When I recently underwent a total knee replacement, many friends my age told me to prepare for an arduous recovery. I had survived severe asthma, two shoulder replacements, and emergency open-heart surgery, but my knee rehab was the greatest challenge in my 74 years. After the surgery, a friend picked me up at the hospital and I somehow hobbled up the three steps into my home, ate a light supper, and was helped to bed. But after the first night home from the hospital, I asked the caregiver to leave.
The peace and quiet of Zen practice had become even more central to my life. Silence was more important to me than having a home healthcare aide. I chose solitude. I was on my own, in a horrifically painful aloneness. Fortunately, friends and neighbors stepped up to bring cooked meals and help me into the tub, sit me on a special handicapped chair, and bathe me. I was touched by the kindness.
The knee rehab was debilitating; I was helpless much of the day. But the Physical Therapist came regularly to cheer me on, and bit by bit my progress went swimmingly well. Blessed was the richness of quietude. Moments of emptiness. Yes, the knee hurt like hell. Yes, there was pain even with medication. Not taking it personally was key.
Fifteen days later, I lay under four wool blankets, a heating pad on my abdomen, shivering like I had never known. By noon my temperature had climbed to 101. I called my neighbor, a retired EMT, and he rushed me to the Emergency Room where they measured my temp at 105. I was pumped with three units of antibiotics and electrolytes to prevent me from slipping into a coma from severe sepsis, severe pneumonia, and end-organ dysfunction, all diagnosed with a chest X-ray and 42 blood tests. Many patients my age with my history of pulmonary disease, heart disease, and recent traumatic surgery, don’t survive.
I asked, repeatedly, the nurses to close the door and turn off all the lights. The practice of presence to the breath was my anchor. After a few minutes of stillness, I was startled by a regularly scheduled—every 12 minutes—blaring/dinging of the computer next to my head monitoring blood pressure. A five-alarm fire bell going off in my eardrums was not the best way to boost my immune system to rally.
Eight hours later my temp dropped to 101. I asked the doc what was next.
“We keep you here to make sure you don’t die or slip into a vegetative coma.”
“Can you disable the blood pressure cuff and the clanging alarm every 12 minutes? I really need to rest.”
“Sorry, not possible.”
“I want to go home. Please give me discharge papers.”
“Sir, are you crazy? You could most likely die.”
“I’ll take my chances. Thanks for saving my life.”
A friend came to take me home and feed me a small bowl of hot soup and put me to bed. If this was to be my last night on earth, I chose to have the quiet and meditative stillness of my own bedroom. Six hours later I awoke in a lake of sweat. The fever had broken. I somehow managed to change the sheets and get into clean nightclothes. Seven days of aggressive antibiotic therapy took me out of danger.
So began the slow climb back from alarmingly out-of-control blood pressure to a normal BP and days of stillness. I had chosen quality of (end of) life peace over the assault on my nerves. My instinct as well as nearly 50 years of practicing alternative medicine guided me correctly. There was no fear or worry. Basic trust arose and I followed the beacon.
I know the road to recovery had turned the corner when laughing meditation arose every morning before leaving the bed. The laughter continued all day. My home is adjacent to a small county park with a playground where the children are usually running and screaming in joy. Their joy actually jolted me back into laughter. Again and again.
So, here’s a cheer to all of us who practice. No matter what. As Suzuki Roshi was said to have responded to a student as to why do we sit zazen, “We practice so we can enjoy our old age.” That might just be why I am happy and well today.
Gassho.
Rico Provasoli has been a Zen student for twenty years.
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