When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

Recently, I was asked to expound upon the topic of Why cancer has affected my dad’s side of the family described from an emotion perspective?”  This came after I mentioned the following in response to the question “Have you noticed a common theme of a particular health problem in your family line?  If so, explain your findings.” on the first quarter anatomy/physiology exam for my energy intuitive mentorship:

“My father’s mother’s side… my grandmother died of uterine cancer, her sister had skin cancer when young and died of complications to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in her 80s, their brother died of stomach cancer, their father lung or stomach cancer.  They are Irish from immigrant families.”

Taking the idea that each of us is biochemically different due to our emotions and daily stresses, could it be that genetic mutations that are the underpinning of cancer could be caused by our emotional landscape?

Let’s say that it started with my great great grandfather and the emotional pain he experienced having to leave his homeland in order to find work and be able to feed and cloth himself.  He could have left his love, his siblings, parents, all for promises of a new life, a better life.  But America was not Ireland.  America was dirty and labor hard and the air was nowhere as sweet as home.  And his grief embedded itself in his body, in his cells.  His grief blocked the flow of energy in his body and cells began to mutate.

My grandmother, Mag, it is said was afraid of doctors and because of this did not have surgery for what was to be known as uterine cancer until it was too late.  But when she found out the end of this life was coming, she planned her great trip to Ireland.  She had always been active in the Irish community in Baltimore, Maryland; even leading the St. Patrick’s Day parade with green hair (in the 1960s!).  When she found out she was not long for this world, she went back to her homeland to touch the ground and breath the air – to know what her ancestors spoke of first hand.

When I moved to California in 1997, my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Cas, started writing me letters as she had lived in Colorado since 1958 moving there from the East Coast.  We corresponded for almost a decade before I actually saw her for the second time (the first being on the East Coast when I was 12 or 13 or 14) after she had gone into remission for Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  She was a spitfire; so spunky still even after the clinical trial put her disease into remission.  And I brought photographs and she told me stories and passed down family recipes from her grandmother and said that my grandmother/her sister was there with us.

My third visit to Aunt Cas was not as jolly for she was in hospice, dying.  I had found out that the cancer had returned and I had to see her before her passing.  So I caught a flight and took a gift to her, one that I had gathered on my journey to Ireland; a trip she would be unable to take now.  We had the most lovely visit as her mind was still clear as a bell even as her body betrayed her.  And towards the end I gave her my gift; a gift of Irish soil in an Irish linen handkerchief tied with thread for it is said that an Irishman/woman must be buried with the soil of their homeland.  Tears fell from her eyes as she grasped my hands as tears fall from my eyes recounting this story now.  My dear Aunt Cas was cremated with that gift and for me, she lives on within the soil of Ireland.

2 Comments

  1. Your last line speaks so much to me. Perhaps, the soil of our ancestral home “makes up” our bodies. Soil to soil.

Comments are closed.