Thursday 11th March 2010
Gestation: 23 weeks, 6 days
One year ago.
Today, Suse has her session with our coach.
Yep, we’ve got the same coach.
I really feel for him sometimes.
And after this, she heads off to see Steve, another friend.
An intuitive healer.
* * * * *
This is the bit where I write about alternative therapies, and the dichotomy within me. Of my fascination with differing treatment modalities. And my default distrust of them.
As I’ve already said, Suse has tried many alternative therapies. She’s seen Chinese medical specialists, an acupuncturist and has tried moxibustion. She has previously seen a hypnotherapist, and another woman for pregnancy related healings. And while I have a healthy scepticism for these, there is something in the unknown. Together, Suse and I completed a two-year, self-help training course based around the ancient art of alchemy, and accessing our intuitive selves.
Through this, I’ve fostered an increasing interest in intuitive health.
Steve is an intuitive healer.
And today, Suse goes to see him.
* * * * *
It’s Friday night. We sit there in the bath, sharing a beer.
“Tell me all about it.”
Suse lets out a sigh, like she’s lost for words. My wife is never lost for words. “It was really full on,” she says finally, shaking her head. “Such a full on session.”
She begins to explain. From her descriptions, I interpret that Scott uses techniques where, through a process of meditation, he gradually releases memories. He facilitates an understanding, working through a process, through guidance, of where things are for that person.
“So, he took me on this journey, where I found myself in another realm,” she continues, “and I realised that, at one stage, I had died in child birth. That my child died before me, and then I died. And I’ve been carrying grief about that, unresolved grief. I haven’t moved passed this, I haven’t resolved any of it. I’ve just been carrying it.”
She stops for a moment, contemplating.
“And then I moved into this space where I met all these grey souls. So weird, and so hard to describe. But when I saw it, I realised that it was okay. That I would be able to have a child. That we would be able to have a child.” She grips at my hand.
“And I’ve just been carrying all of this fear around, this fear of not being adequate. This whole… thing…” she says, waving her hands in front of her, as if trying to make it concrete, “is around that. And I’ve been holding onto it, carrying it, right here.”
She says it without frustration, without anger.
She simply states it as fact.
And she points to her belly, anatomically, exactly where her fallopian tubes are.
“Man they’re so sore. He moved so much energy from there today.”
I watch her as I listen. And as I do, I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I realise that her voice is different, the quality of it. It’s deeper and more mellifluous. And I sense something deep inside me, or around me. Despite all of my rational beliefs otherwise, I know that this is true.
“And, after that,” she continues, “I saw – very clearly – another vision. One where I was giving birth. And you were there. And then you had this little argument with the doctor over who was going to cut the cord.” I smile at the idea of it, at the accuracy of this likely outcome. “And then we had the baby. We had our baby. And it’s all going to be okay.”
The hairs stay standing. They’re all at attention. This resonates. Despite my distrust.
“This is what I was talking about,” I say.
“This is what you needed,” I continue. “In fact, I didn’t say this to you, but two nights ago, I was sitting there, while you were in the car, on the edge of the seat, wracking my brains. Trying to come up with an answer. With something to do.” I pause. “And I got a feeling, I realised that it was nothing that Western Medicine could provide. It wasn’t something that I could fix.” I stop again. “This was it.”
“He’s the real deal, man,” she says.
“I know he is.”
She takes a deep breath, absently touching at her belly. “I mean, this was so full on. And it’s dug up some shit that no one has even come near.” She stops for a second. “I mean, I’ve been so down over the last couple of weeks, that I didn’t even want to be here any more.”
“I know, hon,” I say, softly.
“And now I can see where this has come from now. For the first time. What this weight has been about.”
We sit quiet for a moment. We both take a swig of beer.
“When are you seeing him next?”
“Two weeks, on Friday.”
“Maybe I’ll come along and have a session too.”
* * * * *
Like I said, I’ve been trained to think in a certain way. In a western medical model. In an allopathic medical model. As much as I am fascinated by alternative therapies, I can turn on them in a dime, casting them off as emotional quackery.
But I know enough, to know that my wife is deeply in tune with herself, more so than me. And that, as such, she experiences things on a different level, on a more intuitive level, than me; by default, deeply set in my masculine mind.
But as I lie here, in a bath, opposite her, relaxed and calm, I see a whole different being from the crying mess that was there in the car two days ago.
I get that sense. I know it intuitively. I’m with her.
There was something deeply spiritual in Steve’s healing.
There is some deep shit that happened there today.
As I look at Suse, I know that.
There’s more to healing than we understand.
You just have to look and you’ll see.
* * * * *