The most outstanding example of this was the night following my surgery. I had tolerated the procedure well, and by evening was fully awake. I had a drain inserted through my abdomen to prevent the formation of a hematoma. Around eleven o'clock, I started bleeding profusely. Through the drain, I was losing approximately a pint of blood every half hour. They started doing blood counts and blood pressure checks every fifteen minutes. They asked me if I ever had any kind of bleeding disorder. No, I hadn't. They asked me if I had ever had a blood transfusion. No, I hadn't...and I didn't want to. A resident was sitting at my bedside. I knew he was watching for signs of shock, not simply having a friendly conversation. At first, I panicked and called my husband at the hotel. Each time they did a blood count or a blood pressure check, they were lower. I was simply losing too much blood. I asked if they were going to have to go back in. Nobody would give me a straight answer. I couldn't go back to surgery now! I wasn't strong enough. I didn't have the stamina to go through it again right away. I needed some time to recoup. When a resident came in and said that operating room nine was available, I began using imagery.

I went inside myself, through the skin and muscle tissue, through the bone, and into the soft, spongy marrow. I talked to my bone marrow, much like a commanding officer. I told it how hard I had tried to be good to it and treat it well. I told it I needed it to start producing red blood cells, and I needed it now. I whipped my bone marrow into action, agitating it and pressuring it. I could honestly see and feel the blood cells being made.

Then I went into the think, rich blood of my arteries and became a part of my red blood cells. I told them to start producing more clotting factors, and to do it now. I needed them to work for me.

You may think this is totally crazy, but it isn't. There are times when we can move inside ourselves and control our organs, at least to some extent. The next blood count and blood pressure were slightly higher. Within an hour, they had reached safe levels and were slowly continuing to rise. I could relax. My body had come to its own defense. All it needed was a little inner communion with my consciousness.

The other truly valuable thing I learned was the value of a positive attitude. Lots of things can make me unhappy and drag me down, but only I can make myself happy and bring me up. I had been down in that deep well of self-pity for too long. It was time to start coming up for air. And only I could do this. If I couldn't have pretty hair, I could have pretty eyes or nails. Does anyone know how good it makes you feel to give yourself a pedicure, complete with nail polish? If I couldn't sing, I could write, and during this time I wrote a great deal of poetry, some of which has been bought and published. If I couldn't have a drop-dead fifure, I could play upon my long legs. It's amazing how many women are envious of long slender legs. I started wearing stirrup pants and leggings just to show off a little. We all need to feel good, and we need to realize that nobody else can do it for us.

One sustaining strength I had was my faith in God. I don't pray through Jesus, but go directly to God. I learned to pray, and that God would take a great deal of the burden off my tired shoulders. Somehow this reassurance gave me hope and allayed my fears.

I also learned to appreciate the value of laughter. There's an old joke about laughter being the best medicine, and maybe it's true. Even in the sorriest situation, there's something funny. It may be hiding, and it may be hard to find, but it's there. When I couldn't pee, it didn't do much good to sit on the toilet and feel frightened. When I turned on the cold water and giggled, "We're at Niagara Falls," I peed while I giggled. When it hurt to have a bowel movement, it didn't help to whine and cry. When I joined the "Prunes Are Us" club and laughed about it, the pain didn't take much out of me. My younger daughter was a wonderful help in the comedy department. We talked almost every day, and she always had a silly joke for me.

This attitude helped me reach out to others with a combination of common sense, empathy and humor. I sat with other women who were having a hard time, who were feeling frightened or depressed. I crawled down into that nasty dark well with them and helped them climb out and see the sunshine. I guess I just became a patient with an attitude, but it worked.