If I were my friend, I would look at the laundry list of things from the past year and say, "Oh honey. You've been through so much. You are amazing. I'm here for you. Hang in there." So I am trying to be that friend. To be there for myself no matter what. To rally other friends around on hard days and to raucously celebrate the good ones.
My husband was given the opportunity to leave his job this past week. By that, I mean he is burnt out after 13 years with the same company and was essentially asked to "plan an exit strategy". We had just bought a car the day before, and despite the assurance that our Out of Pocket Maximum has been met, the medical bills have kept coming. I feel that considering all that has happened in the past year, I would be justified in throwing a big fat tantrum. I should be panicking, right? The moment I heard of his meeting at work, I hit my knees. I didn't pray for magical solutions. I didn't curse God or ask why. I have learned that life is going to go on happening, and most of the time the only big beautiful miracle is that you get through the tough times, and you get to keep on living. I simply prayed for Peace. I prayed for the strength to handle whatever this new challenge would bring. That was an easy prayer for God to answer, since all of that peace and strength lives inside me. He introduces me to new depths of it every day. From the moment my knees touched the carpet, I have felt it. The panic and anxiety surge at times, but the Peace soothes over them like a calming balm. I think the only other pervasive feeling has been a sadness at watching my strong and fearless mountain man struggle. He is so brave. I pray for his peace and his courage. I cannot give him mine.
After a difficult year of roller coaster drama, permeating sadness, anxiety, anger, and confusion, the feeling of Peace is somewhat strange. It comes with the understanding that this is change that we begged for, hoped for, cried many tears for. It is time to move from our mucked in little stuck spot. It is harder than expected, but this is us, heading in the right direction.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Mushy Thoughts On Not Dying
It makes me wonder how many times in a day we skirt death unknowingly. How many of my loved ones did I almost lose today? How much longer would I hold them if I knew? I'm pretty sure there would be a lot more "Breath Hugs". You know, where you hug someone and then settle in for a full 'breathe together' moment that makes you just let go and be for a sec. Yeah. Those are my favorite kind. Never had one? Try it. It's better than melty chocolate. It's just that good.
What else? More thoughtful moments. More spontaneous 'yes' acts. More checking in just for the sake of checking in. More fending off sharp thoughts before they became sharp words that we regret later. More kindness.
Ever wonder what it's like to walk into somewhere like church or yoga class after you've not died? For the most part, nothing changes... except you. People are still living their stories, and rightly so. Not many people look at you and think, "Man, she was like millimeters from sepsis and sudden horrible death not so long ago. She had to get cut open to save her life! Glad she's still around! Break out the balloons!"
Surprisingly, to me my story matters a little less, while everyone else's story matters a little more. I think a lot more about what others have been through, and I think about how I make people feel. It's not a new concept. Our girl Maya Angelou has been talking about it for decades.
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| Still a fave. Thanks Maya. |
My Mama is the best example of this. She is a beautiful woman with a bright, wide smile and soft blue eyes. She has followed my daddy around the world, often not knowing the native language of the people she is connecting with, but never failing to connect. Never failing to draw a sweet child into her lap simply by exuding love. Children know. They know when your arms are a safe place and when the door to your heart has so long ago lost its hinges that it sits wide open to them. This is my Mama. I can see now that someday life's blows will wear me down, break me up, and only serve to make me soft like her. Those many moments when the temptation arises to clam up and turn hard against the pain, to cut myself off and slowly wither, I think of my Mama. I think of the life sustaining love that is salve to my soul, and I can't. I just can't. When the question comes, "Can I give up yet?" This is my answer. My mama, and all of those many who have made me feel. Loved, important, inspired, beautiful, powerful, strong, soft, shiny, amazing, real, happy. All of those people to whom I might return the favor- who are encouraged by my courage. You are my answer.
More often than not, I have questioned what it is that I believe.
Know this: I believe that there is a God in Heaven who grants us miracles, and I believe without a doubt that WE are those miracles for each other. WE are the tools in His hands. And even as we are receiving the miracle of someone else's love and encouragement, we are creating miracles for others just by continuing to live and love.
So keep living and keep loving, my friends. You did not die today. You can be a force for good.
Much Love,
Kristyan
Monday, June 22, 2015
Fighting Back
When I found out about my rogue IUD and the need to go under the knife again, I swore that I wouldn't let myself get to the depths of depression and anxiety that I had battled tooth and nail after my ankle reconstruction.
I didn't want the drama, the stress, the utter despair. I was careful. I was aware. Or so I thought. I didn't even realize I was slipping. I didn't identify the dull haze of apathy as leading me to the same place. I put on a good face. I enjoyed time with my family and friends, and relished their attention when I had it. I was genuinely happy in those moments. But behind everything, there was relentless pain and a heavy question weighting my chest..."What is the point?" I had no goals. I had given up on becoming. I didn't think I was allowed to become anymore. I just ...was. I encouraged loved ones, with my undying optimism and empathy. I was everything for everyone else... but not for me. Life was good... but not for me. Adventures were out there waiting to be had.... but not for me. Greatness was within reach and the future looked bright.... but not for me. The exhausted sense of surrender subtly grew until every morning I woke with the same thought. "Can I give up yet?" I felt like a peacefully drowning toddler who suddenly realizes she can't breathe, and just what that might mean. It wasn't like me not to tread water. This wasn't me!!
I had a particularly poignant panic attack the other day. I had taken the kids on an incredible camping trip with my family while Aaron was off running the Wasatch Back Ragnar Relay. We had both arrived home exhausted. I laid on Aaron's warm chest, staring at the ceiling, and wailing aloud every massively crushing fear as tears coursed down the sides of my face and filled my ears. What if I'm not allowed to have good anymore? What if no one really loves me and it's all just pity? What if I have lost every bit of fitness and I'm just getting flabbier and weaker by the minute? What if my haircut just makes me look like a fat boy? What if I never get to do the things I love again? What if the copper toxicity that has ravaged my mind and trashed my body is permanent? What if it triggers early onset Alzheimers and I can't remember my family anymore, and they are stuck with the insane husk of what used to be me? "I'm serious! I'm so screwed up, Babe!! I'm so screwed up!!"
To Aaron's credit, he only laughed once. After proper amounts of support and discussion, and promising me that things would get better, he very gingerly reminded me, in not so many words, that these episodes effect him and the kids. Which sent me into a fresh spiral of guilt, but which also gave me fresh motivation to pull myself together and look outside myself to care for them. We ate dinner around nine that night, but it was home cooked and healthy.
The next morning was Father's Day. I stuffed my anxiety deep into my chest and did my best to make this day about him. My emotional thrashing had nixed my preparatory trip to the store the night before, so I made do. Aaron looked me in the eyes and asked me not to feel guilty, and to just enjoy the day with him. It told him I would. Sometime mid-day, I sat at my computer while he napped. My eyes swept the messy desk around me and paused on a CD set that Aaron had gotten for free from some motivational seminar. "Building a Mind of Steel: The key to managing your little voices" by Kirk Duncan. I popped it in my disk drive and put on my headphones. It was cheesy, but the longer I listened, the more it applied to me. I hadn't realized just how much I had stopped believing. I'd turned a blind eye to the fact that I was letting those dark little voices have their way. I made lists, I started the exercises. I began to fight. In the program there is a challenge to write a positive affirmation strong enough to combat the negative narrative. "Imagine if you read this about yourself every night before bed? How would that affect you?"
Don't laugh. Here is mine:
I am an intelligent and voracious learner. I am strong. I am gracious and kind, unpresuming and generous. I am unstoppable, determined, and positive. I am an inspiration to those around me. I am free and uncluttered. I am wise and decisive. I am honest, authentic, real, and unapologetic. I accept the details of myself. I own the good and the bad in the knowledge that everything changes, including me. I am whole as I am. I am my own hero. I am a champion of LOVE. I accept the challenge to grow, to improve, to expand. I am adored. I am secure. I radiate JOY. I live in faith and trust, in myself, in my God, and in those around me.
This is my fight. I will not quietly drown in doubt and fear. I will not let the little voices win.
I didn't want the drama, the stress, the utter despair. I was careful. I was aware. Or so I thought. I didn't even realize I was slipping. I didn't identify the dull haze of apathy as leading me to the same place. I put on a good face. I enjoyed time with my family and friends, and relished their attention when I had it. I was genuinely happy in those moments. But behind everything, there was relentless pain and a heavy question weighting my chest..."What is the point?" I had no goals. I had given up on becoming. I didn't think I was allowed to become anymore. I just ...was. I encouraged loved ones, with my undying optimism and empathy. I was everything for everyone else... but not for me. Life was good... but not for me. Adventures were out there waiting to be had.... but not for me. Greatness was within reach and the future looked bright.... but not for me. The exhausted sense of surrender subtly grew until every morning I woke with the same thought. "Can I give up yet?" I felt like a peacefully drowning toddler who suddenly realizes she can't breathe, and just what that might mean. It wasn't like me not to tread water. This wasn't me!!
I had a particularly poignant panic attack the other day. I had taken the kids on an incredible camping trip with my family while Aaron was off running the Wasatch Back Ragnar Relay. We had both arrived home exhausted. I laid on Aaron's warm chest, staring at the ceiling, and wailing aloud every massively crushing fear as tears coursed down the sides of my face and filled my ears. What if I'm not allowed to have good anymore? What if no one really loves me and it's all just pity? What if I have lost every bit of fitness and I'm just getting flabbier and weaker by the minute? What if my haircut just makes me look like a fat boy? What if I never get to do the things I love again? What if the copper toxicity that has ravaged my mind and trashed my body is permanent? What if it triggers early onset Alzheimers and I can't remember my family anymore, and they are stuck with the insane husk of what used to be me? "I'm serious! I'm so screwed up, Babe!! I'm so screwed up!!"
To Aaron's credit, he only laughed once. After proper amounts of support and discussion, and promising me that things would get better, he very gingerly reminded me, in not so many words, that these episodes effect him and the kids. Which sent me into a fresh spiral of guilt, but which also gave me fresh motivation to pull myself together and look outside myself to care for them. We ate dinner around nine that night, but it was home cooked and healthy.
The next morning was Father's Day. I stuffed my anxiety deep into my chest and did my best to make this day about him. My emotional thrashing had nixed my preparatory trip to the store the night before, so I made do. Aaron looked me in the eyes and asked me not to feel guilty, and to just enjoy the day with him. It told him I would. Sometime mid-day, I sat at my computer while he napped. My eyes swept the messy desk around me and paused on a CD set that Aaron had gotten for free from some motivational seminar. "Building a Mind of Steel: The key to managing your little voices" by Kirk Duncan. I popped it in my disk drive and put on my headphones. It was cheesy, but the longer I listened, the more it applied to me. I hadn't realized just how much I had stopped believing. I'd turned a blind eye to the fact that I was letting those dark little voices have their way. I made lists, I started the exercises. I began to fight. In the program there is a challenge to write a positive affirmation strong enough to combat the negative narrative. "Imagine if you read this about yourself every night before bed? How would that affect you?"
Don't laugh. Here is mine:
I am an intelligent and voracious learner. I am strong. I am gracious and kind, unpresuming and generous. I am unstoppable, determined, and positive. I am an inspiration to those around me. I am free and uncluttered. I am wise and decisive. I am honest, authentic, real, and unapologetic. I accept the details of myself. I own the good and the bad in the knowledge that everything changes, including me. I am whole as I am. I am my own hero. I am a champion of LOVE. I accept the challenge to grow, to improve, to expand. I am adored. I am secure. I radiate JOY. I live in faith and trust, in myself, in my God, and in those around me.
This is my fight. I will not quietly drown in doubt and fear. I will not let the little voices win.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Things We Can't Control
**Warning: This post is pretty raw, and contains some graphic pictures and descriptions. If you get queasy at such things, proceed with caution. If your morbid curiosity just got all excited, by all means, have at it.
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| Chop Chop |
I sat in her salon chair and we got to chatting about ridiculously personal things, (such as one does with a hairdresser, ) the giant elephant of the year came up- my health. I had until Monday to decide what my surgery was going to be. I was still undecided.
"Hysterectomy? BEST thing I've ever done... as long as they leave your ovaries."
This was the fourth time I had heard this from a friend with experience. Rachel's gorgeous mother chimed in and agreed from the chair in the corner behind me. Number 5.
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As I drove home with the window down and the radio blasting, short hair ruffling in the wind, I didn't know if the haircut made me feel any more in control, but it sure was a nice distraction.
I was feeling pretty on edge for the weekend. I tried to remain calm. I'm pretty sure no one who offered me a hug knew that I wanted to dive into their arms and beg them to hold me together.
I attended one more yoga class on Friday. Bryan greeted me with compliments to my hair and a big hug. I squeezed him hard. Don't forget to let go.
I savored that class, knowing it would be my last for a while.
Monday morning brought my pre-op consultation. I was ready to take full advantage of this appointment. I fired question after question and was upfront about my indecision.
"I just want to give you as much information as possible, and let you decide." Dr. Fillerup was frank and thorough. In the end, with the facts as we knew them, I decided I didn't like the risk factors of bleeding out and decided to simplify things by choosing the laparoscopic hysterectomy. I had no idea that it wouldn't be my choice anyway.
I walked out of the office with extensive instructions for a day of strict liquid diet and laxatives followed by fasting on surgery day. Sounded like a real party.
Aaron decided he wasn't feeling well and he would work from home the rest of the day. It didn't take long for my inner composure to start unraveling. Aaron took one look at my face, and expressed his support of one last run. I changed my clothes, tied on my brand new Altra Superior 2.0s, told him I'd be in Mueller park, and got in the car. As I leaned into the steep road heading up 400 North, I thought I might puke. I was about to fly apart. And then I screamed. A ragged, raging, almost deafening scream. I was shocked at the anguish that came out of my body. Primal anger, fear, frustration, so much more that I didn't even realize had been brewing, pent up in my chest. I screamed again, this time from my toes and finished it off with a sob. It then I was done. That was it. No more.
When I pulled up at the trail head, I was already feeling better. Lock the car, stow the keys, start the watch, and walk. I had no expectations, but when it felt good to run, I ran, and when it didn't, I walked. There were very few people on the trail. The temps were perfect, sunshine and shade in beautiful harmony. I needed this. The longer the miles, the better it felt to run them. I gave myself credit for living a bold life, and for handling the cards I'd been dealt, until I was running with my head high, confident that I could handle whatever was coming my way. It's funny, whenever I get sort of a mental grasp on how strong and brave I am, I see everyone else in a new light. What are they going through that I have no clue about? What scars are they carrying? What major events made them who they are and brought them to where they are now? I like to think it makes me kinder- to them and to myself.
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| Mountain warrior |
Liquid diets are not fun. Good friends took my kids to the homeschool opera performance so that I could stay home and deal with laxatives and all that jazz. By evening, when I cooked dinner for my family and sucked down my last smoothie, I was hangry. And then the fast began.
The next morning when I woke the kids to kiss them goodbye, I was not feeling like a warrior. We made it through check-in and paid another chunk of change to the hospital. We were SO close to meeting our out-of-pocket maximum for the year. Aaron held my hand and made me laugh through all of the preparations. One of our bishopric members, and anesthesiologist, had seen my name on the surgery list and dropped in to my pre-op room to wish us luck. I kissed Aaron goodbye and they wheeled me into the OR. There was less ado this time around. Dr. Fillerup and the nurses helped me get into position on the operating table and piled me all snuggled up in warm blankets, distracting me with being cared for as the jagged ache of anesthesia made it's way up my arm. Sleep.
I awoke to confusion and pain. They were getting me settled into my room.
"Things didn't go as expected."
I didn't understand.
Garbled tidbits of information made it through the anesthesia and morphine haze.
No hysterectomy.
They had to open you up.
Attached to the bowel.
Longer recovery.
I just really needed to pee.
"Doesn't she have a catheter? No?"
The nurses tried to help me up to go to the bathroom, but I didn't make it. Too much pain. Not alert enough. So they laid me back down and I closed my eyes, drifting at the edge of consciousness while one nurse coached a trainee on how to place a catheter. This was a nightmare. It had to be.
Ow. Ow. Ow. OW. Please, no! OW! OW!!!
They shushed and cooed at me like I was a baby until it was in place.
Please let me just disappear. I laid in my hospital bed with my eyes closed and cried.
My drug-fogged mind couldn't grasp what was happening, what had happened.
Aaron tried to explain it to me with tears in his eyes. His chin shook a little. He had had to make big decisions.
Dr. Fillerup had prepped me for hysterectomy and tried to find the lost IUD via laparoscopy as planned. But it wasn't where we thought it was. It wasn't sticking out of the uterine wall as expected. The uterus was intact. After searching through my abdomen, she'd found the string, down low on the left side, the IUD was encapsulated in a large amount of scar tissue and absorbing into the wall of my colon.
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| Little string peeking out of the scar tissue |
"Can we wake her up and ask her?" They decided against it, knowing I'd probably be too groggy and confused to make a decision, and not wanting to put me through a second surgery.
He had called Alicia, panicked and desperate for advice. Alicia is a worrier. She panicked too.
In short order they decided I should keep my uterus, and the docs decided they would need to use the remaining surgery time window, cut open my abdomen, and cut the IUD and surrounding scar tissue from the bowel wall.
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| Cut it out! |
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| The culprit- and a hefty chunk of my flesh |
Then would come stitching and repair along with a generous dusting of powder to prevent adhesion between organs.
And so it was.
The look in Aaron's eyes begged to know if he'd made the right decision. I felt awful that he had been put in that position. He was second guessing himself even now. It was the decision I probably would have made. I told him I wasn't upset. I don't know if he believed me. In truth, I was upset, but not with him, not with the decision, with my own absolute sense of helplessness.
I pushed back the sense of physical violation I felt. I inspected my incisions- my soon-to-be scars.
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| Excuse me if I feel like a pin cushion. |
This body I have worked so hard to honor. I felt like I had failed. Again.
I was in a limbo of pain, low oxygen levels, breathing alarms, IV alarms, catheter adjustments, heart rate monitors, vitals checks, blood tests, and trying to make the best of it all. Aaron was there. He made it all bearable.
Because of the nature of the surgery, I was placed on a clear liquid diet for another 24 hours. All I could think about was wanting a dang sandwich. Hangry.
I FaceTimed my parents in Hawaii. I called and texted family and friends. I wiled away the time with Netflix movies, Instagram and Facebook. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Jenna showed up in my hospital room. My Jenna.
She was the best thing ever. Having her there to talk to, laugh with, be ridiculous with, meant the world to me- even if it did hurt to laugh. I hadn't expected visitors. I'm too stinking independent. It was so very nice. Sleep that night was not restful. We were in the women's center with tiny newborns and new mamas who cried through the night. Vital checks came every couple of hours, and there was even a 4 am blood draw. Aaron was trying to sleep on the little fold-out cot thing from the sofa-chair. I felt awful for him. My abdomen was a bloated blob. All the pent up air from surgery had begun to make things hurt worse. It was a long night.
When morning came, I ordered my breakfast of juice, jello and broth and awaited the doctor's arrival. We'd be waiting all day.
A student from the DATC came by and gave me a pedicure. I could have kissed her. When the doc finally came, there was only one important question. "Have you passed gas yet?" Despite burping every few seconds and finally being able to make it to the bathroom on my own, the answer was no. It meant my intestines hadn't woken up yet. Because of the unexpected nature of the surgery, it meant I couldn't go home. It also meant I had to stay on a liquid diet.
I am fully convinced that hospitals exist in their own mid-plane twilight zone. We weren't prepared to stay for two nights. And after calling babysitters and rearranging meal plans, I got bored, antsy, and downright grumpy. The gnawing, empty sense of hunger didn't help, though I did have a small personal celebration when I finally was able to fart.
Toward the second evening, Matt and Alicia made a very welcome visit. They always make for good conversation. Aaron was not looking forward to another restless night on the torture cot, but didn't want to leave me alone. Alicia offered to make a girls night of it so that Aaron could take the kids home to sleep in their own beds. Matt went to leave only to text Aaron for a jump start. Their car was acting up. By the time the cars got started and Alicia made it back with movies in tow, it was getting late. We settled in to giggle ourselves silly to Pitch Perfect until 12:30 am. I decided no one should have to endure the torture cot and sent her home to sleep. Aside from an early morning vitals check, I was left to sleep peacefully. I woke before 6 am and made it to the bathroom on my own, and ended up feeling good enough to take a solo walk through the quiet hallways. By 7:00 Dr. Fillerup made her rounds, declared me fit to go home, gave instructions to do basically nothing except gentle walking for the next 4-6 weeks (especially no lifting), and promised to write up the papers within the half hour. I texted Aaron to come break me out, a nurse disconnected my tubes and monitors and I headed for a quick shower. It felt so good to be free of all bandages, tubes and wires. I was feeling stronger and more confident, until I leaned back to rinse my shampoo and almost keeled over with the weight of my head because my abs still didn't work. Awesome. Somehow I survived washing and dressing. I puttered about packing and tidying, all the while being careful not to lift anything that required core muscles or twisting (which includes, surprisingly, pretty much everything). Then Aaron was there, and I was free.
Home presented it's own challenges. First order of business, build a step out of yoga blocks so I could get in and out of bed. New learning curve as to how to move to get around without too much pain. Second order of business, REAL FOOD. Aaron made a special trip to the Sunshine Cafe to get my favorite Garden Classic. I laid into that thing like it owed me money. So dang good.
We have had wonderful friends and neighbors bring us meals. Family and friends have taken kids so that I could have a break from noise and being whined at. A few awesome people have dropped in to visit or sent treats. These things mean so much to us, and help immensely.
It's hard to grasp that it's been almost 2 weeks now. On the other hand it feels like it's been FOREVER since I've done anything worthwhile. The staples are out, the adhesive has worn off, the scars will heal pretty well. But I'm in the midst of the mind game. One can only binge-watch Hulu for so long before one wants to smack one's head into a wall. I have gotten pretty good at taking non-skanky bed selfies...
I've been making my way through a stack of good books. It's slow going because pain does things to my attention span. Little things that we all take for granted are serious challenges. Rolling over in bed is a delicate crap shoot, a coughing fit can leave me in tears, sneezing feels like a red-hot knife to the ab muscles, and bowel movements leave me horribly breathless.
Everyday I go on my walk down the street. Everyday I make it a little further before needing to turn back. Uneven ground is rough... and I live on a hill.
Every day things get a little better.
Every day I remind myself that this too shall pass.
Every day I wake up with the question in my mind, "Can I give up yet?"
And everyday I answer myself, "Sure. Give up expecting things to be peachy. Give up deciding to feel terribly depressed when they aren't. Give up wanting more now, and decide to be content with where you are." Then I hate myself for being so clever and logical, and make faces and flip myself off in the mirror or something.
It's a slippery slope though... giving up. It can easy lead to "Give up dreaming. Give up hope. Give up on the idea that you can have any control over anything in your life." But those ones start to make me feel a little bit dead inside, so I try not to go there.
I miss the feeling that if I work hard and love hard and keep smiling, I can have dreams and accomplish them. There is nothing quite like watching the slow death of your own optimism.
I miss the camaraderie of my tribes. I miss endorphins. I miss my mountains and my yoga mat. I miss stretching and movement.
There is a deep, and continuous battle between gratitude and cynical depression. A constant discord between what I know and what I feel.
I'm blessed. I'm loved. I'm cared for.
I know that I have friends that would do anything I asked of them, but I don't even know what to ask for. I'm almost embarrassed to be around the people who have come to expect more of me than what this numb, confused, small person can offer. When it comes down to it, I'm just rather sad, tired and lonely, and I don't know how to fix it except to just wait it out.
It will get better. It has to.
I was in a limbo of pain, low oxygen levels, breathing alarms, IV alarms, catheter adjustments, heart rate monitors, vitals checks, blood tests, and trying to make the best of it all. Aaron was there. He made it all bearable.
Because of the nature of the surgery, I was placed on a clear liquid diet for another 24 hours. All I could think about was wanting a dang sandwich. Hangry.
I FaceTimed my parents in Hawaii. I called and texted family and friends. I wiled away the time with Netflix movies, Instagram and Facebook. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Jenna showed up in my hospital room. My Jenna.
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| The Famous Jay |
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| Aaron being my bed kitteh. |
A student from the DATC came by and gave me a pedicure. I could have kissed her. When the doc finally came, there was only one important question. "Have you passed gas yet?" Despite burping every few seconds and finally being able to make it to the bathroom on my own, the answer was no. It meant my intestines hadn't woken up yet. Because of the unexpected nature of the surgery, it meant I couldn't go home. It also meant I had to stay on a liquid diet.
I am fully convinced that hospitals exist in their own mid-plane twilight zone. We weren't prepared to stay for two nights. And after calling babysitters and rearranging meal plans, I got bored, antsy, and downright grumpy. The gnawing, empty sense of hunger didn't help, though I did have a small personal celebration when I finally was able to fart.
Toward the second evening, Matt and Alicia made a very welcome visit. They always make for good conversation. Aaron was not looking forward to another restless night on the torture cot, but didn't want to leave me alone. Alicia offered to make a girls night of it so that Aaron could take the kids home to sleep in their own beds. Matt went to leave only to text Aaron for a jump start. Their car was acting up. By the time the cars got started and Alicia made it back with movies in tow, it was getting late. We settled in to giggle ourselves silly to Pitch Perfect until 12:30 am. I decided no one should have to endure the torture cot and sent her home to sleep. Aside from an early morning vitals check, I was left to sleep peacefully. I woke before 6 am and made it to the bathroom on my own, and ended up feeling good enough to take a solo walk through the quiet hallways. By 7:00 Dr. Fillerup made her rounds, declared me fit to go home, gave instructions to do basically nothing except gentle walking for the next 4-6 weeks (especially no lifting), and promised to write up the papers within the half hour. I texted Aaron to come break me out, a nurse disconnected my tubes and monitors and I headed for a quick shower. It felt so good to be free of all bandages, tubes and wires. I was feeling stronger and more confident, until I leaned back to rinse my shampoo and almost keeled over with the weight of my head because my abs still didn't work. Awesome. Somehow I survived washing and dressing. I puttered about packing and tidying, all the while being careful not to lift anything that required core muscles or twisting (which includes, surprisingly, pretty much everything). Then Aaron was there, and I was free.
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| Freedom! |
We have had wonderful friends and neighbors bring us meals. Family and friends have taken kids so that I could have a break from noise and being whined at. A few awesome people have dropped in to visit or sent treats. These things mean so much to us, and help immensely.
It's hard to grasp that it's been almost 2 weeks now. On the other hand it feels like it's been FOREVER since I've done anything worthwhile. The staples are out, the adhesive has worn off, the scars will heal pretty well. But I'm in the midst of the mind game. One can only binge-watch Hulu for so long before one wants to smack one's head into a wall. I have gotten pretty good at taking non-skanky bed selfies...
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| This one says, moody and forlorn |
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| Straight up bored |
Everyday I go on my walk down the street. Everyday I make it a little further before needing to turn back. Uneven ground is rough... and I live on a hill.
Every day things get a little better.
Every day I remind myself that this too shall pass.
Every day I wake up with the question in my mind, "Can I give up yet?"
And everyday I answer myself, "Sure. Give up expecting things to be peachy. Give up deciding to feel terribly depressed when they aren't. Give up wanting more now, and decide to be content with where you are." Then I hate myself for being so clever and logical, and make faces and flip myself off in the mirror or something.
It's a slippery slope though... giving up. It can easy lead to "Give up dreaming. Give up hope. Give up on the idea that you can have any control over anything in your life." But those ones start to make me feel a little bit dead inside, so I try not to go there.
I miss the feeling that if I work hard and love hard and keep smiling, I can have dreams and accomplish them. There is nothing quite like watching the slow death of your own optimism.
I miss the camaraderie of my tribes. I miss endorphins. I miss my mountains and my yoga mat. I miss stretching and movement.
There is a deep, and continuous battle between gratitude and cynical depression. A constant discord between what I know and what I feel.
I'm blessed. I'm loved. I'm cared for.
I know that I have friends that would do anything I asked of them, but I don't even know what to ask for. I'm almost embarrassed to be around the people who have come to expect more of me than what this numb, confused, small person can offer. When it comes down to it, I'm just rather sad, tired and lonely, and I don't know how to fix it except to just wait it out.
It will get better. It has to.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
When it all falls apart...again.
On March 27th, just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief for having made it through all the March birthdays in our family and trying to deal with car repairs and a dead washing machine, I couldn't breathe.
I was prepping for the final birthday party of the month, a little park and popsicle party for Arya and her cousin Wyatt. I got up, feeling well. Did some squats and pushups and hopped in the shower. Then just as I was beginning to dress, I got a phone call from my favorite Alicia. We had been chatting for a while, checking in, when I began having left side cramps. They aren't new, I've had abdominal pain on and off for years. I suspected they were either ovarian cysts or some kind of intestinal issues. But they didn't fade this time. They intensified and wrapped around my back until I was panting out short replies to Alicia, curled up in a ball on the bed in my underwear. "I think I need to go. (gasp, cringe, pant, pant) I don't feel okay." I wheezed into the phone. I tried to walk to the bathroom and ended up on the floor. I finally made it to the toilet, only to dry heave, then lay on the floor gasping between bouts of retching uncontrollably again and again with no relief. I texted Aaron. "I think I need a doctor."
Those are big words coming from me. Every breath was a struggle.
I made some calls and got in for a noon appointment with a PA at our local family practice. The next challenge was to put on clothes. Pants have never been such a challenge. Aaron rushed home to take me in. We left Talon in charge and made the short trip. Every bump was excruciating. I had to hold the seatbelt away from my belly. We made it to the doc's office just as I remembered I'd forgotten my purse. No ID to go with my insurance card. They were gracious. I filled out papers as I broke into a sweat trying not to pass out. Eventually we made it back to an exam room where I answered questions from nurses and met Wendy who took one look and asked if I was sure I didn't want to go to the ER.
Ha.
I briefly explained to her how badly I hate the ER and how it took me an entire night with no painkillers and a shattered ankle to get there the last time. She dubiously nodded her head and asked if I thought I could pee in a cup. I responded I thought maybe so, and remembered that I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the night before. I've never peed straight coca-cola before, but I imagine it would have been a fair color comparison. "That can't be good," I muttered to the toilet.
Wendy agreed. "I suspect kidney stones. I'm sending you up to the hospital for a CT and some blood work. Start drinking water -lots of it." Awesome. (No, not awesome.)
I felt like an evil giant had a vice grip on my entire left side.
We headed home to get my purse and a water bottle, and then back up to the hospital where nice people took my insurance info and put me in a wheelchair. CT scans are quick and easy. They are a crap-ton of radiation, but they are easy! They wheeled me to the lab and took my blood and sent me on my way with a cheery,"We'll call you!"
So we went home. I took Ibuprofen, called Alicia, and laid on the couch while Aaron and Alicia took the kids and threw a birthday party without me.
And the phone rang.
"Hey Kristyan, this is Wendy. So there is a 6mm kidney stone, but your scan showed more than that."
Okay....
"There are a couple of suspicious looking masses on your liver. So we want you to go in for a contrast MRI to check those out and see if they pose a risk."
That sounds crappy... and expensive....
"And..."
And??
"You said you weren't on any birth control, right?"
Yeah....
"Well there is an IUD outside of your uterus."
Oh.... that's where that went. It went missing like six and a half years ago. I've had a baby since then and they couldn't find it with ultrasound, so they told me it just fell out.
"Apparently it didn't. You'll need laparoscopic surgery to remove it... blahblahblahblahwhompwhompwhomp."
*Cringe* $$$$$$$
She prescribed me some medicine to dilate my ureters to help pass the stone... And antibiotics... and percocet. With flashbacks of awful digestive torment spinning in my head, I decided I probably wouldn't take that. Matt and Alicia brought lettuce wrapped In-n-Out for dinner, and Misha and Ben took the kids for the evening so I could rest. I have the best family.
Thus began a weekend of drowning myself, being incredibly dizzy and lightheaded from FloMax side effects, gagging down lemon and oil concoctions designed to help dissolve kidney stones, and cleaning up puke for sick kids... with no washing machine. Angel neighbors took loads of puke laundry to wash, and brought meals so I wouldn't have to cook.
Monday rolled around. An appointment with the Urology PA. X-rays showed that the stone was still there, and big, and pointy, and very stuck. "Oh, and by the way, did you know about the IUD and the liver thing....?" Yes. I did. Thanks.
They scheduled me for Lithotripsy on Thursday. Shockwave therapy to break up the stone. They put you under and call it surgery and you wake up bruised and peeing blood. Sounds like a party.
It was my last week of work on the schedule, and no one could cover my shifts (though Brett was sweet enough to take a few of the hours), so I went to work. Dizzy, coughing, wheezing (stupid med side effects).
Tuesday was MRI day. Hospitals are such an efficient money making machine. They take you straight back to the billing people and offer you discounts to hand over money right this instant. So after coughing up a couple grand, we headed back to radiology. MRIs are not quick and easy. They are terrifying.
Strapped to a board, breathing sensor around my chest, needle in arm, earplugs in (but not in well enough), and panic button in hand, I was slid into a tube only slightly wider than my body, and blasted with every laser gun, tornado warning, robot sound effect cranked up loud enough to waken the dead.... for an hour. I honestly wondered for a second if it was a joke. They couldn't be serious.
The first 5-10 minutes were torture, pure panic, claustrophobic primal fear. "I don't know if I can do this!!"
So I prayed. I began slipping yogic meditation in between the automated breathing instructions. I vividly imagined every person I've ever loved hugging me close, and then stayed in Aaron's arms until the panic subsided. When I opened my eyes, the tunnel walls didn't seem quite so close, and the noises seemed funny to me. I spent the rest of the time alternating management of giggles and panic.
Then the technician's voice came on speaker, "You are doing awesome! Here comes the contrast through your IV." The frigid fluid coursed into my arm and flooded my body. It felt like it was dripping down my arm. A few more minutes of shivery torture, and then I was done.
They pulled me out of the machine. "Well, that was a party," I quipped. They laughed and unstrapped me, and then noticed the bloody saline leaking from my IV and dripping onto my sweater. Oops.
I gathered my things and went to find Aaron in the waiting room. His face was a most welcome sight.
Then they sent us on our way with a cheery, "We'll call you!"
The next 2 days were spent jumping at every noise, waiting for that call. I worked my last day on Wednesday, dizzy, coughing, and nauseated from the meds- still jumping at every noise.
"You're leaving us now, with no way to know if you are dying or not??" I promised Jeremy that I'd get them word. I hugged Danny and Angie. My buddies. I would miss them most.
Thursday was Lithotripsy day. They could get me in at 11:30. I had fasted since 10 the night before. We arrive at the hospital again, shuffled into the billing room and fulfilled the rest of our deductible (probably more), efficiently draining my hard-kept savings account. Then they took me back and I dressed in the paper bag gown with the awesome massaging calf compression sleeves and waited. And waited. And waited. I was getting grumpy. 2 and a half hours later, they took me back to the OR. They got me situated and put on the oxygen mask. "It might smell a little plasticky," they said. But when my eyes started to burn and I began gagging and choking uncontrollably at the stench, they realized that the "dirty sock" scent that they use to tease pediatric patients was cranked all the way up to 20. I had tears streaming down my face by the time I could breathe comfortably again. Then they started the anesthesia and a searing pain spread up my arm. I figured I'd be out before I couldn't manage it, but 10 seconds in my entire arm was on fire, enough that I cried out in pain. "It's normal, just a few more seconds," they said. And then I was out.
I like waking up to Aaron. He's pretty awesome. I was sore, but not even close to the original kidney stone pain. They sent me home with a pee strainer and instructions to collect the pieces and bring them in for testing. I didn't care, I just wanted food.
We stopped by Jimmy Johns on the way home. While Aaron went in to get us unwiches, I checked my messages. There was one from my cousin. We're close in age, but had not been super close growing up. We get along much better as adults. It was completely unexpected. She had bought me a new washing machine and wanted my address for delivery. I was floored, flabbergasted, and so grateful. My life is filled with angels.
And then came the other call I'd been waiting for. MRI results. There were not two lesions on my liver... there were seven. The largest measured 2.6 cm. My heart skipped a beat... They were benign. No cancer. No action needed except to watch and re-scan in 6 months. Hepatic Hemangioma. Apparently they can either be congenital or autoimmune-caused. We don't know if I was born with them. We don't know if something caused them, but for now, they aren't a major worry. *Phew.*
Lithotripsy recovery went well. The FloMax had me feeling awful until I finally just stopped taking it. I was done feeling like a sick person all of the time.
At first I was incensed that the OBGYN couldn't even see me for a consult until April 13th. But it turned out to be a good thing. Aaron's little brother had a wedding, and it was nice to have a break from all of the medical procedures in order to focus on family time. When I did finally make it in to see Dr. Fillerup, I was told that the IUD is still about 5% stuck in outer wall of my uterus. There is an 80% chance that they'll just go in and take it out and things will be fine. There is a 20% chance that pulling it out will cause major bleeding and they'll have to perform a partial hysterectomy while I'm under. I'm a little nervous. I was given a choice of two dates for my surgery. April 22nd, or May 13th. Aaron's B-Day is April 23rd. He'd had a Zion traverse trip planned for that week. I couldn't just steamroll him like that. He matters too much. So May 13th it is.
I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of tests, labs, meds, side effects, and follow-up visits. I'm just tired. I want this thing out of me.
In the meantime life has kept me good and distracted with car repairs, family stuff, and hospital bills. Somehow, by the grace of God, we had an incredible week-long family trip to Zion in our dying van. (I'll write about the trip later- it deserves it's own post.)
I finally started going back to regular Yoga classes. I have so much healing to do. It dawned on me the other day that I've lost my sense of security. I've lost my belief that I can safely live, safely adventure, reach out, take a leap, and not get smacked down by life. At this point, I honestly don't believe I'm allowed to have dreams or goals that will ever come to fruition. I've been in survival mode for so long, I don't know how to try for more than that. I can't make a decision. I can't set a goal. I can't seem to even make short term plans for the subconscious fear that they will be smashed to bits the moment I look that direction. I've gotten really good at shrugging my shoulders and saying, "I guess not. Maybe later." Somewhere deep down there is a fighter in me that knows this is unacceptable. So I guess somehow I need to earn my power back. I don't know how to do it. I'm starting with yoga, energy work, writing, and I don't know... yard work? Home repairs? A hair cut? I just really need to get out of this rut.
When it comes down to it, I'm okay. I may not be awesome right now, but I have just enough faith to get by. Faith that none of this is permanent. Faith that change will come. Faith that even though I can't see the big picture right now, it's still a great big picture. And I have the best family and friends that a girl could ever want. So I guess I'll just take it a day at a time and..... be grateful.
I was prepping for the final birthday party of the month, a little park and popsicle party for Arya and her cousin Wyatt. I got up, feeling well. Did some squats and pushups and hopped in the shower. Then just as I was beginning to dress, I got a phone call from my favorite Alicia. We had been chatting for a while, checking in, when I began having left side cramps. They aren't new, I've had abdominal pain on and off for years. I suspected they were either ovarian cysts or some kind of intestinal issues. But they didn't fade this time. They intensified and wrapped around my back until I was panting out short replies to Alicia, curled up in a ball on the bed in my underwear. "I think I need to go. (gasp, cringe, pant, pant) I don't feel okay." I wheezed into the phone. I tried to walk to the bathroom and ended up on the floor. I finally made it to the toilet, only to dry heave, then lay on the floor gasping between bouts of retching uncontrollably again and again with no relief. I texted Aaron. "I think I need a doctor."
Those are big words coming from me. Every breath was a struggle.
I made some calls and got in for a noon appointment with a PA at our local family practice. The next challenge was to put on clothes. Pants have never been such a challenge. Aaron rushed home to take me in. We left Talon in charge and made the short trip. Every bump was excruciating. I had to hold the seatbelt away from my belly. We made it to the doc's office just as I remembered I'd forgotten my purse. No ID to go with my insurance card. They were gracious. I filled out papers as I broke into a sweat trying not to pass out. Eventually we made it back to an exam room where I answered questions from nurses and met Wendy who took one look and asked if I was sure I didn't want to go to the ER.
Ha.
I briefly explained to her how badly I hate the ER and how it took me an entire night with no painkillers and a shattered ankle to get there the last time. She dubiously nodded her head and asked if I thought I could pee in a cup. I responded I thought maybe so, and remembered that I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the night before. I've never peed straight coca-cola before, but I imagine it would have been a fair color comparison. "That can't be good," I muttered to the toilet.
Wendy agreed. "I suspect kidney stones. I'm sending you up to the hospital for a CT and some blood work. Start drinking water -lots of it." Awesome. (No, not awesome.)
I felt like an evil giant had a vice grip on my entire left side.
We headed home to get my purse and a water bottle, and then back up to the hospital where nice people took my insurance info and put me in a wheelchair. CT scans are quick and easy. They are a crap-ton of radiation, but they are easy! They wheeled me to the lab and took my blood and sent me on my way with a cheery,"We'll call you!"
So we went home. I took Ibuprofen, called Alicia, and laid on the couch while Aaron and Alicia took the kids and threw a birthday party without me.
And the phone rang.
"Hey Kristyan, this is Wendy. So there is a 6mm kidney stone, but your scan showed more than that."
Okay....
"There are a couple of suspicious looking masses on your liver. So we want you to go in for a contrast MRI to check those out and see if they pose a risk."
That sounds crappy... and expensive....
"And..."
And??
"You said you weren't on any birth control, right?"
Yeah....
"Well there is an IUD outside of your uterus."
Oh.... that's where that went. It went missing like six and a half years ago. I've had a baby since then and they couldn't find it with ultrasound, so they told me it just fell out.
"Apparently it didn't. You'll need laparoscopic surgery to remove it... blahblahblahblahwhompwhompwhomp."
*Cringe* $$$$$$$
She prescribed me some medicine to dilate my ureters to help pass the stone... And antibiotics... and percocet. With flashbacks of awful digestive torment spinning in my head, I decided I probably wouldn't take that. Matt and Alicia brought lettuce wrapped In-n-Out for dinner, and Misha and Ben took the kids for the evening so I could rest. I have the best family.
Thus began a weekend of drowning myself, being incredibly dizzy and lightheaded from FloMax side effects, gagging down lemon and oil concoctions designed to help dissolve kidney stones, and cleaning up puke for sick kids... with no washing machine. Angel neighbors took loads of puke laundry to wash, and brought meals so I wouldn't have to cook.
Monday rolled around. An appointment with the Urology PA. X-rays showed that the stone was still there, and big, and pointy, and very stuck. "Oh, and by the way, did you know about the IUD and the liver thing....?" Yes. I did. Thanks.
They scheduled me for Lithotripsy on Thursday. Shockwave therapy to break up the stone. They put you under and call it surgery and you wake up bruised and peeing blood. Sounds like a party.
It was my last week of work on the schedule, and no one could cover my shifts (though Brett was sweet enough to take a few of the hours), so I went to work. Dizzy, coughing, wheezing (stupid med side effects).
Tuesday was MRI day. Hospitals are such an efficient money making machine. They take you straight back to the billing people and offer you discounts to hand over money right this instant. So after coughing up a couple grand, we headed back to radiology. MRIs are not quick and easy. They are terrifying.
Strapped to a board, breathing sensor around my chest, needle in arm, earplugs in (but not in well enough), and panic button in hand, I was slid into a tube only slightly wider than my body, and blasted with every laser gun, tornado warning, robot sound effect cranked up loud enough to waken the dead.... for an hour. I honestly wondered for a second if it was a joke. They couldn't be serious.
The first 5-10 minutes were torture, pure panic, claustrophobic primal fear. "I don't know if I can do this!!"
So I prayed. I began slipping yogic meditation in between the automated breathing instructions. I vividly imagined every person I've ever loved hugging me close, and then stayed in Aaron's arms until the panic subsided. When I opened my eyes, the tunnel walls didn't seem quite so close, and the noises seemed funny to me. I spent the rest of the time alternating management of giggles and panic.
Then the technician's voice came on speaker, "You are doing awesome! Here comes the contrast through your IV." The frigid fluid coursed into my arm and flooded my body. It felt like it was dripping down my arm. A few more minutes of shivery torture, and then I was done.
They pulled me out of the machine. "Well, that was a party," I quipped. They laughed and unstrapped me, and then noticed the bloody saline leaking from my IV and dripping onto my sweater. Oops.
I gathered my things and went to find Aaron in the waiting room. His face was a most welcome sight.
Then they sent us on our way with a cheery, "We'll call you!"
The next 2 days were spent jumping at every noise, waiting for that call. I worked my last day on Wednesday, dizzy, coughing, and nauseated from the meds- still jumping at every noise.
"You're leaving us now, with no way to know if you are dying or not??" I promised Jeremy that I'd get them word. I hugged Danny and Angie. My buddies. I would miss them most.
Thursday was Lithotripsy day. They could get me in at 11:30. I had fasted since 10 the night before. We arrive at the hospital again, shuffled into the billing room and fulfilled the rest of our deductible (probably more), efficiently draining my hard-kept savings account. Then they took me back and I dressed in the paper bag gown with the awesome massaging calf compression sleeves and waited. And waited. And waited. I was getting grumpy. 2 and a half hours later, they took me back to the OR. They got me situated and put on the oxygen mask. "It might smell a little plasticky," they said. But when my eyes started to burn and I began gagging and choking uncontrollably at the stench, they realized that the "dirty sock" scent that they use to tease pediatric patients was cranked all the way up to 20. I had tears streaming down my face by the time I could breathe comfortably again. Then they started the anesthesia and a searing pain spread up my arm. I figured I'd be out before I couldn't manage it, but 10 seconds in my entire arm was on fire, enough that I cried out in pain. "It's normal, just a few more seconds," they said. And then I was out.
I like waking up to Aaron. He's pretty awesome. I was sore, but not even close to the original kidney stone pain. They sent me home with a pee strainer and instructions to collect the pieces and bring them in for testing. I didn't care, I just wanted food.
We stopped by Jimmy Johns on the way home. While Aaron went in to get us unwiches, I checked my messages. There was one from my cousin. We're close in age, but had not been super close growing up. We get along much better as adults. It was completely unexpected. She had bought me a new washing machine and wanted my address for delivery. I was floored, flabbergasted, and so grateful. My life is filled with angels.
And then came the other call I'd been waiting for. MRI results. There were not two lesions on my liver... there were seven. The largest measured 2.6 cm. My heart skipped a beat... They were benign. No cancer. No action needed except to watch and re-scan in 6 months. Hepatic Hemangioma. Apparently they can either be congenital or autoimmune-caused. We don't know if I was born with them. We don't know if something caused them, but for now, they aren't a major worry. *Phew.*
Lithotripsy recovery went well. The FloMax had me feeling awful until I finally just stopped taking it. I was done feeling like a sick person all of the time.
At first I was incensed that the OBGYN couldn't even see me for a consult until April 13th. But it turned out to be a good thing. Aaron's little brother had a wedding, and it was nice to have a break from all of the medical procedures in order to focus on family time. When I did finally make it in to see Dr. Fillerup, I was told that the IUD is still about 5% stuck in outer wall of my uterus. There is an 80% chance that they'll just go in and take it out and things will be fine. There is a 20% chance that pulling it out will cause major bleeding and they'll have to perform a partial hysterectomy while I'm under. I'm a little nervous. I was given a choice of two dates for my surgery. April 22nd, or May 13th. Aaron's B-Day is April 23rd. He'd had a Zion traverse trip planned for that week. I couldn't just steamroll him like that. He matters too much. So May 13th it is.
I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of tests, labs, meds, side effects, and follow-up visits. I'm just tired. I want this thing out of me.
In the meantime life has kept me good and distracted with car repairs, family stuff, and hospital bills. Somehow, by the grace of God, we had an incredible week-long family trip to Zion in our dying van. (I'll write about the trip later- it deserves it's own post.)
I finally started going back to regular Yoga classes. I have so much healing to do. It dawned on me the other day that I've lost my sense of security. I've lost my belief that I can safely live, safely adventure, reach out, take a leap, and not get smacked down by life. At this point, I honestly don't believe I'm allowed to have dreams or goals that will ever come to fruition. I've been in survival mode for so long, I don't know how to try for more than that. I can't make a decision. I can't set a goal. I can't seem to even make short term plans for the subconscious fear that they will be smashed to bits the moment I look that direction. I've gotten really good at shrugging my shoulders and saying, "I guess not. Maybe later." Somewhere deep down there is a fighter in me that knows this is unacceptable. So I guess somehow I need to earn my power back. I don't know how to do it. I'm starting with yoga, energy work, writing, and I don't know... yard work? Home repairs? A hair cut? I just really need to get out of this rut.
When it comes down to it, I'm okay. I may not be awesome right now, but I have just enough faith to get by. Faith that none of this is permanent. Faith that change will come. Faith that even though I can't see the big picture right now, it's still a great big picture. And I have the best family and friends that a girl could ever want. So I guess I'll just take it a day at a time and..... be grateful.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Back on the Island
I've been absent. I'm sorry. I have really good excuses. I'll tell you all about them soon, I just need to acknowledge something first.
Antelope Island Buffalo Run 25kMarch 21, 2015
So that happened. I tried not to view the repeat distance as the consolation prize for not being able to do the 50k like I had hoped. I went it to it not nervous, and with no goals except to be honest with myself, respect my body, and finish with a big fat smile on my face.
I started slow. Really slow. On purpose. Around a mile in I settled in next to a girl who was obviously limping and struck up a conversation. Her foot was acting up and she knew it would be a long race, but she had started anyway. I encouraged her, told her my story, and assured her that if I could finish on hardware and scar tissue, she could do this. Then I ran ahead.
A few miles later a new conversation, a new friend. A woman in her sixties who had just begun trail running a few years before. Inspiring. Not long after, my limping friend ran past, killing it. I shouted to her and she yelled, "You're my inspiration!" and sped off. We would leapfrog a few more times through the race. This race quickly became about the people. I spent the entire 16.7 miles in awe of the dynamics and fortitude of the people around me. Everyone has a story. I'm learning that most of us can amaze each other if we just take the time to listen.
The miles ticked away with the scenery. I was often without a running partner, but never without loads of pleasantries and encouragement from every person I came across. Some I knew, many I didn't, but the camaraderie on the trails is just the best. I did my best to reciprocate the encouragement. It has been long enough since the race that I can't give exact mileage, but somewhere along the way, I heard my name, and looked up to see my girl Renee looking fab with a big fat grin on her gorgeous face. I threw my arms wide and we ran into a hug. She had been volunteering, but needed to leave soon and didn't want to miss me. "I came looking for you! I want to run with you for a little while."
There was never more welcome company. I was feeling surprisingly good for being 4 or 5 miles in and 8 months out from a shattered ankle. But I honestly can say what it meant to be watched out for by a friend who knows the depth of the hole I've climbed out of- and helped lower the ladder down to me. It was just everything.
Renee ran with me until we hit her turnoff to head out. Then I took on a gnarly climb with gusto. A short while later I reached the Elephant head aid station where my Wasatch Mountain Wrangler fam was running the show. It was like showing up at Cheers. Everybody knows your name. I hugged all of them and couldn't stop smiling. Filled my water bottle with Heed, took a swig, dumped it out and refilled with water. Heed was a bad move. My stomach would protest that swig for the next 5 miles. I snagged a few chips and M&Ms and took off, optimistic about my time and how I felt. I bit of half a ginger chew as my stomach started to turn and tried to keep my attitude up anyway. I rocked the switchbacks that killed me last year, and was on my way back toward Elephant head when my ankle, calves, hammies and hips started getting grouchy. Tummy was still not loving it, it was getting hot out, and my smile had faded a bit. When I finally hit the Aid Station again, I needed a Coke and a hug, and my friends obliged. Jennilyn snuggled me while Lane, Kendall and Matt got me drinks. They were busy little rockstars who took the time to take care of me in true Wrangler style. I was grateful and in a few minutes I was ready to roll on. A few more miles out and my hardware was on fire. The fact that my legs weren't well trained for this race was very apparent and I found myself limping along, cheering on runner after runner as they passed me. I'd choke back all the feels now and then, and remind myself that I was grateful to be there "running" at all. Then I'd tell myself that it would hurt like hell whether I ran or walked, but running would get me done faster, and I'd pick up the pace again. I pasted a smile back on my face and started loving it. Just a few more miles. The last few miles are the longest. So. dang. long. But as I neared the finish line, I heard my friends cheering my name. I couldn't smile any harder, and my entire being was flooded with gratitude. I sobbed through my grin and I crossed the line and fell, crying into the arms of some pregnant stranger who asked me if I was okay and handed me over to my big brother Steve, who knew exactly where all my tears came from.
Friends and family who had just run longer races themselves got me stew and drinks and blankets and chairs. (Special thanks to Nan and Steve and Craig who wandered all over trying to find my car and get my things.) I settled down for my very favorite part- the afterparty. It wasn't long until Aaron was finishing his 50 miler. We cheered a steady stream of dear friends and acquaintances across the line for hours.
I had finished in 4:17. Around 45 minutes slower than last year. And I didn't care. I was more satisfied with this race than last years. This year hurt more, and my training was not there... for obvious reasons, but I ran the entire thing with gratitude and love. That made all the difference.
Antelope Island Buffalo Run 25kMarch 21, 2015
So that happened. I tried not to view the repeat distance as the consolation prize for not being able to do the 50k like I had hoped. I went it to it not nervous, and with no goals except to be honest with myself, respect my body, and finish with a big fat smile on my face.
I started slow. Really slow. On purpose. Around a mile in I settled in next to a girl who was obviously limping and struck up a conversation. Her foot was acting up and she knew it would be a long race, but she had started anyway. I encouraged her, told her my story, and assured her that if I could finish on hardware and scar tissue, she could do this. Then I ran ahead.
A few miles later a new conversation, a new friend. A woman in her sixties who had just begun trail running a few years before. Inspiring. Not long after, my limping friend ran past, killing it. I shouted to her and she yelled, "You're my inspiration!" and sped off. We would leapfrog a few more times through the race. This race quickly became about the people. I spent the entire 16.7 miles in awe of the dynamics and fortitude of the people around me. Everyone has a story. I'm learning that most of us can amaze each other if we just take the time to listen.
The miles ticked away with the scenery. I was often without a running partner, but never without loads of pleasantries and encouragement from every person I came across. Some I knew, many I didn't, but the camaraderie on the trails is just the best. I did my best to reciprocate the encouragement. It has been long enough since the race that I can't give exact mileage, but somewhere along the way, I heard my name, and looked up to see my girl Renee looking fab with a big fat grin on her gorgeous face. I threw my arms wide and we ran into a hug. She had been volunteering, but needed to leave soon and didn't want to miss me. "I came looking for you! I want to run with you for a little while."
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| Photo Credit Renee: Happy Girls! |
There was never more welcome company. I was feeling surprisingly good for being 4 or 5 miles in and 8 months out from a shattered ankle. But I honestly can say what it meant to be watched out for by a friend who knows the depth of the hole I've climbed out of- and helped lower the ladder down to me. It was just everything.
Renee ran with me until we hit her turnoff to head out. Then I took on a gnarly climb with gusto. A short while later I reached the Elephant head aid station where my Wasatch Mountain Wrangler fam was running the show. It was like showing up at Cheers. Everybody knows your name. I hugged all of them and couldn't stop smiling. Filled my water bottle with Heed, took a swig, dumped it out and refilled with water. Heed was a bad move. My stomach would protest that swig for the next 5 miles. I snagged a few chips and M&Ms and took off, optimistic about my time and how I felt. I bit of half a ginger chew as my stomach started to turn and tried to keep my attitude up anyway. I rocked the switchbacks that killed me last year, and was on my way back toward Elephant head when my ankle, calves, hammies and hips started getting grouchy. Tummy was still not loving it, it was getting hot out, and my smile had faded a bit. When I finally hit the Aid Station again, I needed a Coke and a hug, and my friends obliged. Jennilyn snuggled me while Lane, Kendall and Matt got me drinks. They were busy little rockstars who took the time to take care of me in true Wrangler style. I was grateful and in a few minutes I was ready to roll on. A few more miles out and my hardware was on fire. The fact that my legs weren't well trained for this race was very apparent and I found myself limping along, cheering on runner after runner as they passed me. I'd choke back all the feels now and then, and remind myself that I was grateful to be there "running" at all. Then I'd tell myself that it would hurt like hell whether I ran or walked, but running would get me done faster, and I'd pick up the pace again. I pasted a smile back on my face and started loving it. Just a few more miles. The last few miles are the longest. So. dang. long. But as I neared the finish line, I heard my friends cheering my name. I couldn't smile any harder, and my entire being was flooded with gratitude. I sobbed through my grin and I crossed the line and fell, crying into the arms of some pregnant stranger who asked me if I was okay and handed me over to my big brother Steve, who knew exactly where all my tears came from.
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Sobbing through my cheesy grin
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I had finished in 4:17. Around 45 minutes slower than last year. And I didn't care. I was more satisfied with this race than last years. This year hurt more, and my training was not there... for obvious reasons, but I ran the entire thing with gratitude and love. That made all the difference.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Seasons Change
I have a very full schedule. Yuck. I hate schedules.
As mom, wife, teacher to four kiddos, part time therapy aide, house keeper, cook, chauffeur, nutritionist, nurse, friend, sister, athlete, etc. it's easy to get overwhelmed. I should say, it's almost impossible NOT to get overwhelmed.
The more complicated my life gets, the more I realize how much I crave simplicity.
When I was down and out with my shattered ankle and employed in nothing but healing and raising kiddos, I got a little carried away with future plans. As I came out of forced rest, I took on my part time job (which I still love!), and looked forward to more running, more adventures and more yoga- even promising my former students that I'd be back, and soon. I added karate and other homeschool activities to our weeks. I didn't take into account what would happen when I tried to put my "normal" activities back into our everyday lives.
They don't fit.
I find myself faced with hard decisions. I'm in dire need of simplification. My time is so jam packed with really good things that I can't move. I spend whatever free time I have exhaustedly trying to tune out all of my other responsibilities and letting things slip through the cracks. My body is out of balance and drained from constant stress. I'm in major spiritual disconnect. My kids are upset that I'm gone so much, and I don't think it's because I'm physically gone that much. I can't go out for a run without a major guilt trip that I'm not taking at least one of them with me. I bought yoga passes that I haven't used yet because it's just one more night or day that I'd have to leave. But what good is it that I'm home if I'm not really there? I need to recharge. I need head space, physical exertion and a sense of accomplishment. I need trail runs and yoga classes. I need time to unravel this tangled mess and to believe in myself again. I need not to jealously guard my free time from the very people I would normally choose to spend my free time with.
My house is a wreck. My head is even more so. I find myself waking up each morning wanting to quit everything, empty out and sell my house, wipe the slate and start over.
I want freedom.
It's amazing how much work that takes.
So do I quit a part-time job that I adore, and let down the people whom I love working with twice a week? I am loyal to a fault. I feel horrible walking away after just 3 months. But that's what I'm doing. When given the choice of sacrificing my side job, my kids, or my mental health, it's not even a question which gets cut.
I forget sometimes that being a homeschool mom is a full-time job, because no one sends me a W-2 every tax season- well, because I don't make any money. But it is. It's an extremely hard, wonderful, amazing, all-consuming, difficult, full-time job that is more important to me than pretty much anything. I'm neck deep in it. I'm committed to it. I can't fathom sending my kids off to public school every day anymore. And I'm starting to realize why everyone I talk to at work who finds out I homeschool my kids, or every homeschooler that finds out I work part-time, looks at me in shock and awe. This isn't sustainable and I know it. I'm walking away from a job I love, in order to take care of the kids I love more and the sanity I desperately need to tend to in order to care for them.
I'm so grateful to Brian. He could be really upset with me for backing away when I've only just really gotten the hang of everything. He only guilt tripped me a little (actually I think I may have done my own guilt tripping). He offered to keep me on the call list to fill in when they might need someone. I accepted. I'll be on the schedule for another month or so while they find a replacement.
I know this is the right thing to do. But it still hurts. I've beat myself up plenty over it. Here I am, the Kakes who never sticks with anything, failing, letting people down again. At least that's what pops up when the mean and nasty inner voice starts rambling. She's a witch.
I need this. I need to step back, gain perspective, and breathe.
As mom, wife, teacher to four kiddos, part time therapy aide, house keeper, cook, chauffeur, nutritionist, nurse, friend, sister, athlete, etc. it's easy to get overwhelmed. I should say, it's almost impossible NOT to get overwhelmed.
The more complicated my life gets, the more I realize how much I crave simplicity.
When I was down and out with my shattered ankle and employed in nothing but healing and raising kiddos, I got a little carried away with future plans. As I came out of forced rest, I took on my part time job (which I still love!), and looked forward to more running, more adventures and more yoga- even promising my former students that I'd be back, and soon. I added karate and other homeschool activities to our weeks. I didn't take into account what would happen when I tried to put my "normal" activities back into our everyday lives.
They don't fit.
I find myself faced with hard decisions. I'm in dire need of simplification. My time is so jam packed with really good things that I can't move. I spend whatever free time I have exhaustedly trying to tune out all of my other responsibilities and letting things slip through the cracks. My body is out of balance and drained from constant stress. I'm in major spiritual disconnect. My kids are upset that I'm gone so much, and I don't think it's because I'm physically gone that much. I can't go out for a run without a major guilt trip that I'm not taking at least one of them with me. I bought yoga passes that I haven't used yet because it's just one more night or day that I'd have to leave. But what good is it that I'm home if I'm not really there? I need to recharge. I need head space, physical exertion and a sense of accomplishment. I need trail runs and yoga classes. I need time to unravel this tangled mess and to believe in myself again. I need not to jealously guard my free time from the very people I would normally choose to spend my free time with.
My house is a wreck. My head is even more so. I find myself waking up each morning wanting to quit everything, empty out and sell my house, wipe the slate and start over.
I want freedom.
It's amazing how much work that takes.
So do I quit a part-time job that I adore, and let down the people whom I love working with twice a week? I am loyal to a fault. I feel horrible walking away after just 3 months. But that's what I'm doing. When given the choice of sacrificing my side job, my kids, or my mental health, it's not even a question which gets cut.
I forget sometimes that being a homeschool mom is a full-time job, because no one sends me a W-2 every tax season- well, because I don't make any money. But it is. It's an extremely hard, wonderful, amazing, all-consuming, difficult, full-time job that is more important to me than pretty much anything. I'm neck deep in it. I'm committed to it. I can't fathom sending my kids off to public school every day anymore. And I'm starting to realize why everyone I talk to at work who finds out I homeschool my kids, or every homeschooler that finds out I work part-time, looks at me in shock and awe. This isn't sustainable and I know it. I'm walking away from a job I love, in order to take care of the kids I love more and the sanity I desperately need to tend to in order to care for them.
I'm so grateful to Brian. He could be really upset with me for backing away when I've only just really gotten the hang of everything. He only guilt tripped me a little (actually I think I may have done my own guilt tripping). He offered to keep me on the call list to fill in when they might need someone. I accepted. I'll be on the schedule for another month or so while they find a replacement.
I know this is the right thing to do. But it still hurts. I've beat myself up plenty over it. Here I am, the Kakes who never sticks with anything, failing, letting people down again. At least that's what pops up when the mean and nasty inner voice starts rambling. She's a witch.
I need this. I need to step back, gain perspective, and breathe.
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