WTH

If I had known that being sick was so revolting, I wouldn't have gotten sick in the first place.

I accept that I have to be aware. What this amounts to is a life that is surrounded by rules--rules that I am not good at following. Count sodium, count carbs, count fat grams; low sugar, low cholesterol, no caffeine, no this, no that--till every moment is consumed with the buying of food, the preparation of food, the examination of food labels, eating what has become tasteless even with countless herbs.

Then there is the life-sustaining medication I must take, not inexpensive generics. Oh, no! The last one caused awful side effects, so my good cardio man changed it--to a drug that is THREE HUNDRED FORTY-ONE DOLLARS A MONTH. What the hell.

There's the leg that is still weak, the hair that is recuperating from anesthesia, the lifting restrictions and the ceaseless paperwork and bills. Add to this the heart that is still not functioning normally., which makes me tired long before I want to sleep.

I found out that I had been losing weight so easily since January because A. the diabetes was out of control, and B. because my heart was, too. So, I am back on track and so are the pounds. Excuse me for living.

I've been really ill only a handful of times. I sympathize with you who have cancer or back surgeries or whatever. Here I am grousing about inconvenience.

What is hard for some people to understand is that I don't look sick, I don't act sick, I am in denial of being sick. Just because one doesn't appear sick doesn't mean one is not. I know this is life-threatening.  As I get older I see my friends who are also threatened. Most of them don't look sick either.

I am learning tolerance, but not patience. I am tired of being told "it's all good" and "just sign your life away here" and "more blood work, please". I am tired of being asked my birth date and social security number. I am tired of being told "NO". I am sick of being sick.

There are days when I pass it off and other days when I cry in frustration. Some days I feel really good, like I could lick the world. Other days I'm so sleepy I could spend all day lounging. The "highs" are very high, the "lows" significant. There are days that I almost wish I had died and other days that I am so grateful to be alive.

Today I am mad. I am mad at the doctor and mad at the pharmacy and mad at the state and mad at the caseworker who is doing his job. I'm mad at the mailman for bringing me more bills. I'm mad because I know I am not ready to do all those "normal" things that the doctor says I could do.

Instead of feeling the gratitude of living, today I am angry at everybody and everything. What the hell.

Tomorrow will be better. I promise.

Cherish

The cardiologist says it is time for me to resume normalcy in my day-to-day living. I've been trying to do that over the past few weeks. I appreciate being alive.  I drive again. I dance a little. He approved gin and tonic (but not caffeine). I'm up to 8 pounds that I can lift. Goody. I am back to work....slowly.

Normalcy also includes, for me anyway, a routine. I need to make a habit of reading again, and walking and the gym, working regularly on this blog and working--period. I cherish every day.

Tonight I took another step, the first regularly scheduled trip to the library in a long while. My eyesight has improved considerably in the last month and large print books are again doable. My goal is two per week. We'll see what next Thursday (or the next) brings.

One of the perks of the library is seeing my old friend Steve. He wasn't at the main branch when I used to go often, so seeing him was delightful. We bonded over books--he and an eclectic taste, me and whatever came my way. We spent happy minutes ruminating over religion, UFOs, buried treasure, his surgery and mine. It was good to talk to someone who expects nothing in return.

Most of my old friends are like that. We can talk about anything, agree or not on everything. If a gift is given, none is expected in return. A hug is just a hug, coffee is just refreshment. When we are lonely or troubled, someone is there. The touch of a friend is the healing we all need. I cherish them. There is no other word that fits.

I regret the loss of friendships because I cared too little, or maybe too much.  Maybe if I had grown up slowly, instead of stagnating, I wouldn't have been so surprised when I began to feel things again after Mom passed. Old friends became my lifeline again--instead of having always been.  I found myself pushing headfirst into the rush of renewal instead of taking things one day at a time. Ah, well,  live and learn.

If you want to be in my life now, I am grateful. I've become educated in the fine art of friendship. I'm comfortable with myself--at least, most of the time--and I've come to set irritations aside and accept the whole of the person. I am calmer. 

(Poor Hubby. If I'm crabby or mad, he gets most of the wrath. Good thing he loves me anyway.)

Make new friends but keep the old...one is silver, the other gold. Cherish them all.

Weight Control

Not my weight, which zooms in and out of the red zone at the mere presence of chocolate anything, but of something more significant--my purse.

OK, men, unless you carry a man-bag you won't appreciate this. Gals, I know you will.

For years my main bag has been more of a tote. Its cavernous insides held my make-up, extra earrings, pens, tissues, hairbrush, spare change, my latest paperback, a notepad, a snack, a bottled drink, my wallet and checkbook. At any given time it may have baby or dog toys, a loaf of bread and a paint brush or two, a pair of needle nose pliers, various medications and an eyeglass repair kit. I'm sure I have left out things of importance.

You notice I did not say car keys or cell phone. That's because once they land in that black hole I will never see them again. No, it is much easier to hunt for them each day, trying to remember if the phone is on the charger or if I left the keys attached to the front door. Or in my jacket pocket. Or in my jeans. (A couple of times, not kidding here, I had tucked my phone inside my bra and forgot I had done that. It vibrated while I was looking for it. Hubby, one eyebrow raised, asked, "do you know your boobs are ringing?" Another time I was working and a gentleman--maybe not--asked if he could answer that for me.)

Anyway, getting off the track here. The luggage weighed a ton, or close to it. Nobody wanted to lift it. They'd rather die than get a stick of gum from it. Once my shoulder began to ache, I knew that the time for a mini-purse had come. 

The new one is little more than six inches each way, with two pockets, each of which might spread to two inches wide. There is a place for money and cards, but no wallet. The cell has its own home. Since my lifting has been restricted for the time to four pounds, the little job made sense.

So far, the only things that will fit in this baby are my make-up and meds, checkbook and pen, spare earrings, tissues, hairbrush, extra change, a paperback and notepad, a snack and an eyeglass repair kit. Oh, and occasionally a pair of needle nose pliers.

Chaos and Caring 

The Chaos Theory says, in essence, that a butterfly fluttering its wings in China can create a hurricane in the Gulf. It seems a stretch to me, but I'm no scientist.

I have, however, revisited my beliefs in recent weeks. I've learned that an incident, no matter how insignificant or natural at the time, can be traced to any number of events that follow. Or vice versa. Whatever.

I went to a dance when I was sixteen with an acquaintance. We weren't close. We went together because no one else would go. While there I met up with a cousin who had moved away some years before and (I didn't know) had only recently returned.  A week or two later, this cousin told me he'd set me up with a blind date if I found one for him. He did, I did, and I met my husband-to-be that night. A couple of weeks later I set him up with another friend and they married and had kids. A cousin of Hubby's was matched with my friend, and they married and had kids. And their kids had kids, and on and on. All because of one little butterfly.

I'm learning to take nothing for granted anymore.

Mom passed away three years ago today. She was ill with assorted ailments for a long time; her death was not unexpected (unlike my Dad's, some years ago, who left this world in a minute). Her death (like my too-close experience) changed me. That one event made me seek out old friends, alter my way of dress and start writing again.  I went back to church. It made me more aware of people around me. 

When I look back, I see a different person, cold and detached from those I had once cared about. I see now that I didn't care about much of anything--not even me. (Ah, those days of ponytails and polyester...was that just a nightmare?) I approached acquaintances on Facebook....a small and singularly unimpressive move...and they responded. I called others, emailed more. Baby steps.

Like the world affected by the butterfly, my world responded. With that inch, my confidence grew a mile. (Pardon the mixed metaphors; I know you understand even if I am not grammatically perfect!)

My point today is that we should take time to notice everything. Take time to pursue friendships. Give people a chance, a second chance, a third.  One little incident can change everything, for chaos or for caring.

If you never try, how will you know?

The Hard Way

It seems I am destined to learn everything the hard way.

My health is one example, my work another, my book still another.

I tend to begin with great enthusiasm, only to peter out when the flow gets interrupted, or even stalled. When it ceases to be fun and turns into work--I quit.

I've been like this all my life. I don't want to do anything that becomes a chore or obligation. I want to do because I want to do.

The end result is failure in so many ways. I am not powerless, yet I feel that I am. I haven't the energy--although that is improving--nor the desire to complete the stuff I have to do.

I don't want to.

The book is the best example. It is written. It needs some editing and to be put on PDF files. The publishing date was moved out of necessity, and, soon as I realized that, the joy of having written a virtual best seller (kidding, folks, only kidding) was diminished to the point of not caring.

The drawers and closets that I planned to do are still waiting. The chore was simply overwhelming.

How does one overcome this issue? I do get tired fast, but that is not the underlying cause.

The bottom line is still I don't want to. I have to, but I don't want to, it's that simple.

The time has come to rid myself of excess baggage, to clean up my act, to get the book finished and on its way to Barnes and Noble.

I suppose it will happen, but, as always, it will have to be the hard way.

Catching Up

I didn't know I was  sick until I got well. Not fully well, but healing.

I look around at all the things I have meant to do the last year or so, most of them left undone and uncared about. Suddenly I feel an urge to catch up.

 I remember how the lady who sold home decor took pictures of my living room at Christmas. The last two years I haven't even put up a tree, not even a Nativity set, only a wreath on the front door.

I remember changing the big, tall glass vases of flowers by the mantel--autumn leaves, summer poppies--and I see that I am right on schedule with those. Last year's lilacs still wink at me.

I haven't yet pulled out my summer clothes, nor put away my pink fur coat for the season.

I finally threw out old magazines from which I had planned to glean recipes that I probably wouldn't use. Cooking, formerly a pleasure, has gone by the wayside along with other things I used to enjoy.

As I heal from the heart surgery I am spending more time at home. My energy is returning, though I am still limited in what I can do.

My brain must be getting more blood; it is beginning to function once again. I'm thinking that what had masked as depression was illness. I'm thinking that I was sick much longer than I thought.

I'm thinking that the time I spent changing my appearance was an excuse for not changing my environment. I'm thinking that the changes within me were the ones that mattered most.

So I've made the inevitable list of what to do next. The list is short so as not to be overwhelming. It is specific. Mini steps. One day at a time. Easy does it. Keep it under five pounds. No bending from the waist. No twisting. No stretching over my head. No caffeine. No gin. Low fat, low sugar, low sodium. Take naps.

Today I begin, not quite at the beginning but more like halfway. I don't knock the strides I've made in the last couple of years, but it's time to move ahead. 

I will start with cleaning and storing the pink fur coat.

Driving Forces

If you've never had a driving licence, you cannot imagine the terribleness of losing your privileges. If you're used to waiting for the bus or a cab or a friend or a family member to take you to buy the one thing you're missing as you prepare dinner...well, this will mean nothing to you.

I've been independent since I was chronologically seventeen (body is sixty-one, brain is still seventeen). If I need something, I go get it. Public transportation was a necessity for awhile, and my feet have ofttimes served me well--but dammit, I need to drive.

I itch for the heat of the steering wheel as it bakes in the hot sun. I want my four-sixty air conditioning (four windows down at sixty miles an hour). I want my radio turned to the oldies and really loud so I can sing along (my sons say I should sing solo--so low they can't hear me). Although the Chevy is aging, it gets me where I want to go.

For awhile I began to detest driving. It wasn't always that way.  I remember taking long rides, spouse at the wheel, just to look for deer or watch the stars glow in the dark countryside. The glow wore off as I drove farther and farther for my work, often over two hundred miles in a day. Yes, for awhile the glow was gone. Now that I'm back to ten miles a day or so, the excitement is back.

I need it.

I can at last get into the driver's side of the Chevy. Short hops--two or three miles, no long cross-county treks. It is freedom in a simple form. It is another step that shows me that I am recovering.

The first place I drove was to the bay. I hadn't been near the cool blue water for more than three weeks. It beckoned, and I answered. Ah, the bay is so beautiful when the sky is blue and the water is calm. Fishermen along the pier had stringers full of yellow perch. It is a good day for each of us.

I didn't realize how sick I had been until I became well. I didn't know how much I love living until I nearly didn't. 

Driving is one of the perks.

Bills, Bills, Bills

An envelope arrived yesterday--a BIG envelope. Inside was not the guidance I sought for recovery but fifteen pages of doctor bills. Fifteen pages from a doctor who said "Hi, how are you today?" and waved good-bye.

My surgeon didn't do that. He stayed, explained, comforted. I didn't yet get the bill for his skill and compassion.

I don't resent the amount of money these physicians get for their services. My life is worth far more than whatever they could charge.

I look at my husband, my sons and their families, my friends on and off Facebook. I am the only one who knows how close I came to never being with them again. Because of my pride (the no-insurance thing), my fear and my denial I nearly lost it all. There is no way I can make it up to them except to take care of myself.

Sometimes being human is a challenge. I want, I want, I want. I want things. It has taken this trauma to rid me --at least for now--of the material wants. Instead I crave friends, closeness, touch--and those are the very things that will help me to heal, not the jewelry and the clothes (if, however, you are so inclined, I really do like fancy costume jewelry, Bombay gin and Skinny Cow chocolates. Oh, and flowers).

I am antsy. I went back to church after ten days. I can do stairsteps and Walmart, have gone to see friends and gone to dinner. I'm back to playing computer games. I joined the reunion committee.  I've done some laundry and cleaned out a few things. I'm mending. My next step is to drive, and come Friday I will do just that (no, Doc, no long trips, just short hops). 

One day at a time, one day at a time.

So the bills keep coming. Yes, for another several months at least. In spite of the fact that there are so many, so much and so long...well, I know that even though the debt scares me, I have those bills because I am alive. 

It's  a very small price to pay.