Twinkle Twinkle

 

I look at the lights on the Christmas tree and years of collected ornaments but what I really see is love. Handmade ornaments made by my children, my husband and me bring back so many good memories. And over the years, Santa put ornaments in the children’s stockings too and now those ornaments are decorating their own family trees. 

One year, I made ornaments of all the Winnie the Pooh characters. My children were enchanted with the stories and I wanted them to see Pooh, Eeyore, Piglet and Tigger on the tree. Since ‘Santa’ brought everything, I had to sew and embroider the ornaments after they were asleep. It was fun, and sometimes exhausting, to be Santa’s helper but it was also a gift to bring joy to their little faces. 

Seeing the light. 

Right now, I know seeing the light is hard. There’s a lot going on around us that fuels anger and fear. I know those feelings well. Because, I’ve been recovering from almost a year of feeling ill before the cause was finally found, and healed with a major surgery.  

As I recover from all of this, I try to focus on the light right in front of me. 

The lights on the tree. 

The books I read to my children and they now read to their little ones. 

The characters from Winnie the Pooh who teach us all a few life lessons. 

Wonder and wandering. 

As I wander through my recovery. And we wonder what happened to our country and lives, maybe we can see some light through the lessons of Winnie the Pooh. 

Be in the moment: Pooh takes life one day at a time.

Be kind: Pooh doesn’t always have the answers but he helps his friends as best he can. 

Be brave: Even if all seemed lost, Pooh and his friends found a way. 

Seize the day: Make the most of what you can do.  

And see the twinkle: Always be open to the light whether it’s on your tree, in someone’s eyes or inside your heart.  

Giving Thanks

 

Sitting here in my nook with the sun peeking in and out of the clouds shining on piles of fall leaves, I sigh. It’s a sigh of relief and gratefulness. I am here. I am alive. I am getting stronger everyday. These are things I used to take for granted. Now I don’t. 

Last month, I was home recovering from major surgery on my colon. Even though I wasn’t able to do much but sit in bed or a chair, I was so thankful to be home. I was so glad that all the infections and pain I’d suffered with in my body for over a year were finally fixed. 

Thankful for great nurses and doctors. 

All of my nurses and aides on the 7th floor west at St. Vincents were wonderful. They were there for me day and night. They delivered more than antibiotics. They delivered kindness and caring and emotional support. They listened to me and shared and chatted with me, too. 

And one night in particular, which I didn’t think I’d get through, they were with me all the way. They came in and out in a steady stream, taking care of me. Their expertise and team work was amazing. They were ‘on it’ at all times. I was terrified and they were calm. That reassurance helped me believe I would be alright. 

My surgeon is a hero in my mind. He saw the problem, at last, and knew how to fix it. And it was not an easy fix. It was a scary scenario but he went in and fixed it all. It was so good to see him pleased with the result. And afterwards, he made sure I got the best post surgical care, too. I give thanks for his expertise everyday. 

Giving thanks for my stubbornness. 

I will start out by saying, it wasn’t easy to get help. I was tossed from one urgent care, express care, nurse practitioner to another. I kept describing my pain and problems and got handed a prescription. Tests were done and some came back positive and most were negative.

Seeing so many different people in different places made it even harder. I was misdiagnosed which made me question the healthcare system. And myself. But I was stubborn. I kept trying to get help. I am thankful for all the antibiotics, they kept me alive. 

And thankfully, finally a CT scan illuminated the problem. And I am now recovering and fine. 

Finally. 

I give many, many thanks:

For a talented surgeon,

The specialists on my surgical team,

All the nurses and aides on St. V 7th floor west,

You saved me, reassured and comforted me,

And shared stories and smiles, one of the best medicines. 

Recovery

 

This word describes so many things in my world right now. Maybe yours too? Unexpected things happen to us and around us over which we have limited or no control. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to not be in control. It’s frustrating and scary. But it’s a place we all know well and if we can share it in our common space, maybe we can find ways to pull through it all together. 

Seasonal lessons.

I am in a season of recovery. I am home from the hospital successfully put back together. I’ve known for many months I needed help. I knew my body’s pain was a message and while I tried to get help, all I got were bandaids in the form of antibiotics. I went from winter to spring to summer and fall asking why I kept having UTI’s. I got no answers.

 

A few weeks ago, a CT scan showed an abscess from last year had never left my body and was leaking bacteria and causing all those UTI’s. The cure was abdominal surgery and reconstruction. I am now ‘fixed’. 

While the trees drop their leaves and prepare to rest through the winter, it is my time to rest as well. It’s hard for me to drop my routines. Pulling and pushing and rolling out clay. Doing yoga. Lifting weights. Picking up my grand baby. But, to recover my strength, I must rest. 

Color therapy. 

The leaves in the park are falling, layering the grass and walkways in layers of color. I love all the gorgeous red, yellow, orange and purple. And even though I don’t like brown, it adds a base for the other colors to shine. 

Like the trees outside, I let my fears and anger and shock and sadness drop like leaves from the past year. I see the layers of branches unseen before like organs in my body, the structures now strong.

As I walk through the park, I drink in the layers of color. I bend myself gently to pick up a few fallen leaves to take home. I play a little with watercolors and pens and yarn. And I read and rest and eat and nap. 

And just as the trees bud in spring, I feel the prickles of nerves searching to unite and flourish once again. 

Searching for answers

And finding none

Be brave 

Time will tell 

And all will be well. 

Easily Dismissed

I  sit here looking out the window from a hospital bed.  Watching the fog move over and around the trees, some turning red and yellow, some green, I wonder how did I get here? It’s a long story filled with fear and confusion and, yes, sexism. 

You see, I am a 69 year old woman. I have grey hair and grandchildren. I am considered and dismissed. I am not seen as valuable or vital or powerful. 

And it pisses me off.

Working women unite. 

Remember the ‘Women’s Movement’? I was one of those women. I went to rallies. I marched. I was going to change the way it had been because my generation of women were serious and dedicated to advancing right along side the men. 

And I did. 

I started in college as president of Women In Communications. I worked at the college newspaper, radio and TV stations. I won an award for a public service TV spot about ageism. And how important it was for people of all ages to be valued. Funny that I should find now, decades later, nothing has changed the negative view of older people. 

I worked in advertising writing copy for newspapers, radio and TV. I handled some of the city’s biggest clients. I won local, regional and national awards. I wore a suit. I carried a briefcase. I also handled broadcast production writing, directing and editing. 

Then I had a baby and it all changed. Why? I didn’t want to park my babies in daycare five days out of seven. I had worked in a daycare center in high school, so I knew a little more than others how that worked. Yes, there are many dedicated teachers and childcare workers, I know because I was one of them but there are also those who are there to do as little as possible. And those who treated some children terribly. 

I couldn’t let that happen to mine. So I freelanced in advertising while taking care of my babies. 

Not easy to do then. No email or internet or remote work yet. I did my best. When that door closed on me, I went back to school. 

Another creative career. 

My goal was to do art residences. My teacher said, do your art first. So I did. I painted and sculpted and, yes, wrote. I’ve been showing my art in galleries and shows and doing residences for over 20 years now. I love it. And I’m still doing it.

My art has changed over the years, as I’ve changed. I went from painting to sculpting to throwing clay. But one change has hit me hard: ageism. 

“You remind me of my mother, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

That’s exactly what a doctor told me 8 months ago, when I went in with bladder pain. He did a test he said would come out negative. It was positive. On and on and on I went from doctor to doctor, clinic to clinic, urgent care to urgent care, being given antibiotics and sent home with the words, it’s not a problem. 

And because I’m a gray haired lady, my symptoms were, like me, dismissed. And because I was told that over and over it was not a problem, I started to deny my own pain and believe it. 

Until finally, a doctor in the hospital ER said, you need an operation. Scary, yes. But now, I sit recovering from a colon operation. I had a great doctor. I was moved to a floor with incredible nurses who listened and helped me so much. 

I was, finally, not dismissed. 

I’ve felt so much fear and confusion and pain. And now, anger. 

What could have been done to save me from this situation?

Maybe being a man? 

Ever heard of PFD PT?

 

I hadn’t either. I’ve hesitated writing about it because it deals with a part of the body most of us don’t talk about. And the symptoms can be tricky to figure out. But it’s very common in women and some men. Ok. Here you go: PFD stands for Pelvic Floor Disfunction. 

According to Wikipedia:  “Pelvic floor dysfunction is a term used for a variety of disorders that occur when pelvic floor muscles and ligaments are impaired. The condition affects up to 50 percent of women who have given birth. Although this condition predominantly affects women, up to 16 percent of men are affected as well. Pelvic floor muscles can be too tight or too loose.” 

I never knew about it until after my surgery in December. After struggling with pain for many months, afraid something was really, really wrong with me, I was sent to get physical therapy. 

How weird is that?

I couldn’t even understand the situation much less the process. It was intense. There were many things I had to keep track of: fluid intake, fluid output, sitting and standing positions. I had exercises to do during the day. 

Luckily, I’ve been doing yoga for decades so many of the exercises were close to yoga poses I’ve done before. And just like any exercise program, consistency is key. I happen to like doing yoga, so it was easier for me to adapt to the routine. Instead of just of doing yoga moves before I walk in the morning, I’ve added yoga moves to do three times a day. 

There’s a FB group for that.

Yup. In case, like me,  you’ve never heard of it, google it. There’s a huge FB group called Pelvic Sanity sponsored by a Physical Therapy group in California. It helped me to understand the pain I was going through and most of all, that I was not alone. But warning: TMI, some of it is a little too much info. 

It took time to get into a physical therapist, but it really helped me. I learned so much and made a lot of progress. I have days without pain now. And I’m very aware of the signals that my body needs a break. I learned that listening and doing my yoga moves make all the difference in the world. 

I was a little uncomfortable about sharing this publicly in a blog, but I spent months and months in the dark, in pain. And if this helps someone else find help sooner, I’m glad.