Baby Steps

A two-day hospital stay is what I was expecting.

A month later, I am still recuperating.

Simple procedure, he said.

What no one, especially me, predicted was that the anesthesia would leave me on a respirator for three days and on oxygen for three more. No one, especially me, expected that I would be virtually paralyzed for the better part of four days, or remain in ICU for five.

Much to my frustration, I couldn't walk without a walker. I felt old. Hubby wasn't happy...he said he was afraid the walker would become a crutch, no pun intended.

Finally I was moved to the rehab center. The physical therapists were wonderful--helping me to get dressed  and to bathe each morning and night, pushing me to do a little more each day, getting me some much-needed fresh air when the sun shone.

I was beginning to think I would never walk again. I'd cry when I was alone. I thought I would never again be able to drive myself to my favorite park or walk along the pier.....

My goal became to be able to dance on our anniversary, just a week away.

Four hours a day of therapy often left me more hurting than determined, but at last I was able to take one slow, small step unaided. Everybody cheered! And on Thursday, the day before my release and the day before our 44th anniversary,I asked Jordan, my wonderfully committed therapist, to dance with me. Tears and cheers from the whole department!

It is a month since my two-day (HAH!) surgery. I can walk around the house unaided. I still cannot drive, bend, lift or twist. I need help shopping, and I still drive the motor cart at Walmart. I need to sit often.

I am ready to get my life back. I'm tired of pain pills and sick of clinging to someone when I go anywhere!

The first place that I will go when I can drive is not to Walmart, but to the bay where I can spend time absorbing the peace of the clear blue water.....

They tell me that time will come, but when? I'm impatient. It seems all my dreams are put on hold, and I'm tired of waiting.

My pastor came to visit a couple of times, and his words rang true. The only way to get well is by baby steps.

Anniversaries

There are anniversaries, and there are anniversaries.  We celebrate them in our own way, with parties for birthdays and dinners for weddings, flowers for the day we met. Some are more important than others.

Today is one year since I had open heart surgery.  A very important anniversary.

I have changed once again.

Just when I got to the point where I thought I knew myself, I don't.

When I thought I had become whole, I haven't.

Illness has a way of changing us. We look at life differently. Age (while I still have trouble accepting that I am sixty-two) isn't as important as getting older (we get older or we don't). Each day becomes a celebration. We have survived. Consequences seem, well, inconsequential.

When I began my journey to my inner self, I made a bucket list. Some things I've done, some I have not. Some I have given up, some are still at the front of my brain. The wishes and dreams that confront me daily are the ones I will likely accomplish.

I regret wasted years and wasted dreams. I would so like to turn back the clock to when I was young and do some things very differently.

I still want to go out on a sailboat ride, and float across the sky in a hot air balloon. I want to fly to Las Vegas again, and play the horses at the Downs. I want to watch a regatta, and the submarine races. I have much to say, and I want to be heard.

I want a puppy someday, when Steve is ready and I can't stand being alone anymore. (No, I do not want a cat!)

I want to be busy, not with meetings and doctor appointments, but with special people. I want lots of hugs, tons of fun and a bit of notoriety.

I want to dance on the beach, barefoot, with the waves lapping at my feet. I want to see Belize, or Tahiti, or even the Virgin Islands. I want to stay in a five-star hotel and drink champagne.

I know, it sounds selfish and materialistic, but I have been given a chance to live again--and I don't want to waste a single moment!

Most of all, I want to celebrate being alive for another year, and I give thanks to God for that opportunity.

A toast--to many more anniversaries!

Good-bye, My Friend

My Rocco is gone. 

I loved that furry critter.

He had a stroke sometime in January. My gentle boy was no longer gentle. He wouldn't be touched without growling. He was limping.

The day he bit me was totally out of character. He was no longer my gentle friend.

The old Rocco would press his foot against my husband's hand, and stay for a long time. Rocco would lay his hundred pound body on Hubby's lap, or lay his head on me when I'd tell him it was "mommy love time".

We knew it was time for him to go...but it's so hard!

It isn't the same house without him.

Good-bye, my friend. You were well-loved.

Dog Bite

My dog bit me.

My gentle dog has changed. He's old, and a bit senile. He isn't the loving animal he was a few months ago. He lunged at me so fast I couldn't escape.

I know it is time for him to go. I don't want to accept that.

That was two weeks ago. My hand still throbs. I had surgery  that left an open wound. I have to clean and pack it every day. I'm taking two antibiotics (so much for the belief that a dog's mouth is clean!). The skin is peeling on my injured hand, much like a sunburn. I can't go back to pool therapy until it heals.

The open heart surgery was a piece of cake compared to this.

I haven't had my nails done in weeks. I haven't been able to work.

I try to limit the pain pills. The Vicodin didn't do as much as the Tylenol/aspirin concoction I've resorted to, but Tylenol makes me sleepy. 

I sleep a lot. When I sleep, I don't think about losing my Rocco. I don't hurt. The land of dreams is a peaceful one.

I want to spend my days being cradled like a child cuddles her favorite teddy bear. I don't want to think right now.

The past year has been in the top five of the worst years ever. It hasn't been all bad, but it certainly has been a test of my faith, and also a test of my stamina. I know some of it is Satan's way of challenging me. I don't claim to be the good person that Job was, but I understand the story better now.

I don't mean to whine, but I had to get it out before the frustration kills me. 

There are days when I see someone much more seriously ill than I am. A  young friend, only 36, lost her husband just last week. Another has worn a heart monitor for weeks. Still another has cancer, or Parkinson's or Alzheimer's. I am really very lucky.

When I meditate and pray today, I need to do it with a new attitude.

Thanks for listening.

Crawdad Soup

I really should wait until after I've tried it to pass judgement, but the chef says he's gonna do all the cleaning of the crayfish (thank God, or we'd be all night!), and all we have to do is enjoy.

I'm looking forward to it. I've tasted crayfish at my adventurous son's insistence (and calamari at the other son's begging , for which I am immensely grateful). While not exactly lobster, they are certainly not inedible.

It's Mardi Gras--"Fat Tuesday", the day before Lent begins. It's the last day of indulgence before the sacrifices of the Lenten season. I haven't decided what I'm giving up for Lent. Perhaps it will be crawdad soup.

More likely, I will go as I have been doing the last couple of years, enjoy the entertainment and overdo on the jambalaya.

In spite of much newly-awakened spirituality, I cannot call myself a "good Christian".  I can be self-indulgent instead of self-sacrificing. I am not nearly as humble as I should be. I like the material things of my life as much as I enjoy the peace of the nave on Sunday morning. I try to control my anger, not well sometimes. I find my foot in my mouth. Stuff happens.

I can't remember ever giving up anything for Lent. I see it as a meaningless gesture, something most people whine about instead of embracing (it is not a sacrifice if we tell everyone about it just so they can say "how wonderful" we are). So we give up something we enjoy for a month or so, and think about Easter time when we can have it again. Do we ever give up anything that will truly be a sacrifice, or just something for the sake of it? No sacrifice on our part (not even giving up chocolate) is  the same as the sacrifice Jesus made.

I'm beginning to sound sacrilegious, aren't I?

I'm not trying to. I've come to see Christianity in a different light, right or wrong. I have many friends who don't believe as I do, some who do not believe at all.

It is not my job to change them. It is up to me to make my life an example, not by being a saint in human form, but to be myself with all my flaws and all my faith right up front.

So I will go to Mardi Gras, think about seeing it live someday in New Orleans. I will enjoy tasting the crawdad soup and the jambalaya and nibbling at pastries. I will celebrate every day of my life as I wish, thanking God for this extension of the life I nearly lost, making amends to anyone I have hurt and giving of myself as best I can.

If there's any left. I'll try to smuggle you some crawdad soup.

Wants and Needs

I want, I want. I'm sick of hearing myself.

I am trying to lose my selfish side. To do that, I have to make a true discernment of wants versus needs.

It sounds easy, doesn't it?

Needs are food and water, clothing and shelter, air and perhaps fire.

We need to have faith, a sense of humor, perseverance and a host of holy attributes.

In today's world, we feel we need a telephone, preferably cell, and a computer--preferably with high-speed internet. We need a car with style or torque or both--not just any clunker will do.

We need to spruce up the house with a paint job or new siding every so many years, change our furniture and our draperies to keep a fresh look.

We need to look respectable when we go out, lest we run into someone who might remember us from high school days.

I am trapped in this world of wants.

I don't need any of those things. Hubby says I have enough clothes and jewelry to last the rest of my natural life. Our furniture is old, but I like it. I got a car because the drive shaft fell out and it was easier to keep a car payment than to pay cash for the massive repairs needed for inspection. 

I'm making excuses, aren't I? Just like the ones you make when you "haven't a thing to wear" or whatever.

I see the sad faces of children who are cold or hungry, or a vet who is missing a limb. I see the folks by the Mall begging for work or food. I feel guilty because we have so much. I hear friends deal with their various ailments, and I am grateful that my dubious health issues still allow me to get around.

So, what do I need?

I need to be surrounded by family and friends who love me unconditionally. I need my church. I need my home. I need the peace of the lake in the summer and snow on the trees in winter. I need time of quiet and time of thoughtful conversation. I need to hold hands with the man I love and walk along the beach.

When all is said and done, I can see that I don't really need another thing....

except maybe a bar of chocolate now and then.

Private Time

Sometimes I need time alone. I mean, time away from home, where my thoughts can meander freely, where there is no phone to ring or dinner to be cooked.

On those days I usually head for the water. It doesn't seem to matter if it is the open expanse of Lake Erie or the quiet pond at my parents' resting place. Something about the water soothes my soul.

The other day I did just that. My mind was reeling. I couldn't concentrate on work or laundry or even on my bucket list. I stopped for a minute, took a deep breath, and stepped into my private world.

One side of the pier was dotted with shanties for the brave (and nuts) ice fishermen. I tried that once--repeat, ONCE. Still, the shanties are something photos are made of, and I wondered if the fishermen were there for meat or for private time. A little of both, I suspected. Surely it wasn't only the fish that kept a man isolated in his peaceful little tent with only a can of sterno and another of coffee for company.

The other side of the bay had thawed, and I watched while the water rolled under a thin sheet of ice, as though it was gasping for breath. I watched, fascinated, as the whitecaps ate away at the ice until a large area of blue-grey baywater appeared. Seagulls, sitting at the edge of the ice, kept moving back until at last they found refuge on the pier. So small, really, yet they survive the frigid air, find food in the bits of broken bay and fly and dive and laugh as though nothing else matters.

Eventually I found my way to the lake proper, where ice had been broken by the wind and the waves, and piled on the shore like bit-sized pieces of divinity. I marveled at that, wanting to walk along the ice dunes no matter the danger. The coward in me--or perhaps it is the common sense?--won the argument.

I closed my eyes then, and opened the car windows so I could hear the wind. I would stay this way until the turmoil in my mind subsided and until I could separate my daydreams from reality.

There is still so much that I want from life! Time moves so quickly. I wonder how I will ever accomplish anything in the this fast-track atmosphere.

The clouds are moving faster, the wind is picking up and sends a shiver through me. The sun pokes through now and then, and with it the clarity I had been seeking.

The private time I so desperately wanted had ended.