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| The new and improved bionic me with a pixie hairdo. |
15 years ago, on December 1st, it was a cold and blustery early morning when we were woken by the scream of smoke detectors. All of us - my spouse, me, our 2 children, the international teacher staying with us from China, and our dog all escaped the burning house. The dog without her leash, the rest of us barefoot and in pajamas.
We were lucky. We were all unhurt. We were together. What we lost were things that could be replaced, or let go as unimportant. We were supported by friends, family, and community and were able to rebuild and return to our home ten months later.
The beginning of December has become a time of reflection for me ever since. A time to take stock of what is and isn't important. To embrace life, to appreciate blessings, to be grateful for the love that surrounds me.
This year, the beginning of December brought another challenge. This time, on December 2nd. That morning - exactly 21 days ago - I underwent extensive surgery to take the pressure off my spinal cord at two levels in my neck. Over the past year or so, I'd been slowly losing strength and sensation in my hands and arms as well as noticing balance problems in walking. Over the last few months before the operation, I'd been awakened nearly every night with severe cramps in the muscles of my lower legs, feet, and toes.
Because of my background as a physical therapist, I knew these were serious signs. And it still took me longer than it should have to get the work up and surgical consult I needed.
While I consider myself a fairly active healthy person, I have had more surgeries than the average bear and I had pretty much decided I'd been cut open enough thank you very much. While I no longer had all my factory installed parts, I figured I'd be able to keep the rest.
But when your surgeon sighs after looking at your imaging studies, gets inadvertently kicked when testing your reflexes, apologizes for needing to do a complex operation, and cautions you that 1/3 of patients get better and 2/3 just don't get worse, well, you realize you don't really have a choice.
The Good
I am in the very lucky 1/3. Pretty much immediately post surgery, I had improvement in strength and sensation and balance. Critically, I'm getting back the subtle proprioception - that sensation that tells you where your joints are in space without needing to look at them. This means that things like touch typing, knitting, crochet, and ceramics are all going to be easier and better. I can stand on one foot with my eyes closed and not lose my balance. And I haven't been woken up with leg/foot/toe cramps since the surgery. All of this tells me my spinal cord is a lot happier.
I am also extremely grateful for the support I've gotten from friends, family, and community. We've had a fridge full of meals and gifts of cookies, teas, and other goodies. And my BFF spent a week visiting from NYC keeping me distracted and ensuring I took care of myself.
The Bad
My impatience. I struggle with letting others help me. I get frustrated when I can't just bounce back and do everything I want to do. It's not like the surgeon didn't council me that this was going to be a healing process measured in months, not days. My inner cranky-pus says it's been almost 3 weeks. Why aren't I all better yet??
The Ugly
Honestly? Other than the lumpy scar down the back of my neck, there really isn't any. And that will likely heal in time. I've even embraced my new pixie haircut - a necessity since they had to clip all the hair halfway up the back of my head for the surgery.
Two Decembers, 15 years apart
Two very different experiences, tied together by having to face my fears. I vividly remember how aggressively I coped in the aftermath of the fire. How I kept the terror hidden from everyone in my life because I was afraid if I let it out, I wouldn't be able to support my spouse and my kids. I never cried in front of them. But when I was alone in the car, parked somewhere, I would fall apart. People's kindness nearly undid me. And I buried myself in the work of cataloging what we'd lost and acted as the liaison to the general contractor for the firm rebuilding our home. It took a lot of therapy to come to terms with how vulnerable the fire and its aftermath made me.
I wish I could say that 15 years later, I have learned to be open with my fear, but I'm not sure I've made all that much progress. I know my spouse saw how freaked out I was ahead of the surgery, but he let me keep the fiction that everything was going to be all right, damn it. A day before, I wrote him a letter on my computer. Cleaned up most of the cluttered icons on its desktop, and left it in the middle of the screen for him with his name on it. It was a worst case scenario letter. And the first thing I did when I could sit up comfortably enough post surgery to work on the laptop was to file it in my journal. Maybe some day, I will share it with him. But honestly, I don't think I ever even want to read it again. Writing it was hard enough.
Even if the only person I completely expressed my vulnerability with was me, that is growth and change, right?
Now I've confessed it here. To everyone. And if I'm being fully transparent, it's in everything I've ever written. All my poems, all my blogposts, all my fiction.
So who am I fooling, really, other than myself?
Certainly not you, dear reader. As ever, I appreciate that you let me ramble, both here and in my stories. And I promise to continue to work on being open, vulnerable, earnest, and truthful. Even if it's hard. Even if my impulse is to wave it all away and tell you I'm fine.
What I am is healing.
What I am is a work in progress.
What I am is grateful.
And all of that is enough.
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