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from the December 2002 Star Beacon

     A friend called just the other day. Somewhere along the line she asked a question that brought back memories. Instead of answering, I laughed, one of those healthy laughs that comes from the heart. She was wondering why, at times it seemed, she had an awareness of the fact she did have a physical body. I laughed because I used to ask people that very same thing when I was young, and they thought I was crazy.

     It must have been around the time I hit 50 when I finally realized I a spiritual being in a body rather than the other way around. So, while comparing notes about such a revelation with my friend, we went right down the line of the organs that we possess that we can actually live without, such gallbladder, appendix, thyroid -- even though we only have one of these. It makes one kind of wonder why we had them in the first place.

     Not so with the heart, that is a horse of a different color. I guess that is why we treat affairs of the heart in a different way. So here is my heart story.

     In the early ’80s I did not feel all that well. There came a time when a doctor suggested for me to see a cardiologist. I did that. He suggested I was stressed and needed to change my lifestyle. A few weeks later, I was crossing the street with my mother in Europe and collapsed. I was rushed to the local hospital and there was treated by a great heart doctor. He was able to determine from some tests that I had suffered from a virus that was not properly treated and that, in turn, created a problem with a heart valve. It later turned out that he was actually correct on the dates and the cardiologist had eggs on his face.

     The medication he prescribed worked great. Over the years there have been struggles with the cost of the medicine, but all in all it works rather well. A wobble here and a skip there -- just enough to remind me I have a heart.

     The Nisqually quake in 2001 stirred up a lot of "mess," if you will. Losing the house, being homeless and the task of starting all over took almost two years. In between keeping my TV shows afloat and going on the road -- occasionally as a terrified passenger due to my "passenger phobia" -- and a month-long battle with repairs and an addition to the place I now live in, my heart thought I should have a look at it -- my heart that is. It is a one-of-a-kind, I think, and this is how it got my attention.

     I was talking on the phone and the lady asked what I was thinking. I felt like I got shot and a bullet entered my chest and exited in the back, leaving a big hole. At the same time, it felt like I got busted in the jaw and the pain was unbelievable. I said to the lady: "I think I will hang up and call 911. I am having a heart attack.

     The medics came and thought I should be transported to the hospital. They were great and got to work on me right away. Nitro, aspirin. I was so impressed. I was told later that one of the reasons things went so well was that I was able to work with my body and I was not afraid to die.

     The next phase of the story takes place in the hospital. Everyone was very professional and attentive. Tests were run and after many hours and a promise to be good and follow doctor’s orders, I was allowed to go home. What was odd about the experience at the hospital was that at one point a neighbor was allowed to come and visit. It was thoughtful of him to come, but let’s take a closer look at this. While you are all hooked up to wires, a person enters the room that is part of what brought you to this there in the first place.

     While working with your body, you have to be discreet, thoughtful and pleasant. You have to make sure you don't offend anyone and agree to all the unreasonable terms and promises that are being presented to you. Your heart has to be in the right place.

     Even as I am relating this to you, I feel like I want to be careful as not to offend anyone. It took several days before I came to terms with what I felt. I remembered a time I was guilty of the same behavior and thought that there has to be a lesson here. When a person is fighting for their life, it is not a good idea to interfere with that process. It is not a good idea to ask for commitments. Here is why. All the patient can do is agree and get back to working with the body and have a heart-to-heart with the Higher Self to see if it is time to stay or leave. That was a mighty lesson.

     Next stop was the follow-up visit with the family doctor. That was a good experience, mainly because he is familiar with you and has some encouraging words. Chances are he/she will send you home to rest and give a referral to the cardiologist.

     I guess this is a good time to stop referring to myself as a third person and continue with the tale.

     The nurse called me and gave me an appointment for a stress test and echo... something. I was to fast, no caffeine or nicotine in any form, wear comfortable clothes and shoes.

     I had been resting my heart as requested by my heart itself and wondered what it would be like to get all stressed out again three weeks later; it had taken that long to get the appointment. Not being able to do any of my usual activities, such as cook, clean and regular personal hygiene, because it is so exhausting, like recovering from major surgery. I gratefully accepted a ride from my daughter. I was nervous, knowing I had to willfully strain my heart after I had taken care of it so lovingly for three weeks.

     Now here is the good part!! The receptionist asked my daughter why we were there. She looked through me like I was not there, even though I was all bundled up in a long black coat, had green and purple hair, and a nervous smile on my face, and she said to my daughter, "Does she EVEN speak English?"

     I was speechless, here I had just spent a week with some of the few still living, most brilliant minds on the planet... Forgot, they were psychics and could read my mind in any language...

     I was escorted to a room to get undressed. The lady scrubbed my chest and I said, "OUCH." She told me she had to do that; I rolled my eyes at her. After all, I did not question that; all I said was "OUCH."

     She handed me some papers to sign and I took the time to read them. I had to sign a paper telling me that the doctor is not responsible for any mishaps, including heart attack and death (1 in 10,000). A little wobble in my heart there, but I signed it U.P. (under protest). If I don’t sign, I will not get treated. I asked how long after the stress am I expected to fall out. Not funny, I can tell by the look on her face.

     Next stop is a room with a DREADMILL and lots of instruments. A new lady who started asking questions in a very speedy fashion. I told her that I had MPD and was unable to answer her questions in that order, to please slow down.

     She asked nothing else of me and gave me a rapid explanation of the procedure and rules and leaves.

     Another lady came into the room and took an ultrasound of the heart. I was fascinated; this was the first time I was able to look at my heart. What a sight! It was beating 1-2-3- 1-2-3.

     The doctor came in, introduced himself. I was put on a treadmill and started my journey. I lost my balance; my equilibrium was off because volcanoes interfere with my balance while they are exploding. I am a sensitive. Mount Etna had just started to erupt. I heard three people talking to me all at the same time.

     I was concentrating on calling my Higher Self to take over so I could leave my body in order to finish this test. I was hyperglycemic. Someone asked why and I said because I was fasting. "No one told you to do that," someone said.

     Going uphill, I heard myself say, "I don’t think so." It was over!

     The doctor told me that this must have been the shortest test ever conducted, three minutes, and according to that I was perfectly healthy, no heart problems, period.

     I said I had arhythmia and took medicine for 20 years. The doctor said it must be doing the job, it was perfect.

     I said: "I have to go to San Francisco in four days. Is that advisable so soon after my ‘EPISODE.’?" He said, "You can go anywhere you want to."

     I said, "Please tell me why I am so exhausted."

     He said, "That is not my department."

     He left.

     We now get to the heart of the matter. My daughter found me sitting outside the clinic sipping on a Latté, smoking a long overdue cigarette. I was in shock. This doctor did not even have my medical records. I was very angry for a long time, at which time my heart made attempts to let me know this was no way to get a rest.

     It would be a tragedy not to seek medical help because that would be easier than to deal with jerks like that.

     It would be a tragedy not to listen to your heart if it is telling you something.

     It would be a tragedy to keep quiet about this or any similar experience you had.

     It would be a tragedy if the lesson I had were for nothing. My heart told me I was doing my work.

     I now have a heart-to-heart with my heart each night and tell it I think it is beautiful and it was a pleasure to have seen it beating 1.2.3. 1.2.3, and thank you for keeping up the good work.

Lilian Mustelier is author of the book And the Moral of the Story Is... The Autobiography of a Person of High Strangeness. Born in Algeria, she resides in Washington state, where she does readings and produces a television show on high strangeness.

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