A spiritual seeker in Nepal trades ornate temples for a hospital ward when a medical emergency hits, but will Buddhist teachings guide her through the pain?
I. The Scene
“One day closer to death,” Venerable Robina greets us each morning.
Sure, by definition, this is a morbid way to start the day. However, the salutation isn’t meant to cause suffering. In fact, the concept that we can all free ourselves from suffering is the theme of our month-long course, offered once a year at Kopan Monastery, a center of Tibetan Buddhism perched on a hilltop overlooking Nepal’s sprawling Kathmandu Valley.
Nearly 250 of us have gathered from around the world in hopes of absorbing wisdom and compassion, the two “limbs” of Mahayana Buddhism, from renowned teachers of the Gelug tradition, including Lama Zopa Rinpoche who, along with Lama Yeshe (who “left his body” in the mid-’80s), started Kopan in the 1970’s with the intent of sharing the teachings of their lineage with westerners.
In the center’s early years, adventurous spiritual seekers would spend the month of November huddled under blankets in the monastery’s rustic environment while studying the Lam Rim, a text that outlines the specific details of a step-by-step path to enlightenment. In its 49th incarnation, the “November Course” syllabus hasn’t changed. However, Kopan has come a long way.
The setting of our course is one of two awe-inspiringly ornate gompas (large meditation and prayer halls), and facilities for both resident monks and students are lined with golden prayer wheels nestled beneath flags of colorful cloth squares containing Tibetan prayers. Glistening stupas (shrines) and benches overlooking scenery suitable for contemplation offer a college campus sentiment. The monastery also houses a school for young monks, several charitable projects, a retreat space, and a cafe for pilgrims and tourists seeking respite from crazy Kathmandu.
One day closer to death.
Our days here, each one admittedly embraced with a slightly shorter future lifespan, are packed with a full schedule of lectures, meditation sessions, rituals, and discussion groups. By enrolling in the course, we have agreed to ditch our phones and connections to the outside world for the month and to practice silence from our 5 am wakeup bell until after lunch. Those of us who prefer to keep silent during other parts of the day as well can pin a yellow ribbon to our clothing. However, with a never-ending symphony of bells, prayers, and monk “debates,” it’s rare to find actual, audible silence at Kopan.
Halfway through the month, we begin a 10-day period during which we have all agreed to follow the eight Mahayana precepts. This means that each morning, we commit to adhering to several vows in addition to our daily schedule – most notably, the pledge to take only one solid meal per day, consuming either miso or a cocktail of powdered chocolate, sugar, and food additives in place of breakfast and dinner.
Most days, Venerable Robina reminds us to wake up in the morning, rejoice that we’re alive (or “not dead”), and show love and compassion to ourselves and all sentient beings. We learn about karma, emptiness, impermanence, attachment, and the death process – all of which we contemplate in great detail in the form of analytical meditation. We are encouraged to see our meals as golden elixirs that are inherently empty – and to eat for the sake of nourishing our bodies in order to be of benefit to others. Once in a while, during an afternoon lecture, we receive an additional reminder from Venerable Robina: a few hours closer to death.
One of the main teachings of the Buddha is that nothing in the universe exists inherent of itself – including ourselves. Therefore, the following story is about non-inherently-existing “me” experiencing a slap in the face – presumably as the result of a karmic seed I managed to plant some time (or maybe lifetimes) ago.
II. The Incident
About three weeks closer to death than I was before the November course started, I ditched an evening lecture. Feeling a rebellious sense of freedom and a bit of a buzz from hunger, combined with dinner chocolate, I went back to my room early, performed my nighttime rituals, laid down in my bed, yawned, and froze – literally.
My jaw clicked open too wide, as it does from time to time. However, this time, it wouldn’t click back.
In general, when this over-extension happens for a few milliseconds, it’s terrifying. Not being able to close my mouth, well, that has been one of my biggest fears ever since I found out about my TMJ condition.
After I realized that I could still swallow and would likely not die (at least not right now!), the first thing I did as an untrusting-of-the-field-of-medicine type of person was to try to relax it back into place. I took a few deep breaths and assured myself that my jaw would return to its natural state if I remained focused.
And nothing changed.
So, I convinced myself that I had the power to heal anything wrong with my body. I put my hands on my jaw and tried to use Reiki healing to guide it into alignment.
Nothing changed.
Then, an ingenious idea came to me. I grabbed my small Tibetan singing bowl, balanced it on top of my head, closed my eyes, and rang it a few times, envisioning the exact resonance my body would need to restore its natural vibration and structure.
Again, nothing changed – and I realized that I needed help.
I knocked on my neighbor’s door and when he answered, I tried to explain, “Uh ke cluh eye ouh.”
“What?” he asked.
Duh. I found a piece of paper and I wrote, “I can’t close my mouth!”
Within a few minutes, my floor neighbors located the medical professionals in the course who had volunteered to help out at the monastery clinic. A couple of doctors, a nurse, and a Wilderness First Responder formed a small sangha in my cold, tiny room. However, nobody knew how to fix a locked jaw – in fact, nobody had ever seen a locked jaw – and, apart from that, our phones were locked away and the monastery gates were closed.
While one of the doctors unsuccessfully experimented with manipulating my mouth and chin, the others began a search for someone who knew how to locate Venerable Robina. In the meantime, feeling like The Scream, I wrote a little story to my neighbor about how this happened to a girl who I knew from high school.
“She had to have her jaw surgically cracked and realigned,” I scribbled, “and had to eat through a straw for three months.”
(Fun fact: it’s nearly impossible to cry without control of your jaw.)
Not so long later, I received a bit more bedroom company in the form of a previously-mentioned sassy nun who got down to business, helped to sort out logistics, and enthusiastically debated (a Tibetan Buddhist practice for learning the Dharma) with my pad of paper and I over my ability to swallow painkillers, which, really, would do more harm than good for me, I promised. (They’re just going to make you take them at the hospital, she argued!)
Finally, with no lack of commotion, two new pals, along with the Tibetan doctor from the Kopan clinic and a village neighbor who happened to drive a taxi, arranged to escort me to the 24-hour dental emergency room, which I was surprised to find 1. existed and 2. was only about a 25-minute drive from the monastery – a miracle in Kathmandu.
Thus ensued the seemingly never-ending cab ride down the dusty potholed Kopan hill – every bump of it a brutal insult to my poor gaping jaw. That being said, this nighttime excursion was without a doubt the most impactful part of my month at the monastery.
Feeling trapped in my body while being talked at and unable to respond was a unique and humbling experience. Life felt like a film that I couldn’t turn off – a sprawling, sleeping, dirty city in the background, two boisterously chatting Nepali men in the front seat, a new friend on my left holding my hand, and another on my right filling all gaps of silence with his ideas about potential medical procedures that could (or could not) happen. I wished I could tell everyone to shut up. I wondered if this was how it felt to be in a coma.
I watched the thoughts flow through my mind:
So, this is what I’ve been afraid of.
You know, it’s kind of funny.
It hurts like hell (I know because I’ve been there in numerous lives and so have you!), but actually, when I remove myself from this, it’s quite amusing.”
I imagined having surgery in Nepal.
One day closer to death.
Please don’t let me die in Nepal.
I wanted to call my parents. Then, I remembered that even if I could find a way to do so, I wasn’t able to speak.
Please don’t let me die in Nepal. Please don’t let me die in Nepal. Please don’t let me die in Nepal.
I realized I was praying.
Please, please, please.
I wondered who I was praying to. I found myself promising to be better. I promised to do more “good” with my life.
Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum.
Om Tare Tutarre Ture Soha.
I recited the Medicine Buddha mantra. I recited the Vajrassatva mantra. I ran out of Buddhist mantras and called upon Hindu deities.
Om Namah Shivaya.
Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha.
Om Namo Lakshmi.
Anyone? Someone? Anything? Something?
Please! I promise I’ll do more with my life if I don’t die in Nepal!
Despite all of this, and despite the pain, the larger perception of myself felt oddly at peace – somewhere beyond space and time, not in the least surprised that my life was unfolding in this way, and, somehow, a witness to my slowly unfolding crisis.
Eventually, we arrived at the hospital and waited for the “emergency” dentist who was reported to be somewhere nearby, on call. After several rejected offers of pain injections that I managed to avoid (debate won!), he showed up, put his hands inside my mouth, told me to bite a few times, and voila! Jaw fixed…
Kind of.
He informed me that I wouldn’t be able to eat hard foods for at least a month and that I should place my fist beneath my jaw every time I yawn – for the rest of my life. Then, he sent one of my course-mates to buy a bandage, wrapped my head so tightly that I was finally able to cry, and told me to come back in a couple of days for an x-ray.
The whole shebang cost about 40 USD – the most expensive bit being the late-night cab.
III. The Teachings
In cyclical existence, there is no beginning and there is no end. However, in a narrative that’s not the case. Fortunately, the events leading up to my trip to the emergency room and the following days provided me with an influx of meaningful lessons to impart, pre-departure.
The teachings that come to us in life aren’t necessarily the ones we seek; they’re the ones that will help us to grow. Although a month of Buddhist lectures and practices was certainly of benefit, perhaps what I needed most a few Novembers ago was a brutal reminder of the impermanence of my health, a physical condition that forced me to select my food and chew mindfully, a grand lineup of people to test my patience each day by using my injury as an excuse to talk – ruining my precious silent mornings, and an overwhelming amount of outpourings of concern, love, care, and support from strangers during a time which, I’ll admit, I was pretty lonely.
Not being able to close my mouth was one of the most physically and mentally uncomfortable challenges of my life, yet I’m grateful for the experience. I’m grateful that my jaw got stuck in a place where it was logistically possible to find proper medical attention, since more often than not, my “home” situation is more along the lines of living a 25-minute hike away from a town with the nearest health clinic across a lake. I’m grateful that it happened in a part of the world where I could afford my medical expenses since, in my country of birth, a trip to the ER would have put me in debt. (In Nepal, “emergency procedure” added a two-dollar line to the bill.) I’m grateful that it happened while I was living somewhere where traditional meals are easily consumed without chewing and while I had a community of people drinking two out of three meals with me. I’m also grateful for the concept that everything undesirable that happens to us in life is the culminating explosion of past negative karma coming to fruition.
I’m grateful for my health, for my life, and for the inclination to write a reminder in story form that each step I take, each breath, each yawn could be my last.
A few days later, as suggested, I woke up and told myself that I was happy to be alive. I unwrapped my head, looked closely in the mirror for the first time in quite a while, and noticed a bright white hair – my first – near my right temple.
“She’s right, I am dying!” I admitted for the second time that week. Then, I supported my chin with my fist, yawned, and held my jaw in place as I carefully brushed my teeth.
That morning, Venerable Robina greeted us with slightly different words:
“One day closer to enlightenment.”
