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?