SOL

Something wasn’t right. Something hadn’t been right for a while. Over the previous three months, I’d lost almost twenty pounds. I was having night sweats. I was chronically fatigued. My resting heart rate, usually in the 60s, was now in the 90s. When I tried to exercise, I nearly collapsed with exhaustion. Being a generally healthy 29-year-old, none of this seemed normal. I figured I had mononucleosis or something similar. I kept thinking: I should go to the doctor. But I was in law school. My final exams were worth 100% of my grade. I didn’t want the doctor to shut me down. I didn’t want to fall behind. So I avoided the doctor and kept plugging away. I finished my last final exam of the semester, an exam on Evidence law, on the morning of December 15, 2010. Some law school classmates were heading to the bar for a celebratory drink. I told them I was gonna swing by the student health clinic first, but I hoped to join them after. Before the sun went down that day, I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia and admitted to the oncology department at Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley, California. The next day, I began a regimen of chemotherapy. I would receive five rounds of chemo over the next six months. Because the chemo would decimate my immune system and my blood components, I would be hospitalized each time, for about three weeks, so I could receive the necessary monitoring and blood transfusions. For those first few days in the hospital, there was nearly constant activity. Friends and family came to visit, and we spent long stretches of time discussing the situation and enjoying each other’s company. Every twenty minutes or so, a hospital staffer came into the room to draw my blood, check my vitals, ask about my condition, adjust my IV, clean the room, bring me a meal. Because there was so much activity around me, I didn’t have much time to dwell on my situation. A few days into my hospitalization, that moment finally came. My bed had just been changed. My doctor had come by for his daily rounds. My visitors had headed off to breakfast. I was lying comfortably in bed, with nothing to do. I was, for the first time since this all started, alone with my thoughts for a while. As my thoughts started to gather steam, I sensed an intense fear of death creeping in. It was like an icy tentacle gripping my gut, heart, and throat. My mind surged and swirled with fearful speculation. I knew this form of leukemia was especially lethal. There was a realistic chance I would die in that room. I felt on the verge of panic. Suddenly, I sensed a presence in the room with me. I didn’t see anything. I just sensed that something protective and friendly was hovering in the room, right above my bed. I felt a sense of calm wash over me. Then, the presence descended into my body. I felt contentment and deep relaxation. Where that creeping, icy tentacle of death-fear had been, I now sensed an unshakeable confidence and optimism. I’m going to be okay, I thought. No matter what happens, whether I suffer or not, whether I die or not, I’m completely okay. Being a law student, I would usually respond to such a grand claim with skepticism and argument. Being an atheist, I was inclined to dismiss this bizarre experience as a hallucination or mental projection. But I sensed to my core that this was something different. It didn’t feel like someone was assuring me I was okay. It felt like I knew I was okay. Really, it felt like I remembered I was okay. It was like a guardian angel had entered my body and unlocked this liberating memory within me. The chilly death-fear didn’t return for the duration of my treatment. During my time in the hospital, there was another event that, in hindsight, was an early step on my spiritual journey. Once my treatment settled into a routine, I found myself with a lot of free time. One way I filled the time was reading. Before law school, I had been an avid reader of literature. Since law school had started, I’d done very little literary reading – I was simply too burned out from all the homework. Now I found myself with a buffet of reading options, thanks to generous gifts from friends and family. One gift was Eckhart Tolle’s book A New Earth. I started the book not sure what to expect. Over the first few pages, I rolled my eyes at what felt like spiritual fluff and wishful thinking. But as I kept reading, something began to shift within me. I sensed my mind becoming broader, more spacious, more light, airy, and open. I was, to put it briefly, aware that I was aware. I’d always been cerebral by nature. I spent a lot of time in my head with my thoughts. But rare was the moment when I consciously realized I was in the act of thinking. Rarely had I recognized, in real-time – I’m thinking right now! I’d always just been in the thought, and then out of it. As I read Tolle, I realized that, by remaining mindful, I could be simultaneously immersed in the flow of events and aware of the flow’s occurrence. In other words: I could engage in tasks while remaining peripherally aware I was doing so.