph node. I wanted to revisit that in 3 months to see if it was something viral, or something abnormal.”

It was one of those moments. Not a coincidence. In fact, the ultrasound tech that day had gone above and beyond. When he found out I was there to investigate Sjogren’s he said the requisition request was inadequate.

“If we are testing for Sjogren’s, we can’t just check your right cheek, where the blocked gland is. We need to check your glands and both sides of your neck.”

He is the only reason this was found. The question was why.

So I guess today is the day, Satan. I have to have a follow up ultrasound. I had told myself this was the year I would have more time to do the things I felt passionate about. I am not at all passionate about having cold gel put on me.

Fast forward to the oncologist. The thing I felt really good about.

“Hi Amanda. So we reviewed your biopsy report and deemed the nodule benign. Now, that is a 95% certainty. There is a 5% risk that it is cancer. The only way to know for sure would be surgery to remove it. Some people want to know 100%.”

“Okay. Can you tell me about the discrepancy with the ultrasound. It was showing a level 4 out of 5 risk of cancer.”

“Yes. That is subjective. If you put 100 radiologists in a room, some would have differing opinions. I trust the ones here because they are highly skilled. We will lead with the biopsy findings, but you need to be monitored. I want you back out here for an ultrasound in 9 months.”

I felt my comfort levels sliding. I didn’t feel the answer to the ultrasound question was adequate. I know one of my lessons was to face uncertainty without fear, but I felt it creeping in.

“If it grows, will I need another biopsy?”

“Not if it grows. If the risk goes up to level 5, yes, you will need another biopsy. We will have you come out here twice. If nothing changes, we refer you back to your endocrinologist for monitoring of that, and your secondary nodule.”

I looked back on the lessons I am supposed to be learning from this. Focus on facts, without fear and speculation. Learn how to face uncertainty without fear, and to not let anxiety build in situations that lack control. I could control this situation by opting to have surgery, but right now, I know I would only be doing that out of fear.

The appointment notification popped up. November 12th, 2026. Exactly a year after the first one. Another belated birthday gift, a day after my birthday, to look forward to.

So I wasn’t done with PMH yet. At least they use warm gel there 😂

I began the drive to Hamilton to see the specialized optometrist. He specializes in dry eyes, and Sjogren’s, and he was going to be the first step towards a potential diagnosis.

Sjogren’s, an autoimmune disease, was discovered by an ophthalmologist. In terms of symptoms of the eye, it includes dryness, and higher instances of infections.

Driving through Hamilton is never fun. The traffic is horrendous, and the roads in the downtown core can make you nauseous from all the bumps. Aside from some of their restaurants, and hiking trails, there is very little I enjoy about navigating my way through there.

My appointment started off with a series of tests. Tests where they were checking how often I blinked, how long I could go without blinking, and inspecting the glands inside my lower eyelids.

Dr. P brought me into his office after he received the results.

“So Amanda, you have come to see me today so we can see if you have Sjogren’s.”

“Yes, I was one who prompted that. I noticed I had a lot of symptoms.”

I left out the spirit guide part.

“So, I can see you have rosacea.”

“Yes, a dermatologist told me that once.”

“No, Amanda. I mean you have ocular rosacea. Rosacea of the eye, and your case is severe.”

My brain started humming. Humming over all the medical terms he started throwing out. I hadn’t even heard of this before. That wasn’t why I was here.

“How long have your eyes been dry?”

“I have no idea.”

This had become normal to me.

“By my estimate, you have had this 15 years or so. We took imaging of the glands in your lower eyelid. Do you see how the ones in the picture on the wall look long and tubular? Yours, the ones that haven’t died at least, look like little teeth.”

Inner dialogue had started. I hadn’t had to treat facial rosacea. This one probably wasn’t a big deal either.

“Can the damage be reversed?”

“Unfortunately, no. The glands that have died, have been lost. What we can do is treat the rosacea to prevent it from becoming worse, and help improve the health of the glands that remain.”

My brain was processing this slowly. 15 years. No one had ever caught it. Now the damage was permanent.

“I know you were having frequent eye infections in the past, right?”

“Yes, sometimes monthly. I was told they were either styes or blepharitis.”

“Was it an optometrist that told you that?”

“No. I only ever went to the walk-in for them.”

“And they never once said you should go see an optometrist?”

“No.”

He shook his head.

“I wish I was surprised. Look, I can tell you have had styes, I can even pinpoint where you’ve had them because of the glands that have died. Like here, the right eye, lower quadrant.”

They were almost always exclusively on my right eye.

“Physicians only spend about 10 minutes learning about the eyes. They are taught the ABCs of assessment. A being acute angle-closure glaucoma, B being blepharitis, and C being conjunctivitis. A is emergent, so you will almost always be diagnosed with B, or C.”

He decided to administer a tear test while we discussed treatment. The tear test collected tears for 5 minutes to assess your production levels. This was a test for Sjogren’s. My previous tests were not all aligned with a positive diagnosis, so he wanted to do something more extensive.

“I am assuming your tear numbers will be average.”

He stuck the paper strips in place, and instructed me to look up.

“The treatment is multifaceted. We will start with eye wash and moisturizer for the lids to tackle the inflammation. Eye drops and a compound I have created will round that part out. After that we began the bulk of the treatment. IPL laser mixed with 2 other treatments. One is to reduce lid dryness, and another to glandular health. That portion is about $2200 with taxes.”

Sir, this test certainly won’t be accurate now. That price is making me want to cry.

“Most insurance plans don’t cover this. We take 50% at the first appointment, and can split the remaining 50% across the 2nd and 3rd appointments. I want you to get in here as soon as possible. This treatment isn’t optional. You could end up cornea damage of this isn’t treated.”

My tear test was complete, and it turned out my tear production was 3 times below average. This meant Sjogren’s couldn’t be ruled out.

He ended our appointment by adding a day into his schedule to accommodate me. I would be expected to have one appointment a month for the next 3 months, and both of my girls would need to be tested.

I called my husband when I got outside. I told him what had happened and how I was still processing it.

“I feel like crying right now, and the irony is, I probably fucking can’t!”

I headed back to work, going back and forth feeling sorry for myself. It had been 6 days since I had found out I didn’t have cancer. I was expecting a longer reprieve from the medical stuff.

It suddenly hit me that none of this would be happening if I hadn’t been prompted to investigate Sjogren’s. My guides prompted this and my intuition caused me to follow through. Every moment, every test, and every doctor had led here. Yes, I wasn’t thrilled to have something new on my plate, but I was still in awe of the process.

It took 302 days to hear the word benign without the word “but”, at the end.

My oncologist had called almost 3 weeks prior to say his team was going to have to examine my biopsy slides to determine the pathology.

2 weeks passed, and it approached 3, I almost called. My patience was paper thin.

“How does it take so long to put a slide under a microscope?!”

I almost called, but I remembered the lessons this was supposed to be teaching me. Be patient, focus on the facts, and face uncertainty without fear.

In my darkest moments, I knew I might have cancer. I knew that from the moment the nodule was found. Nodules are not uncommon, but most don’t need to be biopsied. Most lead to obviously benign diagnosis if you do progress beyond needing an ultrasound. With each muddled step, I knew I was potentially approaching the 2-3% that have their lives changed in an instant.

302 days of being patient. 302 days of struggling to be patient. Looking back to count those days, I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. The nodule had been found on April 1st.

I’m not out of the woods yet. The ultrasound showed a second nodule. One that was smaller, too small to biopsy yet, and in a higher cancer risk category to the one I’ve had checked.

For now I feel the rush of relief. I’m staying in this moment, knowing that in future moments of uncertainty, I can pull from this experience. This experience changed my life. For that reason I simply can’t regret a moment of it.

I was the product of a marriage of domestic violence. My earliest memory was around the age of 2. My mom and I were living on the 7th floor of an apartment building. She opened the door when we got home, and screamed bloody murder. There, on the balcony, was my father. A crane operator, when he felt like going to work, he had decided to scale down from the roof, to our balcony to get my mom to speak to him.

She had left when I was 10 months old. She hadn’t wanted children with him, but relented in an attempt to make the abuse stop. As nearly every victim of abuse will tell you, having children doesn’t stop the cycle.

She had a rough go of things. Raising a child alone, without child support. I was bounced around in my earliest years. Sometimes I lived with her, sometimes I lived with my grandparents. She struggled financially, but she also struggled to connect with me.

Imagine having a child with someone you had grown to hate. Now imagine that child looking like a doppelgänger of that person. There wasn’t a square inch of me that resembled her.

“My god, you even walk like him!”

I remember hearing that on occasion.

She coped the best she could, but I remember being a sad child. I always felt different, lonely. I was constantly looking for something soft to land on, at home, at school, and I just never really found it.

When I was really young, if I misbehaved, I was often threatened to be sent to live with bio Dad out in Newfoundland. I remember the cold icy fear of it. She never bad mouthed him, but I knew enough to know he wasn’t a good person, and he was a total stranger to me.

She remarried when I was 4, and our family blended with the man I would call Dad. He had a son, my step brother, who was less than a year younger than me. He became my companion every other weekend.

By the time I was 7, they had welcomed my sister, and then my brother, shortly thereafter. That was also the time my Mom started going to therapy, in part because she felt she struggled to get along with me. I was brought along to a few sessions. I don’t remember much beyond it being the end of threats of being sent to Newfoundland.

Having siblings eased some of the loneliness, but also served as a reminder that I was somewhat of an outsider looking in. The girl with a different last name, who didn’t look like anyone around her. The reason we got pulled aside when we travelled. The complicated explanation of who was related to whom.

As an adult, I started going to therapy as well. I began to realize that I had developed some coping mechanisms brought on by things that happened in my youth. Fear of abandonment issues, mixed with always trying to fix things myself, so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for any bumps in the road.

My therapist explained to me that most of our emotional responses for things are formed in our early youth. She recommended a type of therapy to me called brainspotting. It is the idea that certain eye positions, or brain spots, connect to specific emotional experiences we have had.

I finally warmed to idea of trying it, and booked an appointment. I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. It was also my first time meeting my therapist in person. Prior to that, we had only had phone appointments.

I was driving there when I noticed the Barenaked Ladies ‘One Week’ was playing on the radio. The same song that haunted my early meditation experiences. I took it as a sign. A reminder of how far I had come with something I was simply awful in the beginning. A nudge to give this a real try.

I was told to get comfortable and she pulled out a pointer. After deciding I wanted to focus on inner child, specifically my earlier years, she had me look at the pointer. She moved it in various positions until I felt something. I told her to stop moving when I felt a band of warmth from my sacral to my heart chakra.

With brainspotting, you are meant to fixate on the pointer for an extended period of time. I alternated looking at it, with closing my eyes. In many ways it felt similar to active mediation. I saw colours and shapes. Then I found myself thinking about my childhood. The sadness I felt. The loneliness. I thought about how much time I spent alone I had spent a lot of time being my only companion, and had been quite aware of it.

I felt tears stinging behind my eyes. Next thing I knew, they were running down my cheeks.

“Well this is strange.”

My therapist didn’t speak.

I felt reassurances coming into my mind. My inner voice speaking as you would speak to a child.

‘You weren’t always alone. You took skating lessons, and swimming lessons. You and your dad would watch your favourite tv shows together.’

I remembered the times my stepbrother was around. Looking back on it now, we kept each other from feeling lonely. It was funny though, I simply hadn’t recalled what I did when he wasn’t around, and I had to entertain myself. I started digging in my mind. Plucking out the things I could remember and reassuring her with them.

I settled on one thing. Being in the backyard with an old pot. Gathering up flowers, dirt, sticks, whatever I could find, and making a witch’s stew. I could see myself in the sun, smiling. I left my younger self there. Not alone, because when I think of her, I am there with her.

By the end of the session I felt calm, peaceful even. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but something had happened. I’ve revisiting her a few times, just to see if the image has remained the same, and it has.

I’ve yet to book my next session, but I plan to. I am curious to see if piece by piece I can heal the old wounds. The wounds that keep us from fully being who we were meant to be. To take the lessons from them, and move forward without looking back.

I used to believe in coincidences, but I don’t anymore. That doesn’t mean that I always recognize the signs right away.

I mentioned earlier in this blog that during a pendulum session with my spirit guides, I received an acknowledgment that I had another autoimmune disease besides hypothyroidism.

Upon doing research, and dropping into another pendulum session, it was confirmed that the suspected autoimmune disease was a connective tissue disorder called Sjogrens.

I met with my doctor in the fall to pursue a diagnosis. All of the bloodwork came back clear. It was disheartening. I didn’t want to have the condition, but I wanted to trust the legitimacy of my guides. I was questioning whether or not I was even communicating with them at all.

My intuition told me to take a step back. My friend Megan recommended the same thing. I was becoming reliant on my pendulum, and my guides, for predictive work. Predictive work that was mostly rooted in fear.

I put my pendulum aside, and haven’t returned to it yet. Instead, I spent time deepening my trust in myself and my intuition.

When my test results came back negative, my doctor told me she was still going to refer me to a rheumatologist, if I wanted. I was surprised. She had initially told me she wouldn’t do that without positive testing.

My appointment was scheduled during my busy season, and I moved it around a few times because I wasn’t making time for it. I figured it would go nowhere, and I was incredibly busy. That kind of deep exhausted that you can feel in your bones.

When I called and left a message to reschedule, they ended up sending back my referral when they couldn’t reach me right away to rebook. My physician reached out about it, and while I would have told her to just forget about it, the referral had already been resent.

When the appointment was a few days away I decided it cancel. Outright cancel, no rescheduling. I was tired of my days off being filled with specialists and tests, and I really felt this particular appointment was pointless.

I looked up the number to call and realized that it was less than 2 business days before the appointment, and I would be charged $75 if I canceled. So I sucked it up and decided I would go, and then be done with it.

The appointment was today, and I made the 30 minute drive, somewhat begrudgingly.

“We are going to start the appointment by acknowledging there is a microphone in the room for AI scribe. It doesn’t record your voice and store it, it just provides a record of the appointment. Are you okay with that?”

Man, AI really is everywhere nowadays, isn’t it?

“Sure, that’s fine.” I hate work notes just as much as the next guy.

We discussed my symptoms:

Dry eyes, chronic eye infections, blocked salivary gland, joint pain, chronic dry skin and fissures on right fingertips, canker sores, dry mouth, and the connection to hypothyroidism.

“Amanda, I think we have something here. Some people come in with some possible signs, and some people come in with probable signs. I am going to send you to an eye specialist, and for some extensive blood work. This condition is rare. We are still learning about it, and actively doing clinical trials. It is a good thing you came to investigate this, because it has been found to be linked to lymphoma. It is better to know if you have it.”

I sat in my car for a bit thinking about what he said. I almost canceled this appointment. I had been nudged in this direction and I almost didn’t see it through because I thought it was a waste of time. Everything that has happened led up to this. The events played out like they were meant to. It was a clarifying moment. A reminder of what I had now come to believe—there are no coincidences. The only question is, what would I learn from this?

I had done a tarot reading a few days before the appointment about my health. The 6 cards I pulled asked that I focus on facts as clarity, instead of fear, and overthinking. I was being asked to be patient, and to allow my perspective shift. Lastly, the lesson to learn was how to respond to uncertainty. To not resort to patterns of fear, anxiety, and desire to control the outcome. To focus on reality over anticipation.

The cards can give you guidance, but sometimes our brains are our own worst enemy. Every day I wake up and just focus on taking a step forward, looking for signs along the way. They are always there if you pay attention.

I sort of stumbled into January. My busy season was over, and I was having a hard time adjusting to having to head back to work after such a short break. Each busy season working a physical job, just chips away at you.

Over the holidays, one of my husband’s relatives had passed away. He had been a fire captain, who was diagnosed with thyroid cancer while still on the job. The circumstances meant it was deemed occupational. It also meant he was considered to have died in the line of duty.

While I was getting ready to attend, I found myself contemplating the oddness of it. The feeling in my gut of how strange it was to be attending a funeral for someone who died from the type of cancer you might have. The irony. The solemnness of it all. My last conversation with his wife had been comparing oncologists.

I mentioned it to my husband as we drove over there. It triggered a memory of my Mother. Just over a year before she passed from breast cancer, my grandpa, my dad’s father, passed away. She had taken my Grandma out to help her find an acceptable urn for his ashes, and she said something to me about it.

“It’s strange to think that I am helping someone do something, that in a short time from now, someone will be helping with after I die.”

Now, in my gut I have held the belief that I don’t have cancer. Maybe in the quiet moments, on occasion, I tell myself I should at least be prepared for it.

We arrived at the service and it was like nothing I had ever seen. A full procession, a vintage fire truck, and bagpipes. What felt like 300 firefighters were in the rows behind the family. The traditions were touching. His daughters’ speeches were moving. Hearing grown men swallow tears made it hard to maintain composure.

I grounded myself. I told myself that I was rooted, grounded and protected. I imagined roots tunnelling from my feet. I imagined them spreading across the large room in all directions, and I felt my heart rate settle.

Afterwards we made our way past the news cameras, televising the funeral and interviewing some of the guests, and greeted my husband’s cousin. A lovely woman, cute and friendly, with the air of deep sadness that comes from losing your spouse. She turned to me:

“Don’t be worried about this okay.”

I instantly knew what she meant. It was like she had read my mind.

“What he had, was different than you. Remember that.”

“I’m trying.”

Honestly, I feel like those 2 words sum up a lot of this experience for me. I’m trying. Trying to be positive, trying to be patient.

Days later my phone rang while I was at work. It was my oncologist. He was calling 5 days before our scheduled phone appointment.

“Oh hi Amanda, it’s doctor G.”

“Oh hi!”

“So we got your biopsy results.”

This I knew. My endocrinologist got them first, before Christmas. My physician called second, after Christmas. I didn’t know the details beyond atypical cells being found again.

“The hospital wasn’t much help, and couldn’t determine the pathology.”

0/2 Joseph Brant, 0/2.

“So, I am having the report sent here for my team to review it. Then I will schedule an appointment for you to come in and we can decide whether you need surgery or not.”

My mind was reeling. Come in? He told me he would schedule a phone call last time so we didn’t have to deal with Toronto’s nightmarish traffic. Surgery? He told me last time that he wouldn’t suggest surgery for a possibly benign mass since the risks outweighed the reward.

“Okay but we have a phone appointment on Tuesday.”

“Oh that will have to be bumped. This will take about 2 weeks. I will have my receptionist schedule you in.”

Baffled and only 8 minutes before I need to slap on my work face and get back to it.

I called my husband and told him what happened. I said that either he knew something he wasn’t telling me, or he didn’t have the previous information from our appointment in front of him when he called, and he was just spewing standard medical jargon.

“What the fuck is going on? I’m freaked out a bit.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m trying.”

That’s all I’ve got right now. The ability to try. To focus on my inner peace, and try to maintain it.

The last few months have felt like a building momentum. My meditations have intensified, and dream work has started to occur. A form a meditation that happens while we sleep. The thoughts, and residue lingering in the air when I wake. Lessons of shadow work, letting go of old emotional wounds, and soothing my inner child.

All of this has been a work in progress. My younger self is painful to revisit. A sad, and lonely girl, who used to ask if she was adopted because she felt different. Felt like she didn’t belong. A child who developed tactics to only be seen, but not heard. Cleaning up the mess before she got in trouble for it, and never truly feeling believed.

I wish I could go back and shelter her. Protect her little heart from the adult feelings she felt. The adult lessons she learned before she could truly make sense of them.

It is funny how experiencing pain can sometimes feel like healing. Maybe it is why I have always loved tattoos. Pain therapy. It makes me think of the expression of walking into the fire. Healing past wounds doesn’t come without discomfort. Often you are facing things, head on, that you would rather bury in the sand. Reflecting on things you used to avoid.

From that discomfort, and rediscovering myself, a newfound passion has emerged. I’ve worked as a massage therapist for 18 years. It probably look me 10, to realize I am really good at what I do. But being good at something, isn’t the same as being passionate about it.

I took a second crystals course a few months ago. It touched upon crystal healing. That is the act of placing crystals on certain chakras to help with energy flow, and blockages. When I tried reiki, it was centred around energy flow of the 7 main chakras. Opening up ones that may be partially, or even fully closed.

Consider love, for example, the primary energy in our heart chakra. When we struggle to love ourselves, or have experienced heartbreak, that chakra can become shuttered. We will guard ourselves against any vulnerability that could lead to more pain, and become closed off.

When I encounter people with physical tension, there is often an underlying emotional element to it. Clients talk of stress, too much work, illnesses, or loss of relationships. They feel the physical pain of having tight muscles, but most of what they describe is emotional.

I’ve realized that was what is missing from my practice. It was also what was missing from my own life. For so long I had focused only on physical health, like I focused on the anatomy, and muscles at work. Now I have a desire to integrate. Working with my own energy, building my meditation practice has changed my life. It has changed my anxiety levels, my overly analytical brain. It has opened my heart in a way that is palpable. I want that for others.

I have decided, in the new year, I will focus taking reiki courses until I achieve my master level. I am also planning a course on crystal healing. Crystals have brought me so much joy. I feel as though they are a tool that can help soften emotional blockages, and encourage healthy energy flow throughout the body.

Integrating massage with reiki and crystals would be such a well rounded approach to wellness. I see it as a way to relieve physical tension, and pain, while also addressing the underlying energetic, and emotional elements contributing to it.

I already know when I will be taking these courses, and am just patiently waiting for those dates to arrive. In the meantime, I am focused on my own practice, as well as tapping into channeling energy, instead of solely using my own energy during my massage work.

I’m paying attention to the signs I am receiving, trusting my intuition, and working on strengthening my inner voice.

2025 has been the wildest year of my life, and yet I wouldn’t trade it. It has brought me to a place of peace I didn’t think was obtainable. It’s a gift I am hoping to share with others. Wishing everyone a blessed New Year!

This time it was decided that I would go to my biopsy on my own. They fall on Tuesdays, when I am off, and my husband had already taken many days off for my appointments, at this point.

My anxiety was a bit high as I headed out the door. It’s the logistics that get me. Parking, finding where I need to go, traffic, getting out of the house on time.

My appointment was at 8:45am, so I was leaving my house earlier than I normally would. Repeating instructions for my youngest, over and over, because I wasn’t going to be home to see her off to school.

“Don’t be late. Leave on time. Don’t forget to lock the door. Pay attention to the ice while walking.”

I pulled into the parking lot, and began the process of figuring out their parking. Back and forth between ticket machines, and the ticket booth. One of those logistical nightmares I had been dreading. It seems like it should be illegal to have to pay for parking at the hospital. People under the stress of testing for serious diseases, or visiting dying loved ones, worrying over testy technology.

There is a general check-in area for all types of imaging. Doris, the 90 something year old volunteer, will guide you where to go to grab a number, and wait your turn.

I got called up and the nervous humour started.

“Have you been in contact with anyone who has measles in the last 3 weeks?”

“I sure as hell hope not!” I laughed.

She just stared at me.

I got my form and headed down the hall to the waiting room. I was barely in a seat for a moment before I got called into the changing area.

I knew the rundown. Top and bra off, gown open to the front. Belongings all go in the locker, lock the lock and take the key.

Before I went to the room, I grounded myself. Closed my eyes, felt my feet and told myself I was grounded, safe and protected. Rooted, stable and secure.

I had the ultrasound component first before the radiologist came in. He told me he would be freezing my neck and taking 3 samples.

First they clean your neck with a pink solution that stains your skin. I was thinking about how I had gone to a garden centre right after the first biopsy. Today I would be going to finish up my Christmas shopping. Let people stare. There is no easy way to get this stuff off.

“Okay I am going to freeze you now. Just a little prick, and some burning.”

A little worse than last time. I took this time to call in my spirit guides, guardian angel, Archangel Raphael, my Mom and my Nan. I felt a twinge behind my eyes when I thought of my Mom and Nan. I almost thought I might cry for a second.

“I am going to take the first sample now.”

Where the first radiologist had been slow and methodical with sliding the needle back and forth to gather cells, this guy was a jiggler. Rapid up and down, back and forth. I was glad I couldn’t feel more than just the initial pressure. Think of it like getting blood drawn. Which each replacement vile, you feel pressure. That is what I felt in my throat. I just laid there with my neck extended, and turned to the left.

Before I knew it, it was over. My neck already starting to feel a bit sore.

“I wish all of my patients were like you.”

“Are your patients not usually like me?”

“You are very calm.”

Little did he know that I had called in an angelic army to calm me.

“Well, I have been through this before. That, and I grounded myself before we got started. That helped.”

Fingers crossed that this test will provide the clarity I am after. I should have the results by mid January.