Tag Archives: gratitude

06.12.21
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The Nelly Chronicles: Part I

NELLY, ENERGY WORK, AND DIGGING FOR PEACE.

Nelly and I are off to a stable beginning, and I think it’ll be a beautiful relationship, at least for the next 10-15 years.

Nelly is my new Triathlon knee, and while this particular new knee system wasn’t something I chose (literally or figuratively) I think she’s pretty trendy and rad, all things considered. Our lives intersected somewhere amidst the sedative brain fog in the Financial District of San Francisco on Monday (June 7, 2021) and while we got off to a rocky start with my laundry list of expectations and demands, we’re settling in nicely as week one starts closing in.

The first few days were so hard, I didn’t even have the energy or sense of humor to do my planned puppet show for the nurses, though I had Henrietta (my hedgehog) and Ulaina (my unicorn) tucked into the hospital sheets with me. If you know anything at all about me, the lack of desire to bust out a puppet show speaks enough right there, but I’m still glad I had them packed in for the journey to meet Nelly.

This was pre-surgery packing–I felt like I had my bases covered.

I guess I took the commentary about knee replacements being “the answer” and the detail that PT starts on day 1 as some kind of indication that this would be easier than the other surgeries, and with a little fairy dust and unicorn power, I’d skip right into the literal skipping part instead of the late night crying, moaning, and evil thoughts about the 3rd shift nurses.

But then there was Howard* who was so compassionate, hilarious, and took his job and sense of time VERY seriously. I was lucky enough to spend 2 1/2 days with him, and I literally mean we spent the days together, and as most good nurse-patient “relationships” go, we went straight from “nice to meet you” to the types of details that even make me blush. He’d drop to a whisper,

“Hey girl. I’m not saying we need to tell the whole hallway, but let’s me and you talk this through, okay? I mean, don’t you go calling me when you get home and figure out you should have let me help you…you know what I’m sayin’?”

Yes, we were talking about the disgusting side effects of pain meds on your “system.” You know what I mean.

And Jenny* whose task wasn’t to “fix” my emotions or pain, but made it her mission any way with energy work, patience, and gentle suggestions, even when I was being difficult and preferred to be left alone in a puddle of self-pity.

Her job was to help me walk shortly after surgery, re-learn the stairs, and complete extensive mobility exercises well enough to “graduate” and walk out of the hospital in a few days. She obviously made this her priority, but after PT in the morning and afternoon she spent an additional 30-ish minutes with me to do ” the real magic,” (as she referred to it). She’d put her hands on the pressure points around my injection site and for lack of better explanation, taught me how to relax and embrace the pain instead of fighting it; the idea was to visualize the pain as energy, concentrate on the intensity and allow it to wash through my knee, down my shins, and out the tips of my toes. I talked to her as if I’d trusted her for years, and didn’t feel the same “vulnerable-fear” I often have when trying to work through some of the emotional pain that has somehow become the largest side effect since the accident.

Jenny explained some of her studies about the ways pain and emotions get “stuck” and we have to be willing to embrace and then let it go. I know this sounds like the latest round of crunchy California shenanigans, but I also know that after 3 years of surgeries, consistent pain, and deteriorating quality of life, I will go to ANY length for some answers in the name of pain management and emotional health.

The second day of energy work with Jenny was pretty humbling. I felt exhausted, and had just closed my eyes when she came into my room for PT. With no shame, I did my very best fake sleeping act. “Should I come back?” she asked Nicholas, and I held very still, let him answer, “Yes, maybe in an hour?” and thought I was super clever as I heard the door close behind her. It was already after 3, so I assumed she’d just skip the second session, knowing I’d get up and do my own PT. I was really dodging her because of the emotional buttons she’d pushed in the morning, and avoidance seemed the path of least resistance in the moment.

To my dismay, Jenny was back at 4, with an agenda for stairs. This was day 2, so I thought she’d lost her mind, but vaguely remembered the physical therapist in the Trauma Unit 3 years ago waking me up right after the first surgery with crutches to do the stairs, so I figured they all have the same twisted agenda. After re-learning how to go up and down stairs (up: lead with your non-injured leg. down: lead with your injured leg) we did another 30 minutes of PT: “pain training” as I called it that day. I was being ugly, and I knew it, but I couldn’t shake the dark cloud of pain, pity, and pathetic-ism, the worst trifecta of “p” alliteration I’ve ever known. (And yes, I made up pathetic-ism. I’m aware it’s typically an adjective, but on Tuesday, I needed it to be a noun. So it was. That’s how self-centered I can be.)

Jenny wasn’t done just yet. She wanted to continue the energy work, but I was already in this downward spiral of pity and tears and literally couldn’t relax during a session that was nothing short of a generous gift, as actually paying for an energy session is super pricy, and here Jenny was offering her time and I couldn’t even accept the help. After 45 minutes of me being a stubborn ass, she calmly said (something like), “I can’t help you today. You’re fighting me too hard and I need you to be open to feeling and releasing the pain. You’re just holding on to it.”

I just cried harder, thanked her for her time, and told her I’d see her in the morning, but I was SO angry. I was angry because I knew she was right. I was making it harder on myself and couldn’t reconcile why I was actively choosing the path of extra resistance and didn’t want help. I just wanted to have an angry pity party, and I was annoyed that she called me out instead of being sympathetic to my plight.

What I know, is that her efforts were much more than sympathy; she was trying to help me survive the moment and prepare me with tools for the next chapter, but I was being too difficult to see the bigger picture. After visiting hours were over, and Nicholas went back to the hotel, I spent the night trying to make sense of my stubborn nature, and turned to Nelly and my puppets for some bonding time.

The following morning, Jenny worked with me with no agitation from the day prior; she gave me grace to start fresh and I knew the least I could do was make a greater effort. Not for her, but for myself, for Nelly, and for the better future I knew I deserved.

Meanwhile, Nicholas should get the patience award of the decade. When he slipped out of my room for a moment, Howard was back on duty to continue over-personal questions mixed with sarcasm and paternal commentary. He interrupted his own steady-stream of nurse chatter with,

“You found a good one. He really supports you. Nick, right?”

“I did. I know… It’s Nicholas, though. He hates Nick.”

I proceeded to tell Howard a 30-second version of our love story. I know I’m lucky to have someone who constantly says I’m his “ride or die,” cares more about my physical and emotional health than his own, and has been by my side through some really dark months this year. But hearing Howard’s perspective after being a nurse for 20 years and seeing different versions of patient support, I knew my gratitude was falling short of reality. I really appreciated another jolt to look outside my selfish cloud and spend some energy on the beautiful people surrounding me.

It’s not an easy or consistent emotional shift for me when I feel wrecked by pain, and have for so long that it’s tricky to see better days ahead. It’s an active choice to see and feel the goodness around me, and there’s SO much goodness:

I have my doctor’s cell phone number and actually texted him a picture of the tourniquet bruising this morning, just to make sure it was “normal” and not the start of a blood clot. He called me live on a Saturday morning to check in with me. My best friend from childhood wore her vet scrubs to get into my room and ward off the visiting-hour patrol one night. My partner at work sent the sweetest basket of pink flowers and a note that made me giggle at 2am when it was delivered. We came home Thursday to a home-cooked dinner from friends in Sacramento (who have done no less than 10 “after surgery dinners” in the last 18 months.) Our kitchen counter has 3 dozen of the most beautiful tulips grown this season, courtesy of some of our Atlanta peeps. And the guys I work for…I don’t even have words for the grace and love they’ve shown me since I starting working for them almost 2 years ago. I’ll try to figure out how to translate happy tears into words for Part II.

So Nelly and I will keep getting to know each other while I try really hard to stay grounded in all the goodness that has literally created a buffer from the outside world.

*I’m protecting names for privacy purposes.

06.21.19
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De-cluttering & Enemas: a real ‘clean out’ story

My husband, Nicholas, is a bit of a neat freak. He scrubs the counter tops obsessively to make sure there are no streaks, and if I leave a pair of heels on the stairs he breaks into a full body rash. Before I purged for the big move, he would regularly peruse the house for anything he thought he could discard, in spite of the fact that I constantly had a designated “Goodwill” box in the garage to assist in regular clean out.  Last summer, I was couch-bound for 3 months with a shattered knee, and he knew I wouldn’t scoot down multiple stairs on my hiney to check any recent additions to said donation box. And thus, about a quarter of my “treasures” mysteriously disappeared into the abyss of the local Value Village.

In his defense, he’s been (mostly) a good sport about my constant stream of family inheritances (I don’t mean one expensive vase….I mean, boxes and boxes of things from my grandparents, my parents’ farm, childhood things…the list is admittedly excessive.) In the last 4 years, we lost two of my grandparents, Grandma Hodel moved into the local nursing home, and my parents moved off the farm.  All of these changes and transitions were emotional and tricky for me living out of town, and I found myself claiming boxes of country and gospel records, candy dishes, floral china, toothpick holders…I even saved the “1-2-3 Enema!” recipe card from my Great Aunt Edna. I mean, what if Google implodes and I need a little GI assistance to the rescue?  I like to be prepared.

The pending move to Sacramento sent me spinning, and I called in my parents for de-clutter reinforcement. They drove 12 hours South from Central Illinois in their work clothes and tennis shoes with game faces on. I was terrified to leave to-do lists and disappear for work, but I knew that I didn’t really want to know what all they were purging.  I just knew I had to get rid of about 1/3 of our goods, as California real estate thinks everyone made big in the Gold Rush and a square foot costs 2 new borns and a pair of this season’s Frye boots.

Everyone survived the chaos…I mean, some of my things suffered a home displacement, but I couldn’t tell you what’s missing. I look around our Sacramento digs and grin at my little mighty mouse toothpick holder, the pearly white chicken candy dish, and the fancy decanter and shot glasses from Great Aunt Wilma, (who I can only assume had for decor and not functional use).

I appreciate a good de-cluttering session, as it actually has an emotionally cleansing power as well.  I’m thankful for the bits of our families that surround us in a modern

space that hasn’t been lived in before us.  The Pacific Railway runs right behind our patio, and as I type, it rattles my mom’s old metal picnic trays and the lid on the penguin ice bucket from Nicholas’ mom. For a fleeting moment, I forget I’m in the middle of the city and not one of the box car children on a rural adventure from my childhood story books.

I do think I should get a free pass for a year or so on any other clutter commentary from the peanut gallery…and in exchange? I’ll share the family enema recipe.

 

05.21.15
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Reading Lessons and A Note About Gratitude

The last couple of months have been a whirlwind of activity–beginning with a serious career adjustment. I “hit the streets” in Midtown as a sales rep for a food distribution company, and the learning curve has been massive.  Serious highs, and serious lows.  I joined our local pool board just in time for the chaos of summer and started a boxing class at the gym around the corner.  I signed up to teach “Julie’s Can and Jam” classes at a local co-op, where I’ll teach 21 and up classes on making homemade jam and the canning process.  At the same co-op, I’m re-launching some new branding for my detergent line and attempting to improve my image and marketing.  Last, but certainly not the least, I began teaching reading classes for the elderly, two nights a week.

I get overwhelmed sometimes, and then anxious about daily to-do lists left undone and the tasks of the week that I’m not sure I’m completing with the attention they deserve.  I dream about sending an order of groceries to the wrong food truck, and I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking about whether or not I sent the correct allergen-free pan spray to a particular account.  I stress about not knowing enough, not working hard enough or long enough, and not knowing how to ask the questions that make sense in my head.  And then I met a few people with amazing attitudes and a seriously challenging situation in life.

My “students” for evening reading classes are incredible, resilient people, who at the ages of 70-85 are looking to better themselves, and learn to read.  Their reading levels vary from Kindergarten to 2nd grade, and are quick to set goals about their future.  “Ella” told me that she throws away all her mail because she can’t read it anyway, so what’s the point? Tomorrow we’ll begin reading her mail together and making sense of it. “Wallace” told me that he’s never been read to before, and can only drive within a mile radius because he’s memorized all the street signs…beyond that mile, he wouldn’t be able to read the signs and get back home.  “Nellie” cried tonight when I read her a Bible story, because the only time she’s been read to is over the pulpit at church, and when I told her that she’d be able to write a thank you note by the end of summer, she wept openly and told me she never imagined she’d be able to master such a task.  Talk about a reality check–and a serious dose of gratitude.  I’m a month in, and they do their homework, get excited about evening class, and thank me profusely at the end, in spite of the fact that they have harder lives than I’ve ever even read about.

I know that I’m a blend of blessed and fortunate, and as stretched as I feel these days, I’m super thankful for my new batch of students who have already taught me much more about life than I’ll ever teach them about reading.  I also love that my role of teacher will never really be over.

02.01.14
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Pink, Glitter, and My Dear Friend Harold

Yesterday I ran across the street to the gym in an attempt to counterbalance another late night round of snacks.  I pulled up an old play list and fervently tried to distract myself long enough to get in a bit of cardio. The next thing I know, “Glitter in the Air”  begins as my opening number and I’m transported to San Antonio—it’s spring, I’m staying with a dear friend until my teaching contract is up, and I’m jogging the side streets listening to Pink and “training” for Beach to Bay.  It’s funny how a song can do that to you.

I’m obsessed with Pink, and by this I mean the color and the artist (both obsessions may be slightly unhealthy.) 🙂  Although it’s certainly not a song to keep pace to, I loved listening to “Glitter in the Air” every day on my jogging track in Live Oak Park last spring.

This time last year, our house sold and Nicholas got transferred back to Atlanta, all within a couple weeks.  We had three weeks to vacate our house in San Antonio, and while we had desperately hoped we’d get our transfer, we never dreamt it would all happen so soon.

A dear friend–let’s just use the name Harold to protect the innocent—offered to let me stay with him until June, when my teaching contract at Judson Early College Academy was up. I remember the day he offered and was shocked at his generosity; I didn’t have many close friends in SA, and after our house sold so soon, I had no idea where I would stay, or how I would manage to live and work so far from Nicholas and our future life.  We both moved in with Harold for a couple of weeks, then Nicholas transferred to temp living in Atlanta, and I remained in San Antonio until the first week of June.

It was a tough semester of transition; Nicholas was far away, super busy with a new job and extended retail hours, and we had limited time before his temporary housing would run out and we’d have to make a decision about a place to call home.  I flew in every few weekends to house hunt and spend time with him; our time was fast and furious, and I hated Sunday nights when I had to fly back to SA and leave him again.

Harold was my saving grace.  He understood life as an educator.  He understood the challenges of long distance relationships. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He was easy to live with and brought laughter to a time in life that was really difficult; he helped me through a semester that could have been unbearable, and instead of feeling alone and homeless, I had someone to cook for at night and a place that became my temporary home.

The semester was a blur, as I had plenty to do: find a new home and job in Atlanta, finish my Master’s degree courses and sit for my exam, teach an eager class of juniors and engage in all that teaching entails…the list goes on.  The point is, I appreciated Harold, but didn’t realize quite how much I missed him until “Glitter in the Air” came blasting through my head phones, threw me back a year, and blurred my vision with unexpected tears; sometimes the hardest moments in life hold their own sense of glitter and attraction and we just don’t realize the entire beauty and magnitude until later.  They say that hindsight is always 20/20, and while I hate clichés and usually attempt to avoid them, I think this one is most often true.

It’s funny how an over-played radio hit can transport my mind and invigorate my sense of gratitude.

P.S. Harold, I hope your recycling situation has improved since I moved out, and if it isn’t obvious enough, I really miss you.