Reverb 13: Day 26: Remembering

The prompt:

Five Moments | Tell us about five moments you don't want to forget from 2013.

Honestly?

There are a lot more moments I don't like to remember than those I do. 

I've written already about a few that I loved: going to our favorite Bandon beach on our anniversary, having a fantastic lunch in Seattle with our daughter and grandkids. Any time  we are on the coast by the ocean: there was a wonderful full moon we experienced on the beach in Charleston, OR, in September, and all those lovely hours we spent on beaches at Point Reyes in November. Being in our great room with a wood stove fire and my honey and the kitties. 

But there have been some that have been full of fear and anxiety and worry and grief and anger, and I would just as soon not remember those. 

I want good memorable moments in 2014, not the other kind.

I'm still here

....and a little embarrassed by my lack of attention to this blog, after going on three months without so much as a "Hi there."

I can't really explain it, either. Certainly life has gone on and things have happened, good and not so good.  I think I went somewhere for a while, far away from creative thought or sharing mode, and it was not especially good.

But I'm here now.  And in a completely different mode. Let me tell you more...

Living on one foot 

After a misstep last spring and nearly six months using an ankle support, I finally was able to see an orthopedist about the pain I had when I walked much at all, even with the orthotics I've used for five years and in my 'comfort' shoes. Crippling pain, folks, hobbling along with a cane on some days, my left leg feeling wooden from the knee down.

Turns out I have severe arthritis in the joints there, compounded by a severely flat foot, fixable through surgery called a triple arthrodesis. So we began to plan, with surgery finally scheduled for Dec. 27.

I will say that we were prepared: the first time I've ever had the luxury of actually anticipating the surgery and recovery period. I read health message boards, researched the procedure, figured out what medical supplies would help, and began freezing soups and stews and casseroles. Friends lent me a bedside commode, a transport wheelchair, a shower chair. We got toilet rails and in lieu of crutches, a knee roller. I practiced using just one foot to get into the shower (not doable, but it works in the big tub), to get off the toilet. 

Although this was 'elective' surgery, the alternative is literally crippling, and I'm just not ready or willing to go there. So in my mind, there wasn't an option. Even though I wanted to go through with it, I found myself gradually getting more anxious, more afraid -- and that mindset likely had a great deal to do with my not blogging. 

Finally I reached out to a local healer friend who works with energy and reiki and asked for help -- and it made a HUGE difference almost immediately. On her advice and with her help, I turned my focus inward, concentrating almost wholly on me -- something I have almost never done for very long, and always still trying to juggle the other commitments and relationships I have had. This time I found other, easier ways to handle existing commitments and completely backed out of others, and came home to my honey, my cats, and myself. And focused on increasing energy, positive energy, in myself and in that wooden leg.

It worked, really well. And going into surgery, I felt positive about my recovery, positive about the surgery, and actually was walking better than I had in a long time. I could feel the leg again. It was connected to my body, and I felt whole. The morning of the surgery, I was ready, I was calm, I was positive.

I confess to an unreasonable fear of general anesthesia, which I always have come out of (and have never been told that I had difficulty with) gasping and groggy and grateful that I am still alive. Although I'd hoped to do a spinal block along with a local nerve block and thus remain more or less awake, it turned out that one medication I'd taken the morning of the surgery negated that option for safety concerns, and under I went, after only a little meltdown, and indeed, I came out groggy and gasping. But within a few hours, I was coherent and without pain and so, so grateful.

That's where I am now. 

I am two weeks post-op and spending much of my time in Tony's recliner with my foot propped above my heart. There has been only minimal swelling, almost no pain**, and I am not stir-crazy. Indeed, that inward focus continues, and I'm contemplating spirit and prayer and quiet and purpose and just learning to BE instead of DO. I'm leaving other people's business and conflicts to them rather than offering opinions (unsolicited) or help (which I am in no position to give). For now, that is what my work is supposed to be.

**The nerve block did not wear off for 30+ hours, and when it did, it hurt. I spent one night in the hospital taking pain meds and using the nifty pain pump, but was so nauseated that I regretted all of the meds. Since then I have taken the strong stuff sparingly (it has such nasty side effects) and have used just the occasional Tylenol to ease discomfort. But what I had been told was a hugely painful surgery (involving screws and cutting into bone) has turned out for me to be nothing more than a few aches and twinges (nerve regeneration causes some leg jumping and zingers, but it's not so much painful as it is frustratingly random). 

Grateful. Beyond. Measure.

Time for the recliner now. 

"At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us." Albert Schweitzer    





        

In a bit of a funk

It feels like so many things in my life and around me are up in the air, and I've never done limbo very well. And yes, the gray skies and rain that I so wanted have been here for several days, although sun is peeking through as i write, but gray skies and rain also can exacerbate moodiness, and I'm fighting it a bit.

Partly it's the cold that I'm getting over, and am very grateful that it did not get any worse than it did and that I can taste again. But it makes me tired and without much energy, and I've taken naps the last few days, something that is pretty rare for me.

Partly it is waiting for the results of a health test that I'll likely know about tomorrow. While I truly, deeply, do not think anything is terribly amiss, I think there could be some medication changes and possibly further testing. It  -- or at least the what-if factor -- maks me feel terribly mortal and more than a little fragile, and that is never a good place to be.

And partly it is looking at all the bits and pieces of projects that need to be completed, few of which will take a long time, and just not wanting to tackle any of them. There are certainly more than a few that indeed will take time and effort,, like cleaning out the attic, but that's not one that is right under my nose. No, it's the scraps and bits of Christmas still left in the spare bedroom  and the messy shelves in the laundry room that need to be tidied and stuff thrown away. I'm heading for the bedroom in a few minutes to at least clean off the floor.

And it's January,  never my favorite month. The music and falala of the holidays  are over, and it's on to hoping that we get enough rain to fill up the lakes and water tables and lessen the summer fire danger, and realizing that we have only a few more months to do that. While I love the freshness of spring, I'm not ready for the outdoor work that really needs to be done this year.

I know all this will pass and the test will be what it is and I'll adapt however I must. I know that Tony's last full-time day is less than a month away now, and that his long-awaited retirement will soon be here.  I'm glad for that change, even though it also brings with it the acknowledgement that we are indeed in our 'golden' years, hopefully with many more good ones ahead of us to share.

What I know for sure: nothing lasts, everything changes. So it is with my life, so it is with yours.

“We're all just walking each other home.” ― Ram Dass

Reverb 10: what defined this year

For Dec. 29 -- Defining moment. Describe a defining moment or series of events that has affected your life this year.

Oh, hands down (pun intended) it was Jan. 4 when I fell sideways onto the pavement at the Redding Convention Center parking lot and when I sat up, my wrist was in an 'S' curve. It was not just a little break either -- but one that required surgery, a plate, and seven screws to fix. And some six months to recover from.

It changed everything for me this year.

I 'retired' -- at least I began to draw Social Security, although I'm busy doing many things. I stopped freelancing because I couldn't type and couldn't take interview notes, and my head wasn't in a good place to be able to do that anyway.

I was dependent on others to help me drive, wash, cook, even dress myself, and I learned to use my left hand, sortakinda, to eat, to operate my trackball, to sign my name, to dry my hair, to apply makeup. I hated it. I felt awkward and old and wobbly and mortal.

All of the other stresses were still there, too -- providing support for R on her bad days, finding an attorney to help with her disability claim, taking care of the house and kitties and so on. I did most of it pretty well after the first month or so, and while the physical injury healed and I was done with physical therapy by mid-April, it left me with a fear of falling, a wariness that has yet to leave me, and an awareness of how very fragile we really are; how quickly life can change in a moment.

It left me tired. Weary. Not energized. Afraid of something else happening.

That, and dealing with R's ongoing illness -- appointments, phone calls, ER visits, doctor visits, etc. -- were the overwhelming thoughts and feelings I lived with this year. There were some good times, some nice moments. But mostly it was one day at a time, one month at a time, just getting through as best I could.

I do not want 2011 to be a re-run in any way. Things are looking better and I'm feeling more optimism than I have all year. I'm glad to see the end of 2010.

Foggy, foggy morning

Thick, pea-soupy fog blankets everything this morning and Tony just called to caution me to leave extra time on my way to an appointment this morning. He said it's just as foggy in town as out.

I'm grateful it's not inches of white stuff as they've had on the East Coast. I can deal with fog better.

The Daily Om has an interesting perspective on fog: stopping to listen carefully, moving forward with caution, paying attention to what is around you even if you cannot see it clearly. Eventually it lifts, revealing what it has hidden and making plain the shadows and obstacles.

One thing I know for sure: nothing lasts. Everything, even fog, will change and lift and become more clear. Everything changes.

We photographed the funeral of a young man this weekend who had served in the military in Iraq and Afghanistan, and then in the Honor Guard on the East Coast. (His mother had asked for photographers to come, to document the ceremony.) He had begun a career after his honorable military discharge doing something he absolutely adored doing, and then, out of nowhere, came problems, big hairy ones, that dragged on and on, and eventually cost him his beloved jobs. Although the issues were finally resolved, there was a cloud that trailed him, and he killed himself.

So area veterans sent him to God with full military honors, a gun salute, and an extremely moving flag ceremony performed by two young men who had traveled to a tiny Tehama County cemetery to do this one last ritual for a fellow soldier who had done it for so many others.

There is no doubt that he was loved and cherished by his family and friends. But he didn't have the maturity, I think, to understand that everything changes, that nothing stays the same, that if he had made just another phone call, perhaps someone would have helped him to understand that, to see that even though his life was not the same, it could be good again in a direction a little differently than what he had planned.

I know it isn't that simple, of course. And I wasn't in his shoes, nor even an acquaintance. I know he left life too young. I know he left a mother who will forever have a hole in her heart, people who loved him dearly. I know he will never have a second chance.

Life throws us all curve balls now and then. But as long as we are breathing, we have a second chance. The path we thought we were on may swerve and go a different direction. It may be hard to see the way through the fog and the curves and the detritus that often accompany such change. But it WILL clear. It always, always does.

People around me, near and dear to me, are struggling with health issues and financial woes this year -- not because of mismanagement of money or neglect of health, but just because it was their turn, I guess. It's hard to feel so helpless, and also hard to feel very 'Christmas-y" in the midst of such life-changing moments. I guess part of that is how I've always felt about Christmas: a magical holiday where, for one brief period of time in a year, people get along, are happy, enjoy family and friends, and feel good about themselves and where they are, and grateful. I do feel grateful. I am immensely, hugely, tremendously, always grateful to be where I am and with Tony. That overrides everything else.

I wish the young man had been able to find just one thing to be grateful for in his life, just one reason not to do what he did. I wish he could have been able to find the inner assurance that his fog would indeed lift and that his path -- a new path -- would be revealed, one step at a time.

We live our lives day by day, not year by year. We do all we can today -- with all the tools we have right now -- to do what it is we think we must. But in so doing, we proceed knowing that as we journey we will see another part of the path, and that while it may go a direction we hadn't planned for, nor even want, we are only as alone as we choose to be. If we ask for help, someone may show us a part of the path we hadn't seen, or help us to walk out of the fog. Sometimes all we have to do is to extend a hand, reaching for someone, something, and we will connect.

I can't fix the health problems or money woes that my loved ones are having, but I am here to hold a hand, to cry with them, to just BE here so they are not alone in the fog. They do the same for me. And in the larger scheme of things, that is what matters most.

Having a baaaaaad day?

Today's Daily Om has a good message -- not that I'm necessarily having a bad day, mind you, but it does help to put a perspective on things.

Nobody gets through life without pain and suffering. Just flat nobody.

The level of pain and suffering differs. Sometimes there is physical pain, which can sap everything in you, take joy right out of you. Sometimes there is mental pain -- which does the same. We can get trapped in our own heads, in our business, and it's hard to see any way out. There's grief, fear, anger -- all cause pain, all cause suffering.

The only thing we can really control is how we react to it. Drugs and alcohol may take away physical or mental pain, at least temporarily.

In the end, it's what we do with what we have, where we are, that makes the difference.

Pain and suffering can't stand up too long to gratitude. Even if the pain is still there, gratitude lessens it. Sometimes even the smallest gratitude makes the difference -- a hot cup of tea, a heating pad, a phone call or e-mail from a friend.

Sometimes it's calling the pharmacy and learning that your insurance will only pay for a limited number of tablets for the month -- and it's the exact number that you need until your next doctor visit (when you'll get a prescription change anyway).

Find the blessing, even on bad days. There's at least one there.