by Petrea King
The idea of becoming a naturopath didn’t light my fire, but I still felt a flicker of both fear and interest. Embarking upon a career seemed a bold decision, given the uncertainty of my health. But after the intensity of serious illness and emotional catharsis, being a naturopath seemed rather tame—though I didn’t tell Marcus about my misgivings. At least if I went into practice, I told myself, I could increase my independence and earn an income. My tenuous hope of taking custody of my children would only manifest if I created a home and offered them an education.
After speaking with my parents, who were happy to financially help me into a practice, I met with the GP, Emmanuel Varipatis, to discuss the possibility of working together. Emmanuel was supportive of me taking on only as much as I felt I could manage, and so began my life’s work. I just didn’t know it at the time.
CHAPTER 21
Behind closed doors
Early in 1985 I joined Emmanuel’s practice, which was conducted from a small federation timber cottage in the heart of Spit Junction. It was close to public transport and near to my parents’ home, where I continued to live until I could establish my independence.
The cottage had a homely atmosphere, and my clinic room was large and comfortable with a huge sash window that let fresh air and sunshine in. It was a thrill to create a safe and comfortable space for whoever might come to see me, and I felt a flicker of excitement when my business cards arrived.
Each decision towards establishing a practice felt monumental. Was there even a point in getting business cards printed when I might only use them for a short while? What seemed like simple choices were seasoned with my constant uncertainty—these small activities and preparations felt like a symbolic investment in life. I fluctuated between asking myself, ‘What’s the point of starting anything when I’m going to die anyway?’ and a hopeful twinge that maybe I could keep living. My decision to live like a tourist meant I was trying to focus only on today, the moment, what was immediately before me. Business cards and a practice contained a belief in a future.
I was weary of reflecting on my story of catharsis and healing, and I decided it was time to put this aside and focus on being of service to others. In Italy, I had been loved and cared for when I’d held little love or care for myself. As a naturopath, I would endeavour to see the beauty and courage in people who, like me, gave life their best shot even though their inner world may well be at odds with their outer appearance.
Although I love the sublime beauty of nature, the invisible world has always been far more interesting to me than the physical. We can so easily be seduced by appearances while making no inquiry about what lies beneath. People often say to one another, ‘You look well,’ which can convey the message that they don’t want to hear how the other feels. Assuming someone is happy because they look alright runs the risk of ignoring their more private experience. I prefer to ask people, ‘Do you feel as good as you look?’ as I know our outer appearance often belies our inner reality.
***
Feeling both excited and apprehensive about commencing my practice, I started off with just a couple of mornings each week. Emmanuel understood my predicament and was supportive of my efforts in beginning this new adventure, and he referred a couple of his patients to me for dietary or other advice.
Within the first two weeks, a woman with breast cancer came to see me, and a man with AIDS came the day after that. Both Jenny and John had been told they wouldn’t see Christmas, which was what I’d been told almost seventeen months before.
I felt that I was meeting fellow travellers in the transit lounge of their lives. I was eager to hear about their experiences, as so much of what they described mirrored aspects of my own journey. They were often far more articulate than me in describing their inner worlds. My journey had been very private and solitary; behind closed doors, I was moved by people’s willingness to let me into their innermost thoughts and emotional journeys, as well as various secrets they’d sometimes held for many years.
My question for Jenny and then for John has remained at the foundation of my work: ‘What is it that stands in the way of you being at peace?’
Jenny couldn’t switch her mind off at night, as her worries about her health and future overtook her when she wasn’t distracted with the busyness of her days.
I talked her through a relaxation technique to focus her attention on the breath. She felt the benefit of deepening the breath and increasing her oxygen intake and, with practice, she felt that she could calm her busy, busy mind. I offered to make a personalised tape to talk her off to sleep at night and another to use during the day for relaxation and meditation, and she eagerly took up my offer.
I also prescribed herbs that would help settle her agitation, and I encouraged her to develop a nightly ritual that would train her mind to wind down for sleep an hour before bedtime. This ritual included taking a warm bath or shower to wash away any stress from the day; burning aromatherapy oil to help her develop an association between that particular scent and sleep; sleeping in natural fibres for her nightwear and sheets; and ensuring her bedroom was clean and orderly so the space would feel restful. I suggested she limit sugar in her diet as she ate far too much of it—most of us eat too much sugar, which is very detrimental to our health and increases restlessness in some people. Jenny also needed to exercise earlier in the day rather than in the evening.
Jenny was happy to use these practical strategies to manage her mind more effectively and find the rest she needed as she underwent her treatment. A week later, she returned to discuss her diet and to get her meditation practice checked. Already she was sleeping well, and feeling much calmer and more in control of her choices.
Meanwhile, John’s answer to my question, ‘What is it that stands in the way of you being at peace?’ was that diarrhoea was making his life miserable. It was stressful for him to leave the house because he always needed to be in close proximity to a bathroom. He was being treated for cryptosporidiosis, a common parasitic infection in people with a compromised immune system.
We discussed his diet and found that several foods, such as orange juice, dairy products and fried fatty foods, were likely exacerbating the problem. By eliminating these foods, and with the addition of slippery elm powder and homeopathics, John no longer experienced the urgency and could leave the house with greater confidence.
He also learned to meditate to better manage his stress. He improved his nutrition, including coconut smoothies, so his body could more quickly assimilate foods, which were still destined to pass through his system more rapidly because of the tenacious parasite.
Jenny and John found that these strategies empowered them to make a positive difference and improved the quality and perhaps the quantity of their lives—Jenny was here for two more Christmases, and John another five. Common sense tells us that if a woman can sleep soundly rather than tossing and turning with a chaotic, mad-monkey mind, or a man can hang on to his food long enough to extract and assimilate nourishment, both people will fare better.
I realised that being of some small service to a fellow human being is perhaps the greatest joy known to us. It leaves us feeling grateful that we were present to bear witness to their suffering, and humble if we have been able to offer comfort, insight or even a moment of peace. Once my patients were more physically comfortable or benefiting from the calmness that meditation brought, our conversations became deeper as I continued to inquire about aspects of their lives where peace was lacking.
Patients with serious health issues often protect their loved ones by not discussing their fears and uncertainties with them. These patients are usually happier to speak to someone not emotionally enmeshed in their life. I was unafraid of bearing witness to their despair or self-loathing or condemnation, and their hopes, fears, dreams or tears. Everything they described helped both of us to bring light to the deeper layers of our shared existence.
***
Word quickly spread about my particular interest in as
sisting people with serious health issues. Patients told other patients about me while having their treatment in hospitals or clinics, and their doctors saw the benefits that they received and started referring patients to me.
In the early years I always wrote to a person’s doctor, letting them know what we had discussed and to encourage contact if he or she had any questions. I hoped my letters would reassure the doctor of my intention to assist their patient in a collaborative and complementary way. While I never received a response, doctors could see that I was supportive of their patient’s medical treatment—that I wasn’t offering an alternative to their treatment and that I kept my focus on areas outside of their expertise.
Naturopaths aren’t allowed to treat cancer in Australia. This didn’t matter, as I wasn’t interested in treating cancer or AIDS (and not a lot was known about AIDS at the time, other than that it was caused by a virus and transmitted through blood or bodily fluids). My focus has never been on stopping people from dying; it is solely on helping people to live—and to live as well as possible, given the complexities of their circumstances. I’m always more interested in understanding the person in front of me rather than their disease. What’s their story and how do they feel about their story?
Every day I listened to my patients describe their poor self-esteem or the effects of past traumas. In that sense, my story was no different to theirs—we were all struggling to find peace in the midst of our difficulties, to find a pathway through some unspeakable suffering or to make meaning of our lives after unexpected trauma or illness. While people often appeared to scrub up well, when I scratched the surface I found stories of despair, loneliness, grief, shame, anguish, loss, trauma, abandonment, childhood sexual, emotional or physical abuse, low self-esteem and rejection. Through their lips, I heard my own story told, over and over again.
Of course, while it’s great to have a story, we don’t have to be the story. Our stories break us open to the hidden depths of human strength, compassion, resilience and understanding. A story may break our heart, yet through courage and our willingness to share the journey, we find our spirit. The invisible world of the human spirit is capable of containing the story without being defined by it, and this is inspiring, heartwarming and uplifting. If we are to find peace, we need to see beyond the story to the spirit that enlivens and connects us all.
I wouldn’t change one bit of my story now. Each trauma has led me to a greater understanding of myself and an enlarged capacity to be present to each precious moment, even though many of the events may be painful to experience. As one young girl, Kate Critchlow, told me at the tender age of nine when she was facing her own mortality, ‘Sometimes hearts have to break before they heal.’ Her words later became the impetus and title for my book Sometimes Hearts Have to Break. They were wise counsel for me, as I felt my own heart break again and again while I listened to people’s stories.
Kate had drawn me a picture of Garfield the cat, and in the bubble of his thoughts were three hearts. She told me that she had drawn two pictures but she’d put them on her windowsill and the wind had blown the other one away. When I asked, ‘What was in the other picture, Kate?’ she replied, ‘It was exactly the same as this one, but the hearts in the bubble of Garfield’s thoughts were all shattered down the middle.’ Somewhat shocked, I gently offered, ‘Perhaps the wind is telling you, you don’t need to have broken hearts.’ Kate responded by shaking her head and telling me, ‘No, Petrea, you don’t understand. Sometimes hearts have to break before they heal.’
Just before she died, Kate reached out to squeeze her parents’ hands and said, ‘I want you to love each other the way you’ve loved me.’ Such wisdom from children reverberates deeply, as they can so easily articulate a truth we all recognise.
Before any consultation, lecture or residential program, my habit has always been to simply remember my humanity while holding the intention, ‘May I be used for the good.’
This intention allows a sacred space in which healing may begin or continue. I can happily offer myself up in the spirit of being of service to this person no matter the crime, no matter the pain, no matter the rage, fear, panic, despair or hopelessness. If I don’t pretend to know what’s best for someone and am willing to hear their story without expectation or judgement, this allows them to discover their own best answer.
I may not know the characters in their story, I may not have been diagnosed with the same disease, I may not have suffered in the way they’re suffering, but there is no experience I cannot share with them, no terror I cannot understand, no anguish I cannot care about, no grief I cannot witness. It is enough to be fully attentive and hold the space for whatever needs to be expressed—rage, fear, their regrets or their weeping.
When a person feels deeply heard in an atmosphere that feels safe and non-judgemental, there is no shame, no wound, no secret, no suffering that cannot be shared and witnessed. We are all fragile and vulnerable. We are all strong beyond our knowing—it is in our willingness to be vulnerable and present to one another’s suffering that our strength and humanity are discovered. Not everything can be fixed or changed. What makes suffering bearable is when others share the journey with us, easing our sense of isolation. It is a comfort to know that others have walked the path and left a legacy of both survival and love.
***
Within a few months, most of the people I saw had a life-threatening illness, mostly cancer and HIV/AIDS. I found my work to be wonderfully rewarding: my own unarticulated experiences were being described by my patients, and my knowledge and skills in naturopathy and meditation teaching were of such benefit to them.
A wheelchair-bound woman, Bella, came to see me from interstate. She and her husband hired a private jet to make the journey to consult with me, so they obviously had some relatively high expectations of my assistance. Bella sat weary and crumpled in the wheelchair as her husband pushed her into my office then left us to sit in the waiting room.
It turned out that these wealthy people had been to many alternative healing clinics all over the world for cancer treatments. Bella’s days were dictated by a strict regimen of juicing, a precise method of meditation, the taking of dozens of supplements, along with a very restrictive diet of organic produce. At the time she visited me her doctors told her she had just four to six weeks to live.
As Bella described her daily routine to me, I presented a calm facade while quietly panicking on the inside. She knew far more about alternative and complementary therapies than I probably ever would, and I wondered what I could possibly say to her that would be of any benefit.
Finally, I noticed my preoccupation with my panicked mind and my lack of attentive listening. I brought myself into the present moment by coming to my senses: being aware of the shape and weight of my body, the pressure of the chair supporting my body, the touch and texture of my clothing, and the air against my skin. This helped me to simply be in the room with Bella and focus intently on being present to what she was saying. As I did this, I heard the heavy drone of the bees in the flowering wisteria outside my window and caught a whiff of its divine scent. I was aware of the sunlight streaming in and the distant hum of traffic. A quiet came over my mind, and the atmosphere in the room palpably changed, as if this moment had become more sacred.
To my surprise and no doubt to Bella’s, I said, ‘Forget about your diet and juicing. Eat what you like, but go into the children’s hospital and read to the children in the burns unit.’
Well, Bella dissolved into tears, as did I.
I thought it an appalling thing to say to someone with only a few weeks to live. My tears stopped not long before hers, and then her story flooded out between the occasional heart-rending sob.
Bella had ached to have children throughout her life, but her husband didn’t want them. So the idea of reading to children in the burns unit, of doing something with and for children in her last weeks, sounded perfect to her. I was surprised and relieved that she not only wasn’t offended
but had found my suggestion helpful.
I must have taken courage from this, because I then said to Bella, ‘Forget your meditation practice but listen to the slow movement of the Double Violin Concerto in D minor by Bach twice a day, as if you’ve never heard it before.’ It was a favourite piece of music of mine, but I had no idea of the relevance to her.
Again, Bella dissolved into tears and wept for what seemed a long time. My eyes were moist too as I witnessed her heartache. Finally, when I passed her tissues and she stopped shuddering with sobs, she whispered, ‘I love the violin. I played it up until the day of my marriage. My husband hates the violin, and I’ve never played it since.’ She loved the idea of listening to this particular piece of music because it was the very piece she’d been studying when she stopped playing all those years ago.
By the conclusion of our time together, Bella sat more upright in her chair and was feeling much calmer. She even had a hint of colour in her cheeks. I saw her greet her husband by telling him that she now had a clear direction, and she left the cottage feeling happy and motivated to put into practice the ideas we’d discussed.
At first I found conversations like this surprising, even unnerving. They didn’t seem to have much to do with naturopathy, meditation training or complementary therapies. However, it seemed that when people were hungry for assistance, and when my mind was quiet and I was deeply attentive to the person and their story, whatever was helpful to them arose in this healing space. I came to value the insights that these conversations sometimes brought with them, and I became more trusting of such intuitive nudges to ask seemingly unrelated questions or say unexpected things. I began to understand the benefits of the healing potential that complete attention engenders.
Six months later, I received a beautiful postcard from Bella that described her deep sense of fulfilment about the time she was spending with children in the burns unit. Scrawled across the bottom was: ‘PS. Tumours still there but not bothering me.’
