In my last post, I wrote of how change brings about learning. Well, here's a case in point: If not for this surgery, I would never have appreciated all that the abdominal muscles do.
Is there any activity they are not involved in? From the pain and discomfort I'm feeling at every move, it sure doesn't seem so.
Bending, pushing, pulling, lifting, carrying, twisting, turning. reaching, steering, walking, sitting, standing, lying down, getting up, coughing, sneezing. All involve the abdominals. Even laughing, hence, the term "belly laugh."
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Nothing Wholly Good or Wholly Bad
Nothing is completely good or bad. This isn't a new concept. Certainly Buddhism has taught this for many, many centuries. It's just that this truth has been made clear to me in so many ways lately.
First off, on the way to London, I read a book about the Black Plague. "What good could come out of something that wiped out a third of Europe?" you might wonder. Well, actually some surprisingly good things resulted:
* Because the plague created a labor shortage, serfs were in a better position to bargain with landowners and thereby improved their living conditions.
* A higher percentage of men died than did women. (Wait now, that's not the good part! I'm getting to it.) Since there were fewer male heirs, women were able to inherit property. Some women became quite wealthy in the process and were known as dowagers.
* Some smart and lucky peasants were able to buy land cheaply that had either been abandoned by families decimated by the plague or that had to be sold quickly to pay mounting debts. Such upward mobility created a fledgling middle class.
* Jews, who were in many areas of plague-ridden Europe accused of poisoning wells and thereby "creating" the plague, were persecuted and killed. (No, once again, this is not the good part!) They fled these regions for Poland, whose king welcomed them. There they established a vibrant culture.
* The modern-day descendants of those who contracted the plague but survived do not develop AIDS upon exposure to the HIV virus.
So, if something as horrific as the Black Plague can result in all those positive occurrences, certainly good can result from the way my life is turning.
In the eyes of the world, and certainly in the eyes of nay-sayers and pessimists, the good does not outweigh the bad. But this is narrow thinking. If life is about change, growth, and learning, then those forces that promote change, growth, and learning are those that are beneficial. And there's nothing like hardship to shake things up, force one to mature, and jumpstart learning.
Besides, so far, the whole dialysis thing--which actually won't start for another three or four weeks--has already brought about some good:
* Aaron and I have had some heart-to-heart talks about the possibility of my death and how hard it is on him to see me, year after year, getting worse, with occasional blips of improvement, followed by crashes.
* I have learned who are my true friends, as many have not contacted me, not responded to my emails or calls. Others have been quick to offer prayers, support, and kind words.
* My ex-mother-in-law, who for most of the time I've known her, somehow never thought I was good enough, always let me know that whatever I did was wrong, is now very kind to me. She has taken care of some of my mother's remaining possessions in Wisconsin, and she and I have had very pleasant phone conversations. This turn is beautiful to see.
* And once I finally leave Cal State, something I absolutely will do at the end of this semester, will be a positive move. I just know that in my bones. Cal State has treated me so shabbily for so many years. It will be such a relief to be free of that place. And dialysis is pushing that leave-taking to the forefront.
I'm sure other good things will come of this. Of course, I hope it goes without saying that this is most definitely not the path I would have preferred. I would much prefer to be completely healthy, in a wonderful relationship, living in a stunningly beautiful place, seeing my creative ventures come to life and make me a good living, traveling the world, having a vibrant circle of friends who are nearby and accessible, and living with a loving dog, and, of course, maintaining my joyous connection with my son.
But my life is changing. And with change comes growth and learning. I have moved into the final stage of Kuebler Ross's grieving process--acceptance. I accept what is to come. What other choice really does one have? Complaining gets you nowhere, so why go there?
First off, on the way to London, I read a book about the Black Plague. "What good could come out of something that wiped out a third of Europe?" you might wonder. Well, actually some surprisingly good things resulted:
* Because the plague created a labor shortage, serfs were in a better position to bargain with landowners and thereby improved their living conditions.
* A higher percentage of men died than did women. (Wait now, that's not the good part! I'm getting to it.) Since there were fewer male heirs, women were able to inherit property. Some women became quite wealthy in the process and were known as dowagers.
* Some smart and lucky peasants were able to buy land cheaply that had either been abandoned by families decimated by the plague or that had to be sold quickly to pay mounting debts. Such upward mobility created a fledgling middle class.
* Jews, who were in many areas of plague-ridden Europe accused of poisoning wells and thereby "creating" the plague, were persecuted and killed. (No, once again, this is not the good part!) They fled these regions for Poland, whose king welcomed them. There they established a vibrant culture.
* The modern-day descendants of those who contracted the plague but survived do not develop AIDS upon exposure to the HIV virus.
So, if something as horrific as the Black Plague can result in all those positive occurrences, certainly good can result from the way my life is turning.
In the eyes of the world, and certainly in the eyes of nay-sayers and pessimists, the good does not outweigh the bad. But this is narrow thinking. If life is about change, growth, and learning, then those forces that promote change, growth, and learning are those that are beneficial. And there's nothing like hardship to shake things up, force one to mature, and jumpstart learning.
Besides, so far, the whole dialysis thing--which actually won't start for another three or four weeks--has already brought about some good:
* Aaron and I have had some heart-to-heart talks about the possibility of my death and how hard it is on him to see me, year after year, getting worse, with occasional blips of improvement, followed by crashes.
* I have learned who are my true friends, as many have not contacted me, not responded to my emails or calls. Others have been quick to offer prayers, support, and kind words.
* My ex-mother-in-law, who for most of the time I've known her, somehow never thought I was good enough, always let me know that whatever I did was wrong, is now very kind to me. She has taken care of some of my mother's remaining possessions in Wisconsin, and she and I have had very pleasant phone conversations. This turn is beautiful to see.
* And once I finally leave Cal State, something I absolutely will do at the end of this semester, will be a positive move. I just know that in my bones. Cal State has treated me so shabbily for so many years. It will be such a relief to be free of that place. And dialysis is pushing that leave-taking to the forefront.
I'm sure other good things will come of this. Of course, I hope it goes without saying that this is most definitely not the path I would have preferred. I would much prefer to be completely healthy, in a wonderful relationship, living in a stunningly beautiful place, seeing my creative ventures come to life and make me a good living, traveling the world, having a vibrant circle of friends who are nearby and accessible, and living with a loving dog, and, of course, maintaining my joyous connection with my son.
But my life is changing. And with change comes growth and learning. I have moved into the final stage of Kuebler Ross's grieving process--acceptance. I accept what is to come. What other choice really does one have? Complaining gets you nowhere, so why go there?
Trading One Malady for Another
Last night I slept the best I've slept for as long as I can remember. What a blessing! I've had a lot of really rough nights--shortness of breath, chest pain, diaphragm pain. Well, there was none of that last night. Hallelujah!
I then made an observation: Often one malady has been traded for another.
During my early childhood, for example, I had severe asthma. As soon as I was diagnosed with diabetes at age 13, the asthma disappeared.
More recently, the chest pain I have felt almost 24/7 for many years has subsided and some days I don't feel it at all. It's replacement: discomfort, aching, and stabbing pain in my diaphragm.
And the nasal congestion that has made lying prone and breathing, especially at night, very difficult for the past two months suddenly disappeared. A nurse said he was adding antibiotics to my IV yesterday. That must have been some powerful stuff because it knocked those little buggers right out of my system. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that! But of course the trade-off for that blessing is a catheter in my abdomen.
Perhaps the lesson is that nothing is wholly good or bad. There is the hint of a dark cloud in a sunny day. And always a silver lining around a cloud.
I then made an observation: Often one malady has been traded for another.
During my early childhood, for example, I had severe asthma. As soon as I was diagnosed with diabetes at age 13, the asthma disappeared.
More recently, the chest pain I have felt almost 24/7 for many years has subsided and some days I don't feel it at all. It's replacement: discomfort, aching, and stabbing pain in my diaphragm.
And the nasal congestion that has made lying prone and breathing, especially at night, very difficult for the past two months suddenly disappeared. A nurse said he was adding antibiotics to my IV yesterday. That must have been some powerful stuff because it knocked those little buggers right out of my system. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that! But of course the trade-off for that blessing is a catheter in my abdomen.
Perhaps the lesson is that nothing is wholly good or bad. There is the hint of a dark cloud in a sunny day. And always a silver lining around a cloud.
General Anesthesia Has Greatly Improved Since I Had my Tonsils Removed
Boy, has general anesthesia made some leaps and bounds in the last 44 years! I was expecting the same sort of scary experience I'd had when my tonsils were removed when I was six years old.
I remember so clearly how I saw the doctors surrounded me in the operating room, I seemed to be seeing them through viscous water. They told me to count backwards, and I began falling in a spiral down a long, dark tunnel. Creepy!
Well, that isn't how it happens today. I was wheeled into the pre-op room, and something must have been put into my IV. I fell asleep without any of the foreplay that usually accompanies sleep--no strange, dissociate thoughts and images, no feeling of drifting. No, it was simply lights out.
I awoke two and a half hours later, wondering when we were going to get this show on the road. Then my right hand rested on my abdomen, and I felt the catheter. The operation was over!
I had no recollection of being wheeled into surgery. I never saw the operating room or the surgeon or the surgical nurses. I had no sensation of the tube being put down my throat (though currently I have a sore throat). And to really confuse me, they put me back in the same bed slot in the pre-op room, which also must be the post-op room.
When people have an alien abduction is must be something like this. You go to sleep in one spot, you have a bunch of missing time and evidence that something was done to you, and then you're dropped back into your normal life.
I'm certainly NOT complaining, as this was a vastly better experience than the tonsil one. It's just that it was totally unexpected.
I remember so clearly how I saw the doctors surrounded me in the operating room, I seemed to be seeing them through viscous water. They told me to count backwards, and I began falling in a spiral down a long, dark tunnel. Creepy!
Well, that isn't how it happens today. I was wheeled into the pre-op room, and something must have been put into my IV. I fell asleep without any of the foreplay that usually accompanies sleep--no strange, dissociate thoughts and images, no feeling of drifting. No, it was simply lights out.
I awoke two and a half hours later, wondering when we were going to get this show on the road. Then my right hand rested on my abdomen, and I felt the catheter. The operation was over!
I had no recollection of being wheeled into surgery. I never saw the operating room or the surgeon or the surgical nurses. I had no sensation of the tube being put down my throat (though currently I have a sore throat). And to really confuse me, they put me back in the same bed slot in the pre-op room, which also must be the post-op room.
When people have an alien abduction is must be something like this. You go to sleep in one spot, you have a bunch of missing time and evidence that something was done to you, and then you're dropped back into your normal life.
I'm certainly NOT complaining, as this was a vastly better experience than the tonsil one. It's just that it was totally unexpected.
No Loose-Fitting Clothes--What to Do?
The night before surgery, I looked long and hard at the clothes hanging in my closet. My surgery instructions recommended that I wear loose-fitting, comfortable clothes that would not rub against the bandaging. That was a tall order as all I have are clothes that actually fit nicely about my trim frame. Suits, dresses, blouses, pants--none of them loose.
The only thing I could come up with were black scrubs. I had once worked as a massage therapist at a day spa that required workers to wear only maroon or black scrubs. After I quit, I began using them as PJs.
When Aaron saw my outfit, he quipped, "Is that how you're going to make your escape?"
He's so quick and so funny. "I don't know if that will work," I said. "The doctors wear light blue, and the nurses generally wear ones with goofy prints. Besides, when is the last time you saw a slim nurse?"
The only thing I could come up with were black scrubs. I had once worked as a massage therapist at a day spa that required workers to wear only maroon or black scrubs. After I quit, I began using them as PJs.
When Aaron saw my outfit, he quipped, "Is that how you're going to make your escape?"
He's so quick and so funny. "I don't know if that will work," I said. "The doctors wear light blue, and the nurses generally wear ones with goofy prints. Besides, when is the last time you saw a slim nurse?"
Looking Cute is so Damn Important
The dear son took me to the hospital yesterday. A few friends had volunteered, but when I found out that I had to be there by 5:45, I figured only a next of kin would be truly willing.
I'm so glad he was there. He held my hand and told me that he was always thinking good thoughts about me, praying for me. He told he loved me and that he hoped that the surgery would go well, that dialysis would help me feel better.
Best of all, he was there when they put in the IV. Oh, how I hate IVs! That is one of the prime reasons why I didn't opt for hemodialysis.
At one point, I gathered up my IV pole and headed for the bathroom. When I returned I engaged in the silly banter that is part of the mother-son bond I share with Aaron. I smiled and told him, "You know, Son, I just looked in the mirror, and I want to tell you that your mom is pretty damn cute. Even without makeup, even stressed out and feeling lousy, even without sleep the night before surgery, I still look pretty cute....And that's important!"
I'm so glad he was there. He held my hand and told me that he was always thinking good thoughts about me, praying for me. He told he loved me and that he hoped that the surgery would go well, that dialysis would help me feel better.
Best of all, he was there when they put in the IV. Oh, how I hate IVs! That is one of the prime reasons why I didn't opt for hemodialysis.
At one point, I gathered up my IV pole and headed for the bathroom. When I returned I engaged in the silly banter that is part of the mother-son bond I share with Aaron. I smiled and told him, "You know, Son, I just looked in the mirror, and I want to tell you that your mom is pretty damn cute. Even without makeup, even stressed out and feeling lousy, even without sleep the night before surgery, I still look pretty cute....And that's important!"
My Hysterical Mom
Last week I took my mom out for lunch twice. I knew I wouldn't be up to seeing her after surgery and I figured this would make up for her time alone. Instead, she pestered me about why I wouldn't be able to see her. So I did what I have promised myself not to do so many, many times in my life: I told her crucial information about my life. As always, this was a bad idea.
I said it as simply and evasively as possible: "I'm having surgery on Friday, so I won't be able to see you for a while. I'm not sure how long." What a huge mistake! I should have lied, told her I had so much work, that I'd be working nights and weekends too. But, no, I had to tell her the truth! I've never been comfortable with lies. This would have been an excellent time to perfect that skill.
These few words set off days of hysteria. I exaggerate not. Hysteria. Like a heroin addict who needs his fix. Like a psychopath on a murder spree. Hysteria.
My mother began calling 10, 12 times a day, always whining. Always saying something crazy like, "Call me back! I need to talk to you!" Or: "I'm waiting, I'm waiting for your call!" Other even more insistent, more incomprehensible stuff. Always at a frenetic pitch. She called my land line, my cell phone. She called Aaron multiple times at work. Worst of all, she called 10 times in the middle of the night before my surgery. Calls at 1:30 a.m., 1:35 a.m., 2 a.m., on and on like that, all night long. We didn't answer any of them, knowing who was making them.
And just hours before this barrage, I had talked to her, told her in no uncertain terms that I was so incredibly sorry I had said anything to her, that this had been such a stupid mistake on my part.
I could never stand her theatrics, but in the state I was in, with all that is going on and then to have a hysterical, needy, self-absorbed mother on top of it, I said, "Mom, if you were really concerned about me, you would be calm and supportive, not hysterical. Instead of aiding my health, you are working to destroy my health. Besides, you are not concerned about me. You're concerned about yourself. If I die, you wonder who will take care of you. It's about you, Mom."
And after being so clear about how she is stressing me out, what does she do? She calls 10 times in the middle of the night to make sure that I don't sleep a wink before my 5:45 a.m. surgery.
I said it as simply and evasively as possible: "I'm having surgery on Friday, so I won't be able to see you for a while. I'm not sure how long." What a huge mistake! I should have lied, told her I had so much work, that I'd be working nights and weekends too. But, no, I had to tell her the truth! I've never been comfortable with lies. This would have been an excellent time to perfect that skill.
These few words set off days of hysteria. I exaggerate not. Hysteria. Like a heroin addict who needs his fix. Like a psychopath on a murder spree. Hysteria.
My mother began calling 10, 12 times a day, always whining. Always saying something crazy like, "Call me back! I need to talk to you!" Or: "I'm waiting, I'm waiting for your call!" Other even more insistent, more incomprehensible stuff. Always at a frenetic pitch. She called my land line, my cell phone. She called Aaron multiple times at work. Worst of all, she called 10 times in the middle of the night before my surgery. Calls at 1:30 a.m., 1:35 a.m., 2 a.m., on and on like that, all night long. We didn't answer any of them, knowing who was making them.
And just hours before this barrage, I had talked to her, told her in no uncertain terms that I was so incredibly sorry I had said anything to her, that this had been such a stupid mistake on my part.
I could never stand her theatrics, but in the state I was in, with all that is going on and then to have a hysterical, needy, self-absorbed mother on top of it, I said, "Mom, if you were really concerned about me, you would be calm and supportive, not hysterical. Instead of aiding my health, you are working to destroy my health. Besides, you are not concerned about me. You're concerned about yourself. If I die, you wonder who will take care of you. It's about you, Mom."
And after being so clear about how she is stressing me out, what does she do? She calls 10 times in the middle of the night to make sure that I don't sleep a wink before my 5:45 a.m. surgery.
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