by Michelle Maiellaro

Back in 2014, my mind heeded none of the signs as my body rebelled against me.  For more than a month, a slight fever clung to me, my heart hammered at any physical exertion, and my knees threatened to buckle when climbing stairs.

Convinced this ailment would eventually disappear, I ignored it. I appeared healthy, ate a well-balanced diet, and embodied vitality.

Yet one morning, about to leave for work, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave. Luckily, an inner voice with some common sense took control and said, “Go back to bed and call the doctor.”

After a specialist’s appointment and a rushed admittance to hospital, I fought against the obvious until the doctors dropped the diagnosis on me. Blood cancer.

The Mental Muck

Guilt sank deep into my conscience as I became a sudden burden to those around me. Before my parents flew in from overseas to care for me, my friends were handling everything from bureaucratic red tape to laundry.

Not content, my self-accusation dived deeper, “Had I listened to those earlier, had I done those blood tests sooner, maybe I could have avoided all this.”  More if-onlys and what-ifs plagued me.

For many months prior to my cancer diagnosis, I had neglected an increasingly persistent inner dissatisfaction while I stressed over a possible career change.

I was burning out mentally and emotionally.

Did burnout cause my leukaemia? Probably not, but in that hospital bed I pleaded guilty to that, too.

When the angst about my past choices and current situation subsided, I pondered the scenarios before me and understood that only two possibilities existed. I could die or survive.

That’s when time stopped. In those first weeks of my hospitalisation, the disconnect between my physical, emotional and mental states dawned on me.

No Time Like The Present

That disconnect arrived like a punch in the stomach, and I felt grateful for receiving the blow. Gratitude opened a valve that let the guilt flush out while a rush of compassion flowed in.

Thanks to that grace, I understood my impermanence. So, I stopped fighting anxiety and denying my fears. My inner judge also said goodbye. Life is too short to be inculpating yourself for your choices or thoughts. And as soon as you drop the accusations against yourself, you also let them go against your outer world.

The acceptance of that impermanence forced me to stay grounded in the present where I began my journey of mindfulness.

The Mindful Survival

I had read about mindfulness here and there and attended a seminar once, but I was stumbling through it. For example, I thought I was meditating.  Instead, I discovered that I was practising boxed-breathing, a relaxation technique that often is integral to a meditation practice. This simple exercise requires inhaling for 4 seconds, holding your breath for 4 seconds, exhaling for 4 seconds, holding again for 4 seconds, then repeating as you arrive full cycle.

This breathing became my daily habit while in hospital. As I concentrated more on my breathing, it immersed me deeper in the moment. Then my focus moved from my breath to the hospital room, the environment, my emotions, my body. I experienced profound gratitude—noticing each breath and sensation meant I was alive.

Mental noting also became a habit, even though I didn’t know it had a name. Naturally developing from my daily breathing exercise, the non-judgemental observation of thoughts, feelings, and physical discomfort lifted a weight from my head and my heart. I simply noted, accepted, and let go.

During that time, a friend also taught me the body-relaxation technique to help me fall asleep. I concentrated on each body part then relaxed it, moving upward from my feet until I reached my head.  

As time passed, I processed new and old emotions, making a concentrated effort to stay present with each one. I approached these tumults with curiosity, nudging them to understand their origin and reason for being. Sometimes I revealed truths I had failed to see before, other times they remained hidden yet unobtrusive.

Then a reality check arrived in the form of a relapse. I cried and shivered with fear for two days until a new realisation illuminated me.

When I discovered I needed a transplant from an external, non-familial donor, the interconnectedness of life fully revealed itself to me. That an unrelated person with compatible bone marrow who registered as a donor could save my life, injected me with a singular inner peace. It was a longshot, but a possibility. I knew in my heart I would find a donor, and, for the first time, I embraced serenity. “Whatever will be, will be,” I thought. I accepted any outcome, even the worst, because death is a natural part of life.

After the transplant, my days unfolded in slow motion with a long convalescence and a myriad of day-hospital visits and checkups. And I savoured the undemanding nature of that time, for I was discovering the beauty of living in the present as I had no guarantees of a future. I had only one day, one moment to cherish. Freed from time constraints, I enjoyed every new day of being.

A Mindful Life

Two years had passed from my initial diagnosis and I had grown accustomed to my sheltered, quiet lifestyle, which seemed more natural. Yet, a year after my transplant, I returned to work. Nervous about losing myself in today’s fast-pace society, I developed a plan to keep myself grounded in the present.

Every hour, my phone rang quietly with a reminder that said ‘breathe.’ Sometimes I stopped what I was doing to examine my breath for a few moments. Other times, in the company of others, I quickly checked my breathing or concentrated on the nuance of a person’s voice and words. 

Nowadays, those reminders have transformed into quick solo-breaks where I step away from my desk and tune into my breathing. Or I walk to a nearby window to observe the surroundings.

I’ve also incorporated different techniques into my morning meditation. I now begin each day with some deep breaths before closing my eyes to acknowledge first my body pressing into the surface beneath me, then the surrounding sounds without getting pulled into them. I transition to a body scan before focusing on my breathing. Then I briefly release everything for a moment of mental space before returning to my surroundings. I do this every day, 10 minutes during the weekdays, and 15-20 minutes on the weekends.

Sometimes, I worry about a relapse. Also, I have a new body that experiences more fatigue and illness than before. I’m also facing some anger issues, which I didn’t have previously or never identified.

When I think about my life, pre-leukaemia, never would I have admitted nor recognised these emotions. Now, mindfulness allows me to accept them as I delve deeper. I’m also learning to listen to my body as it requires a subtle balance of calm vigilance and inquisitive care.

Mindfulness Is The Way

Leukaemia opened me to mindfulness—a profound journey of self-awareness where I witness emotions, thoughts, and reactions without guilt, punishment, or judgement. I can observe my inner world with patience and compassion. Most importantly, I continue to awaken each day grateful for every breath.

This doesn’t mean that my practice is impeccable. Sometimes my mind wanders when meditating. Or some days I spiral into one thought rather than letting it go.

No one is perfect, and mindfulness isn’t a means to achieve perfection. But it will smooth your path and light your way as you continue on your blissful journey of life. 

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An American expat in Italy with an eclectic career history, Michelle Grace Maiellaro is a leukaemia survivor who helps midlife women triumph through life crisis and change on her blog The Resilient Woman. For more information on her personal growth through trauma, check out her post The Inside Story of Surviving Leukemia.