Tag Archives: health

That Space In Between

Home from the hospital – sore, swollen, fat jaw, bruised eye.  You should see the other guy.  Seriously, he looks great because I was asleep during my limited introduction to the doctor’s graceful hands and exacting instruments.   To add insult to injury, I think I even shook his hand before the procedure began.  Of course, I befriended the nurses, anesthesiologist, anesthesiologist’s assistant, nurse’s aide, phlebotomist and the volunteer who checked me in.  My interest is genuine and it also hedges my bets.  To like me is to help me if I need it and I really try to be a likable kind of patient.  Because mostly all I seek is a smile, a little reassurance and a cup of coffee.

I woke up with my heart pounding in my ears – “You’re awake!  You’re alive”  I silently repeated my name and address,  the names of family members, all the dogs we’ve had in proper order.  Wiggled my toes, fingers, nose – all present and accounted for.  Kelly the red-haired nurse who got engaged two weeks ago and is trying to plan a Christmas wedding because she’s also two seconds pregnant, brought me some ginger ale.  Ah, the art of sucking soda through a straw with a fat jaw is a challenge.  Half of the soda stains my hospital gown, the rest manages to make it down my throat.  ”Where’s your pain level Mimi?”  About six, I gesture with my fingers.  ”Do you want me to give you something for the pain”  Nope – just want to go home and put my head on my pillow.  Someone give Andy permission to get me home.

The reality is that with a circle of angels and a firm belief that there is a God, I got home pretty damn quickly.  And now that I’ve got nowhere I have to be, I will settle in and calm down, spend a bit more time soothing the voices in my head that tend to repeat stressful moments over and over – and over.  The whole thing took far longer than originally planned, for they removed two nodes instead of one.  But it’s all good – between the slices sent to microbiology and the samples to pathology perhaps we’ll know exactly what these interlopers are made of and how we can kick them out of their residences. Hey, maybe there’s a poem about neoplasm in here!   I hesitate to write too much because I still have a lot of meds in my system.  True story – after one of my spinal fusions, I received a call from work with news about a fantastic year-end merit bonus I had received.  Good manners being important to me, I immediately sent off an email to the Chair and the Vice Chair thanking them profusely for such largesse.  A few days later when I was corpus mentos, I read the sent email and it looked in part  like this –  ”Thank you so much – I amrealyslpeesed…”  Was I horrified?  Yup – and when I called them they each laughingly assured me they were archiving the messages as a sample of when my writing ability eluded me.  Nice guys.  But I learned the valuable lesson that it is better sometimes to defer your communications until you are able.  In fact, there should be a warning label on medication which says “don’t drive or operate heavy machinery and if you feel inclined to write something, move away from the keyboard and whatever you do, don’t hit ‘send’”.

So before I make a WordPress fool of myself (wouldn’t be the first time, though it may be the first time it was unintended), I’m going to sign off.  Thank you for your prayers, your smiles, your sunshine, your teasing.  Thank you for your good wishes, better friendships and outstanding support.  Thank you for grinning if you find this sounds a little un-Mimi like and still read it all the way through.  And when I can lift a glass of something less benign than ginger ale, I will raise a glass to you.

 

With Apologies To Ogden Nash

If you’ve ever had sciatica

Or other throes rheumatica

You’ll understand it when I say

My nerves are screaming “Attica!”

Such inflammation takes its time

Plays havoc with a peaceful mind

Reducing my thought processes

To plebian words and rhyme

 

Since sitting isn’t optional

Typing supine not optimal

I’ll go in search of heating pads

And accept this posture comical

 

‘What Becomes A Legend Most’

It’s isn’t Janet Jackson in a full length mink coat, of that I’m sure.  I think the tag line is terrific – just misplaced.

We can all think of legendary people and moments for which books are written, songs are penned, clichés are born.  And then there are the everyday legends who may have no famous (or infamous) public persona, but impact our days, change our thinking, inform our choices and enrich our hearts.

There are people in my past who are legends in my memory.  My family is legendary – in more ways than one can define the adjective.  And then there are those who come into your days and you’d be an idiot not to recognize the karmic element of your meeting.  So it was when I met Chris.  He wouldn’t agree with me, he would argue that none of it is a big deal and perhaps when our time together is over, I will quickly recede from his memory.  That’s cool – he is forever etched in mine.  Meet Chris -

I began training with Chris a little over a year ago.  Given some of my physical limitations, I had major trepidation about going to the gym.  Chronic pain is well, a pain – long scars that extend from the neck down to places that haven’t seen the light of day in years, makes ‘flexibility’ a dirty word.  Tendons, fascia, ligaments that are just generally ornery – and that’s on a good day.  My body and soul are truly yin and yang.  I was afraid that at the least, I wouldn’t accomplish anything, and at worst I would end up doing some further damage to myself,  because at core I am still competitive and will ‘play hurt’.

Chris lost his leg a couple of years ago.  He was riding his motorcycle and was struck by a drunk driver.  I’m not going into the specifics of his accident – it was gory and awful and with or without hindsight, life-altering.  Chris was a trainer before the accident; he’s a trainer now.  He is an avid competitor – it seems that he’s in a marathon or triathlon every other week.  He hears a lot of praise when he’s pushing the envelope,  and deserves all of it.  But to me, he deserves it because he held on to his heart throughout this ordeal, he didn’t compromise on his life and he didn’t lose the ability to laugh.  He adores his wife, relishes his friendships and family and knows how to have a good time.  He still has to deal with the frustration that comes with parts that fail, waiting for insurance companies to do what they’re supposed to do, having to consider what most of us don’t even think about at all.  He still has to deal with the ghosts that dance in his head (even though he doesn’t think anyone knows about them) and get up every morning and dare the dawn to get in his way. And let me tell you, the morning steps aside.  As it should.

Chris’ will, his expectations of himself, his laugh…it’s the stuff of good character.  The way his eyes betray him when he thinks someone is in pain, his sense of commitment, his frustrations…it’s the stuff that makes him human.  The combination of heart and head, determination and focus, reality and hope…that’s the stuff of everyday legends.

Be Honest

I’ve got a question for you – well really, it’s a quote from Satchel Paige:

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?”

Peter Chang - self portrait

Peter Chang – self portrait (Photo credit: chaos80129)

My own personal answer is neither firm nor absolute.  Initially, I thought the age I am now.  I am freer, wiser, less frantic, more accepting.  I don’t drive myself crazy believing that a work legacy is anything other than illusory and fleeting.  I have time for friends – old friends that I thought I would never see again and new friends that I never thought I would find at this stage in my life.  I’m smarter – or at least I think I am.  I hold onto things for far less time, and leave the perseverating to people who enjoy it more than I do.  The ghosts from my past don’t jump as high on the bed anymore.  They’ve gotten smaller, or I’ve gotten braver.  I am still ridiculously immature, do silly better than I do serious and have no intention of growing up.  I figure this intractability is ultimately a good thing – it worked for Peter Pan.

I didn’t like being a little kid, though I would give an awful lot to be horseback riding with my dad again.  I did a lot in my twenties – the best parts of it were giving birth to my sons – the rest of the decade was pretty much a disaster.  I definitely looked a lot better then.  I was fallow for most of my thirties, hiding behind my little boys while I nursed some of my open wounds.  But my sister got sick then and the mere thought of those days fills me with dread and fear (and a little nausea).  I can’t go back there, ’cause I need her here.

By the time Andy and I got together, I was closer to my forties.  Andy made me less afraid of  grown-up love.  I inherited a sister and brother-in-law I love deeply and wonderful parents-in-law.   I loved my forties – though my children became teenagers, needing to separate and return, a dance with no rhythm and what felt like no end.  I got sick in my forties.  Still looked pretty damn good – or so I’ve been told.  My dad’s decline was steeper, my mom’s anxiety heightened.  Yes, I was rocking the professional arena – and somehow that has become a footnote.

So I’m here – and I suppose this is where I would want to be – with a few caveats.  I wouldn’t mind losing the chronic pain for a few days, and sometimes wonder what will be in the future if my body is acting like such a renegade now.  There used to be an ad on tv with the tag line – “when I grow up I want to be an old woman”.  It was a good ad – lots of old women dancing around, doing lots of crazy and silly stuff – I imagine myself that way in years to come (hell, I do some of that now).  I’m determined to sparkle.  Life deserves some sequins and a feather boa.  I don’t like the implications – that more is behind me than ahead.  Other than that, I’ll take it, and don’t intend to go quietly into any good night.  I’m too lousy a sleeper.

What about you?

Walking Into Life

I think I’ve lived a good deal of my life with my senses on high alert.  When the boys were babies and I was a single mom, I remember sleeping with one ear measuring the rhythm of their breaths, the other attuned to the sounds of the house – I had to be ready, just in case.  I have always been neurotic at work – my silly view that as technology allowed 24/7 availability, I was supposed to be available in every time zone (for we had 33 office around the world).  This made me a very valuable employee in the environment known as ‘Big Law’ – where the bizarre ‘play hurt’ philosophy still drives the billable hour and the head-shaking awe and respect of others.  I’m the person you want in a crisis – no tears, very collected, logical – I’m ready.  Divorce?  Death?  Employment issue?  Performance problem?  Marital angst?  Sick child?  I’m your woman.  I can make it through Whole Foods in fifteen minutes and fill the cart with the proper items.  I don’t love anyone or anything in a half-assed way, and as such I will give it  everything I’ve got – no questions asked.  I have run head long into life – but for the times when I’ve crashed into a wall.

I crashed into a wall when I was diagnosed with this stupid autoimmune disease that makes my joints swell inexplicably, the tendons twisting and rioting without provocation.  When I realized that after too many surgeries I was  going to have to figure out the music that accompanies chronic pain so I could understand the rhythm I’d be dancing too (I hate being off the beat, though I am clearly off-beat).   I didn’t see the wall on Sunday. We were having brunch with our friends who asked about the Jewish ritual of sitting shiva – a seven-day mourning period after the death of an immediate family member.  After seven days in the house, one is supposed to go outside and walk back into life.  I remembered my sister and I doing this after the shiva period for both of our parents.  I couldn’t speak, for the pain of missing my parents was so visceral in that moment.  And I swear to you, for a moment I thought my heart stopped.  Walking back into life.  Walking back into life a person changed forever.

So it was when I retired last year.  No need to re-visit the early days of dissonance, when no notes came together to form a lovely sound.  Suffice it to say, I was opening the door and walking outside, completely unfamiliar with my space in the world.  At first, I walked with purpose – almost defiantly.  At some point I slowed, realizing that I had the chance just to breathe.  I wasn’t driven by urgent need – or my perception of urgent need.  I didn’t need to walk back into life for any reason other than it was my due.  It has taken me months to figure out this new rhythm, embrace the richness of this music and accept that just being me is reason enough to walk into life.  I need not be raising and protecting my delicious boys,  I don’t have to be grieving, I don’t have to be on call for anyone who may need me for reasons which they consider critical (but in retrospect were often pretty self-serving).

The beauty of stopping before you open the door lies in the anticipation of what you will find.  Each day, I now pause.  I close my eyes and open them just to be surprised at what may appear before me.  Goofy?  Perhaps.  A reminder that this is the only moment?  Definitely.