I apologize for not writing in this blog for so long, but my focus has been on healing my knee and I have just had no words. But it is Christmas morning, a clean, white slate full of promise and so I am writing to wish the very best of all good things -- to you and to those you love.
Blessings.
Christina
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Ice Packs and Apple Pies
For 5 weeks now I have been the student and pain has been the teacher. The goal? Surrender. Sometimes, when there is no place to turn, when I've taken my pain meds and my knee is increasingly hot and swollen, I raise it on pillows, apply my ice packs and lower my body so my knee is above my heart...and then, just surrender. The pain is here, at this moment, I think. It may not be in moments to come, or it may. Either way, the pain and I are in a process called healing. I imagine the joints arguing with the new titanium parts. My body doesn't want to accept them. Tough, I think, that's the direction we're headed.
I begin to think of the argument going on in my knee and realize that my job, as the recipient of the pain, is to just "be" -- to allow these vying factions the time and space to accept each other (I know, I anthropomorphize it, don't I). Instead, I focus on the grayness of this November day, as gray as gray can be. November always delivers. It creates the perfect atmosphere for being with our loved ones, for hunkering in front of the fire, for raising a glass of cheer or praise. November is the perfect background for celebration and joy, for seeing the bare bones of things, for moving from the exterior to the interior. Some say gloomy. I cherish the gloom. It allows me the space to reignite those forces I will need for winter.
And so, two days from that great American holiday, I will put the butter on the counter to come to room temperature, measure out the flour, peel the apples, prepare the pumpkin filling -- between rests with an ice pack. I will respect the pain and let it flourish and then subside. I will keep on keeping on.
Happy Thanksgiving to each of you.
I begin to think of the argument going on in my knee and realize that my job, as the recipient of the pain, is to just "be" -- to allow these vying factions the time and space to accept each other (I know, I anthropomorphize it, don't I). Instead, I focus on the grayness of this November day, as gray as gray can be. November always delivers. It creates the perfect atmosphere for being with our loved ones, for hunkering in front of the fire, for raising a glass of cheer or praise. November is the perfect background for celebration and joy, for seeing the bare bones of things, for moving from the exterior to the interior. Some say gloomy. I cherish the gloom. It allows me the space to reignite those forces I will need for winter.
And so, two days from that great American holiday, I will put the butter on the counter to come to room temperature, measure out the flour, peel the apples, prepare the pumpkin filling -- between rests with an ice pack. I will respect the pain and let it flourish and then subside. I will keep on keeping on.
Happy Thanksgiving to each of you.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The pain has been leading my life...
On Tuesday, October 20, I entered the hospital, pale and anxious. They'd said, no makeup, so I complied and if you know me you'll know that I can look really pale without my precious tinted moisturizer. That was the beginning of a journey I have been trying to write about and haven't been able to until today.
Maybe its the relief brought on by the pain meds I took an hour ago. But now I feel more able to share my experience with you. No doubt some of you already have had a knee replacement so this may be familiar. Others may have had a replacement and experienced something totally different. All I know is what I went through.
When I arrived at the hospital with my husband that early fall day, although I was anxious I was also eager to get the operation over with and to finally get rid of the pain in my leg that had been dragging me down for over a year. An earlier operation in January provided no relief, so there I was, waiting for the big time, the whole knee replacement.
I don't remember much before the surgery, except that the surgeon had told me that post-operative, I would be in an enormous amount of pain. But there was no way he could adequately describe it. I vividly remember waking up with my husband beside me, unable to mentally compute the amount of pain I had. That was Tuesday. The next several days blurred together -- one enormous pain unit. They got me up and had me walk. It was so overwhelming that my mind couldn't absorb it. I held onto my walker, stunned that walking was expected of me. At times, I was so high on drugs that walking was easy, but that soon changed. One day I was given too many drugs and went into what is probably what junkies experience: total paranoia and the feeling of being held without my permission.
I believe it was the second or third day that I began to hallucinate. I didn't know it at the time but an accumulation of heavy medication finally triggered total confusion and suddenly I thought I was being held captive in a dark room, unable to move, my leg attached to a machine that kept it in continual motion. It was just about then that I decided, amid the confusion, to use the one thing available to me -- the phone. It was the only thing I could see or reach in the room, so I dialed 911. Within minutes my room was flooded with medical personnel.
Up to that point what I had experienced of the nursing staff had been harsh. Nurses who seemed fed up with a patient in pain - nurses who were overloaded with work. But my call to 911 changed that. Up to that point I think I was too heavily medicated or medicated with medicines that were making me unable to cooperate, putting me at a distinct disadvantage. But by day four, the clouds began to clear and I was actually walking with a walker and making some sense. I'll never know if I'd been overdosed or given inappropriate meds - all I know is that I never want that feeling again.
On the fifth day I was transferred to a local rehabilitation hospital. The change was a relief. In reality the rehab hospital is primarily a nursing home for people in the last stages of life or with nowhere to go. The hospital also devoted a small number of beds to rehab patients following surgery. The staff was kind and friendly - amazing! Even the physical therapy staff which met with me three times a day was friendly, except for the driving motto which was "You have to break 90 degrees." What they were talking about was the measurement of your knee while sitting. The first goal was 90 degrees then 115 or 120.
I shared a room with a wonderful woman who had had the same operation a week before me. She was fun and smart and light-hearted. I will always be grateful to her for helping me through that time. Her imitations of Sarah Palin became known across the floor and one patient laughingly "complained" because our laughter had prevented him from napping at 5pm the day before! He often visited our room and chuckled with us. He was a terribly handsome man - a stroke victim - who lived at the hospital and actually worked from his room. He struggled to walk and worked beside us in physical therapy, always commenting about the "girls."
As the days wore on,I found that waking each morning to the same gnawing pain became unbearable. I would sit quietly in my bed, stroke my knee and cry. Once that was over, I'd don my clothes and walker and make my way down to physical therapy four floors below. The morning tears became a part of my day, a kind of acknowledgement of what I was going through, but as the days went on, the tears were fewer and fewer and my desire to walk increased. So it was no accident that on my last three days at the hospital, I absorbed as much physical therapy as I could.
One of the most critical parts of my healing was the hands-on approach of several hospital staff members: there was Chantal, a nurse who modified my pain medication on a daily basis in order for me to operate at an optimal level, who redressed my leg and was concerned if it was too hot or too red; there was young Yvette, beautiful mother of 2 boys, who came each morning with our breakfast trays and smiled so widely you just had to get up and greet the day, who put my elastic stockings on for me because I wasn't able to bend my knee enough to do it myself, who did it so lovingly I felt like her child; there was older Yvette who worked the evening shift until 11, who made sure we had good dinners and lovingly wished us goodnight.
And so the weeks went by at the rehab hospital. I met some people there in my situation, but a lot of other people in more difficult situations. I still don't understand what enables some people to have a positive attitude and enormous drive to get well. I witnessed it time and again and I thought what a critical thing to contribute to a child's life - to teach that kind of positive attitude. It is always easier to give up, but the folks I met and sat with in physical therapy weren't about to do that. They were there in order to leave.
To those of you who have checked Over the Fence and found the October 15 blog, I apologize. I think the pain has been leading my life and I just wasn't able to overcome it enough to write. However, as I learned at the hospital, each day is a new day filled with the rare essence of possibility. Thank goodness.
Maybe its the relief brought on by the pain meds I took an hour ago. But now I feel more able to share my experience with you. No doubt some of you already have had a knee replacement so this may be familiar. Others may have had a replacement and experienced something totally different. All I know is what I went through.
When I arrived at the hospital with my husband that early fall day, although I was anxious I was also eager to get the operation over with and to finally get rid of the pain in my leg that had been dragging me down for over a year. An earlier operation in January provided no relief, so there I was, waiting for the big time, the whole knee replacement.
I don't remember much before the surgery, except that the surgeon had told me that post-operative, I would be in an enormous amount of pain. But there was no way he could adequately describe it. I vividly remember waking up with my husband beside me, unable to mentally compute the amount of pain I had. That was Tuesday. The next several days blurred together -- one enormous pain unit. They got me up and had me walk. It was so overwhelming that my mind couldn't absorb it. I held onto my walker, stunned that walking was expected of me. At times, I was so high on drugs that walking was easy, but that soon changed. One day I was given too many drugs and went into what is probably what junkies experience: total paranoia and the feeling of being held without my permission.
I believe it was the second or third day that I began to hallucinate. I didn't know it at the time but an accumulation of heavy medication finally triggered total confusion and suddenly I thought I was being held captive in a dark room, unable to move, my leg attached to a machine that kept it in continual motion. It was just about then that I decided, amid the confusion, to use the one thing available to me -- the phone. It was the only thing I could see or reach in the room, so I dialed 911. Within minutes my room was flooded with medical personnel.
Up to that point what I had experienced of the nursing staff had been harsh. Nurses who seemed fed up with a patient in pain - nurses who were overloaded with work. But my call to 911 changed that. Up to that point I think I was too heavily medicated or medicated with medicines that were making me unable to cooperate, putting me at a distinct disadvantage. But by day four, the clouds began to clear and I was actually walking with a walker and making some sense. I'll never know if I'd been overdosed or given inappropriate meds - all I know is that I never want that feeling again.
On the fifth day I was transferred to a local rehabilitation hospital. The change was a relief. In reality the rehab hospital is primarily a nursing home for people in the last stages of life or with nowhere to go. The hospital also devoted a small number of beds to rehab patients following surgery. The staff was kind and friendly - amazing! Even the physical therapy staff which met with me three times a day was friendly, except for the driving motto which was "You have to break 90 degrees." What they were talking about was the measurement of your knee while sitting. The first goal was 90 degrees then 115 or 120.
I shared a room with a wonderful woman who had had the same operation a week before me. She was fun and smart and light-hearted. I will always be grateful to her for helping me through that time. Her imitations of Sarah Palin became known across the floor and one patient laughingly "complained" because our laughter had prevented him from napping at 5pm the day before! He often visited our room and chuckled with us. He was a terribly handsome man - a stroke victim - who lived at the hospital and actually worked from his room. He struggled to walk and worked beside us in physical therapy, always commenting about the "girls."
As the days wore on,I found that waking each morning to the same gnawing pain became unbearable. I would sit quietly in my bed, stroke my knee and cry. Once that was over, I'd don my clothes and walker and make my way down to physical therapy four floors below. The morning tears became a part of my day, a kind of acknowledgement of what I was going through, but as the days went on, the tears were fewer and fewer and my desire to walk increased. So it was no accident that on my last three days at the hospital, I absorbed as much physical therapy as I could.
One of the most critical parts of my healing was the hands-on approach of several hospital staff members: there was Chantal, a nurse who modified my pain medication on a daily basis in order for me to operate at an optimal level, who redressed my leg and was concerned if it was too hot or too red; there was young Yvette, beautiful mother of 2 boys, who came each morning with our breakfast trays and smiled so widely you just had to get up and greet the day, who put my elastic stockings on for me because I wasn't able to bend my knee enough to do it myself, who did it so lovingly I felt like her child; there was older Yvette who worked the evening shift until 11, who made sure we had good dinners and lovingly wished us goodnight.
And so the weeks went by at the rehab hospital. I met some people there in my situation, but a lot of other people in more difficult situations. I still don't understand what enables some people to have a positive attitude and enormous drive to get well. I witnessed it time and again and I thought what a critical thing to contribute to a child's life - to teach that kind of positive attitude. It is always easier to give up, but the folks I met and sat with in physical therapy weren't about to do that. They were there in order to leave.
To those of you who have checked Over the Fence and found the October 15 blog, I apologize. I think the pain has been leading my life and I just wasn't able to overcome it enough to write. However, as I learned at the hospital, each day is a new day filled with the rare essence of possibility. Thank goodness.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Have you had yours today?
I've begun to think that coming of age is that moment when we realize the shortness of the years ahead, that moment when things begin to come together: a realistic appreciation for the world (and its craziness), the importance of rich friendships, the necessity for a greater focus on what we choose to do and the knowledge that providing advice and guidance to a younger generation is the value we can bring to the world. All of these things have become more important to me during these last several years. But the one item I've left out is having fun. That became clear this past weekend when we visited a friend in upstate Connecticut.
I don't know about you but my friends are more important to me now than ever. Sharing the experience of these later years brings us closer than before. We aren't distracted now by the raising of children and all the energy that needs to be spent doing that. This is a different time, a time that focuses far more on making oneself happy.
On Saturday my husband and I drove to Middletown, CT for a football game at Wesleyan University. One of our early dates over thirty years ago had been at the Wesleyan Homecoming game, and I found the nostalgia still palpable. But coming of age has changed the way my husband and I focused our time at the game. During the second half, for example, I wandered into the bookstore and spent the remainder of the game browsing and buying books, while he watched the second half. It was a great way to leave the cold and hard metal bleachers and to lose myself among the stacks. And it gave him the opportunity to take in the sport he loves. Perhaps we can call that accommodation but I tend to think of it as living parallel lives, each person getting the satisfaction they need and reconnecting at the next point.
From there we drove down to Essex where we met a dear friend of ours, a widow of three years now. Last time we visited, the loss of her husband still hung in the air. This time, her energy filled each room.
The first thing I noticed was a "good witch" sitting beside a sleek black pumpkin on her pristine kitchen counter. It was "just for fun" she said... a term I heard her use several times that afternoon. We talked a while and then traveled down to the main street in town where they were having a scarecrow contest. There were dozens of scarecrows, one on each of the lamp lights that lined the street: a telephone service man complete with tool belt climbing the spikes of the pole, a Madeleine with blue coat and yellow hat on a yellow ladder and on and on. It was splendid and we were simply charmed by the creativity of each one - about sixty in all.
We had dinner, talked about her latest painting projects and brought her up to date since we'd seen her last and, with a lighter heart, said goodbye.
On the way home I was exhilarated. This woman, eighty years of age, with the enthusiasm and spunk of a fifteen year old, had managed to show me that she was having fun, that the things she chose to do now were fun things, things which gave her enormous pleasure. You can do this, she had said, holding up one of her paintings, you'd be good at it. You don't have to be serious about it. Do it just for fun.
It was a true gift. I am a rather serious person, at least I go about doing serious projects and sometimes, when I find myself teetering on the edge of something that is fun, I pull away from it, uncomfortable that it might not be seen as something worthwhile. Fortunately, just by being who she is, my friend had changed my thinking.
The next morning, I used the stepladder to access a small closet above one of our fireplaces where I store seasonal decorations, and pulled out a very happy witch in a purple dress and black hat with orange trim. I hadn't taken out in years. I tied an orange ribbon around her waist and arranged her beside a black cat on a wide window sill. Last night my Granddaughter noticed it immediately and began to laugh. She understands fun.
Another day we'll talk about other aspects of aging, but today, it's all about fun. Have you had yours today?
Hope so.
Christina
I don't know about you but my friends are more important to me now than ever. Sharing the experience of these later years brings us closer than before. We aren't distracted now by the raising of children and all the energy that needs to be spent doing that. This is a different time, a time that focuses far more on making oneself happy.
On Saturday my husband and I drove to Middletown, CT for a football game at Wesleyan University. One of our early dates over thirty years ago had been at the Wesleyan Homecoming game, and I found the nostalgia still palpable. But coming of age has changed the way my husband and I focused our time at the game. During the second half, for example, I wandered into the bookstore and spent the remainder of the game browsing and buying books, while he watched the second half. It was a great way to leave the cold and hard metal bleachers and to lose myself among the stacks. And it gave him the opportunity to take in the sport he loves. Perhaps we can call that accommodation but I tend to think of it as living parallel lives, each person getting the satisfaction they need and reconnecting at the next point.
From there we drove down to Essex where we met a dear friend of ours, a widow of three years now. Last time we visited, the loss of her husband still hung in the air. This time, her energy filled each room.
The first thing I noticed was a "good witch" sitting beside a sleek black pumpkin on her pristine kitchen counter. It was "just for fun" she said... a term I heard her use several times that afternoon. We talked a while and then traveled down to the main street in town where they were having a scarecrow contest. There were dozens of scarecrows, one on each of the lamp lights that lined the street: a telephone service man complete with tool belt climbing the spikes of the pole, a Madeleine with blue coat and yellow hat on a yellow ladder and on and on. It was splendid and we were simply charmed by the creativity of each one - about sixty in all.
We had dinner, talked about her latest painting projects and brought her up to date since we'd seen her last and, with a lighter heart, said goodbye.
On the way home I was exhilarated. This woman, eighty years of age, with the enthusiasm and spunk of a fifteen year old, had managed to show me that she was having fun, that the things she chose to do now were fun things, things which gave her enormous pleasure. You can do this, she had said, holding up one of her paintings, you'd be good at it. You don't have to be serious about it. Do it just for fun.
It was a true gift. I am a rather serious person, at least I go about doing serious projects and sometimes, when I find myself teetering on the edge of something that is fun, I pull away from it, uncomfortable that it might not be seen as something worthwhile. Fortunately, just by being who she is, my friend had changed my thinking.
The next morning, I used the stepladder to access a small closet above one of our fireplaces where I store seasonal decorations, and pulled out a very happy witch in a purple dress and black hat with orange trim. I hadn't taken out in years. I tied an orange ribbon around her waist and arranged her beside a black cat on a wide window sill. Last night my Granddaughter noticed it immediately and began to laugh. She understands fun.
Another day we'll talk about other aspects of aging, but today, it's all about fun. Have you had yours today?
Hope so.
Christina
Monday, October 5, 2009
"...the first step shall be to lose the way." Galway Kinnell
To those of you who read this blog, I apologize for not having written earlier. I have spent the last week trying to give up control.
As we age, things happen to our bodies and its our job, my job in this case, to deal with it. The knee that has troubled me for three years is finally going to be replaced this month. I know, I know...knees are replaced every day...not such a big deal. Well it is a big deal when its happening to you.
How does this relate to control? Because after an operation on the same knee in January, six injections and months of physical therapy, I realized there was no other option but another operation. That was when I began to wrestle with the facts:, older people are the majority of knee recipients (definitely puts me in that category) ; the rehabilitation is a prolonged one (ugh, more work); its very painful (meds glorious meds). Then, when the surgeon told me I had to enter a rehab facility after the surgery, I lost it. All I could think of was the hospital my Mother had been in for eighteen months: the smell, the food, everything about it disgusted me, but it was supposedly the best of the choices we had at the time. That memory didn't help me to accept the inevitable.
So I have spent the last week trying to adjust, crying, talking to myself, alienating a lot of people simply because I couldn't give up the illusion that I had control over my future and over my body which is beginning to show its years. Now I realize my future depends on the surgeon, the caregivers and how hard and constant I am in rehab (talk about handing over control!) I understand now that the only control I have is to enter this experience knowing I will work hard as anything in rehab, that I will give it my all.
So in finally moving forward, I am allowing myself to lose the way, to give that responsibility to others and to take upon myself only what I can manage.
I have never forgotten that line from Galway's poem. I guess in the end, it is all about surrender.
I would love to hear from you.
Christina
As we age, things happen to our bodies and its our job, my job in this case, to deal with it. The knee that has troubled me for three years is finally going to be replaced this month. I know, I know...knees are replaced every day...not such a big deal. Well it is a big deal when its happening to you.
How does this relate to control? Because after an operation on the same knee in January, six injections and months of physical therapy, I realized there was no other option but another operation. That was when I began to wrestle with the facts:, older people are the majority of knee recipients (definitely puts me in that category) ; the rehabilitation is a prolonged one (ugh, more work); its very painful (meds glorious meds). Then, when the surgeon told me I had to enter a rehab facility after the surgery, I lost it. All I could think of was the hospital my Mother had been in for eighteen months: the smell, the food, everything about it disgusted me, but it was supposedly the best of the choices we had at the time. That memory didn't help me to accept the inevitable.
So I have spent the last week trying to adjust, crying, talking to myself, alienating a lot of people simply because I couldn't give up the illusion that I had control over my future and over my body which is beginning to show its years. Now I realize my future depends on the surgeon, the caregivers and how hard and constant I am in rehab (talk about handing over control!) I understand now that the only control I have is to enter this experience knowing I will work hard as anything in rehab, that I will give it my all.
So in finally moving forward, I am allowing myself to lose the way, to give that responsibility to others and to take upon myself only what I can manage.
I have never forgotten that line from Galway's poem. I guess in the end, it is all about surrender.
I would love to hear from you.
Christina
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
"When I Grow Up..."
One day I awoke to the realization that what I had playfully said all those years, tossed so lightly over my shoulder...I can't say anymore. That time is over and I am here at this very moment in the last quarter of my life. What an absolutely stunning thought!
I remember sitting on the beach in Southport with a good friend, talking about the years that would eventually come, about what we wanted to do. It was the early sixties. My friend and I were raising children and couldn't imagine managing a family and a job. "Oh, when I grow up I'll....." we tossed lightly into the air like a bridal bouquet. And brides we were. We talked about being able to go to Bloomingdales without the children and maybe having lunch. We talked about husbands and heartaches, movies and the children waking us up during the night protesting there were monsters under their beds. And we talked about therapy, the hot topic at that time: Jung and J.D.Laing.
I doubt if either one of us really had a plan for the future. It seemed so far away then. We didn't exactly feel grown up. Many women of our generation had married and had children because it was expected. Unless their parents had been savvy about opportunities out there in the world, the future was presented in a very narrow format: marriage, children....none of us really thought about the future. We thought far more about how to make ourselves happy in what we considered the fruitless job of homemaking, a job which wasn't respected. We loved our children but we felt incomplete and separated from the real world. The real world was where people went when they were grown up.
My friend and I talked for years about filling the creative need inside us. She did far better than I giving and taking dance class. I puttered, stripping furniture, applying my creativity to my home.
I had forgotten the phrase we used so much back then until one day just a few years ago, when I awoke to the reality that there was, in fact, no more time to grow up. I called my friend. We were simultaneously shocked, like young girls who hadn't understood the rules of the game. "So this is how it all turned out," my friend said "this is what happened to us."
My friend and I have a long history. We have celebrated together and suffered through every possible problem a friendship can face, but in the early morning she is the person I call. In the sixties we went to luncheons together and drank small lovely glasses of sherry. In the seventies she was the person who pressed me to go to a party where I met the man I subsequently married. When we finally faced the fact that the days of our lives were running down, we could have just given up and let our mouths droop at the corners, but we chose love and laughter instead.
Sometimes the slowing down of our bodies causes us to gripe, but that is only until one hears the complaint of the other; we listen and then move on with the day. It is so important to have that ear, that good friend to whom you can say those things. I believe that love and friendship, whether they be family members or not, get us through this time. Love sustains us and enables us to create.
One of the first things my friend and I discussed was the inherent desire to see certain friends and not others. We found ourselves becoming more selective about how we spent our time and with whom. Now that I am all grown up and as in charge of my life as any person can be, I want to spend time with the people I love and who love me. I want to disconnect from the people who used me in whatever form and to open my heart to new friendships that expand, broaden, are reciprocal. In that way, I'll be able to make each day count.
I hope you'll write and tell me about your experience.
All good wishes,
Christina
I remember sitting on the beach in Southport with a good friend, talking about the years that would eventually come, about what we wanted to do. It was the early sixties. My friend and I were raising children and couldn't imagine managing a family and a job. "Oh, when I grow up I'll....." we tossed lightly into the air like a bridal bouquet. And brides we were. We talked about being able to go to Bloomingdales without the children and maybe having lunch. We talked about husbands and heartaches, movies and the children waking us up during the night protesting there were monsters under their beds. And we talked about therapy, the hot topic at that time: Jung and J.D.Laing.
I doubt if either one of us really had a plan for the future. It seemed so far away then. We didn't exactly feel grown up. Many women of our generation had married and had children because it was expected. Unless their parents had been savvy about opportunities out there in the world, the future was presented in a very narrow format: marriage, children....none of us really thought about the future. We thought far more about how to make ourselves happy in what we considered the fruitless job of homemaking, a job which wasn't respected. We loved our children but we felt incomplete and separated from the real world. The real world was where people went when they were grown up.
My friend and I talked for years about filling the creative need inside us. She did far better than I giving and taking dance class. I puttered, stripping furniture, applying my creativity to my home.
I had forgotten the phrase we used so much back then until one day just a few years ago, when I awoke to the reality that there was, in fact, no more time to grow up. I called my friend. We were simultaneously shocked, like young girls who hadn't understood the rules of the game. "So this is how it all turned out," my friend said "this is what happened to us."
My friend and I have a long history. We have celebrated together and suffered through every possible problem a friendship can face, but in the early morning she is the person I call. In the sixties we went to luncheons together and drank small lovely glasses of sherry. In the seventies she was the person who pressed me to go to a party where I met the man I subsequently married. When we finally faced the fact that the days of our lives were running down, we could have just given up and let our mouths droop at the corners, but we chose love and laughter instead.
Sometimes the slowing down of our bodies causes us to gripe, but that is only until one hears the complaint of the other; we listen and then move on with the day. It is so important to have that ear, that good friend to whom you can say those things. I believe that love and friendship, whether they be family members or not, get us through this time. Love sustains us and enables us to create.
One of the first things my friend and I discussed was the inherent desire to see certain friends and not others. We found ourselves becoming more selective about how we spent our time and with whom. Now that I am all grown up and as in charge of my life as any person can be, I want to spend time with the people I love and who love me. I want to disconnect from the people who used me in whatever form and to open my heart to new friendships that expand, broaden, are reciprocal. In that way, I'll be able to make each day count.
I hope you'll write and tell me about your experience.
All good wishes,
Christina
Saturday, September 19, 2009
What Was That Noise?
I was at the physical therapist's the other day and she asked me to do a lunge in order to evaluate the progress of my knee. I did an abbreviated one and she asked: "What was that noise?" "My knee," I said. No demonstration could have given her a better idea of our lack of progress than that crunching sound. We laughed and then proceeded to design a one-month plan to do
everything possible to speed up my recovery. Kind of a one-month blast. Our optimism was so great that it cloaked the ache in my leg as I got into the car.
But this morning when I went to a lecture at my local nursery - "Planting a garden of Ferns" - I found myself standing for a long time as we watched a 60-slide presentation, then went into the plant area and identified fern samples. By the time I walked back to my car, tears were in my eyes. My knee had given up this false optimism and I was once again consumed by pain -- not a complaint just a statement of fact. On the way home, I put the car on cruise so I wouldn't have to engage that leg.
And then I reread Penny's comment -- a wonderful reminder that love and laughter are terrific tonics. So when my grandchild, Lucie, (age 5) called to tell me about her latest soccer achievement, I was relieved and delighted. She told me about kicking the ball and about what she was wearing to a lunchtime party. "Underpants," she said and laughed and laughed. I joined her because I know Luce: if she could go that way she would.
It was so good to laugh. Isn't timing everything?
everything possible to speed up my recovery. Kind of a one-month blast. Our optimism was so great that it cloaked the ache in my leg as I got into the car.
But this morning when I went to a lecture at my local nursery - "Planting a garden of Ferns" - I found myself standing for a long time as we watched a 60-slide presentation, then went into the plant area and identified fern samples. By the time I walked back to my car, tears were in my eyes. My knee had given up this false optimism and I was once again consumed by pain -- not a complaint just a statement of fact. On the way home, I put the car on cruise so I wouldn't have to engage that leg.
And then I reread Penny's comment -- a wonderful reminder that love and laughter are terrific tonics. So when my grandchild, Lucie, (age 5) called to tell me about her latest soccer achievement, I was relieved and delighted. She told me about kicking the ball and about what she was wearing to a lunchtime party. "Underpants," she said and laughed and laughed. I joined her because I know Luce: if she could go that way she would.
It was so good to laugh. Isn't timing everything?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
AND THERE I WAS ON THE FLOOR AT TARGET
There are many things to be grateful "for" but, as I ripen into the season of my life, the many reasons blend into a sacred mystery. And, most deeply, I realize that living gratefully is its own blessing. - Michael Mahoney
I very slowly dropped to one knee, and was managing to pick up the scattered change when I saw a pair of chubby brown hands beside mine. They were the hands of a lovely Mexican woman who looked at me with a slight smile. Together, we picked up the change and as I thanked her and began to move back to a standing position, I found that my bad leg wouldn't support me. She quickly put her arm around me and helped me to my feet.
Within the few seconds it took for all of this to happen, my mind filled with negatives -- you're old, you're at "that" point and on and on. But the moment I became conscious of her arm around me, I was flooded with gratitude. What had begun as shame had become something entirely different. The woman looked at me kindly, nodded and went back to her shopping. It was as though this was just part of her day. I was humbled by her consideration and respect. And I thought, pass it on.
What amazed me most was the internal change that I felt. I had been humbled by my body failing, but her kindness opened my heart to a new and deeper sense of gratitude. That evening, everything took on a different glow from the salad I prepared for dinner to watching the US Open. My sense of appreciation had swelled many times over and I was glad of it. Isn't it amazing what an act of kindness can do and isn't it equally amazing that as we grow to deal with our transitioning lives, the experience of true joy can come flooding in.
A final note: at the very moment I sat down to write, my dear friend from the West Coast sent me the Michael Mahoney piece at the top of this blog. Life and its timing can be truly amazing.
Christina
Check out: http://www.gratefulness.org
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Does categorizing limit expansion?
This blog is dedicated to opening the channels of communication between "woman of a certain age" in order to ease the transition and learn how others have handled and continue to handle it. There has been nothing in my life so important as having a role model, a model that allows me to open myself to another way of seeing things. My hope is that women will come to "Over the Fence" and by sharing their experiences and their opinions, become models for one another.
I'm walking across the lawn now, coffee in hand, the day is bright with a slight breeze and I'm ready to talk... and listen over the fence. Please join me.
Christina
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Back after a long day in New York City. I hadn't planned to write tonight but I am compelled to comment on the manner and thought of the path Ulla has chosen. Some of us find ourselves more confused, some less. For some of us the separation is too much of a shock while for others, its a new beginning. So much of our reaction has to do with the history we choose to bring to it. And I say "choose" because some of us might have taken a bit of the baggage left over from our own histories and wallowed (and I say that carefully) in the pain of the loss.
I remember the day I dropped my first child at school. I had no idea what kind of wrenching experience it would. I'd thought that my sheer joy for her to be moving on with her life would satisfy me. Not the case. I, too, cried. All the way home.
But amazingly, years go by, another separation, tears, more tears and then something inside shifts and we learn this is part of a process. Like my garden, most of us reach for the light.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
OVER THE FENCE
Conversations with Women
My waist is thick; my breasts sag and I feel invisible. That about sums up the physical aspects of being seventy-three.
I try to walk thirty minutes a day as prescribed by Dr. Oz, but my bum knee usually stops me mid way. And yet this voice inside me yearns to move forward, quickly: to take on a new challenge, be loved, make love, and shine in my husband’s eyes.
My mind is rich with experience, with the wisdom that comes from having lived a whole life, but I want more. Why can’t these years be more than the prescribed notion of the 60s, 70s, 80s? Why can’t I leave the gray stands in my hair and not be recognized as nothing more than an old person.
For months now I have ruminated over these questions. Everyone said, just leave it alone, it will come to you. The “universe” will let you know what you are to do. Well perhaps in the end that was true, because the day I wrote “A Wednesday Morning in April,” my life began to change. That day led me to create this blog so I could communicate with women who are frozen on the road or moving in the same direction, going through this difficult yet wondrous process called aging. Difficult because it challenges us with a pain here, a tightness there, some hypertension and questions about the future. Wondrous because life is laid open to us. No more pretense. We can come from a clear and lucid place within ourselves and judge how we want to spend the last decades of our lives.
But the day I wrote “A Wednesday Morning in April,” I didn’t think life was so wondrous. I was thinking: “What now?” I hope you’re willing to take a few minutes to read the piece and to walk this path with me.
A Wednesday Morning In April
I am having my upper lip waxed in a room where the walls have been painted a stirring melon and the trim a sullen mauve. Amazingly, the colors temper each other.
I inhale deeply, the pillow under my neck absorbing the heavy morning, the headache that awakened me, the desire to sleep again. It is only ten o’clock and I want to lie here for as long as they will let me while her fingers work methodically, first applying a light covering of talcum, next a layer of hot wax about two fingertips in length, then the fabric, then the pull that tears the small dark hairs from their roots. I think of the smoothness when it will be done.
It is only 10:15. I have earned this freedom they tell me. And yet, the expanse of it causes me to stop as I lower myself into my car. Anywhere…you can drive anywhere, I tell myself. I head home.
It is cold and windy with faint raindrops every few minutes. I heat the breakfast coffee in the microwave. It is still warm from the morning but I heat it anyway, waiting for that certain temperature that mimics the first sip of the day. The gutter is running over and covers the French doors with a sheet of rain. Have to get that fixed, I think and then turn to the kitchen.
The blue bowls from Martha’s Vineyard are still in the sink, soaking last bits of oatmeal before they go into the dishwasher. I swish them with a small scrub brush and load them into the washer with juice glasses and used coffee cups. I wash the pale blush counters with hot sudsy water and rinse with an old bar clothe.
The rain begins to slow and a glimmer of sun tips the rickrack plant on the windowsill. Things are in place. I walk to the French doors. What to do, what to do.
Please let me know about you.
Christina
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)