Tag: health

Day 202 “Must-Have”

Rain pelts against my window
cheered on by the relentless wind
inside I lie motionless
on my once-yearned-for
now resigned-to
bed.

Target has those things you’re looking for
texts my daughter
pic attached.
Exactly what I’m looking for
but millions of miles away
when energy fails me

Instead I give in to the fingers
of sleep
that pull me in;
blessed unconsciousness
oblivion.

Ping! another message
Starbucks has Oprah’s chai tea!
I can taste the sweet cinnamony warmth
and dream of the day
when I get out of this bed
and go for tea

the rain outside persists
the light fading
another day of suspended animation
in this gloom of isolated
silence

A door opens below me
footsteps, a voice
Do you need anything?
I don’t respond,
too weak for words.
Do I need anything?

The question reverberates
through mind
emotion
body
and comes up empty
what could I need?
too much
nothing

Rain abates, wind subsides
and a brief ray of sun
brightens the room
a promise
of spring
new beginnings
and I think
I need clothes

but clothes means shopping
and shopping means energy
and the cycle continues
and still I lay
unmoved

Then you enter
an offering of tea
and a gentle word
and with renewed momentum
I shift to make room for you.
and it all comes clear
You are what I need.

You are my must-have.

Day 199 “Doing and Being”

“We are human beings not humans doing” New Agers like to spout. I used to love that saying, thinking that it spoke to the busyness of our lives and our need to slow down and experience life.

Then I forgot about it, too caught up in the drive to be successful; to be somebody – legitimate.

“If you’re not giving 110%, you’re not giving enough!” was one of my father’s favourite sayings. He was a conqueror; a doer to the nth degree. Of course, part of that was because he was afraid of just being. Standing still would have meant being in the moment, and for him that was too big a risk to take – there was too much stuff to deal with – better to keep moving.

Being or doing takes on whole new meaning when chronic illness shows up. No longer able to keep pushing myself, I am confined to being more often than I’d like, yet it is still not easy to embrace. My mind, like a broken record, continually runs over the things I should be doing: the wash, marking, calling someone, writing a thank you, cooking dinner, and so on, circling back over the same list of must do’s with no response from my body. The more it circles, the more my guilt builds; or if not, guilt, worry. What will happen if I don’t feel better tomorrow? Who is going to change the bedding? Will my friends hate me; or worse, give up on me? Will I lose my job if I don’t some work done? All the while, my body, like a paralyzed slug, lies dormant, immoveable, indifferent.

I have cried to no avail. I have raged, and bargained and tried to ignore my reality. Yet, there is it. “A debilitating chronic illness” the doctor called it. “As debilitating as a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy, or a patient in congenital heart failure – but not life threatening.” Depressing though, incredibly depressing.

I am reluctant to tell people what is happening to me. On my good days, I appear well, full of energy. I am embarrassed to admit that the moment I get home I will fall apart again, likely not getting off the couch all evening. No one sees me this way, so who believes it? Except my husband. My poor husband, whose own battle with cancer is still ongoing, and who needs a supportive, caring partner as much as I do. We laugh about our shared challenges, but underneath it all, he must feel as I do, that is somehow not fair – not the way we thought our life would be.

I have work to do to learn to “just be” when illness has worn me down, and “do” when the going is good. Now, more than ever in my life, finding and balance between doing and being is all important.

Day 193 “Character Counts”

I knew something was wrong the week before my granddaughter’s first birthday.  Despite the increase in asthma medication, I was not able to get my breathing under control.  On the day of her celebration, I was in Emergency, then back home with Prednisone: the wonder drug.

This summer was more active thanks to a new home with a pool and within walking distance of a park.  Our new lifestyle felt promising, especially the fact that we were entertaining more, and enjoying the great outdoors.  Thor was still recovering from a spring full of surgeries, so his movement was limited, but he too felt more positive.

By July, the pain in my body had increased, but I told myself:  No pain, no gain, and pushed harder.  Isn’t that how the body works?  When record high temperatures hit mid July, I decided that was to blame for my troubled breathing.

The Prednisone didn’t work, so I continued to up my meds and rationalized that once the frost came, everything would be better.

Soon school was back in and with it the onslaught of germs.  I constantly felt like I was fighting something, and then one day, standing talking to a peer, I felt faint, unable to breath, and was sweating profusely.  I called the doctor.  An xray showed pneumonia.  A bout of antibiotics and I would be good as new.

Except, I wasn’t, and my breathing became more and more laboured and the dizzy spells continued, and the sweats, and I found myself back in Emergency and on the wonder drug again.  Twice, with no effect.

By December, the doctor decided that maybe this wasn’t asthma, and began to treat me for COPD, and arranged lung tests.  Nothing.  So, I went for heart tests.  Nothing still.

No, it’s asthma!  declared the lung specialist and he upped my medication, stating he would see me in two weeks.

In the meantime, I felt more and more like I was swimming against the tide, through thick, debilitating muddy waters.

I just want to be able to breath again!  I told him on my next visit.  To be honest, none of these meds are making any difference, and I am fed up!

Now I like this doctor just fine, but he has a undeniable sense of self-importance and on any given occasion is prone to answer his own questions before hearing my response, but this day he stopped and looked at my file.  Really looked at my file.  He went on-line and looked back over all the tests, and former tests and diagnosis, and sat back and looked at me with renewed interest.

You have Fibromyalgia, he said, as if realizing it for the first time.  This is not asthma.  This is Chronic Fatigue. 

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  My family doctor had mumbled it questioningly months before, then dismissed it in favour of further testing.  I can treat your lungs, he said, but it’s back to your family doctor for the rest.  

So, there it is.  A diagnosis.  Eight months of struggle, exhaustion, self-doubt, and frustration, and here is where I land.

There is relief in knowing what I am up against, but there is also an enormous sense of disappointment and a bracing myself for what is to come next.

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, like Fibromyalgia, is an unknown that draws at best blank stares, but mostly, misinformed advice.  I brace myself for what lies ahead.

As the criticism, and ‘you shoulds’ rolls in, I realize that I will need clear boundaries, and the ability to deflect the controversy.  Now more than ever, I will need to walk with my head held high, choosing the path that supports me best.

Now is the time that character counts.

A Diagnosis

My intention in starting this blog was to chronicle my journey through cancer, however; after a lumpectomy and a brief recovery time, the threat was gone.  Nothing to write about, really.  I kept going anyway.

Yesterday, life as I knew it took an unexpected twist.  Thor was diagnosed with cancer.

“High risk,” the doctor informed us.  “Your only options are surgery or radiation, but we’ll want to do more tests first to ensure the cancer is contained.”

I felt the room spin.  My eyes were fixed on the doctor, hopeful that he would add something else, anything, uplifting.  Oh my God, I thought, my poor husband!  What must he be feeling?  Without shifting my focus, I reached for Thor.  He needed to know that I was there for him, no matter what.

“I’m sorry, doctor, but I want to be clear.”  I struggled to keep my composure, but the tears were already breaking through.  “What do you think is the best option?”

We had arrived with a list of questions, which Thor now thrust at me.  Prepared as he was, he couldn’t access them.  I glanced at the paper, but nothing was making any sense.

“Well, I really can’t say,”  the doctor hedged.  “There will be side effects, of course.”

Together, we managed to breath through the consult, but I fell apart outside of the office.  Thor remained stoic.  Shh!  he gestured towards another patient.  How can he be so calm?

“I was expecting this,”  he told me on the way out.

“I’m so sorry,”  I blurted out.  “You don’t deserve this. I mean, you are a good person…..”

There are no right words, and mine certainly sounded empty.  Truth is, goodness has nothing to do with it.  I knew that.  I’d seen so many people suffer with cancer; sat with them through their pain and suffering, watched them die.  And I’d witnessed others who’d battled and survived.  None of them deserved the suffering.

“Even the blackest hole has silver somewhere,”  Thor offered.

Damned if I can see it, but I sure hope he’s right.

Fear or Legacy?

 

I fear illness.  I grew up in a household where dis-ease was the norm.  My mother had her first dance with death as a child, then suffered a broken back in her late thirties, followed by three bouts of cancer.  In her elder years, she lives with constant pain and many health issues.  My oldest sister had congenital heart problems all her life, and at the end, leukemia.  The next sister has schizophrenia and now Parkinson’s.  Diabetes, heart problems, and cancer run rampant in my mother’s family.  Ten of my generation have died.   My father and his siblings all died from respiratory conditions.

In other words, genetically, the promise of a long, healthy lifespan is not very bright.  When disease first knocked on my door, I made drastic changes to my diet, but I wonder if it is enough.

Fear, I know, can be a self-fulfilling habit.  But how do I let it go?

Years ago, I heard about a prayer for overcoming obstacles in life.  It goes like this:

I cast this burden of  ___________ upon the Christ within, that I may be free to ___________________ .

In my case:  I cast this burden of fear upon the Christ within, that I may be free to enjoy my gift of health.

What fear gets in your way?

(Image: inspirenow.com.au)

 

Rage and Restraint

Thor and I have dined in a high-end restaurant, and he has gone to pay the bill.  I have chosen my food carefully to watch my intake, but still do not feel satisfied.  I look around and spot a dessert counter, with many cakes, pies, and sweet buns.  My husband is taking a while, and I am getting anxious.  On an impulse, I lunge for the cinnamon buns at the front of the counter, reaching across the cakes and pies, with no regard for social propriety.  I scoff the bun quickly, before anyone, especially my husband, can see me.  I needn’t worry.  He is nowhere in sight.  The room we were dining in is in the basement of the building, with a walkout patio.  Thor headed upstairs to the cashier’s desk.  Embarrassed by my actions, I decide to follow him, but I cannot see him.  I catch sight of him leaving by the front door.  Has he forgotten me?  I run to catch up with him and encounter two teenage boys, one of whom threatens to grab my breasts.  Angry with Thor for leaving without me, I am enraged by this young boy’s brazen behaviour.  “Do it and I’ll beat your head in,”  I warn him.  He makes the grab, and I retaliate by grasping one ear and twisting it, while simultaneously poking him in the eye with other.  I knee him in the groin, and as he goes down, I slam his head against the wall.  “That will teach you!”  I conclude.  I have caught my husband’s attention now, and we walk off together.

Restraint is obviously a theme in this dream: the ability to control my eating, and the need to control my anger.

Thor and I are in week four of Weight Watchers.  He has very successfully been following the plan and losing weight.  I am not faring as well.  It is frustrating, to say the least.

Dining out is the base of our problems.  I am vegetarian and Thor is meatatarian, and rather than cook two meals, it is just easier for us to dine out.  With only 26 points allowance in my day, that is a difficult task.  Last night, I had a veggie stir fry with the sauce on the side (8 points).  Thor, on the other hand, had a seafood linguine with garlic bread. (He has 45 points in the day.)  I went to bed hungry, while he had a midnight snack.  As I often do when watching my food intake, I got cranky.

I am proud of my husband, don’t get me wrong.  The changes he is making to his diet and daily routine are commendable.  I do, however; feel a bit like the woman in my dream:  left behind.

The two teenage boys in the dream are an interesting addition to this dilemma.  When I was a teenager, with new, but fully developed breasts, a boy did grab my breast as he passed me on the sidewalk one day.  I was so surprised that by the time I responded, he had fled.  Thus began a series of sexual harassments that continued well into my twenties.  In retrospect, it wasn’t until I had my third baby, and the weight stayed on that the unwanted advances stopped coming.  This is an aha moment.

Could the anger that I feel when dieting be related to inappropriate attention?  I clearly remember thinking, just yesterday, that the nice thing about being older is that you can be unattractive and get away with it.

I never felt attractive.  One of four girls, I thought of myself as the dumpy one.  I had reached full height in  elementary school, and filled out way ahead of my older sisters, earning the nicknames ‘Moose’ and ‘Linebacker’.  Whenever my sisters and I went anywhere together, everyone assumed I was the oldest, even though there were several years between us.  While they received endless attention for their beauty, I was the goofy looking one.  When I did bring boys home, I lost them once they caught sight of my siblings.

Despite my lack of self-esteem, or maybe because of it, I was always finding myself inappropriately propositioned.  Fathers of children I babysat, employers, boys I went to school with, and later colleagues, as well as friends of my then husband.  And, there was the rape.  I was targeted out of a whole gathering of schoolgirls.  I never understood it, but the more it happened, the angrier I became.  Occasionally, I did retaliate physically, but mostly I internalized it. “Boys will be boys,” my mother would say.  “It’s up to the woman to deter it.”  Like my mother, I learned to be a victim.

Why would I want to lose weight only to make myself vulnerable again, must be the question running through my subconscious.  No wonder I am cranky.  Being overweight is not desirable, but neither is being desirable, literally!   Maybe, I need to have a little talk with myself, and remind my inner young woman that I am a lot older now, and have learned to ward off unwanted advances, and protect myself.

Who knew losing weight was this complicated.

A little restraint please!

 

 

 

Path Rights

Born underweight, and with a hole in her heart, my oldest sister seemed doomed from the start.   By the time I was born, her condition had deteriorated, and she spent most of her time in hospital.  My parents were told to expect the worst.  Open-heart surgery was the great new procedure that saved her life at thirteen.  She got better.

Two years behind her peers at school, she was hell-bent on catching up.  Years of being pampered had not helped her emotional development, and she was not afraid of acting out.  She loved being the center of attention, and didn’t care if it was for being good or bad.

Eleven years her junior, I found my sister’s volatility scary.  It was almost a relief when she would lock me out of the house, or ignore me for long periods of time.  Our relationship didn’t really develop until she gave birth to her own daughter, then she needed me.  I was a built-in babysitter.

I watched my sister jump from one bad relationship to another.  I witnessed my parents rescuing her time after time, and I was dumbfounded at her disrespect and lack of gratitude in return.

She could be sweet as anything when she wanted something, but if she wasn’t interested, or changed her mind, look out.

When she got sick again, I decided to explore ways to help her.  The more I learned about the body-mind connection, the more I was sure I could save her.  She laughed in my face.  You are so naive, she would say.  Or, You are playing with the Devil.  Personally, I’d always thought she was the devil.

One day, I decided that I would just let her be, and stop trying to change her.  I told her as much.  She tried to fight with me.  I stood my ground.  She cried.  Then finally, we talked.

“Everything I’ve been studying and doing is to help you,”  I explained.  “But it’s not working, so, I’m not going to push anymore.  You are sick, it is your life, and you have to do what is right for you.”

“You don’t understand,” she said.  She was right, I didn’t.  “I don’t know how to be any different.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I did what you say, and got better, then what?   Being sick gives me power.  It lets me get away with whatever I want.  How could I do that if I got better.”

She had a point.  Being sick gave her enormous power.  How could I argue with that.

In all the years that I had judged, and fought with my sister about her life, I had not appreciated that it was working just fine for her purposes.  We all have the right to our own paths.