Homeopathy Papers

Step into the Unknown

cheny

Susie Spens shares a private moment at the birth of her first child, that was her homeopathy epiphany.

Step into the Unknown 1

At what point do you insist someone tries homeopathy? As a student I am constantly banging my head with frustration, trying to pass on this sense of awe and belief that I have, knowing that an answer, the beginning of a healing journey, is just a step away for anyone who braves it. Everyone is on their own path though and in my saner moments, I know if they’re not ready now, it’s for a reason.

So maybe I should talk about how homeopathy found me instead – about lying beside my beautiful newborn daughter and not mustering up an ounce of love for her, knowing that I’d felt deep, over-whelming love when my son was born…knowing that mountains of long- damned tears had flooded my face and I’d known in a second, that I’d die again and again to save this little soul who had chosen me for his mother. Never had I experienced a bond so close from the instant he’d arrived.

My husband had left for the night and I was alone with my daughter in the birthing unit of St. Mary’s, London, about three hours after giving birth. She emitted little whimpers from time to time and I offered her my breast and theoretically comforting arms at every opportunity. All I could think of was how tired I was. No-one expects to get any sleep that first night …but I resented it. I missed my 2-year-old boy, anxious how his first night away from me was going. One of the nurses came to check how things were and I said I hadn’t managed to sleep. She gazed at me with a puzzled look, doubtless wondering what I had expected as a second-time Mum. She departed swiftly though, keen to get some sleep herself and doubtless putting it down to the crazy mindset induced by hormones and adrenalin.

I noticed a scarlet smudge on the baby’s left leg that the midwives must have missed (‘the baby’ was how I thought of her). I barely registered it. In retrospect I should have called the midwives immediately but my daughter looked healthy enough and as a newborn of course the patch was tiny. I just observed it coldly with a disconnection that now is terrifying. I wanted to take a shower, but could I leave my daughter in the next-door room? I used the white, coarse flannel instead at the basin, staring dumbly into my enlarged pupils and dark, deep circles beneath. I became fascinated with the water gurgling down the plug hole, swirling, spluttering, continuous -so focused, knowing its direction and purpose in life.

Oriana’s belly cry cut into my muffled world and I returned refreshed, but no more present.

The sucking on my nipple evoked horrific spasms in my uterus and tears threatened to erupt. The yellow and green rectangular box from Helios for ‘Childbirth’ caught my eye sitting on the bedside table. I had bought it in an experimental moment thinking it might be useful for breastfeeding or something. I attempted to read the accompanying leaflet; the tiny black print moving in and out of focus and the clinical hospital lights reflecting off the paper blinding me. Horrific pregnancy afflictions passed by and I quickly thanked God and felt gratified that I hadn’t suffered from them. Then I came across the heading SHOCK. ‘Some women are in a state of shock after giving birth. There’s a state of disconnection’ and so-on. I looked back at my latest arrival. I had honestly believed that I was going to die in the last few moments of birth. I remember thinking ‘I’m going to be the first woman in history to literally split in half at childbirth’. I fully believed I would die. It was a very lucid, stark moment of absolute certainty that came from nowhere. My body had struggled to escape the cause and my husband had had to force my shoulders back into the birthing pool, keeping me down in the water. I rubbed my shoulders in memory, now bruised and aching. I remembered informing the midwife that there was no way I could go through that again when she warned me the placenta still had to arrive.

Perhaps I was in shock? I stared blankly at my daughter swaddled in white. Nothing really visible apart from two deep, dark blue eyes staring back at me. They had unusually been open from birth. Not knowing anything about homeopathy then and reasoning that it couldn’t get any worse, I took an Aconite 200c, hoping wryly that some unimaginable magic might occur. I clearly recall the intense look from my daughter and all I still felt was numbness.

The bed beneath me suddenly felt warmer, softer, more supportive. A gentle warmth spread across my chest, radiating out from the centre and a calm peaceful feeling of joy and contentment enveloped my whole body. I looked around my room, really seeing it for the first time; the cot, the transparent curtains, various ablution tools, piles of cotton-wool, white- painted metal bed rails and a square-holed blanket entangled with sheets and towels, a red alarm handle. I turned towards Oriana, met those piercing blue eyes and smiled. What had been missing before was now here in abundance. Choking with that primal, maternal love I reached out for my newborn angel and wrapped her in my arms, kissing her and whispering to her and gazing in absolute awe. Truly I had been flying around the ceiling somewhere and was now back, grounded, returned to my body and fully conscious again. Oriana reached out her hand and I grasped it, cementing a bond that I prayed would never be severed again.

I called the midwife in to check out the mark (a strawberry birthmark). I sorted out the bed, brushed my teeth and started enjoying this momentous night. Oriana’s brother and father arrived a few hours later and we were all united. Things flowed as smoothly and with as much raw energy as is normal in these starkly human moments.

Homeopathy? I was sold. I had to find out how it worked, and following a surprise move to NY two years ago, I luckily stumbled on CHENY. Now in my second year I can say it’s been an extraordinary and rewarding experience, but a complete knowledge of how it works will probably be an eternal quest! For anyone who has had children of a certain age they will have come across THE MAGIC TREEHOUSE books. Listening to a story CD in the car over Easter, I learnt that Morgan le Fay tells Jack and Annie, 8 and 7 respectively, that they were able to see the treehouse because of Annie’s profound and absolute belief in magic and achieving the impossible. Jack’s obsessive thirst for knowledge and love of books enabled them to complete their missions. Combined they were an invincible team. The more I study homeopathy and my understanding grows, the more the sense of magic disappears in a way. But I was reminded on that car journey how important it is to keep a healthy dose of both with homeopathy. That faith in magic and belief in achieving the impossible combined with a quest for new knowledge is the only mindset that pushes frontiers forward. The only mindset that can convey that sense of possibility to potential clients and encourage that first step. The exciting thing about homeopathy for me, is that there are still so many frontiers to push through and the possibilities in the 21st century are limitless. I am eternally grateful that I will be able to pass this blazing torch on to my children and pray they will do the same.

About the author

Susie Spens

Susie Spens is a mother of two small children, a writer, energy healer and second year student at the Centre for Homeopathic Education New York.

4 Comments

  • And you should be proud and grateful because I am positive that there will be more to come from homeopathy, so much more than we could not even imagine it as it is all about nature and its magical forces.

  • Lovely story. yes the magic of seeing one little white pill giving such a change. I hope you teach your children that the magic pills are not sweets and can also do harm if not used wisely. thankyou for sharing

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