Today has been heartbreaking. There is no other way to describe the brutal mass murder that occurred in Connecticut. The loss of 26 lives, 20 of those so young. And innocent. And in their loss, we lost our innocence, too.
It is as if nothing is sacred. There is no place we can send our children that is protected enough- churches, school, work, malls. Today is especially awful. These were babies. And their parents, and all who love them, did not get enough time with them. To die such a violent death... I know of no words to describe the feeling in my gut, in my heart. It is pain. It is anguish. It makes me feel sick.
I got home today after a long day at work, and cried. I held my baby and I cried. I looked at her face, and imagined what I would do if she were ripped from my life. I don't know what I would do, how I would survive. And I think of the innumerable parents, and grandparents, and aunt and uncles, and brothers and sisters, who are facing that exact thing at this very moment.
It does not make sense. It hasn't in the past. And it does not today.
For a moment, I thought, "I don't want to live in a world like this." That thought entered my mind as my baby girl was sitting on me, eating a big handful of green beans, and watching a favorite movie. And then I realized something. And I felt gratitude.
I feet gratitude that I have this day. And that I have had all the days before. And that no matter what happens tomorrow, I have today. And so today, I will hold her. And I will pray for those families. And I will do whatever I can to show those who I love how much they mean. And I will do something good for the world. As much as my heart aches, I am lucky enough to have this moment.
It's not that gratitude will heal all grief. Loss is loss and tragedy is tragedy. It's that if I have the strength to be present in this moment, and aware of all the beautiful things, I can be sure that I have not taken a moment for granted. Because we don't know what tomorrow will bring. But today, we are here.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Introspection
My day today began a 4:15 am. I awakened to the sound of a woman outside my house, yelling "help" over and over again. I was flooded with a series of thoughts... "I should run out and make sure she's okay. There could be danger out there. I shouldn't also put myself in harm's way. I should call 911. What if something awful is happening? What if I'm not doing enough? What would my mom do? What would other people do? What is the right thing?" All these things came to mind in a matter of seconds. I elected to call 911, and dispatch was sending police over immediately. Obviously, I could not get back to sleep.
I got to work, and found that one of my clients had been suspended and received legal charges. His family is unwilling or unable to cooperate with therapy, and I feel at a loss about how to help him.
I met with an elementary school girl who is incredibly traumatized, and trying to work through it. But her eyes were vacant, she shook and cried. I couldn't solve it for her in that minute.
I heard from my mom that she was not feeling well, and was likely going to admitted to the hospital. She was not able to care for my baby for the rest of the day. I wanted to find a way to help her, and get care for Kinnie.
Just as I am writing this, something bit me. Twice. Right on my hip scar.
I don't know what I'm trying to say, to write, by detailing all of this. But I don't feel good. I feel disappointed, sad, hurt, scared, angry. Helpless. Helpless. And I am trying to figure out how to put my energy into the places that matter most, and let go of the rest, so that I don't feel so crazy busy. But I can't figure out how to prioritize.
I realized, in a meeting this afternoon, that I have completely lost my sense of people being inherently good. I realized that when I began my job two years ago, I was absolutely convinced that all people are doing the best they can. I don't feel that anymore. And I would like to.
I am not of the perspective that things can't get worse because I know they can. I know that tomorrow will likely contain more successes. But I would like to know how to make today feel more successful. Sometimes its hard for me to focus on anything other than feeling that the day was overwhelming.
Deep breaths...
I got to work, and found that one of my clients had been suspended and received legal charges. His family is unwilling or unable to cooperate with therapy, and I feel at a loss about how to help him.
I met with an elementary school girl who is incredibly traumatized, and trying to work through it. But her eyes were vacant, she shook and cried. I couldn't solve it for her in that minute.
I heard from my mom that she was not feeling well, and was likely going to admitted to the hospital. She was not able to care for my baby for the rest of the day. I wanted to find a way to help her, and get care for Kinnie.
Just as I am writing this, something bit me. Twice. Right on my hip scar.
I don't know what I'm trying to say, to write, by detailing all of this. But I don't feel good. I feel disappointed, sad, hurt, scared, angry. Helpless. Helpless. And I am trying to figure out how to put my energy into the places that matter most, and let go of the rest, so that I don't feel so crazy busy. But I can't figure out how to prioritize.
I realized, in a meeting this afternoon, that I have completely lost my sense of people being inherently good. I realized that when I began my job two years ago, I was absolutely convinced that all people are doing the best they can. I don't feel that anymore. And I would like to.
I am not of the perspective that things can't get worse because I know they can. I know that tomorrow will likely contain more successes. But I would like to know how to make today feel more successful. Sometimes its hard for me to focus on anything other than feeling that the day was overwhelming.
Deep breaths...
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
A doozie...
Today was a doozie. The things that come out of my daughter's mouth astonish me, and make me laugh. I don't know where she comes up with this stuff. I had to write to capture some of it...
-This morning, while coloring with markers, Kin decided to color on herself. I reminded her that if she continued to do that, we would have to put the markers away. To this she replied, "But Mommy, I need to go color on myself."
- Later in the day, Kinnie and I were in her room, playing with her new Dora doll. I play the role of Dora, and Kinnie played herself. Dora grabbed one of Kinnie's toys and said, "It's mines" (meaning, it is mine). Kinnie grabbed the toy from Dora, and said, "No, it's mines." Dora became upset, and asked, "why don't you want to share with me?" To this, Kinnie offered an extensive explanation; something like: "it's special because we got it at the store and so it's special and it's mines." Dora couldn't argue with that.
- On our afternoon walk, with Kinnie in the stroller, and Daddy with the dogs on leash, Kinnie said, "I'm mad at Daddy. Daddy is Daddy Gay." (This remark is thanks to my little brother and his "teachings.") I asked why she was mad at Daddy, and she said, "No, I'm not mad at Daddy. I'm curious." Hmmm...
- At dinner, the discussion turned to private parts. Kinnie looked at Daddy and said, "You have a vagina."
- Kinnie stubbed her toe this evening, and Daddy tried to kiss it. She said, "Daddy, don't touch me. I'm special."
Yes, Kinnie, you are special. I wish I could record every day, all the times you make me laugh. Of course there were other moments today, like when you pooped in the tub. As I was scrubbing it out, you turned off the bathroom lights and refused to turn them back on. That was not fun. But now that all the bleach I could find has been used to disinfect the bath, I can even laugh at that, too. Anyone who does not believe that parenthood is an incredible adventure is not paying attention.
-This morning, while coloring with markers, Kin decided to color on herself. I reminded her that if she continued to do that, we would have to put the markers away. To this she replied, "But Mommy, I need to go color on myself."
- Later in the day, Kinnie and I were in her room, playing with her new Dora doll. I play the role of Dora, and Kinnie played herself. Dora grabbed one of Kinnie's toys and said, "It's mines" (meaning, it is mine). Kinnie grabbed the toy from Dora, and said, "No, it's mines." Dora became upset, and asked, "why don't you want to share with me?" To this, Kinnie offered an extensive explanation; something like: "it's special because we got it at the store and so it's special and it's mines." Dora couldn't argue with that.
- On our afternoon walk, with Kinnie in the stroller, and Daddy with the dogs on leash, Kinnie said, "I'm mad at Daddy. Daddy is Daddy Gay." (This remark is thanks to my little brother and his "teachings.") I asked why she was mad at Daddy, and she said, "No, I'm not mad at Daddy. I'm curious." Hmmm...
- At dinner, the discussion turned to private parts. Kinnie looked at Daddy and said, "You have a vagina."
- Kinnie stubbed her toe this evening, and Daddy tried to kiss it. She said, "Daddy, don't touch me. I'm special."
Yes, Kinnie, you are special. I wish I could record every day, all the times you make me laugh. Of course there were other moments today, like when you pooped in the tub. As I was scrubbing it out, you turned off the bathroom lights and refused to turn them back on. That was not fun. But now that all the bleach I could find has been used to disinfect the bath, I can even laugh at that, too. Anyone who does not believe that parenthood is an incredible adventure is not paying attention.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Wow
I was just down in the basement, folding a never-ending pile of laundry, when I had an epiphany. I realized that I had no weight on my shoulders. I was thinking about my adventurous day with my 2-year-old, the coming weekend, starting my new job next week... It all felt... simple. Yes, simple. I thought about using the word normal. And then, being the processor that I am, I wondered why I felt so... simple. Is it about the new job? Is it having had a good day (relatively) with my kid?
Then, the epiphany. Nothing, in the last 3 or more months, has felt simple. Nothing has felt routine. I was not able to anticipate an average day. And having been in that place, and coming to this place, is amazing.
I am healing well. I walk without crutches or a cane, and usually without a limp. I don't have limitations, other than getting a bit sore at the end of the day. I even "ran" with Kinnie yesterday. It is weird to jog when you haven't done anything of the sort in months.
My heart is swelling with gratitude. I can't describe it better than that.
(See below for the reason for "relatively." I caught the child doing this while I was cooking dinner. At least the permanent marker was on the mirror. Oh, except for the streak on the wall and the leather couch...)
Then, the epiphany. Nothing, in the last 3 or more months, has felt simple. Nothing has felt routine. I was not able to anticipate an average day. And having been in that place, and coming to this place, is amazing.
I am healing well. I walk without crutches or a cane, and usually without a limp. I don't have limitations, other than getting a bit sore at the end of the day. I even "ran" with Kinnie yesterday. It is weird to jog when you haven't done anything of the sort in months.
My heart is swelling with gratitude. I can't describe it better than that.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Terrible Twos
Oh my. I love my baby. To the moon and back. And for the last few days, bedtime could not have come soon enough. I thought we had seen tantrums before. And demanding. But this IS IT. Oh gosh, or, at least I hope it is. If it gets worse, I may just end up in the state hospital.
It seems that it happened over-night. We tucked in our sweet baby and awakened to a terror. Not that every minute is terrible. But you never know when she may decide that your answer wasn't good enough, or that it is too frustrating to repeat what she said because you didn't understand it the first time. I advised some friends last night that they should avoid having a two-year-old. You know, just have a kid that skips from 18 months to 3 years.
I guess the challenging moments teach us to cherish the easy-going ones. And moments like these are still precious...
It seems that it happened over-night. We tucked in our sweet baby and awakened to a terror. Not that every minute is terrible. But you never know when she may decide that your answer wasn't good enough, or that it is too frustrating to repeat what she said because you didn't understand it the first time. I advised some friends last night that they should avoid having a two-year-old. You know, just have a kid that skips from 18 months to 3 years.
I guess the challenging moments teach us to cherish the easy-going ones. And moments like these are still precious...
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The light of my life
I'm up late. Real late for me. Especially these days. I've been in bed for two hours, unable to sleep. I'm not sure why, other than a lot of excitement. And, perhaps a lack of proper hydration, considering my recent activity level. I've been on my feet more in the last seven days than I had all of the previous 6 weeks. So, I'm sitting here with a large glass of water, and thought it an opportune time to reflect upon being the mother of a two-year-old.
We hosted the second of Kinnie's birthday parties at our home this afternoon. We celebrated with Brian's family one week ago. She is a delight. Turns out, she is one party girl. She loves presents. Once one has been opened, and briefly enjoyed, she turns to me and says "I wan anoder present." She took it pretty well when I told her that, in fact, they had all been opened. And thank goodness, for the sake of our modest home, which has been over-run by brightly colored games, and dolls, and toys of all kinds. Kinnie also really likes cake. Or at least frosting. At her birthday celebration with Brian's family, there were cupcakes piled with the stuff, in an amazingly un-natural blue-purple color. She proceeded to eat all the frosting off two of those. Then, she ran around like a maniac.
I am getting closer and closer to healed. I walk primarily with my hot-pink cane, saving the crutches only for longer walks with the dogs. I can get on the floor, and pick Kinnie up. I can do some cleaning around the house, get to the grocery store, and change diapers again. Normalcy seems to be returning, slowly but surely.
Kinnie has continued to be a champion through this experience. My worries prior to surgery and recovery have not become realities. She has, in many ways, remained a Mommy's girl. And, all the time that I was not able to be right there with her taught her that Daddy is pretty incredible, too. She has become more self sufficient. She plays quietly, every once in a while, on her own. When she accompanied my mom and me to my post-op appointment this week, I asked her what she wanted to tell the doctor. She said, "make Mommy's owie all better." She kisses my leg on a daily basis to achieve that end.
Pride, I have heard, can be sinful. But certainly not this kind. My heart swells when she says "thank you Mama" after I hand her juice, when she remembers that markers only go on paper, when she does something to make us laugh, when she gives her loved ones "big squeezes." So many people have remarked that the time goes so fast. But I think as I make the effort to be present every day, to attend to all the joys and beautiful moments, time almost slows down. I am grateful, grateful, grateful, down to the core of my soul. I never knew I could love this much.
We hosted the second of Kinnie's birthday parties at our home this afternoon. We celebrated with Brian's family one week ago. She is a delight. Turns out, she is one party girl. She loves presents. Once one has been opened, and briefly enjoyed, she turns to me and says "I wan anoder present." She took it pretty well when I told her that, in fact, they had all been opened. And thank goodness, for the sake of our modest home, which has been over-run by brightly colored games, and dolls, and toys of all kinds. Kinnie also really likes cake. Or at least frosting. At her birthday celebration with Brian's family, there were cupcakes piled with the stuff, in an amazingly un-natural blue-purple color. She proceeded to eat all the frosting off two of those. Then, she ran around like a maniac.
I am getting closer and closer to healed. I walk primarily with my hot-pink cane, saving the crutches only for longer walks with the dogs. I can get on the floor, and pick Kinnie up. I can do some cleaning around the house, get to the grocery store, and change diapers again. Normalcy seems to be returning, slowly but surely.
Kinnie has continued to be a champion through this experience. My worries prior to surgery and recovery have not become realities. She has, in many ways, remained a Mommy's girl. And, all the time that I was not able to be right there with her taught her that Daddy is pretty incredible, too. She has become more self sufficient. She plays quietly, every once in a while, on her own. When she accompanied my mom and me to my post-op appointment this week, I asked her what she wanted to tell the doctor. She said, "make Mommy's owie all better." She kisses my leg on a daily basis to achieve that end.
Pride, I have heard, can be sinful. But certainly not this kind. My heart swells when she says "thank you Mama" after I hand her juice, when she remembers that markers only go on paper, when she does something to make us laugh, when she gives her loved ones "big squeezes." So many people have remarked that the time goes so fast. But I think as I make the effort to be present every day, to attend to all the joys and beautiful moments, time almost slows down. I am grateful, grateful, grateful, down to the core of my soul. I never knew I could love this much.
Monday, June 25, 2012
I just want to go on a real walk...
I recognize that I have a tendency to write when I am struggling, and not so much when things are relatively easy. I preface this entry in this way because I am inpatient and frustrated today, but I want it to be clear that this has not been my day-to-day experience. But with that said...
I am SO ready to be back to "normal." I was thinking that this feels as though it has been the longest three weeks of my life- then remembered that it has actually been 5 weeks of being laid up. If things had gone as planned the end of my recovery would be near. As it is, I'm halfway. And, today, I'm not in the "glass half full" frame of mind.
I am tired of taking pain medication, which either makes my head fuzzy or upsets my stomach. I am not in terrible pain, but in order to be up and moving, some level of pain management is necessary. I am tired of being tired. I want to have the endurance I did before, able to walk for miles, adventure, without feeling the exhaustion that follows me right now. I want to go to the dog park. I want to grocery shop. I want to vacuum. I want to wear something other than sweatpants. I want to sleep through the night. I want to be able to help Brian. I'm almost to the point of saying I want to go to work. Almost.
I know I'm whining. And I have so much more for which to be grateful. I finished p/t last week, and my therapist said I can use just one crutch or a cane. So, Kinnie, my mom and I went to buy a cane. I let Kinnie choose one, and I should have known I would end up with hot pink. But I have learned that the transition to a lesser walking aid is slow. I use one crutch and the cane around the house. But my leg is weak. And going out without both crutches is too risky. Four days ago, I attempted a full step on my leg without any assistance, and it almost gave out. Today, I am able to take short steps on it. So progress is happening. It's just slow.
Kinnie and I have invented many games which only require my sitting and dancing with the top half of my body. She cuddles me, and asks for me. When I'm resting in bed upstairs, I'll hear her stomp up the stairs and say "I'm goin' to see Mommy." We sing songs. She has many favorites, though I think Mr. Roger's neighborhood is the current most favorite. She does not listen to me as well as she used to. This evening, while eating dinner, she put her hand in her spinach and starting playing. When I asked her to stop, she refused. I think she knows I can't quite chase her down. She's not listening to anybody all that well now. She is, after all, two years old. We have, occasionally, been taking naps together in my bed. That might be the best part of this whole thing. I don't really sleep. I just lie there and watch her.
I have been running some errands and even made it to a dinner party last weekend. We are going out of town this coming weekend for a family reunion. I will be glad for the break from day-to-day monotony at home right now. But also disappointed that I'll still be limited. I want to go for a hike, so bad.
I remind myself that all this is temporary. And, that really, I am blessed. Because there is an end to this challenge in sight. Sometimes it just feels so far away. I am connected to other hip replacement patients through a forum, and there are a few who have suffered so many more complications than me. This, too, shall pass. Patience, patience, patience...
I am SO ready to be back to "normal." I was thinking that this feels as though it has been the longest three weeks of my life- then remembered that it has actually been 5 weeks of being laid up. If things had gone as planned the end of my recovery would be near. As it is, I'm halfway. And, today, I'm not in the "glass half full" frame of mind.
I am tired of taking pain medication, which either makes my head fuzzy or upsets my stomach. I am not in terrible pain, but in order to be up and moving, some level of pain management is necessary. I am tired of being tired. I want to have the endurance I did before, able to walk for miles, adventure, without feeling the exhaustion that follows me right now. I want to go to the dog park. I want to grocery shop. I want to vacuum. I want to wear something other than sweatpants. I want to sleep through the night. I want to be able to help Brian. I'm almost to the point of saying I want to go to work. Almost.
I know I'm whining. And I have so much more for which to be grateful. I finished p/t last week, and my therapist said I can use just one crutch or a cane. So, Kinnie, my mom and I went to buy a cane. I let Kinnie choose one, and I should have known I would end up with hot pink. But I have learned that the transition to a lesser walking aid is slow. I use one crutch and the cane around the house. But my leg is weak. And going out without both crutches is too risky. Four days ago, I attempted a full step on my leg without any assistance, and it almost gave out. Today, I am able to take short steps on it. So progress is happening. It's just slow.
Kinnie and I have invented many games which only require my sitting and dancing with the top half of my body. She cuddles me, and asks for me. When I'm resting in bed upstairs, I'll hear her stomp up the stairs and say "I'm goin' to see Mommy." We sing songs. She has many favorites, though I think Mr. Roger's neighborhood is the current most favorite. She does not listen to me as well as she used to. This evening, while eating dinner, she put her hand in her spinach and starting playing. When I asked her to stop, she refused. I think she knows I can't quite chase her down. She's not listening to anybody all that well now. She is, after all, two years old. We have, occasionally, been taking naps together in my bed. That might be the best part of this whole thing. I don't really sleep. I just lie there and watch her.
I have been running some errands and even made it to a dinner party last weekend. We are going out of town this coming weekend for a family reunion. I will be glad for the break from day-to-day monotony at home right now. But also disappointed that I'll still be limited. I want to go for a hike, so bad.
I remind myself that all this is temporary. And, that really, I am blessed. Because there is an end to this challenge in sight. Sometimes it just feels so far away. I am connected to other hip replacement patients through a forum, and there are a few who have suffered so many more complications than me. This, too, shall pass. Patience, patience, patience...
Monday, June 11, 2012
More lessons
Bri and Kinnie just left for the day. Brian has to work, and Kinnie is going to daycare. She could stay home with my mom and me, but we think it's probably good for her to maintain some kind of routine. Brian came up to our room to wish me a good day, and I heard Kin heading up the stairs, too. I said, "Kinnie, come give Mommy a kiss," to which she responded "I don wanna give Mommy kiss." Bri then said, "Can you say 'I love you Mommy'?" Kinnie's reply? "I don wanna say I wuv you Mommy." Think I have a two-year-old???
Had I only required one surgery, today would mark the halfway mark in my recovery. Instead, I'm one week in. I try not to focus on that, but there are definitely moments in which I feel the frustration. I miss "normal life." Yesterday, my brother asked what I want to do the most. And the answer consists of the little things. I hate not being able to go out for walks. I miss giving Kinnie her bath. I would like to clean my house (okay, maybe "like" is a little strong on that one). I want to be able to help Brian with all the tasks that he has taken over. He is working so hard, and I know he is tired. I can't wait to go to the zoo, and experience the new things that Kinnie is doing everyday. Since my first surgery, 3 weeks ago, she has been to the pool, her first Rockies game, the aquarium. I am so glad she is doing these things and is not held back by my recovery- I just want to be a part of it.
It's funny how life's experiences often bring lessons in gratitude. You can bet that when I am healed, and am able to participate, it will mean that much more to me.
Had I only required one surgery, today would mark the halfway mark in my recovery. Instead, I'm one week in. I try not to focus on that, but there are definitely moments in which I feel the frustration. I miss "normal life." Yesterday, my brother asked what I want to do the most. And the answer consists of the little things. I hate not being able to go out for walks. I miss giving Kinnie her bath. I would like to clean my house (okay, maybe "like" is a little strong on that one). I want to be able to help Brian with all the tasks that he has taken over. He is working so hard, and I know he is tired. I can't wait to go to the zoo, and experience the new things that Kinnie is doing everyday. Since my first surgery, 3 weeks ago, she has been to the pool, her first Rockies game, the aquarium. I am so glad she is doing these things and is not held back by my recovery- I just want to be a part of it.
It's funny how life's experiences often bring lessons in gratitude. You can bet that when I am healed, and am able to participate, it will mean that much more to me.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Questions and answers
I am 10 days post hip replacement.
I have a lot more understanding now, more knowledge about all the things I feared.
The pain has not been too bad. Since I awakened from surgery, it has been well managed. The precautions, dictating how I move, have been manageable. I daresay that I am now an expert at getting just about anywhere, and doing almost anything, without bending at the waist, crossing my legs, or twisting. The worst parts have probably been my inability to sleep in my favorite positions, and being sick from the medications. Oh yeah, that, and waking in the middle of surgery to hear the surgeon hammering the implant into my femur. Overall, it is not as bad as I feared.
My baby girl is a champion. She is overjoyed to spend so much time with her grandparents, and we are finding ways to interact, despite my limitations. Several times every day, she approaches me, points to my right leg, and says "Mommy's okay leg," and subsequently points to my left leg and says "Mommy's owie leg." She has shown compassion and sweetness, rubbing lotion on my leg and fixing the toes on the stockings I have to wear every day to prevent blood clots.
It is good to have all these answers as I face another surgery in 3 days.
I think my surgeon knew, as soon as he closed 10 days ago, that the discrepancy in the length of my legs was significant. He expressed concern, but said he wanted to see how I felt about it. I have definitely noticed. It is difficult to stand on both legs without bending my left knee. When I sit, it seems apparent that my left femur is longer. After a series of X-rays yesterday, we learned that there is nearly an inch difference.
I had a long talk with my surgeon about what happened, and about my options. He said that because of the surgeries I underwent as a child, the normal "landmarks" that he uses to determine leg length were missing. He said that I could live with the discrepancy, and potentially put lifts into my shoe that would help make my legs even. But there could be problems down the road. The tilt in my pelvis could cause pain and arthritis in my back. And possibly cause problems with my other hip.
My other option is more surgery to make adjustments to my hip implant. My surgeon said he feels confident that he can make my legs much more even by changing the angle of the femoral head, and changing the insert in the cup of the joint. Overall, it should be an easier surgery than the first. But it will add two more weeks to my recovery.
Last night, I was upset. I feel scared of more complications. I feel discouraged. It is difficult to feel as though I have taken so many steps forward to then go back. It sucks to potentially miss two more weeks of my summer. I hate that the time I can't play with Kinnie, fully, is extended.
Today, I am reminding myself and in the grand scheme of things, this is a tiny speck of time, that my coming recovery will be even better, because I have such a clear picture of how it is going to look. I have incredible support from all over the place. I am reminding myself that it will be okay.
I have a lot more understanding now, more knowledge about all the things I feared.
The pain has not been too bad. Since I awakened from surgery, it has been well managed. The precautions, dictating how I move, have been manageable. I daresay that I am now an expert at getting just about anywhere, and doing almost anything, without bending at the waist, crossing my legs, or twisting. The worst parts have probably been my inability to sleep in my favorite positions, and being sick from the medications. Oh yeah, that, and waking in the middle of surgery to hear the surgeon hammering the implant into my femur. Overall, it is not as bad as I feared.
My baby girl is a champion. She is overjoyed to spend so much time with her grandparents, and we are finding ways to interact, despite my limitations. Several times every day, she approaches me, points to my right leg, and says "Mommy's okay leg," and subsequently points to my left leg and says "Mommy's owie leg." She has shown compassion and sweetness, rubbing lotion on my leg and fixing the toes on the stockings I have to wear every day to prevent blood clots.
It is good to have all these answers as I face another surgery in 3 days.
I think my surgeon knew, as soon as he closed 10 days ago, that the discrepancy in the length of my legs was significant. He expressed concern, but said he wanted to see how I felt about it. I have definitely noticed. It is difficult to stand on both legs without bending my left knee. When I sit, it seems apparent that my left femur is longer. After a series of X-rays yesterday, we learned that there is nearly an inch difference.
I had a long talk with my surgeon about what happened, and about my options. He said that because of the surgeries I underwent as a child, the normal "landmarks" that he uses to determine leg length were missing. He said that I could live with the discrepancy, and potentially put lifts into my shoe that would help make my legs even. But there could be problems down the road. The tilt in my pelvis could cause pain and arthritis in my back. And possibly cause problems with my other hip.
My other option is more surgery to make adjustments to my hip implant. My surgeon said he feels confident that he can make my legs much more even by changing the angle of the femoral head, and changing the insert in the cup of the joint. Overall, it should be an easier surgery than the first. But it will add two more weeks to my recovery.
Last night, I was upset. I feel scared of more complications. I feel discouraged. It is difficult to feel as though I have taken so many steps forward to then go back. It sucks to potentially miss two more weeks of my summer. I hate that the time I can't play with Kinnie, fully, is extended.
Today, I am reminding myself and in the grand scheme of things, this is a tiny speck of time, that my coming recovery will be even better, because I have such a clear picture of how it is going to look. I have incredible support from all over the place. I am reminding myself that it will be okay.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Early
It is too early to be up. Especially when the baby is still sleeping. But eyes popped open, and my thought process went something like this: "What time is it? Oh, 5:00. One week from right now I could be in surgery." And that was it. I certainly was not going back to sleep.
The slew of emotions I experience in anticipating one week from today is overwhelming. A lot of those, perhaps, can be summed up in one word: anxious. I am anxious about how surgery will go, how it will feel to wake up and have a new hip, how bad the pain will be. I am anxious about all the restrictions in my movement, and how hard it will be to remember to keep my legs at shoulder's width apart, to not bend at the waist more than eighty degrees, and to not twist my new hip in any fashion. All of that, for six weeks. I am anxious about my baby girl, and how she will be, how much she will understand, and whether this will change our relationship (ah, this is where a lot of it lies- the waterworks have commenced). I am anxious about how this will weigh on Brian, trying to take care of all of us- granted, with a lot of help.
I am also grateful. I am grateful for the outpouring of support, and all the family members and friends signed up to help us out with the baby, the house, the dogs. I am grateful that after I recover, I will no longer be in pain. I am grateful that this is something that can be fixed, from which I know I will recover. I am grateful that my leave from work means a break, and fresh start in 7 weeks- the kind of opportunity which is rare in my line of work.
I am humbled. I am humbled by having to ask for so much help, and receiving more than we could need.
One of the lessons for me in this experience is that I will only recover if I ask others for help. Though I like to be super-woman, I cannot in this situation. And this is a lesson I need to learn. I am a caretaker. I like to do for others. I don't like to ask of others anything that I may accomplish on my own. Even when it would make more sense to ask for help. I still remember when I had my appendix out, many years ago, and a friend called and asked if she could could walk the dogs for me. I told her no. Even though everything in me wanted to say yes. I didn't want to inconvenience.
I realize now how much it means to me to be able to help others. And that, when I deprive others of the same opportunity, it isn't fair. And that I am deserving of help. I hope this is a lesson I can learn with grace.
So, the countdown is on, in earnest. I'm not sure if my next post will be before new hip, or after new hip. And, yes Mama, I am saying the serenity prayer....
I realize now how much it means to me to be able to help others. And that, when I deprive others of the same opportunity, it isn't fair. And that I am deserving of help. I hope this is a lesson I can learn with grace.
So, the countdown is on, in earnest. I'm not sure if my next post will be before new hip, or after new hip. And, yes Mama, I am saying the serenity prayer....
Friday, May 4, 2012
An open letter
Dear Left Hip,
I am lying in bed, on a heating pad, after taking as much Ibuprofen as I could stomach, to try to calm you. I am counting down the days until a new, less damaged, more stable hip takes your place. I have purchased the necessary medical equipment (including the LOVELY bedside commode) and am losing sleep over what it will be like. I am eager to be free of pain. But losing you is bitter sweet.
I am not sure whether it is your fault, or mine, that you ended up dislocated with a tendon knotted in you, making you malformed. Maybe it was because I was trying to enter the world butt-first. Or, maybe, I was butt first because you were a mess. I guess that we'll never know for sure. I am lucky, I think, that I don't remember the first surgery to try and correct our problem. At two months old, it was probably traumatic for us both. And then living life in a body cast for months... well, that couldn't have been pleasant, particularly with diapers involved.
I also don't remember why, when we were 9, it was decided that more surgery needed to be performed. I don't remember having pain, or being limited. But, clearly there was some major work to be done. To try and help us, they cut bones in half, screwed bone together, and left us with some cool metal gear in there. Do you remember all the work we had to do to get well? Two weeks in the hospital, three months on crutches. Now that I'm a parent, I can't imagine going through that with my child. We were lucky we had so much support. Mom stayed every night in the hospital, and do you remember that Papa came by every day with a gift? Dad took care of everything at home, and aunts and uncles came to read to us. I also remember that I missed the last 6 weeks of fourth grade, but my teacher came to visit, and brought a Garfield balloon. I drew a lot of pictures. And we had to do a lot of practice on those crutches to manage stairs. It was terrifying, but I daresay we became experts. And we recovered.
After that, we were a little more limited. The metal plate would be dangerous to fall on, so I had to protect you with a lot of padding when I went ice skating, and I wasn't allowed to ski. I didn't like to sleep on my left side anymore (my former favorite sleeping position) because somehow I could feel the pressure of the plate in there.
When the time came to remove all your hardware, we spent a few more nights in the hospital after a much easier surgery. And after that, we were essentially free. My family was told I would likely need a replacement one day, but that always seemed so far away.
For years, I didn't think about you much. From time to time, I'd be asked about the scars, and would be briefly reminded of what we had been through. I finally tried skiing (and found it was not my forte). You did your job, despite it all. I remember the first time that I was aware that you were not "just a normal hip" was in college, when I went through a two week period of pain. It scared me, but as quickly as the pain came, it left.
In the ten years since, we have seen a lot of life together. We've traveled, walked miles and miles along beaches and forest paths. We tried snowboarding (also not my forte), and climbed mountains. We've carried a child, in my womb and out, so many places.
I appreciate that you have carried me. It is not with spite that I have decided to replace you. But, rather, with gratitude. Though we struggled, I learned a lot along the way. Thank you for all you have given.
I am lying in bed, on a heating pad, after taking as much Ibuprofen as I could stomach, to try to calm you. I am counting down the days until a new, less damaged, more stable hip takes your place. I have purchased the necessary medical equipment (including the LOVELY bedside commode) and am losing sleep over what it will be like. I am eager to be free of pain. But losing you is bitter sweet.
I am not sure whether it is your fault, or mine, that you ended up dislocated with a tendon knotted in you, making you malformed. Maybe it was because I was trying to enter the world butt-first. Or, maybe, I was butt first because you were a mess. I guess that we'll never know for sure. I am lucky, I think, that I don't remember the first surgery to try and correct our problem. At two months old, it was probably traumatic for us both. And then living life in a body cast for months... well, that couldn't have been pleasant, particularly with diapers involved.
I also don't remember why, when we were 9, it was decided that more surgery needed to be performed. I don't remember having pain, or being limited. But, clearly there was some major work to be done. To try and help us, they cut bones in half, screwed bone together, and left us with some cool metal gear in there. Do you remember all the work we had to do to get well? Two weeks in the hospital, three months on crutches. Now that I'm a parent, I can't imagine going through that with my child. We were lucky we had so much support. Mom stayed every night in the hospital, and do you remember that Papa came by every day with a gift? Dad took care of everything at home, and aunts and uncles came to read to us. I also remember that I missed the last 6 weeks of fourth grade, but my teacher came to visit, and brought a Garfield balloon. I drew a lot of pictures. And we had to do a lot of practice on those crutches to manage stairs. It was terrifying, but I daresay we became experts. And we recovered.
When the time came to remove all your hardware, we spent a few more nights in the hospital after a much easier surgery. And after that, we were essentially free. My family was told I would likely need a replacement one day, but that always seemed so far away.
For years, I didn't think about you much. From time to time, I'd be asked about the scars, and would be briefly reminded of what we had been through. I finally tried skiing (and found it was not my forte). You did your job, despite it all. I remember the first time that I was aware that you were not "just a normal hip" was in college, when I went through a two week period of pain. It scared me, but as quickly as the pain came, it left.
In the ten years since, we have seen a lot of life together. We've traveled, walked miles and miles along beaches and forest paths. We tried snowboarding (also not my forte), and climbed mountains. We've carried a child, in my womb and out, so many places.
I appreciate that you have carried me. It is not with spite that I have decided to replace you. But, rather, with gratitude. Though we struggled, I learned a lot along the way. Thank you for all you have given.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Snakes and other amusement
Having an almost-two-year-old is quite an adventure. Yes, I am most likely to share tales of fits that include (but are not limited to) screaming, crying, kicking, flailing, and collapsing (have I ever mentioned this child is dramatic???). But the reality is, despite all that, or maybe because of it, we are having so much fun. I feel like I have a little friend to go places with me, adventure with me, laugh with me. She warms my heart every day, and cracks me up. I thought I ought to share some recent stories before they escape my memory.
One week ago, Kinnie and I went exploring. We walked around our neighborhood, and ended up in an open-space area near our house. We were examining ants and cacti, flowers and the creek. I had just picked Kinnie up when I spotted a little garter snake. I have encountered some big bull snakes in the area, and know rattlers are near, too, so my heart skipped a beat while I processed how much danger we were in. Kinnie spotted it too, was curious, and asked that we follow it as it slithered away. I tried to talk to her about snakes, said that this particular one was friendly and that we need to be careful because some snakes are not so friendly. As the snake disappeared under a bush, Kinnie asked to be put down again, and we followed the dirt trail. She began pointing to every stick, and every movement in the grass, and saying "snake." Within two minutes, she came to me with her arms outstretched, and said "Mommy pick you up" (her version of pick me up). I think she over thought my explanation of snakes and decided that the best place to be was off the ground.
Yesterday, we went to a local reservoir to hang out on the "beach." We had been the week before, without the intention of swimming, but yesterday I came prepared with swimsuits and sand toys. When Kinnie realized where we were, the only words she could muster (at a loud volume) were "swimming!" and "are you excited?!" (her version of "I'm excited"). It is so cool that she is verbalizing her emotions.
Today was a day that Kinnie needed to go to daycare so that I could work. I was talking to her about it this morning, telling her that she would be spending the day with Miss Leslie. She said, "pway wif friends." I said yes, and she said "pway wif best friends." It tickled me so that she has best friends. The first, I'm sure, in a series of many.
I am a proud Mama. It is a privilege to watch my child develop, and to understand her world a little better each day. It helps me to feel excited about the little things that I would otherwise overlook. She displays such wonder, such curiosity. I am blessed.
One week ago, Kinnie and I went exploring. We walked around our neighborhood, and ended up in an open-space area near our house. We were examining ants and cacti, flowers and the creek. I had just picked Kinnie up when I spotted a little garter snake. I have encountered some big bull snakes in the area, and know rattlers are near, too, so my heart skipped a beat while I processed how much danger we were in. Kinnie spotted it too, was curious, and asked that we follow it as it slithered away. I tried to talk to her about snakes, said that this particular one was friendly and that we need to be careful because some snakes are not so friendly. As the snake disappeared under a bush, Kinnie asked to be put down again, and we followed the dirt trail. She began pointing to every stick, and every movement in the grass, and saying "snake." Within two minutes, she came to me with her arms outstretched, and said "Mommy pick you up" (her version of pick me up). I think she over thought my explanation of snakes and decided that the best place to be was off the ground.
Yesterday, we went to a local reservoir to hang out on the "beach." We had been the week before, without the intention of swimming, but yesterday I came prepared with swimsuits and sand toys. When Kinnie realized where we were, the only words she could muster (at a loud volume) were "swimming!" and "are you excited?!" (her version of "I'm excited"). It is so cool that she is verbalizing her emotions.
Today was a day that Kinnie needed to go to daycare so that I could work. I was talking to her about it this morning, telling her that she would be spending the day with Miss Leslie. She said, "pway wif friends." I said yes, and she said "pway wif best friends." It tickled me so that she has best friends. The first, I'm sure, in a series of many.
I am a proud Mama. It is a privilege to watch my child develop, and to understand her world a little better each day. It helps me to feel excited about the little things that I would otherwise overlook. She displays such wonder, such curiosity. I am blessed.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Gratitude
It has been an incredible week. After Kinnie climbed out of her crib 6 nights ago, she is sleeping soundly in her "big-girl" bed- an actual full size! She has been a complete joy. We play and play. We laugh. She loves to cuddle and give kisses. She sings as loud as she can. She runs and runs- an active girl, to be sure. When we go to the park, she is just as happy to play among the trees as she is to play on the playground. This week, we fed ducks and squirrels. She gives our Koda puppy big hugs, and plays ball with Charlie Boy. She offers comfort, kisses our "owies."
I have been able to remain present this week. To put aside what doesn't matter for the things that really do.
I feel such immense gratitude- for my baby, my family, my friends.
I went to my orthopedist on Tuesday, to learn the results of a recent MRI of my hip. Since I was younger than Kinnie, I have had problems with it, and expected that the news would not be good.
When I pulled into the parking garage at the hospital, I felt my family holding me. I thought of all that my parents had been through with me- the surgeries, the recovery, the pain, the fear. And I knew that though I am now 31 years old, they would do it all again for me, right now. I knew that they would take the pain, if they could. That is a powerful feeling. I just knew my Dad was thinking about me, hoping that the news wouldn't be too bad. And my Mom met me there, to hold my hand. And I thought about how it must have felt, to watch their baby go through what I did. I think it was probably harder for them than for me.
Even though we faced all of it, turns out, I need a new hip. The cartilage in my current hip is beat to hell. I knew this was coming, and in some ways, it is a relief that the wait is over. And, in some ways, I am terrified.
I walked through the grocery store today, an activity that often inflames my pain, when tears came to my eyes as I realized that soon, I will be able to do this without hurting. Pain is a fascinating thing, when it is ever-present. All one can do is try to live with it, to not let it interfere. Some days, it is easier than others. The hope of doing these day-to-day activities without it is pretty incredible, and overwhelming.
I am grateful for all the lessons I learn, everyday, about how to better live this life. I am grateful for the things that take my breath away, and make me slow down and notice this moment. I am grateful for the pains, so that I remember what is truly important, and that I should focus on that. I am grateful that I have family and friends, who love and support me. I am grateful for that adorable baby, curled up in her big-girl bed, and all the meaning she has brought to my life.
I have been able to remain present this week. To put aside what doesn't matter for the things that really do.
I feel such immense gratitude- for my baby, my family, my friends.
I went to my orthopedist on Tuesday, to learn the results of a recent MRI of my hip. Since I was younger than Kinnie, I have had problems with it, and expected that the news would not be good.
When I pulled into the parking garage at the hospital, I felt my family holding me. I thought of all that my parents had been through with me- the surgeries, the recovery, the pain, the fear. And I knew that though I am now 31 years old, they would do it all again for me, right now. I knew that they would take the pain, if they could. That is a powerful feeling. I just knew my Dad was thinking about me, hoping that the news wouldn't be too bad. And my Mom met me there, to hold my hand. And I thought about how it must have felt, to watch their baby go through what I did. I think it was probably harder for them than for me.
Even though we faced all of it, turns out, I need a new hip. The cartilage in my current hip is beat to hell. I knew this was coming, and in some ways, it is a relief that the wait is over. And, in some ways, I am terrified.
I walked through the grocery store today, an activity that often inflames my pain, when tears came to my eyes as I realized that soon, I will be able to do this without hurting. Pain is a fascinating thing, when it is ever-present. All one can do is try to live with it, to not let it interfere. Some days, it is easier than others. The hope of doing these day-to-day activities without it is pretty incredible, and overwhelming.
I am grateful for all the lessons I learn, everyday, about how to better live this life. I am grateful for the things that take my breath away, and make me slow down and notice this moment. I am grateful for the pains, so that I remember what is truly important, and that I should focus on that. I am grateful that I have family and friends, who love and support me. I am grateful for that adorable baby, curled up in her big-girl bed, and all the meaning she has brought to my life.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Lessons
My house is a disaster. It hasn't been this bad in I don't know how long. Everywhere I look, there are toys, and papers, and dog hair, and who knows what else. But it's okay.
Brian had surgery to remove his infected appendix late last Thursday night. He is home, and doing well. And, his activity is limited. I am trying to care for him, the baby, the puppies... The house has fallen to the bottom of the list.
This experience has made me realize something. In all of this uninterrupted time with my family, I have been able to clearly see what is important. Yes, I like my house to be clean. But bouncing with Kinnie on the couch, squealing and giggling- that's important, and it's what I love. Even if the floor below is covered by all the toys she has dumped out of the bin. It seems as though I have a never-ending to-do list of unimportant stuff- vacuuming, dusting, repairing nail holes in the walls. But if I am constantly trying to keep up with that list, what am I missing out on? I have been outside more in the past couple of days that I had in the previous weeks, because of my need to walk to dogs. I have played more presently with Kinnie. I have been able to look after Brian and help him heal.
Another thing came to me yesterday, related in a round about way. We visited with Dusty's sister, who was in town for the weekend. After walking around downtown for a couple hours with her, Brian and I were driving home. We talked about Dusty's ability to bring people together while he was alive. It didn't particularly matter if one was "like" you. Dusty was open and interested in all kinds of people.
I think, in his death, Dusty continues to bring us together. There is a group of people, who, because Dusty loved them, and they loved him, are even more dear to my heart than they were prior to his death. People with whom I feel connected, and want to look out for, because Dusty felt that way for them. So, though we lost him, we share the burden of heavy hearts and hope for healing. We gained something new. That doesn't make up for missing him, but it helps.
Clarity of the most important things in life came to me this weekend. They are the people we love, and the people who are loved by people we loved. If I can maintain presence with them, and connection with them, then a dirty house just doesn't matter.
Brian had surgery to remove his infected appendix late last Thursday night. He is home, and doing well. And, his activity is limited. I am trying to care for him, the baby, the puppies... The house has fallen to the bottom of the list.
This experience has made me realize something. In all of this uninterrupted time with my family, I have been able to clearly see what is important. Yes, I like my house to be clean. But bouncing with Kinnie on the couch, squealing and giggling- that's important, and it's what I love. Even if the floor below is covered by all the toys she has dumped out of the bin. It seems as though I have a never-ending to-do list of unimportant stuff- vacuuming, dusting, repairing nail holes in the walls. But if I am constantly trying to keep up with that list, what am I missing out on? I have been outside more in the past couple of days that I had in the previous weeks, because of my need to walk to dogs. I have played more presently with Kinnie. I have been able to look after Brian and help him heal.
Another thing came to me yesterday, related in a round about way. We visited with Dusty's sister, who was in town for the weekend. After walking around downtown for a couple hours with her, Brian and I were driving home. We talked about Dusty's ability to bring people together while he was alive. It didn't particularly matter if one was "like" you. Dusty was open and interested in all kinds of people.
I think, in his death, Dusty continues to bring us together. There is a group of people, who, because Dusty loved them, and they loved him, are even more dear to my heart than they were prior to his death. People with whom I feel connected, and want to look out for, because Dusty felt that way for them. So, though we lost him, we share the burden of heavy hearts and hope for healing. We gained something new. That doesn't make up for missing him, but it helps.
Clarity of the most important things in life came to me this weekend. They are the people we love, and the people who are loved by people we loved. If I can maintain presence with them, and connection with them, then a dirty house just doesn't matter.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Weight
It has been a while. Time has flown and here I am, nearly two months later, wondering where it went. Sometimes I want to scream at it to slow down. And, I know, it will only go faster the longer we live. It makes me think of the quote credited to Lincoln: "In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."
Being with Kinnie fills me with life. She plays, and sings, and dances, and giggles. I think she tries a new song every day. Today, it was "Where is Thumbkin?" complete with some sort of hand gestures. We read books, and watch Elmo. She loves the bath, and swimming. She plays with the dogs, who sometimes (reluctantly) return the favor.
There is still a weight on me, a confusion in my heart. I still have not healed from the difficulties, and loss, from the last year. I realized recently that one of my most strongly held beliefs, has been challenged. From the time I was 14, and faced the diagnosis of and treatment for an auto-immune disease, I have believed things happen for a reason. I have believed the things that I have faced in my life have made me stronger, wiser, more compassionate. Which is why so many of my posts in the past many months have focused on making sense of the senseless. But I haven't been able to get there.
I'm not quite sure what the hump I'm trying to get over is. I just know it's there. And I know that I worry that its existence changes how present I am with Kinnie. Worry, worry... I have to let that go.
Being with Kinnie fills me with life. She plays, and sings, and dances, and giggles. I think she tries a new song every day. Today, it was "Where is Thumbkin?" complete with some sort of hand gestures. We read books, and watch Elmo. She loves the bath, and swimming. She plays with the dogs, who sometimes (reluctantly) return the favor.
There is still a weight on me, a confusion in my heart. I still have not healed from the difficulties, and loss, from the last year. I realized recently that one of my most strongly held beliefs, has been challenged. From the time I was 14, and faced the diagnosis of and treatment for an auto-immune disease, I have believed things happen for a reason. I have believed the things that I have faced in my life have made me stronger, wiser, more compassionate. Which is why so many of my posts in the past many months have focused on making sense of the senseless. But I haven't been able to get there.
I'm not quite sure what the hump I'm trying to get over is. I just know it's there. And I know that I worry that its existence changes how present I am with Kinnie. Worry, worry... I have to let that go.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
New Year
I hope that the way I felt as the New Year arrived is a sign of things to come.
In reflecting on the past year, I struggle to look forward without anxiety. I want to say that I am stronger than all that has happened. It has taken a toll. Even with the incredibly bright light that is my Kinnie, it feels as though my world is somehow darker. This is an incredible process for me, and I am still working on accepting.
My mom wrote this to me today.
"To Kelsey and Brian~~~~As you close out 2011, I know that you will look back on a lot of loss and sadness. I am struck however, by the way in which you lived life in 2011. When you lost Granddad and Grandy you both graciously walked through the pain without numbing yourself and looked to help those you love with their grief. You were present and participated in 4 weddings! Sometimes, it was a thankless job, but you showed up and gave your all, every single time. You helped raise funds for Ryan's wedding and were an integral part of he and Laura's big day. You orchestrated ceremonies as well as performed them.
When tragedy struck and Dusty was gone, you went to be with your friends and grieve. Your sadness was palpable and uncomfortable to watch but we watched you walk through your grief and you taught us all in sharing that process. Another friends father passed and you took the time to comfort him.
There were our many family events, a trip to New Mexico, and not once did either of you not show up. Surely you were tired or sad, but you kept participating in life, all the while working and raising Kinnie. When Kinnie got sick you worked together as a team and met her every need, all the while feeling scared and unsure. She could not have asked for better parents.
So, while 2011 saw a lot of loss, it was a year of triumph for the two of you. You persevered and participated in this thing called life and did so with grace and dignity."
It was so good to read, and I hope that I can soon look upon 2011 as a year of triumph. Certainly, it will not triumph over me. I have so much for which I am grateful, so many blessings. I hope for a beautiful 2012.
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