No Fear

I've been asked to write something for a book about my "near death experience". Here it is:

At the end of July, 2009, I was enjoying a week long 'Family Retreat' with the Brighton Buddhist Centre. I was with my 4-year old daughter, Kyra, but my wife and 2-year old daughter, Tara, could not be there due to the little one's Chicken-pox.

Every morning the men on the retreat would meet to discuss matters of spirituality. One day I expressed the belief (learnt from some of my Yoga practice), that our biggest challenge in life was to overcome a fear of death. One of the other men in the group challenged that, saying that, for him, it was in fact about overcoming the fear of living. He was adamant, and went on to explain that many years ago he was given just two years to live. He was now living a full and healthy life, but in order to do so he had overcome many difficulties along the way. That revelation humbled me, and although I did eventually express my belief that living was a celebration and not something to be feared, I had to acknowledge that it's one thing to form an opinion based on the teachings of another, but something else entirely to base one's beliefs on such a very powerful personal experience. Nothing quite so dramatic had happened in my life, and in fact, I had not experienced illness or death first hand at all.

All that was to change. In the week after the Family Retreat Tara had started squinting quite badly and was getting more and more more lethargic. She had also stopped walking. A doctor then discovered symptoms of Intracranial Pressure, indicating that something was seriously amiss. On the afternoon of August 6th we found out that Tara was suffering from a tennis ball sized brain tumour on the Cerebellum, and her life was in grave danger. She was rushed to Kings College Hospital, and arrived around 7.30p.m and "on death's door” (in her surgeon's words). She then had to undergo a 12 hour operation to save her life.

Those 12 hours were dark and despairing. There was the feeling of utter helplessness, and I was forced to confront all sorts of fears and emotions. Many questions surfaced; “what if?”, “why?”, “will she be the same?” And yet there was a light in that darkness, and it burned brightly. It was the light of love, of compassion, of selflessness. It's a light easily forgotten when your daughter throws a tantrum. Or wants your time when you feel you are doing something more important (you're probably not). Or needs her nappy changing. Again. And again. And again. But I began to rediscover that light during those 12 hours, and it lit my way. My path was clear – I needed to let my love burn so bright that Tara could bask in it's warmth, sustaining her during her fight for life.

In the early hours of the following morning I was called by a nurse, who told me that Tara had done well, and that the surgeons were completing a successful operation. At 8a.m I got to see her again, and although I found it difficult to see her all puffed up (from the drugs) and hooked up to all sorts of medical equipment, I knew her path back to health had begun. She didn't wake up at all during that first day as she was under the influence of all sorts of powerful medicines, but the next night I received a phone call from a nurse saying that Tara had asked for me! Up to that point I was still coping with the fear of the unknown. Would Tara talk again? Walk again? Laugh again? But here she was asking for me, less than 24 hours after a life saving operation on her brain! One fear fell away right there. Tara was coming back to us.

The next night I was sat by Tara's bed holding her hand, trying to let my light burn bright. But alone with her right then, I felt very low and I was crying. The doctor on duty happened to be doing her rounds, so I asked her one of the questions that had surfaced during Tara's operation; "why?" The doctor suggested that I would probably never find the cause of Tara's illness, and perhaps the only reason “why” was that ours was a family that would cope. But whether that was true or not, rather than pondering such things, I would be better focusing entirely on Tara's well-being. She was right; it was a gentle reminder to let my light burn bright again. My spirits were lifted immediately.

6 months on and I have just been back to King's for Tara's first scan since she was discharged; there's a small amount of tumour left, but it has not grown in the proceeding months. So for the moment there's no need for further surgery. Initially, that great news made me feel like a bit of a fraud - I was offered a glimpse of a darker world, where a fight for life itself was an everyday reality. But also a blessed world, full of love. And now, here I was, back with a perfectly normal, healthy 2-year old. Then the realisation dawned on me that I had been privileged to see that blessed place, and that rather than feel fraudulent, my duty was to hold that place dear to my heart, reminding me to be a more compassionate, forgiving and selfless human being.

And now I can speak from personal experience. I believe that it's not just about overcoming a fear of death. Or life. Or even about overcoming fear itself. It transcends that - it's about fear having no place at all in one's life, even in the most dire of circumstance. In fact, especially then. That's the time you need to let the light of love burn brightest of all.