The women were numb with grief and angst as they watched the pillar of their family suffer the greatest protracted agony—a pain so engulfing that it staggered the imagination. I looked in on the man, but after a few moments, had to turn away. Nothing on Earth could ease his pain or restore his sanity. He was begging to die, but was punished by living. The doctors had no idea how much longer he would have to endure. He could die anytime or hang on for another week or so.
I approached the women again and asked if I could tell them about my faith and the power of the Mystic Law to relieve suffering. We spent half an hour talking and I taught them how to chant. The next morning on my way to the cafeteria I bumped into Mr. G.'s wife, who grabbed my arm and said, “Thankfully, my husband died last night, thank you for those words. We had given up. We lost our faith.”
The panorama of suffering, hope, and fate that I had witnessed confirmed in my mind the validity of a concept known as the Ten Worlds. For me, death had been something that happened on the highway, or far away in a dimly lit hospital room. Now, everywhere I turned, death was taking someone I had just met. Finding ways to encourage others as their lives hung in the balance seemed to be an art form that wasn't necessarily possessed by doctors, nurses, or clergy. Some of the caregivers had beautiful bedside manner and could truly comfort the sick and dying while others were insensitive, overly blunt, and inconsiderate of emotions and feelings.
Everything seemed to be going wrong with my tests. Every day seemed to bring forth another piece of bad news about how far the cancer had spread. My days were spent going from one test to another. By evening I would be completely exhausted. At night I would sweat and get chills. Loneliness was something I had grown accustomed to over the years.
Lynn and I talked on the phone twice a day. I insisted that she not visit because the trip to the hospital was more than 100 miles, round trip, and I hoped she would ease her mind by concentrating on the household and business. My other hang-up about visitation was my annoyance with everyone else's visitors. Some men's wives stayed with them from morning until night, never leaving, as if by staring at them long enough, they might get better. The poor, long-suffering women had themselves become patients. It seemed like the longer the women would stay, the more they would be badgered, bullied, and taken for granted by their husbands. After a few weeks of watching those men and their wives, I concluded that men are weaker than women. Most of the men I saw might have been courageous in battle or have been honorable central figures in their homes, but once put into a hospital setting, they turned into whining, complaining, and angry little boys.
Characteristic of my personality, I looked on having visitors supporting me all day as a sign of personal weakness. One part of me would say, “Where is everyone? Doesn't anybody care about me?” The other part of me would say, “I don't want or need any attention, I must handle this alone.”
Lynn was as strong as pure titanium I-beams as we dug in for the fight of our lives. She was able to fulfill her responsibilities because of her determined prayer not to be defeated, no matter what. The pressure of the situation built up in Devin, who grew so frustrated and frightened she couldn't concentrate on school. She compensated for her fear and family turmoil by becoming a distraction in her classroom. We were all in the state of hell, but we were calling forth the life condition of Bodhisattva and Buddhahood. The prime point of Buddhism is that karma can be changed through specific actions. Even though it wasn't perceptible at first, great changes were taking place in all our lives.
VISIONS
It was early March 1987, but for some reason the temperature was about 72 degrees. I had just finished reading Nichiren's writing titled “On the Buddha's Behavior,” which details the major persecutions that Nichiren had endured because of his dissemination of his type of Buddhism.1 Walking down the long hallway to the hospital exit, I kept thinking about Nichiren's courage when he was about to be beheaded. I needed to have that same kind of courage. Feeling most inspired, I decided to go outside to a small grassy area with a few trees about a block away from the hospital. I sat on a bench because the ground was rather moist from melted snow. The bench faced southeast and I proceeded to chant toward the beautiful morning sun. I had not been outside in a week because of the cold weather.
Finishing up about ten minutes of chanting, I recited two prayers from the Lotus Sutra as I did every morning and evening, then I continued to fervently chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. It was nearly 10:00 A.M. My doctors had made their 9 o'clock rounds and mentioned that I would be having a test called the lymphangiogram and I would need special sterile preparations that evening and would be unable to get out of bed. They were not very forthcoming in their explanation of what the procedure would entail.
My heart was heavy with foreboding as I concentrated on chanting. In my mental turmoil, I recalled a passage from the Gosho. It simply said that Myo was the head, Ho the throat, Ren the chest, Ge the abdomen, and Kyo the extremities. As I repeated this idea in my mind, concentrating the sound on my body, one section at a time, I felt an explosion of thrilling energy emerge from deep within, rushing from my chest to my head and cascading down throughout my body. I tried to block out everything except the words melting into their corresponding areas on my body. I shut my eyes and chanted with increasing vigor.
A great glow of amber light appeared in my mind's eye, which caused me to open my physical eyes. I paid no heed to the parking lot or flow of activities that had been there only a moment earlier. My eyes were totally transfixed on the light before me. From the golden rays of the sun, a realistic and highly defined image of the Gohonzon appeared above me. I heard the dramatic sounds of huge drums and soft instrumental music. There were bells, chimes, symbols, and horns perfectly blended into a heavenly music. The volume and soothing nature of the music was like the serenity of a forest lake at dusk beneath an October moon. The uplifting fragrance of flowers and incense heightened my consciousness. I was enveloped and raised to a keen awareness. I was compelled to let go of myself and give in to the vision.
The object I saw was at first about the size of a house door, seeming to undulate like a mirage—coming into sight, then fading out. Hovering in the air, the object seemed to exist between two realities. Part of me was in the world of people, whose eyes see only coarse matter and visions are thought of as meaningless hallucinations or psychosis. The other part of me had entered a dream-like dimension where spirit travel was possible and the sense of vision that could look through any object or see to the ends of the earth. All my senses were at once magnified.
The glowing object was not like the kind of image you see after being exposed to a bright light. In fact, this object was deep ebony, or burnished, black lacquer and looked as real as all the scenery surrounding me. The object began to grow in size. On its surface was Chinese writing in gold that grew in proportion to the object.
I was so enraptured by this vision that I was drawn into the light, completely immersed in pulsing energy. My heart pounded in my chest. My inner spirit then flew out of my body, upward toward the magnificent treasure-tower like an eagle to its nest. Exhilaration fluttered through me. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo flowed from my lips as I rode on the winds of rhythmic sound, glorious fragrance, and luxuriant color into the black-and-gold emblazoned tower. By the time I was at the base of the great tower it was of skyscraper proportion. In the aura that radiated from it, I saw huge streamers of vivid red and sharp purple gently rippling to a peaceful wind. The enormous golden Chinese letters on the object transformed before my very eyes into individual Buddhas and entities, representing all the universal aspects of life. There seemed to be hundreds of images, far too many to count. Some were human and looked like the pictures in historical books about Buddhism, and some were not human, but heavenly beings and life forms that I can only describe as God-like in stature. Their radiance was awesome. They were visions of immeasurable purity. There were spiritually advanced beings that seemed to represent a fabulous order of diverse lif
e which I had never imagined possible. Possessing different forms and faces, some were like crystals of holy light, and others appeared as humanoids with multiple arms, legs, and eyes. I looked intensely at their bodies, and they looked completely real to me. Each one seemed to recognize me.
Feeling no fear, only innocent curiosity, I tried to look in their eyes, and as I did, their message appeared in my mind, but I could not understand it. Their images continued to tower above me like Himalayan peaks—mighty, majestic, and imbued with intrinsic power and mercy. On the deepest level, I understood that they were all personifications of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Each one represented a different aspect and place in the cosmos. Each one praised the Mystic Law. I seemed like a small ember before a giant star. The treasure tower was like a large planet, and its gravity drew me to the surface. Hurtling through space to the center of the object, I now saw only an all-encompassing white light.
When the light had overloaded my senses, I finally knew what the message was. The beings had raised their voices to praise the Mystic Law in all people. Their message spoke to my mind, telling me that I had an important mission. They vowed to protect me.
I felt a tingling glow of energy in my abdomen and especially between my eyes. The sensation was nearly unbearable. Like being thrown back by an electrical shock, I returned to my body and the treasure tower vanished. “What a wonderful dream!” I thought, “Who could believe such a meditation?” I wondered. My awareness returned to the clamor of the hospital grounds' activity. I looked to my right and saw another patient staring at me. He quickly turned away.
After what seemed like a few minutes, I stopped my prayer. Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that two hours had transpired. One part of my mind thought that wasn't possible. Another part of my mind quaked in wonder. I began to cry. The tears weren't the kind from physical or mental pain. They were tears of amrita that healed the body, mind, and spirit. When I had arrived at the hospital I was a victim. Now, awakened, my heart burned with confidence and determination. It didn't matter whether or not anyone believed that I had such an experience.
I took great solace in the fact that the Buddhist master, Josei Toda, had a similar experience while serving a two-year prison sentence for opposing the Japanese government during World War II. Toda had been under great duress, in a freezing-cold jail cell, when he had the first of two great awakenings. Those experiences gave him the energy and vision to build the foundation for Buddhism's eventual spread to the West and, ultimately, to come into my own awareness. Pride or elation are inferior descriptions of the exaltation I felt inside. Although my ordeal had hardly begun, I already felt a sense of victory.
ENDURANCE
In the evening a nurse came in to sterilize my feet and wrap them with gauze. It seemed no one could really answer my questions about what the doctors were going to do to me. The next morning I was wheeled into an x-ray room, where two surgeons proceeded, with long syringes, to inject blue dye between my toes. The pain was unbelievable. I was gently told to be very still and to not touch my legs even if they itched, which is more difficult than it sounds. I asked permission to softly chant while they proceeded.
I used mantra-powered visualization, imagining my feet as frozen, unable to feel any pain. At first the needle sticks were unbearable, but in a few moments, my mind was able to shut out the pain. Still, I was so nervous that tears started to roll off my cheeks. The surgeons stopped their injections and asked me if I was okay. I told them that I was having a problem blocking out the pain, and kept seeing the faces of my wife and daughter. They asked me if the pain medication was adequate. The staff in my ward had forgotten to give me pain medicine. All hell broke loose as an angry surgeon got on the phone to find out where things had gone wrong. They had been injecting the die between my toes for almost ten minutes with no medication. After that experience, a shot of Demerol and Valium didn't even faze me. For the next twenty minutes, while I was being punctured between the toes, I was able to increase my pain threshold to the point where my body relaxed and I froze out the pain completely.
I lay motionless on the table for several hours. The purpose of the injections between my toes was to expose the lymph node in the top of my foot so that an injection device hooked up to a quart-sized cylinder could then pump blue dye into my lymph system. When an itch happened, I would direct my mind to that place and make it stop. I became quite proficient at this after a while. When my mind attacked one itch, my body would produce another, as if my mind and body were playing games with each other. The final ten minutes of injecting dye into my lymph nodes felt as if someone had thrown gasoline on my legs and set them on fire. When they finished injecting the dye, an x-ray technician took what seemed to be a hundred images of my body from every conceivable angle. The side effects of the procedure made my feet swell up so I couldn't wear shoes, and I urinated blue for a week.
The next day, an irritating resident doctor who was also working on my case paid me a visit. The doctor asked me if I was feeling all right. He then informed me that the radiologist had found a golf-ball-sized tumor pressing into my spine. I was shocked. I told him that a rheumatologist had said that my back trouble was from myofascial pain syndrome. He said that the other doctor was mistaken and, in fact, myofascial pain syndrome was not a scientifically valid condition. He explained it as a catch-all phrase for undiagnosed pain. Further, since the cancer had now affected the bone in my spine, my prognosis was more ominous.
Then he spoke words that drove a spike through my heart. The doctor said that they probably could manage the disease if I could survive the treatment. His manner of speaking seemed to imply that he didn't believe I was up to the task, or that the disease may have progressed too far. I determined to shove my recovery in his face in a few years. I was furious.
Several days later, my primary physician called me into a private room with an oncology support nurse. He told me that I had nodular sclerosing Hodgkin's lymphoma, Stage IV A. The cancer was behind my ear, on both sides of my neck, with diffuse lymph node involvement in my chest and abdomen. The cancer affected my spleen and a huge lymph node tumor was pressing against my spine, eating away the bone. Dr. S. had consent forms for me to sign, authorizing the V. A. to begin aggressive combination chemotherapy. I was encouraged to participate in a clinical trial which would track the results of a control group receiving this therapy. I read the consent forms for MOPP BAP chemotherapy.2 Included in the protocol were nitrogen mustard, procarbazine, prednisone, vincristine, adriamycin, and bleomycin. The possible side effects were hair loss, tingling of the extremities, lowered blood counts, bleeding, ulcers, increased levels of blood sugar, increased risk of infection, sterility, demineralization or deterioration of bone mass, heart attack, mouth sores, chemical burns in the blood veins, and the appearance of other cancers. There were dozens of other possible adverse reactions, but I was stuck. My options were to either accept the treatment and risk the perils involved, or die from cancer.
I signed the papers and asked my doctor if he was optimistic. Dr. S. was a quiet but intense man and considered to be the most capable oncologist at Hines. He was assigned to me because I was young and had good potential for surviving. But his response wasn't the reaction I was hoping for. His prognosis was that I had six months to live if the treatment didn't work or if I couldn't tolerate the chemotherapy. He stressed that Hodgkin's disease was now being successfully treated, even with advanced cases like mine.
Dr. S. frankly discussed the irony of cancer. From his experience it was unexplainable why one person responded well to treatment while another person didn't. The human potential was still a mystery to medical science. He was cautiously optimistic in my case because I was physically strong, with no major organ or bone marrow involvement, and I had a strong will to live. But in the same breath, he wanted me to understand that the cancer had spread extensively and my reaction to treatment wasn't yet known. Although he could offer no guarantees, he emphasized that he would do everything possi
ble to cure me.
That wasn't good enough for me. I asked him if there wasn't something beyond optimism in my case. He looked at me with utmost seriousness and explained that when cancer spreads, all he could offer was optimism. There were too many factors involved, and to be on the safe side, it would be in my best interest to put my affairs in order. He wanted to start chemotherapy that afternoon. I could leave the hospital shortly after the treatment and needed to report back as an outpatient for my second treatment one week later.
It was with great trepidation that I informed Lynn how far the cancer had spread. We had all been hopeful that the cancer would be caught in its earliest stage. There was no way for her to know that I was much worse than she thought. During my staging, I had kept most of the information about the bad test results from Lynn because she had such a heavy burden at home. There would be time enough for serious conversation once I was home. Even I was surprised at how far the cancer had spread.
Despite the bad news, Lynn was very happy that I would be allowed to come home that night. I packed all my belongings right away and waited on my bed in my street clothes for my first treatment. Everyone in my room was happy to see I was going home. They all hoped that they would soon be released to return home instead of being wheeled out to the morgue.
Having an instinctual respect for the power and fury of chemotherapy, I drew the curtains and quietly performed my prayer from the Lotus Sutra and chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo for several hours until it was time to take the medicine. A nurse with a blood pressure kit smiled at me and placed it around my arm, while another nurse prepared my other arm for intravenous delivery of the drugs. Being curious by nature, I asked the nurse why she would be monitoring my blood pressure. She explained that I would receive a test dose of bleomycin and must be carefully observed because that drug had been known to cause heart attack in some people.
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