by Laurel Ann Reinhardt, Ph.D., LP

In December of 1996, I found a lump in my breast. Though I had no reason to assume anything about this lump, my immediate thought was cancer. At that moment, I entered the “field of fear”—a space of fear that surrounded me, pervading every aspect of my life. The field of fear that surrounds breast cancer arises out of our own personal experiences with our breasts, fears derived from statistics and images of breast cancer, those fears of all women who have experienced breast cancer, along with their families and friends, and the fears of physicians and other health care professionals who work with cancer patients.

In The Creation of Health, by C. Norman Shealy and Caroline M. Myss, a chapter on cancer is subtitled: “The Epidemic of Guilt and Fear.” Shealy notes that “throughout the latter half of this century, cancer has been the most dreaded disease,” thus defining the disease’s role in creating the field of fear. Just as interesting, however, is Shealy’s statement that, “To most scientists and clinicians ... the overwhelming evidence that depression clobbers the immune system is apparently threatening because it raises the probability that cancer, the most dreaded and ‘physical’ disease, is just as ‘psychosomatic’ as a peptic ulcer.” This suggests another aspect of the field of fear.

Although I spent the last two decades using alternative health care, finding a lump in my breast sent me back to Western medicine. I thought the physician I had chosen would see me for who I was and work in a way that would feel comfortable for both of us. What I forgot was the field of fear, within which she practices her art and which limits and threatens her as much as it did me. (I think the field includes physicians’ fears about cancer itself, the possibility of not being able to help a particular patient, and limitations on time and choice engendered by the current health care system.

Upon entering the doctor’s office, I felt as if I had begun a bobsled run, paved in fear, from which there was no escape. She sent me for a mammogram, to which I consented out of fear. She also suggested I see a surgeon for a second opinion; I went to see the surgeon on New Year’s Eve day. Without asking, she tried to aspirate the lump and came up with nothing (a “bad sign”), thereby increasing my fear, but the friend I had brought with me reminded me to ask some questions. The surgeon grudgingly agreed that I could “safely” take up to three months to try some other options.

That day was one of the scariest of my life; it was also a tremendous turning point. That morning I had awakened with an image of a joyous outdoor celebration, which I interpreted both personally—a good outcome with the surgeon—and as referring to the Capitol New Year’s Eve party scheduled for that night. Though I had made plans for the evening, I didn’t feel like going. But I decided to trust my intuition. I went and assisted with a candlelight procession thorough downtown St. Paul, where I found myself in a field of joy and love. This was my doorway and exit from the field of fear.

A few days later, I went to see a Vietnamese acupuncturist. The first words out of his mouth were, “Don’t be afraid—fear makes disease stronger.” I had by now discovered this for myself, but I appreciated his confirmation. I got some herbs from him, as well as some dietary recommendations from a naturopath. Three months later, the lump was gone and remains gone to this day.

I do not mean to indict Western medicine, imply that you should not seek its help if you find a lump, or provide a testimonial for alternative health care; each discipline has its place and shadow. However, the field of fear seems to be less pernicious in the latter, as people are encouraged to trust and empower themselves and their bodies.

In Conversations with God, Neale Donald Walsh says that there are two primary emotions that rule our experiences—love and fear. Love creates things, and fear undoes them. Loving your body, yourself, those around you, your environment, your job, and life can create a field of joy and health; fear can undo all of that. And fear of one sort or another pervades much of our health care system. What can we do about this?

Women such as Christiane Northrup, M.D., Susan Love, M.D., and Susun Weed have some very interesting ideas about cancer and our breasts. One in particular is that the military language so prevalent in health care (war on cancer; attack the cells; search and destroy) is counter-productive to healing. The breast self-exam, especially, has made breasts the enemy. Women need to be encouraged to know their bodies in a loving way. They should feel their breasts as often as they want as part of a total body exploration, not just once a month in search of lumps. “If we approached our hands in the same way we are encouraged to approach our breasts, there would be a rash of hand cancer within six months,” says Dr. Northrup.

Western medicine and its practitioners are not always interested in the things that mean a lot to me: my dreams, intuition, and my “knowing.” What I wanted to hear from the two Western physicians who saw me was, “What is your intuition telling you about all of this?” or “Let’s not rush into anything here; there’s plenty of time.” This would have told me there was no reason to fear, that my needs and feelings are important, and that I am cared about. I should have insisted on this, but it is difficult when surrounded by and filled with fear.

Fortunately, I was able to ask my friends to send me their love. When I could feel the field of love they were creating, I was able to let go of my fear and trust the dreams and images that were telling me what to do and how to heal. This is the kind of field I hope we can begin to create together—patients, physicians, advocates, and administrators alike.

Originally published in “Twin Cities Wellness,” October 1997.