How I Rescued My Brain

by David Roland

  We sit alongside his desk, our chairs facing. He takes few handwritten notes, so we maintain eye contact most of the time. I tell him that I’ve written about my stroke and that writing is helping me to join the dots in my story, giving me new insights. In our financial dealings, the dread does not overtake me as much, or for as long, as it used to. I am more confident and assertive, less like the sea anemone that closes up with a hint of threat, and the stretches of confidence remind me of how I used to be. I haven’t had any thoughts of escape or suicide since last year. I have been writing summaries of my readings for James, and he seems pleased with them.

  Doctor Franklin says there are less bushfires in my life now. Each property, each financial threat was a bushfire. Dominique and her associates are helping us to fight the fires.

  I am also less reactive. If Anna or the kids say or do something that winds me up, I am alert to the feelings arising in my body. Often, I can pull myself up before I say or do something impulsive. Sometimes I don’t respond outwardly at all: I let it ride. Anna has told me, ‘You’re calmer since you came back from Choeying’s.’

  I tell him that I have renewed hope for Anna and me. With the kids, there’s been a renaissance: they are more cooperative and loving at home. I feel what they’re feeling more. Ashley hangs out with me now — I take her to singing lessons and accompany her on the guitar sometimes, and she often comes to swim squads with me.

  For the first time, I ask Doctor Franklin how he approached the diagnosis of my condition when I was in the psychiatric clinic. He says that he first thought my symptoms could indicate something neurological in origin: a stroke, epilepsy, or something else. If not this, it could have been a case of malingering, or psychological dissociation (a fugue state). He needed to rule out the neurological possibilities before considering the other two.

  It feels odd to hear that he considered, even if for only a moment, that I might have been malingering. But once again, I am heartened to have it confirmed that he did take a thorough approach to my diagnosis. How far back in my progress would I be if I’d continued to believe I’d had a mental breakdown and had never started on the Brain Fitness program? Life can be such a serendipitous journey at times.

  BY THE TIME I see Wayne in April 2011, things have changed a bit. I tell him how the mental fatigue went away while I was at Choeying’s and in Fiji, but it has returned to a degree since. Yet the girls are helping out more at home, so I’m not being pushed over the limit.

  Wayne reminds me that each phase of the rest–activity cycle that goes on throughout the day and night is ninety to 120 minutes long. He recommends that when I’m working or involved in something requiring concentration, I rest every ninety to 120 minutes.

  I have already worked out how to manage my mental fatigue more precisely, and it’s really helping. I limit the work I do for James to nine hours, in three-hour blocks, per week. Otherwise, on top of everything else, it causes rubber brain.

  Wayne also affirms the value of writing about my experiences. Psychotherapy is a search for meaning, he says, a way of finding a new narrative. I tell him, as I have Doctor Franklin, about my ideas of becoming a science writer, a neuropsychologist, or a neuroscientist. I’m investigating courses I might do to achieve some of these aims. ‘When you mention writing, you light up,’ Wayne says. ‘But not when you talk about study or clinical work.’

  Wayne’s encouragement spurs me on with my writing, but it becomes harder. I write about my memories of the offenders I met in jail — this is the first time I’ve felt able to do it. It brings on light-headedness, a feeling of unsavouriness and distance from reality. But these emotions only last a few days, and I am able to move through them. I see this as a good sign. When I tell Wayne, he says it is an achievement that I can approach these memories and process them more fully.

  Meanwhile, the other source of my anxiety, our financial affairs, won’t go away. In May, I tell Doctor Franklin that I’m getting feelings of hopelessness again, triggered by our financial affairs. We are being sued, and chased again by creditors — there is only so much Dominique can do for us. And Anna is talking about separation once more.

  In the July school holidays, we go on a camping trip to the Outback. It will probably be our last family holiday, as the kids are growing older and Ashley is showing less interest in doing things as a family. It’s another attempt to get us away and into nature so that we can continue to reconnect. In particular, I’m keen to have time with Anna, so we can talk again. After Fiji, she had said that she wanted an eventual separation, and that she didn’t think she could try again. However, she preferred us to keep working together as a team to deal with the financials and the children.

  But I still don’t want to give up. I’m hoping that the new me will make a difference.

  Mindfulness, I’m finding, throws up everything: an awareness of good intentions, bad intentions, loving thoughts, angry thoughts. It seems to drill down into ever-deeper layers of mental experience, and it sharpens the relationship lens. I see clearly now, in a raw, sensate way, how emotionally cut off Anna has become from me: how she has been building a social life outside of ours, and how her business interests preoccupy her, and take her away as well. She doesn’t seek my company anymore. Yet on the Outback trip it seems to me that Anna is like her old self.

  One steamy morning, we shoo the kids away from our campsite and they go to cool off under the huge sprinklers set up in the camping ground, still within sight. ‘Where is your head at with respect to us?’ I ask.

  She recites the familiar themes: there’s ‘too much history’, we’re ‘a sexual mismatch’, she has ‘no desire’ for me and ‘can’t see it coming back’. She wants us to be ‘the best friends we can be’. She’d like us to begin living apart when we get home.

  ‘I’m fifty–fifty about separating,’ I say. ‘I’m confused.’ But even as I say this, I am reluctant to let go; I feel the tug of grief, now that it all seems real.

  For the rest of the day, a deep sadness swamps me, dulling the landscape. I want to be alone, my mindset clearly out of sync with the kids’ upbeat energy. Why is Anna so steadfast in her rejection of me, so impervious to everything I try?

  Late that afternoon, we travel to a spectacular rock escarpment in Kakadu National Park to watch the famed sunset. There must be at least a hundred others gathered here as well. On a ledge below us, as the perfect ball of smouldering red pauses on the horizon, a young man gets down on one knee before a woman. There is the glint of a ring as he takes her hand. She accepts. Spontaneous applause and shouts of ‘congratulations’ and ‘how romantic’ rise from the crowd. Champagne is popped.

  It’s a bittersweet moment.

  When we get home from our holiday, Anna sets up a separate bedroom downstairs. I don’t know if the two are related, but this coincides with an increase in my mental fatigue, and a deterioration in my memory and my capacity to understand what I’m reading for James.

  Then, out of the blue I get a call from Choeying. She is holding a get-together on a student’s rural property over the weekend and invites me to come and join them. I go, and as before, it’s uplifting to be with her and the other familiar faces. Talking about my grief and being with them eases the sharpness of my pain. Choeying and I also catch up with Shas, and she takes us for a drive on her bush property. It’s not yet cleared, with cattle scattered among the trees: she and her husband have a lot of chain-sawin’ to do, evidently. Shas tells me that she is sleeping a lot, getting fatigued again. I feel her confusion, and notice the strain on her face.

  In my next session with Wayne, I describe what has been happening recently. He says that I could feel as if I’ve let the children down the more I go over what we’ve lost. I should remind myself that I’m still there for them. I’m alive. I love them. I’m a good man. I’m here and hanging in. If the girls see Anna and I each surviving this hard time and they stil
l feel loved, they will be okay.

  Wayne is worried about my cognitive deterioration. We both wonder: have I had another stroke, a small one? He suggests that I follow up with Doctor Small.

  The next day, I do so. Doctor Small orders another brain MRI (my second) and the results come back: I haven’t had another cerebrovascular accident, but the evidence of the old one is still there. Doctor Small says that the hole in the head will remain. So it’s the impact of life events; my brain, hollowed in part though it is, is actually okay.

  I give up on the plan to retrain as a neuropsychologist or a neuroscientist. It’s become clear I couldn’t manage the conceptual demands and the concentration for high-level study, or the long days. I begin using the word ‘disability’: a term I haven’t thought applied to me before. It’s one that others take notice of, even if they can’t appreciate the exact nature of my disability. I find that when dealing with insurers, lawyers, government services, and some health practitioners, I need to wave this term in front of them, like a big stick, to get them to re-adjust their expectations of me.

  The two things that remain most fraught for me are telephone conversations and being asked to make a decision on the spot. If it’s something important, I ask the other party to put in writing what they want from me, or what they’re trying to explain. I tell them I will respond in writing. This reduces the likelihood of me becoming overwhelmed. (My developing writing skills have become a real asset.)

  It was Doctor Franklin who suggested this. ‘If you try and justify your position, it means people can debate it,’ he told me. ‘Say, “I only deal in paper” and repeat it like a broken record. This is what I do. “Sorry, I can’t help you further.”’ He’s written a letter for me, which says: In view of Mr Roland’s range of difficulties, resolving issues should only be done in writing. I have advised him not to engage in telephone interviews.

  Over the last year, I’ve attended a few short writing workshops, and I’ve engaged a mentor through my local writers’ centre. He has encouraged me to write in a stream-of-consciousness way about my life. I find myself writing about childhood times — lots of happy memories. It reminds me of how loved and safe I felt with my parents, and how, in their different ways, they contributed to my resilience and sense of curiosity; how proud they would be of me for not giving up, and for making something good out of the bad I have been through.

  In August, I attend a session at a local writers’ festival. Unexpectedly, one of the panel members, a journalist who writes novels, describes in graphic detail the punishment meted out to a nine-year-old boy by his mother and stepfather. She tells us that they suspected he had sexually interfered with his younger cousin. It later turned out that he had not, and they had based their conclusion on a throwaway remark made by the girl. Their extreme punishment led to the boy’s death, shortly after he had been hospitalised. As I sit among the audience, the familiar attendants — disgust and horror — come. I contemplate walking out, which would bring attention to myself, so instead I remain, wondering if I can manage this type of talk now.

  That night, my sleep is disturbed by bad dreams. I’m unsettled. I wasn’t able to speak with the author after the session, so the next day I email her. I explain the effect her story had on me, and probably others, suggesting that she warn people beforehand if she is going to go into detail like this again. She responds quickly, apologising. She says she will take up my suggestion for the future, and praises the efforts of ‘frontline people’.

  The author’s graphic account intrudes in my mind, on and off, for several days. But it doesn’t derail me. When I talk with Wayne about the incident, he says, ‘You’re a helping professional. You’ve got a heart, you have empathy, and you feel the suffering of others. I would have had trouble staying there. We need to find a way to protect ourselves while keeping our hearts open to what others are going through. We have to accept the suffering out there.’ He says that I recovered through my own efforts, regained my emotional equilibrium; this shows that I have made progress.

  SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE, I had attended a national psychotherapy conference in Sydney with Ian. One of the keynote speakers, Ajahn Brahm, a Buddhist teacher and the abbot of Bodhinyana Monastery in Western Australia, spoke about his approach to therapy. I liked his personable style: he told stories, cracked jokes, and explained his ideas clearly. I found out there that he was running a nine-day silent retreat near his monastery in late November. I’ve never attended such a long retreat before, or a silent one, but now I wonder if it could change me in some way that would make a difference to Anna — a last-ditch effort to save our marriage. Also, it would be good to have another extended rest. So I go.

  On the third day, we have the opportunity for a short private interview with Ajahn Brahm. (‘Ajahn’ is an honorific given to a respected Buddhist teacher in the Thai tradition.) I am the first to meet with him. I confess that my marriage is in jeopardy; I haven’t been as open-hearted with my wife in the past as I would’ve liked. She wants to separate, and I’m concerned for the children.

  ‘Meditation will soften you up,’ Ajahn Brahm says, and laughs. ‘I don’t know why husbands and wives are so keen to get my advice — I’m a celibate monk!’ But, becoming more serious, he continues: ‘Between couples, you don’t want there to be any fear about saying anything. Tell your children that they can say anything to you or your wife, and although it may hurt at times, they will not be punished. Emphasise that it is Mum and Dad that need to work it out together.’

  I mention that I’d asked Anna in a letter, which I’d left for her before I came on the retreat, to tell me the ways in which I’ve hurt her; I want to know what it’s been like for her.

  ‘It’s not your fault, or her fault; it’s nobody’s fault. Be kinder on yourself. Her heart needs to be open as well,’ he says.

  I see that he’s right.

  I’m exhausted, and after this I go to bed and sleep for a long time. It amazes me how tired I am — I’ve slept a lot over the first three days already.

  In my second private interview with Ajahn Brahm, I tell him how I’ve been through some terrible times in recent years and had to find a way out or I wouldn’t have survived. ‘I’ve learnt that pain is a strong motivator,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but you need joy to stay on the path, to keep going.’

  I recognise the truth in this immediately. The painful experiences motivated me, out of desperation, to find a way through the pain: to find calm, nurturance, and a way to insure myself from the outside attacks. I’ve experienced joy through singing, making music, swimming, movies, yoga, friends, family holidays, and, increasingly, meditation. Often, I can experience contentment despite outside events. Choeying’s words, that suffering can be a ‘blessing or gift’, make sense now: pain is a great motivator to be a different person, to see things differently; either that, or you roast inside.

  On the last day of the retreat, I take a tour through the monastery with some of the other participants. It is run in the Thai Forest Tradition, so monks live in their own small huts in the forest, with walking paths leading to the common areas, including the kitchen and the dining area.

  Ajahn Brahm has mentioned that he sleeps in a cave; I wasn’t sure if he was joking. We are guided by one of the resident monks, who speaks with an Irish accent. The cave is real, but human-made, and has been carved into the side of a small hill. A few toy plastic bats hang from the rocky ceiling. With the door closed, it is completely dark inside, unless the lights are on. The monk points out the thin mats that Ajahn Brahm lays upon the floor to sleep on.

  We are shown into the small office space at the other end of the hut, where Ajahn Brahm writes his books and correspondence. On the shelf above his narrow desk are his publications and volumes of the Buddha’s teachings. There is little else in the room, apart from a chair and a low bench seat. As we step out, I remark, ‘There’s not much in
here, is there?’

  ‘It’s important to note what’s not in here,’ the monk replies.

  This comment stays with me on the flight home. I feel a sudden keenness to simplify my life, to get rid of ‘stuff’: not only material possessions, but also the collected years of professional documents I no longer need; and, most importantly, frivolous activities or relationships that aren’t nurturing and meaningful.

  In his morning talks, Ajahn Brahm spoke of how not letting go can sustain pain, hurt, and anger, and reinforce worry. Now I am ready to let go of being a psychologist — both the one I was before and the variations of this I’d considered becoming.

  And for the first time, I can let go of Anna without feeling as if I’m being sucked down a sinkhole. If she believes that she can achieve happiness by starting afresh, how can I say whether this is the right or wrong thing to do?

  Is this surrender? Is it acceptance?

  The holidays away where I thought we could be our old selves did not make a difference; they merely delayed the inevitable. But I have tried. My efforts to understand what she’s been through have been thwarted, and I may never know what her experience of our marriage has been like. Yet I see now that I have been like the passenger standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus that’s already gone, and looking expectantly up the road for it to lug around the corner. I will need to let go of the romantic ideal of the nuclear family that grows up together, sharing birthdays and Christmases, relatives and family friends. This is a sadness that will be difficult to sit with, but I’ve learnt a way through pain.

  When I return home, Anna and I discuss how and when we will separate. I will see where this takes us. Let it unfold.

  19

  EARLIER IN 2011, James Bennett-Levy learnt that a highly regarded German neuroscientist, Tania Singer, would be holidaying in our area before Christmas. He made contact with her and pinned her down to spend a day with us. He’s invited a few of his colleagues, and me, to come along.