My brother sits with a clipboard, filling out a pile of medical intake forms for my father.

I pace.

My father is MIA.  He’s being transported via van to a specialty clinic for a long-awaited appointment.

The nursing home didn’t permit us to ride along with him, so we drove ourselves to the clinic.

We’re on time. He’s not.

 And he’s the only one who counts.

I call the nursing home, which will pocket a cool $50 for this transport service. 

“We don’t know where he is,” says the receptionist, hoping this answer will get rid of me. Which, of course, it doesn’t.

“Please put me through to someone who DOES know,” I insist.

She transfers my call to the transportation coordinator, who also tries to put me off. But I’m persistent, so she contacts the van driver by radio for an estimated arrival time.

 “The van will be there in 10 minutes,” she reports.

Ten minutes come and go. There’s no sign of the van.

 I call again.

Five times.

No answer.

Obviously, the receptionist recognized my out-of-state area code and doesn’t pick up.

Now all I can do is sit and wait, with my raging thoughts:

• What if they won’t see him because he’s so late?
• Why so many forms and isn’t this information in his medical records from the referring doctor?
• Why are the forms asking for a social security number?
• Can this clinic accommodate a patient in a wheelchair?
• Will the doctor be willing to submit WRITTEN instructions to the nursing home?
• Will the nursing home staff pay attention to the orders this time?
• What if the treatment is painful. And pointless?
• What if we make a wrong decision and he dies?

Fighting with Reality

Therapist and author Stephen Hayes uses the “tug-of-war-with-a-monster” metaphor to help people cope with intense anxiety.

When you feel your anxiety building, he says, picture yourself in a tug-of-war with a powerful monster.

You each are holding one end of a rope with a bottomless pit between you. You pull in one direction; the monster pulls back.

If you lose, you’ll end up in the pit! So, you pull as hard as you can. And harder. And harder still.

But the monster is much stronger than you. No matter how hard you pull, you simply cannot win.

But the object is not to “win.” It’s to avoid the pit.

And you do have one other option to avoid being pulled to your doom.

You can let go of the rope. 

Resistance Causes Suffering

The tug-of-war represents our resistance to reality. And resistance is the root of much human suffering.

It hurts, a lot, to try to turn “what is” into “what-should-be” through brute mental force.

Eventually you’ll realize it’s a losing battle.

But if you “drop the rope,” you’ll release suffering in a matter of seconds. Relief rushes through your body as soon as you surrender to reality.

It sounds so simple, right?

But here’s the tricky part: You have to recognize you’re in an unwinnable tug-of-war in the first place.

Tip: your body will be the first to know.

Your body feels the battle long before your mind catches on.

I feel resistance in my jaw if I’m angry and in my solar plexus if I’m frightened.

But you may feel it elsewhere.

Some of my clients feel resistance in their shoulders. For others, their feet twitch or their hands get hot or cold.

If you pay attention, you’ll be able to map your own physiological signals.

But then, how exactly do you drop the rope?

Grounding

The way you drop the rope is by grounding yourself.

Emotions researcher Karla McLaren describes grounding as intentionally bringing your attention into the moment and into your body.

There are many ways to do this. You may already know what works for you.

This is what works for me.

As soon as I feel my jaw or stomach tighten, I put all my focus on my feet. I may even shuffle them a bit. Feel how they connect to the floor. And I imagine Earth sending up warm energy into my legs and the core of my torso, helping to stabilize me.

Then I turn my attention to my breath. I track it in and out of my lungs until my insides relax.

When I do this, I stop thinking. I tune in to layers of sound around me.

And I wait.

I wait until I intuitively find the next best step. Sometimes I figure it out on my own. Sometimes, someone with me figures out what’s next.

But until then, I stay still and wait.

Allowance is Not Acceptance

It may seem like I’m recommending that you learn to accept the unacceptable.

That “dropping the rope” means putting up with sloppy medical treatment or negligent care. Relinquishing your rights or those of your loved one. Or giving up on getting better.

Quite the contrary.

Just because you allow “what is” doesn’t mean you have to accept that the situation can’t be changed.

But once you drop the rope, you lose the distraction of anger and pain and suffering that comes with resisting “what is.”

This calm place of nonresistance allows you to take empowered action toward solving problems and making progress toward a more desirable situation.  

Meanwhile, Back at the Clinic

My father's van finally arrives, 30 minutes late

Despite my fear, the clinic moves ahead with his appointment.

A medical technician calls him back to the exam area. My brother pushes his wheelchair. I fall in behind them.

As we approach the doorway, the med tech plants her feet and gives us a look that’s stops us in our tracks.

“Only one family member is permitted to accompany the patient,” she says.

The rule throws us.

My brother and I both want to be in the consultation. We each have our advocacy roles. My brother knows my father’s health history. I’m the notetaker and memory keeper. The one who reads my father’s face and makes sure he hears and understands. Neither of us is expendable.

“One family member.  Clinic rules,” she repeats.

As my jaw aches, I suddenly recognize that I’m in a tug-of-war. One that I’m not going to win.

No good will come of this if I keep pulling.

So, I feel my feet. I take a breath. I drop the rope.

And in my pause, my brother takes over.

“You go,” he said, stepping aside.

“When you get in there, ask again if I can come in,” he whispers as I wheel my father past him.

And there it is. The next best step: appeal to a higher power.

We settled into the exam room. Soon, the doctor enters and greets us.

 I respectfully petition for my brother to join the consultation.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor replies. “COVID rules require us to limit appointments to the patient and one family member. But, if you want, you can call your brother on your phone and have him participate from the waiting room.”

And there it is. The next “next best step.”

The ideal solution for the problem. One that satisfies my family. And clinic staff. And the federal government that put the COVID safety protocols in place.

A solution that prevents me from losing my temper and causing my calls to be blocked by the clinic receptionist who doesn’t want to deal with my attitude.

A solution that manifested because I dropped the rope.

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