I’m coming to the end of an important project I’ve been working on for the past few weeks – ME! And I can’t tell you how much I’ve benefited.
It all started with a fall down the stairs and a rather substantial whack on my butt. Suddenly, my life temporarily assumed a very different path. And, of course, falling on your bum and all that it entailed provided ample opportunity for humour to creep in. Because really, it was a bummer – literally!
Even my slight build provided opportunities for a little self-deprecating humour. I found myself telling people that I was looking into getting a designer big butt – just in case, God forbid, this ever happened again!
Even in the midst of pain and uncertainty, I could still find moments to laugh.
For around six weeks, I was more or less housebound, with the couch, several books and television filling my days. The fall had upset the stapled area where I’d had my bowel resection some 15 years ago, and symptoms I thought I’d long since put to bed resurfaced.
I was in acute pain, and being largely confined indoors during a cold Melbourne winter left me feeling pretty low. I’ve never been one to think too much about my age, or even about holding onto handrails as I descend stairs, but the fall left me feeling vulnerable and much more conscious of my age as it tilts towards 60.
Several medical appointments and a colonoscopy later, I found myself confronting the possibility of a lifelong diagnosis of ulcerative colitis – something I certainly wasn’t keen to embrace.
I couldn’t help feeling that what I was experiencing was directly related to the fall and that, once the inflammation and irritation settled, so would the symptoms. My gastroenterologist downplayed, even rejected, the connection between the fall and my symptoms.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had a difference of opinion with my gastroenterologist. In many ways, it felt like two world views colliding. His world is one where medication is an absolute solution. Mine is one where medication can absolutely play a role, but where I also believe the body’s miraculous capacity to heal should never be underestimated.
I was suddenly swept back into a world I’d briefly inhabited all those years ago, when I received my rectal cancer diagnosis, underwent a full bowel resection and lived with a temporary ileostomy – a world where uncertainty reigned, sometimes at odds with my unswerving belief that I could, and would, beat this.
And while I knew I could heal at home, I felt stagnant.
Usually, I love walking, and trips to the park with my Labrador are a source of joy. But the brisk Melbourne winter, combined with my fear of gravity when it came to my bowels, meant I wanted – actually, needed – to stay close to home. Specifically, close to a toilet, just in case.
Even with the medication I reluctantly took, I knew something was missing. My body instinctively knows how to heal, and I wanted to give it the opportunity to do so in its own way. Besides, the medication, in the form of a suppository 😳, was particularly excruciating.
There are so many layers to healing, and it is so much more than medication.
My body was struggling, but so was my spirit. And no medication was going to address that.
Returning to my happy place
I couldn’t help thinking about my happy place – the beaches immersed in rainforest in Far North Queensland. It is where the bulk of The Laughter Effect was written, and somewhere I feel deeply connected to nature, warmth and myself.
Perhaps this was exactly what I needed to turbocharge my healing and wellbeing.
So I booked my trip, hoping I’d be up for the three-hour flight and everything that came with it. I decided that three and a half weeks would give me enough time to really feel the benefits of a change of environment and pace.
And I’m incredibly grateful and blessed that I could do it.
My hubby decided to gatecrash the first week, which I was actually very grateful for, helping me assimilate into my temporary abode.
And then I settled in.
I chose apartment living so I could cook nourishing meals rather than rely on local offerings. I allowed my body to determine its daily pace rather than forcing myself to do what I thought I should be doing.
And slowly, something shifted.
I reconnected with old friends. I had in-person treatments with kinesiologists I’d met here five years ago. I read avidly. I relaxed. I walked.
I built up to 10,000-plus steps in a day.
I ascended a mini mountain and peered down at the shrunken boats below.
I even stared a python in the eyes!
And somewhere along the way, I realised that this didn’t really feel like a holiday.
It felt like somewhere I should be living for chunks of the year.
Being immersed in nature and warmth, away from the predictability of day-to-day existence – particularly when I’d been so limited in what I could do – was like medicine for my spirit.
Nature has been my balm. I’ve been kissed by the sunshine and embraced by giant trees.
I’m smiling more. I’m feeling more alive. I’ve rediscovered a zest for life.
And perhaps most importantly, I’m feeling empowered.
This is also the first thing I’ve written with real passion in a while. My writer’s block, which I now recognise was symptomatic of the funk I was in, has subsided.
There is something about feeling physically constrained that can also constrict your creativity, your spirit and your sense of possibility. Getting away helped me reconnect with all three.
I’ve also been reminded that healing isn’t linear, nor is it one-size-fits-all. Sometimes we need to take matters into our own hands – not necessarily by rejecting conventional medicine, but by recognising that there are other dimensions to our wellbeing that deserve attention too.
For me, medication is just one part of the story. So far, it seems I may only need it temporarily rather than long term. But I also know that this is my healing journey, and mine alone.
I’m not dictating how anyone else should approach their healing. We all have different bodies, circumstances, beliefs and needs.
I simply know that I trust my body.
And I believe there is enormous wisdom in listening to it.
And then there’s the Australian Census.
How ironic that I put my current abode as Clifton Beach, Far North Queensland. That has to be a sign. LOL!
Tomorrow I head home, fuelled by this incredibly empowering experience.
And yes, I’m stronger. I’m filled with gratitude for what my little body has achieved. I’m basically symptom-free, which feels like a huge achievement after the past few months.
I also recognise that not everyone has the privilege of being able to take a three-and-a-half-week break and relocate to a tropical paradise to heal. For that, I feel incredibly grateful and blessed.
But perhaps the biggest gift has been the reminder that sometimes healing requires us to change more than our medication.
Sometimes we need to change our environment.
Our pace.
Our perspective.
And sometimes, we simply need to give ourselves permission to return to the places and things that make us feel most alive. We don’t need to wait for an accident, a health challenge or some other wake-up call to give ourselves that permission.
For me, that was Far North Queensland.
And, in many ways, it was also finding my way back to me.
If you’d like to discover more about my experience healing from bowel cancer and how you can transform adversity into advantage and powerlessness into power please check out Laughing at cancer – How to Heal with Love, Laughter and Mindfulness.
Wishing you love, laughter, joy and blessings,
Ros 💖
PS I’ll be sharing more insights from my FNQ experience in the coming weeks.
