Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Healing, Part One

A few years ago when we lived in Canada, after my whirlwind Ulcerative Colitis diagnosis and first surgery to remove my diseased colon, while I had a temporary stoma, an old acquaintance phoned me.  (I'll call him) John began the phone conversation tentatively, as we hadn't ever known each other all that well and he was very aware that I might think it odd for him to phone me up out of the blue.  "I heard about your diagnosis and surgery," he said.  "I've been diagnosed with colon cancer and am going through similar things as you, I think.  I was hoping we could talk...  I, um, do you ever have problems with controlling your bowels?"  "Oh, messing your pants in public?  Yeah, been there, done that," I responded, and the conversation took off.

Picking up the pieces
What meds are you on?  Do you have a moon face from the steroids?  What treatment options have you been given?  What can you eat?  Aren't NG tubes absolute hell?  The conversation culminated in him telling me about a recent event involving his van, a potty chair, and a drawn sidearm.

John had been very active as a Boy Scout leader, and had a large panel van with which he used to haul the camping equipment for his troop around.  After his diagnosis and partial colectomy, he placed a potty chair in the van and accustomed himself to only making short forays away from home whenever he could possibly help it.  "I know where every public toilet in a 10-mile-radius is," he told me proudly.  The potty chair was for when he absolutely couldn't make it to a public washroom, which did occasionally happen, as any IBD or colo-rectal cancer patient can relate to.  On this occasion, against his better judgement, John agreed to run an errand for a friend which required driving on the beltway around Washington D.C.  At rush hour.  With an even larger-than-normal backup due to an accident.

After close to an hour of fighting the urge, John realized he couldn't hold it anymore and wasn't going to be able to make it to the next exit.  He pulled his van off on the side of the road as far as he could, turned on his hazards, and made it to the potty chair just in the nick of time.  Unfortunately, this round of chemo-induced emergency poop lasted for a while, which is how John found himself surrounded by State Troopers demanding he open the back door of the van and come out slowly, with his hands up.  The officers had pulled over to investigate, knocked on the back door, and were surprised to hear John call out, "I'm in here, I'm going to the bathroom, I'll be out in a minute!"  They assumed this was some sort of clever ruse for illegal activity and ordered John to exit the van immediately, which, of course, he couldn't.

After a few back-and-forth verbal rounds John was fed up and yelled, "Listen!  The door is unlocked!  I promise I have cancer and am just taking a ****!  Come in if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you!!"  The back door slowly opened to reveal a shocked Trooper, gun drawn, taking in the sight of John on his potty chair.

And, of course, the officer was a woman.

John and I howled with laughter for several minutes; I had to bend over and hold my stomach while I gasped for breath.  "Thanks," he choked out finally.  "No one else will laugh with me about that."

Of course they wouldn't.  It was too painful of a story for those close to him to hear, too evident of the depths his life was currently occupying.  Too nasty for others, too much detail for some, too foreign for many, not appropriate to share in most social contexts.  But for someone else dealing with the same poop issues, for someone else who understood the pain, the shame, and the embarrassment -- for me who had already at that point developed a very interesting sense of humour as a method of coping -- well, it was HILARIOUS.  We both got off the phone feeling considerably better that day.

Not all the conversations with John were so uplifting, and he died a few months later.  Still in the throes of treatment and having just narrowly escaped death myself, it was a sobering event.

Another friend lost her husband this past week to cancer and Crohn's Disease.  (It was the cancer that killed him, but the Crohn's didn't help the treatment or prognosis.)  When I first saw her notice on Facebook about his downward turn in health I was surprised.  I hadn't been on FB in a few days and, as he had been fighting the cancer for 5 years, I guess I had grown accustomed to the reports of ups and downs and had forgotten that death could be imminent.  I never met Phil in person, but I came to know him a bit through letters and notes from Elizabeth, his wife/my friend and through his posts on the Caring Bridge site.  (www.caringbridge.org)  I also felt a sort of weird connection with him due to his struggles as a fellow IBD patient.

As I scanned the last few posts I found one where Phil mentions "taking constructive criticism" about the tone of his CB journal and attempting to be less cranky.  "WHAT??!?"  I thought.  If anybody has a right to be cranky, THIS guy does!  My inner cynic immediately began pontificating about how people just love to hear from noble sick people who are cheerful despite it all and do their best to remain upbeat.  We don't want to hear about the nasty, gross, depressing, chilling, CRANKY times.  Heck, we don't want to live them, either!  But we all do, at some time or another.  We all do.

"Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle."  (Plato)

Lately on Facebook there have been a lot of "repost this status" notices about people with "invisible disease" or difficulties.  I don't repost them.  It's not that I disagree with the notices, necessarily, it's not that I disagree with the sentiment, it's just that I'm here.  I am visible.  People are visible.  And all of us, ALL of us, need a listening ear, a laugh, some support at one time or another.  Whether it's because of cancer or IBD or because we're just having a really bad day or we have a differently-abled child at home or because we're so depressed that we're barely able to pick up all the pieces (let alone put the puzzle together!), all of us need to be handled gently, to be respected, to share a laugh, to have someone listen to the nasty, gross, unpleasant parts.  We need someone to laugh at the potty-chair-in-the-van stories with us and we need someone to cry with us when it hurts.  And, honestly, you never know when it might be the last time you can offer that to someone.

Of course people need to be told to get it together sometimes.  Of course people wallow and need to take responsibility.  Of course people try hard and fail.  Of course sometimes it's all just too much and we can't hear any more.  And of course none of us can help everybody.  But we can all be a little quicker to listen, to at least sympathize if we can't empathize, to give the benefit of the doubt.  We can realize that maybe that criticism to Phil really was constructive; maybe Phil needed to hear it and the person saying it knew and loved him well.  We can realize that maybe we don't know the whole story behind everyone's actions; we can be quicker to encourage and laugh with rather than criticize and mock.

We can give thanks for our blessings and sit with those who don't feel like they have any, even if we don't say one word.

Because all of us need healing of one sort or another.


--For John and Phil, who don't need healing any longer as they rest in their Saviour's arms.

Monday, July 16, 2012

This and That

First, an update.  Many of you will remember my spotty, scarred old toaster from my last post (Ch-ch-ch-changes).  After the new toaster came to live with us, the old toaster took up residence on our dining room windowsill.  There it achieved the status normally accorded a fine piece of artwork; an impressionist-style sculpture, if you will.  Jasper asked me when we were getting rid of it and I shrugged.  What was the rush?

The truth is, I was having trouble letting go.  Yes, it was a ratty old thing, but it wasn't hurting anybody or taking up (too much) space.  It still worked when treated the right way.  It kind of reminded me of myself, actually.  Scarred up and somewhat spotty, but still capable of working, occasionally, when things are going well...

This symbolism was utterly lost on Jasper, who got tired of waiting for me to act and deposited the sad old thing here:

so long, toaster of mine

That point you see in the lower white portion of the bag on the right is the toaster.  Sigh.  Rest in Peace, beloved toaster.

Second, life has been crazy here -- hence no recent posts.  I'd feel really guilty about that, but I know my reading audience is predominately my mom (Hi, mom!) and a few friends, and I figure ya'll can deal with it.

Seriously, though, between the end of school and lousy weather and massive computer problems and several minor crises, I have not been getting very much done.  This, plus a slump into PTSD-inspired lack of motivation, has left me feeling more than a bit slow of late.  You know, like life is speeding by and I'm only catching glimpses of it as it passes, much too late to do anything about it.  Sort of like this:


me on a bad day last week
Other days it seemed I was in the center of the craziness, perhaps acting as the LSD-inspired director of my own comedic failure.  On these days I found myself thinking of the odd-pipe-instrument-playing Bunnies & Dolls Man we saw in Barcelona:

me on a manic day last week
Having the kids home from school added a whole new dimension to my normal craziness.  And, in tried-and-true motherhood fashion, there were several days where I blamed my insanity on them.

do we get a discount if the parents and/or children are already nuts?
Too make matters worse, my new &%$#@! excellent exercise routine, far from helping me feel better, was only serving to exhaust me quicker and earlier as each day went by.  The lowlights of this were the day I pitched a minor hissy-fit to the amusement of several neighbours as I dragged Bubba away from some other dog's poop which he was trying to eat -- do I not have enough poop in my life? -- and the day I was attempting to train him to run next to me while I bicycled.  That ended with me flying tush over head over handlebars.

the best-looking of the resultant bruises
But then the weekend came and I had a good workout.  A really good workout.  Small and puny compared to others of you, I'm sure, but for me it was stupendous.  I hit a new level, broke through a barrier with my aerobic training, made it all the way through my current weights routine without dying, and proceeded to have a very productive day.  Best of all, the next day's workout was just as good!  And I wasn't exhausted!  The fact that I didn't need a nap or want to go to bed at 7 p.m. for two days straight is, for me, phenomenal.  A not-so-minor miracle.

Is it the exercise beginning to pay off?  The prayers I've been uttering much more regularly again?  A lifting of the depression?  Grace being extended?

Probably all of that, and more.

And I needed all of it as Bubba blessed my day this morning by puking all over the living room rug just as we needed to get out the door for an appointment.

still pretty cute for being such a pain in the hiney
Oh well; here's to more of "this" and less of "that".

Some changes are coming to Feisty Broad; a re-vamp of the site will hopefully make it more user-friendly.  Actually, to heck with user-friendly.  I'm hoping it will make it more Broad-friendly!

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Ch-ch-ch-changes

For some reason my mother and my husband's cousin think we need a new toaster.  I don't see it, personally.  Sure, there are a few superficial dings on the poor thing, but it still works!  Mostly.  You just have to jiggle the browning knob in the right direction and keep an eye on your bread in process -- don't flip for longer than 20 seconds -- and it's all fine.  Even Little Toot has the process mastered.  So why should we get a new one?

Our much-maligned toaster
This one has character, and history.  Not an incredibly long history, but history nonetheless.  It was purchased in haste about six days after arriving in the Netherlands, as Jasper ran through the store grabbing the absolute essentials.  This was two days after I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery (my fifth) and a day after finding out our belongings were being held hostage in Rotterdam due to a paperwork problem.  The many white spaces are from me scrubbing the blasted thing to rid it of the sticky feeling the plastic casing seems to attract; the deep gash is from my mother moving a hot pat too close to it during one of my hospital stays, and the flame-shaped mark is from one of the university students who stayed here while we were in Barcelona; she turned the gas up high in the burner next to the toaster.

Like I said, it has character.

But mostly I'm used to it.  I know its tricks, know how to treat it, know what to do with it.  It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can deal with it.  Who knows what a new, pretty, proper toaster might do with our bread?

Unfortunately, fate has dealt us a cruel blow.  K, the above-mentioned cousin, and her husband and beautiful son are moving from Belgium -- where they have lived a mere two hours away from us for the past three years -- back to Canada.  We're sad about them leaving, sure, but the real issue is that K has bequeathed her new, pretty, proper toaster on us.

What am I supposed to do with this?
It's not sticky, won't melt, and actually toasts bread.  What the heck am I supposed to do with it???

Change is hard, even when it is good, or even needed.  Some of us are better at rolling with the punches, taking what comes our way.  Others of us need time to adjust.  And sometimes, whether we want the change or not, whether we're easy-going or uptight, change is just downright hard.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been asked several times how I'm feeling, how the latest surgery turned out, what I'm able to eat now, what the next step is.  I made no secret going into this surgery that I was hoping and praying it would be my last, that I had had enough, that I was ready, willing, and prepared to do whatever need be afterward to be healthy and -- hopefully -- avoid further problems.  Now, on the other side, I have to live up to those words, to that desire, and it means some changes which I'm finding difficult.

The hardest outward change is the exercise.  I've always tried to exercise and be healthy.  At various times in my life I've run, walked, done aerobics, biked.  Most recently I've done Pilates and yoga, a lot of walking and biking, and basically trying to be more active.  Now, however, my internist has informed me that the exhaustion I have been increasingly fighting for the past few years is not "simply" due to illness and stress, although those are obviously major factors in the equation.  She thinks my body has aged too rapidly due to all the surgeries and medications over the past eight years.  In short, my body thinks it is 50 or so, while I, in actuality, just turned 40.  Of primary concern is my bone density, despite the amount of calcium I ingest.  The treatment?  Intensive weigh-training three times a week, in addition to my other exercise, a careful diet, maintenance meds, and so forth.

Yeah.  Um, weight-training.  This is so not how I want to spend a significant chunk of time three days a week.

The harder change, however, is the internal change.  Because, as bizarre as it may sound, I have gotten used to Sickness Mode and even Crisis Mode.  I know what to do, how to make myself rest, how to not plan too far ahead (and not from a healthier "be here now" perspective, either!).  I know how not to get too excited, how to be careful, how to monitor every tiny change in my appetite, sleep, output (that means poop, people), mood, hormones, emotions.  I know the ups and downs of PTSD intimately.  And as much as I want out of these modes, as much as I want my life back -- or, dare I hope for it? -- even a better life, this way of thinking about things, this way of life, has been "normal" for so long that I am not even sure I know how to change it, or if I can -- or if I even totally want to.

Of course I want to.  It's just that I've gotten used to the stickiness, gashes, and melted spots.   I'm used to it.  I know its tricks, know how to treat it, know what to do with it.  It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can deal with it.  Who knows what a different life might bring?

Wait, I got a bit confused there.  Was I talking about my health or my toaster?

Either way, change is happening.  And change is, in this case, not only wanted but needed.

So here's to change: may it bring health, may it reside in strength, may it not hurt too, too much, and may it not forget the lessons I have learned and benefits I have gained.  To change!

What internal barriers to needed change are you harboring?

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Back to Life...

...back to reality.  Ah, where would we be without bad 80's lyrics?

I'm just two days home from a surprise whirlwind trip to Barcelona -- my Mother's Day gift this year, combined with a late 40th birthday and postponed 15th anniversary, plus a little "Thank God all the surgeries are over....  We hope!"  It was glorious.

Overlooking Barcelona from Parc Guell
 Blessed, yes I am.  With two fabulous university students who cared for Boo, Little Toot, & Bubba, for friends who helped out with random dog and childcare, for a DH who decided enough was enough and we needed some time away.  Who realizes that it is important to mark the Big Things; and when important birthday and anniversary celebrations (for instance) have to be postponed due to a seemingly unending string of illness and surgeries, understands that sometimes the Big Things are stuff like waking up in the morning, breathing, laughing, walking.

Today I'm realizing that all over again.  Because the "reality" part of life is sinking in again: weeds in the garden, childhood meltdowns, an ever-growing to do list, glue that will NEVER come out of the %$@! bottle properly especially when I really need to get these stupid wonderful birthday party invitations ready for the morning.

I miss the giant fish heads.  At least I knew where I stood with them.  (Away.  I definitely stood away from them.)

Fish heads, fish heads; roly-poly fish heads...
Pitiful, isn't it?  Such trivial, every day things.  But when other, harder things are piled on top of them, even these little things grow to monster proportions and threaten to become overwhelming.  Things like someone dear to me undergoing serious medical testing.  Things like depression, a sobbing child, memory loss, a niggling pain a little too close to the last surgical scar for comfort.  Right in the middle of what needed to be a pretty busy day, I shut down.  I sat down and just... sat.  I felt overwhelmed, I was anxious, I berated myself for being lazy, and then I realized the truth of the matter.  I'm afraid.

I'm afraid I won't be able to "handle it", to keep up without being sick.  I'm afraid things that I've lost (like chunks of memory) won't come back and that some things that I've gained (like adhesions) won't go away.  I'm worried I won't be able to keep up the new physio & exercise routine the doctors have set for me.  (Seriously, people, do I look like someone who enjoys lifting weights?)  I'm afraid I just won't be able to do "it".  Whatever "it" is.

And then Bubba sat on my feet, demanding a walk.  And I remembered a little card given to me by a nun many, many years ago when I was having a different kind of fear and worry attack.  The card read, "Courage is fear which has said its prayers."  So I said a little prayer, had a little lunch, took a little walk, ate a little chocolate, and looked at my toes.  My pretty Barcelona-pedicured toes.  They make me smile.

Pretty piggies
Life might indeed be pain, Princess, but life is also support and love and smiling.  Life is having a good cry and a good friend to hand you tissues.  Life is tough, but there are ways to soften it.  And I can either sit around on my ass and feel sorry for myself and let everything crowd in, or I can get up and fight back.  I choose to fight back.  Through prayers, through exercise (grumble though I might!), through helping someone else with their lousy day, through hugging my kids.

As long as it doesn't ruin my pedicure.  Because I quite like my pretty toes.

How do you fight back in the midst of a stinky day?

Friday, May 25, 2012

Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President:

It is a gorgeous day here in the Netherlands where I live.  Absolutely clear blue sky, moderate temperature, nice breeze.  That doesn't actually happen too very often here, so I am glorying in it while I can.  I hope that you, too, have time to simply relish the beauty of a nice day sometimes.

Which brings me to my point: I have a suggestion for you which, although quite a small change, could, I think, make a big difference in various policies around the nation and certainly in perception.  My hope is that it could also prompt a huge change in practice.

My suggestion is simply this: hang out your laundry to line-dry.


Now, I know at first glance this might seem to be a trivial, even silly suggestion.  But I assure it is not meant to be at all.

Although I am sure we could find several issues to disagree on, we have quite a bit in common as well.  For one thing, we are both parents of two girls.  For another, we both own dogs.  We both have amazing spouses.  We both have a faith background which teaches us that God's good creation is to be lovingly stewarded.  Different people, of course, have different ideas on exactly how that stewardship should be carried out, but I am hoping that we can quickly agree on at least one basic principle: conserving energy (particularly by cutting down on electricity and gas usage) is a good thing.

Hanging out the laundry on a line to dry is an excellent means of doing just that, in addition to utilizing solar power, sanitizing one's clothes and linens (the sun's UV rays kill bacteria), saving money, and encouraging better sleep.  It honors tradition, makes practical use of materials at hand, and serves as an equalizer.  What could be more American?

I am sure you are aware of the several "planned communities" across the country -- several of them within a 25-mile radius of where you currently live.  Many, if not the vast majority, do not allow line-drying of laundry; it is "unsightly" which is just a slightly more polite way of saying "tacky".  I used to be a homeowner in one (Reston, VA) and used to follow all the rules about paint colors and light fixtures.  I obsessed about mulch and edge trimming and decried gutters which needed cleaning.

But then I moved and while I have continued to care for the various properties I have lived in, I am no longer a perfectionist about my landscaping.  Parts of my back yard are helpfully landscaped for me by my dog. Other parts boast incredible peonies, iris, strawberries, beans, honeysuckle, raspberries, and herbs.  And I hang out my laundry.  I am friendly with my neighbors, keep track of my children's homework, volunteer in the community, and laugh a lot.  I have discovered that there is a lot more to life -- a whole lot more -- than meeting some preset standard of beauty for my home and yard, especially when that standard is unhelpfully contributing to the destruction of other beautiful things.  While I might not be as posh as some may like, I certainly don't think my life can be described as "tacky" and surely the sight of clean laundry blowing in the breeze cannot be so incredibly horrible as to justify the amount of energy use and noxious emissions caused by electric/gas dryers.

It's just a little thing, line-drying laundry.  But it could make a difference, and a pretty big one, if it really gets people thinking about things like quality of life, stewardship, and dependency on fossil fuels.  So I encourage you to hang out the White House's laundry to dry.  To set an example of easy, do-able creation stewardship; to show people that concerns about "tacky" laundry lines are needless.  To set an example the same way your wife has done with her garden.

Perhaps hanging out the Presidential skivvies is not in the best interests of the dignity of the office of President (although there are ways to cleverly hang unmentionables on the inner lines with larger items on outer lines, hiding said unmentionables), but surely linens could be hung out quite easily?

And Mr. President, I assure you that there is no other luxury quite like that of falling into soft, breeze-freshened, sun-dried sheets at the end of a particularly stressful day -- of which I presume you have a few.

Respectfully,
Feisty

Saturday, May 19, 2012

The Things Come to Town

If you haven't ever checked out Ironic Mom, you really should go do that now.  It's one of my daily regulars, a site that helps keep me sane by assuring me that I'm not the only one living La Vida Loca.  (Try starting with two of my favourite posts: the one about stripper Barbie and the one about being sexy.)  Recently Ironic Mom's little Things (the alter egos of her twins, William/Thing 1 & Vivian/Thing 2) stopped by as part of their whirlwind world tour, and we treated them to some typical aspects of life here in the Netherlands.  Hopefully we didn't traumatize them too much, but I wouldn't bet on it...


The Things arrived the evening before my scheduled stoma reversal, so they were tucked into bed early to rest up for the big op the next day.  Next morning they accompanied me to the hospital and were ushered into the spacious 4-bed room I would be sharing with various and sundry noises and smells people. They were thrilled with the view out the window, especially catching a glimpse of Fort SintPieter, which I assured them we could visit after the ordeal was over.


We then unpacked, loading up the bedside table with post-op essentials such as lip balm, tissues, good books, and trashy magazines.  The Things happily settled into the bed, much agog with my stories of tea served in real china, staff people who tend the gift bouquets brought in, and proper duvets to sleep under.


They were less than thrilled, however, when the nurse came with the gown to change into as they realized that my warning "if the Dutch are comfortable with nudity in the situation they think you are as well" was all too true.  They quickly devised a scheme to retain their modesty:


The amount of laughter and ribald comments which greeted them soon changed their minds.  They decided "when in the Netherlands, do as the Dutch" was a good policy, combined with a bit of "see no evil":


After this happy compromise we settled down to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  When the transport came to take me down, they blew kisses and wished me well, looking forward to some uninterrupted channel surfing.  When I was brought back up not too much later in a considerably foul mood they were irritated along with me that the op had been bumped.  We threw our stuff into our bag, went home, and drowned our sorrows in chocolate.


Next day we headed over to the dog park at Sint Pieter's.  The Things were a bit worried by the chill wind and the signs of rain in the sky and asked to stay in the car.  We had to be very strict and Dutch with them, saying, "Jullie zijn niet van zuiker gemaakt!"  (You are not made of sugar!)


At first they hitched a ride along with Boo.


But after a bit, seeing how much fun everyone was having running around, they chose to ride along with Bubba.


They had a grand old time, and got to see Fort SintPieter (relatively modern at 1701) up close and personal along with Boo, Bubba, and F.


Our next big outing was to Efteling, the Dutch amusement park which inspired Disney Land.  The Things happily trucked along with Boo and Little Toot, oohing and ahhing at all the rides.


We hoped a fast ride on the wooden roller coaster Joris en de Draak ("Joris and the Dragon") would fluff out their hair but, alas and alack, it didn't.  It was a lot of fun anyway!


They greatly enjoyed wandering the beautifully landscaped grounds; what could be more Dutch than tulips and windmills?


All the walking and screaming on rides gave the Things quite an appetite, so we stopped off for a snack of fritjes (french fries) before leaving.


Thing 2 preferred the curry ketchup, but Thing 1 was partial to the mayonaise (pronounced mah-o-naze-uh).

A few days later was Queen's Day, a nationwide party in honor of Queen Beatrix.  The Things jumped right into the spirit, cross-dressing up (always guaranteeing a laugh in the Netherlands) in orange for the big party in downtown Maastricht.





Like all good Dutch citizens, we bicycled downtown.






We joined right into the throngs of people laughing, dancing, selling things, performing, chatting.  The Things' favourite was the drum band.


We were also able to share the spectacular view of the Maas, with stunning new pedestrian bridge and the older drawbridge in the background:


The Helpoort ("Hell Gate", 13th century), the oldest city gate in the Netherlands, was a big hit as well:



All this Dutch-ness was fun, but a bit overwhelming.  The Things began to feel homesick, so that evening we gave them our latest copy of Our Canada to read and played some Tragically Hip for them to listen to:


The next adventure was my operation, which miraculously took place as scheduled this time around.  The Things were very comforting in their post-op sympathy, joining me with bandages, tea, and warm compresses:


On their last full day with us the weather was gorgeous so we decided to go on a nice country wandeling (walk).  We went to the top of one of the local plateaus (this is the southern Netherlands!) to check out the wildflowers in bloom.






The Things recognized Queen Anne's Lace from back in Canada right away and had a little frolic in the Forget-Me-Nots as well:


Check out that amazing blue!  (Oh, and the flowers are also pretty...)  Next was hunting up native wild orchids which grow here in Limburg.  The Things were thrilled to find two varieties, a pale lilac orchid:


and a brighter fushia-purple one:


We admired the views from top of the plateau together, with the city of Maastricht in the distance:


Then it was time to head home, for our last meal together.  We made it a celebration and served up a traditional Dutch springtime supper: white asparagus and boiled potatoes with a creamy butter sauce, ham, boiled eggs, and applesauce.  The Things loved the "Dutch White Supper" as Boo & Little Toot call it.


All in all, it was a fun visit and a very pleasant distraction for me through the process of this last surgery.

The Things are now off on their next adventure, but you can continue to follow them along via the Ironic Mom website.  Het was een leuk tijd, Thing 1 en Thing 2; hartelijk bedankt en tot ziens!

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Little Things

Yesterday was my two-week post-op appointment.  I drove because I'm not capable of biking too far yet.  Unfortunately, the parking garage was shut down due to to construction and I landed in the midst of a huge snarl of cars, delivery vehicles, bikes, workers, and out-lying overflow parking.  The frustration began to rise; I was going to be late.  I hate being late.  "Calm down," I told myself.  "The staff knows this is going on, they won't hold it against you."

I wove my way through the overflow parking, dodged past the smokers gathered in the no smoking area immediately outside the hospital doors, and trucked it through the hallways as quickly as I could.  The receptionist at the poli chirurgie (surgery desk) greeted me with a large smile and a commiseration about the parking situation.  My breathing began to normalize and I gave myself a mini-lecture along the lines of "you really need to calm down about little things like parking delays and be happy that you're doing well and this appointment will lift restrictions and you can move on with life".  The receptionist looked up, frowning, and informed me that someone had called and cancelled my appointment.

Me at Christmastime after my sixth surgery, trying to smile for the girls
and be happy so they wouldn't worry about how poorly I was doing.
Obviously, I didn't quite pull it off.

That was all it took; the shaking started.  I countered that I certainly hadn't called and cancelled the appointment, the receptionist insisted that I must have, I asserted that NO, I certainly had NOT and YES I needed to be seen TODAY and not in another two weeks at my four-week post-op appointment (which mysteriously was still on the books).  We went back and forth for a few minutes, both insistent, and then she sighed and told me to have a seat and she'd ask a doctor what he/she thought should be done.

Collapsing in the nearest chair, I leaned forward so the tears which had begun to stream down my face would be less noticeable.   Too late.  After I wiped my eyes with a tissue, commanding myself to breathe slowly, I looked up to find several people gawping at me.  One woman had an expression of muted horror on her face; only one man, an elderly gentleman, gave me a small smile of sympathy.

Welcome to the world of PTSD.  It was months after my first surgery (the one which saved my life and then almost killed me again) before I could enter the hospital back in Kingston without suffering a full-blown panic attack; years before I could enter without having to do deep-breathing exercises.  Such a little thing, a clerical mistake with an appointment, but because it is linked to such big, complicated things -- illness, fear, pain, death -- it opens the door to a terror which is, much of the time, hidden deep within me.

In the afternoon -- having been seen by a sympathetic surgeon who proclaimed me doing well and lifted the post-op restrictions -- I took Bubba to the dog park.  The sky was blue with great, blustery clouds tossing across and there was a brisk wind up on the hill; it was glorious to walk around, pet the dogs, gaze at the flowers and the city in the background.  Bubba bounded off through the long grasses; half the time all I could see was his tail bouncing along.  The wind blew harder, whistling in my ears, and a black streak rushed past me, then turned and came back for a pat and a snoepje (dog treat).

Bubba

We rounded the far side of the hill and came out on the top of the plateau.  A pack of dogs was happily rolling around and Bubba raced off to join them.  The pack took off: running, jumping, rolling, wrestling, running again; it was a great mess of quivering canine happiness at being out in the sun, playing.  I broke out into loud laughter at the delight of it all.

Such a little thing, a bunch of dogs playing, but because it is linked to nothing complicated or hard -- because it is such a little, simple, wonderful thing -- it took my breath away with the sheer joy of it.

The other dog owners nearby turned to look at me, every single one of them smiling, and then we all stood and watched our dogs and laughed, long and hard, until the tears came to our eyes.

What little thing brings you joy no matter what else is going on?

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Peculiar Intimacy

A few days ago I stood naked in a shower with a man I had met only 10 minutes before showing me how to properly use the sprayer to massage my abdominal region.  With his face inches from my belly button, he guided my hand in the appropriate circular motion and commented, "Feels very nice, doesn't it?"  Then he winked and gave me a big grin.  I could do nothing but agree; it did, indeed, feel very nice.

My husband was relieved when he heard about the encounter because it meant he wouldn't have to do it himself.


The man helping me, you see, was a nurse and the reason I needed help with the shower sprayer was to learn how to properly wash out my new surgical site, which was left open to heal rather than being stitched completely closed.  Rather like a drawstring bag pulled almost, but not quite, shut.  While the shower itself felt great, btw, weird doesn't begin to describe the physical sensation of hot water being sprayed into an open surgical wound onto a patch of one's small intestine.  It's like the sharpest pinprick and the softest touch you've ever experienced, happening simultaneously.

This being my ninth surgery in eight years it wasn't my first surgical wound or my first "this-should-be-really-uncomfortable-but-it's-not" moment.  A few weeks before, a very kind nurse knelt by my bed, leaned over my belly and gently blew excess powder away from my stoma -- the bit of small intestine cut open and sticking out through my abdominal wall to allow poop to be gathered in a bag rather than exiting in the typical mode.  Her mouth was mere centimeters from a poop volcano known to erupt violently at random moments, but her eyes showed only concern.  Her breath was cool, and soft.  I let out a sigh of relief and felt pain and fear recede.  It felt wonderful.  I wiggled my toes and stretched a little, delighting in that brief moment of release and freedom from ulcerated skin, adhesives, and plastic ostomy bags.

The Dutch have a great word for this pleasant sensual feeling: lekker.  Lekker can be translated as "yummy" and it is used to describe a variety of sensations.  It is not sexual in nature, although sex can be described as lekker.  So can a shower (lekker douchen) or a cup of coffee (lekker koffie) or the weather (lekker weer).  It's the best word I can think of to describe that first hot shower on a battered body two days after surgery, that comforting touch at a site of pain that lets one know it will all be okay in a bit.

Peculiar is the other word that comes to mind, because normally I don't allow strangers to see me naked or get close to orifices that may leak poop, let alone touch me in an exceedingly intimate manner.  I used to be really uptight about things like that; used to insist on curtains being closed in exam rooms and gowns being provided for medical tests.  I used to blush and bite my lip until it bled when medical students gathered around my bed, commanded me to pull my knees up to my chin, and poked around in my nether regions.  Not any more.  It's all too matter-of-course these days.  Now I just follow directions, close my eyes, think of England (!!!), and get on with business.

Except when one of those unexpected lekker moments happen; those I try to capture, to remember when I need something positive to think about.

Before I experienced major surgery I had spoken with people who described what it was like to be stretched out on the table, naked and cold and afraid.  One man told me that he remembered that Jesus had been like that on the cross, and it reminded him that he was not alone; it gave him some comfort.

I desperately tried to feel that myself the first time I was placed on that cold metal, but even though I pictured the crucifixion vividly in my mind, willing myself to believe that I was not alone in that awful place and position, all I felt was cold and terrified.  Then the anesthesiologist announced it was time to place the epidural.  Powerful hands gripped me, pulled me up, and turned me to the right while a calm voice explained how I needed to curve my back and place my head while the doctors worked.  I began to panic, a scream started to rise out of my stomach, and then strong arms enveloped me and held me close to a warm, clean-smelling, solid body.  The nurse held me like that for the entire procedure, softly telling me to breathe, breathe, in-out, in-out.  The panic left and I felt like a baby in someone's arms.

It was lekker.

Have you ever had an unexpected moment of lekker-ness in a peculiar place?