Post-traumatic growth

The last few months have been extraordinarily long and yet, somehow, incredibly short. I've spent so much time resting and recuperating that it seems the world has gone on and left me behind. I started the year with a list of items to do, big and small. Take the car to the shop for the recall notice, sort and clean the reusable grocery bags, find a new job, write a new script, return a ripped contact to Costco. None of it has happened.

Instead, I've watched entire series of television shows. I've read more books than I've read in the past two years combined. I've learned to take naps and not wake up in too much of a bad mood. I've practiced asking for help and letting others see me when I feel most vulnerable. I've changed. A bit.

And I think that's normal. I think it would be weird if I had gone through all of this, a life threatening, a life changing experience, and stayed exactly the same. My body is no longer the same and neither is my brain. Or my heart. Or my soul.

A few weeks into all of this my friend Krista, who sends the best e-mails, they're like old-fashioned letters and I love that, sent me a link to a TED talk by Jane McGonigal. Jane is a game designer who experienced a concussion and turned her healing and recovery process into a game that saved her life. She needed the game to keep her sanity and to ensure her healing. Here's just one quote from her talk:

The game was helping us experience what scientists call post-traumatic growth, which is not something we usually hear about. We usually hear about post-traumatic stress disorder. But scientists now know that a traumatic event doesn't doom us to suffer indefinitely. Instead, we can use it as a springboard to unleash our best qualities and lead happier lives.

I love the idea of post-traumatic growth. I don't think it diminishes the idea of post-traumatic stress at all. I think instead, it supplements it and makes our experiences that much fuller. Back in January I almost died. I didn't realize it then. The doctors didn't even realize it then. But now they do. Now I do. And it's terrifying. You know what else is terrifying?

Being told when I went to the hematologist on Monday morning that I have a blood disorder. That I'll be on blood thinners, medicine, for the rest of my life. That I may also have an autoimmune disease that I'll need further testing to suss out. That I now face an existence that includes doctors and drugs and a change in lifestyle. That I will always be at an extreme risk for DVTs. Again.

And yes, I sat there in that doctor's office Monday morning in stunned silence. I noticed a few minutes into the appointment that I'd quit taking the notes I always write furiously. I sat there and I listened and much of what he said bounced right off me. As he left the room, my doctor patted my arm and said, it's okay, you'll be okay. I wasn't sure I believed him.

I got to my car and I sat there for a moment. I cried. I felt so alone in the world. I tried calling a few family members but everyone was out of range, literally and figuratively. I wasn't sure what to do next. So I drove home. I drove home in shock. And then I talked to Angela. And then to Trace. And then a friend texted and asked if I had time to talk. She didn't know what the last two hours had been but God's timing is always just exactly that way, isn't it?

And then? Well, I thought about Jane and her TED talk. I thought about the healing game she's created called Superbetter. And I thought about that thing called post-traumatic growth. I thought about how none of what I'd just learned or heard was a death sentence. I thought about how I was at my doctor's office for a hematology appointment and not an oncology appointment (he's also an oncologist). I thought about how amazing life really is and how all of this, some how, some way, must be a part of my bigger picture.

I thought about how less than two months ago I couldn't move my leg. I could hardly walk. And I'm now walking over a mile a day. I thought about how I couldn't breathe without pain. And now? I have a twinge now and then but pretty much all I can't do right now comfortably is get on the floor, and really who needs to get on the floor anyway. And how I was having panic attacks every few days. And now? It's been over two weeks since my last one.

PROGRESS.

I have a quote above my desk by Virginia Woolf that says, "Arrange whatever pieces come your way." It's one of my favorite reminders in life. It's a reminder to continue focusing on all of the pieces and how they form me. To deal with them, one by one, as they come in, and to not let one piece sink me. A reminder that just as these new pieces of sickness and disease entered my life, other pieces will come too - hopefully better pieces - but ultimately, they'll all come and I'll have to arrange them in the best way for me. To create the best me. Growth. The best me. All good things.

Lenten Devotion #4

Written for the Hollywood UMC booklet

Jeremiah 31:31-34

The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah…

Spring came early this year. At least the feeling of spring. Here in Los Angeles we were above 70 degrees in January and we haven’t calmed down since. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, kids played outside and short shorts never went into hiding. 

Spring brings with it a feeling of renewal, a feeling of refreshment. We get to start clean, wipe the slate, imagine what’s to come. Anticipation is one of the best feelings in the world. What’s next? What might be? 

God adds to that anticipation in this passage. He’s making a new covenant with us, His people, now. Right now. He’s bringing us into His arms and He’s promising that spring is here. Everything is new. Everything is possible.

Lent and Easter are a chance to wipe the slate clean, again. It might have felt like summer back on New Years’ Day and we might have made resolutions that seem so far away now but we mustn’t worry. We can begin fresh with God, every day, every moment. We can make a new covenant with Him like He makes with us. To release our sins and move on, to know Him, to write our love for Him on our hearts. God’s love is steadfast and forever new. He promises that. 

Dear Lord, 
Thank you for your new covenant. Thank you for writing your love for us on our hearts. Let us remember it is there, always. Amen.

Aloha!

Two weeks from today I'll be stepping into the Hawaiian sun, specifically the sun on Waikiki Beach. It's been a whirlwind few months since I found out we were going. January first seems like ages ago, when we started looking at flights and hotels. When we bought the tour books and started making reservations.

These last two months we've all been holding our breath a little. One of the first things I asked the doctor the morning I woke up in the hospital, was can I fly? Can I go to Hawaii in March? He said without wavering, of course! And take me with you!

The next doctor wavered. He said, flying isn't a good idea. I decided to ignore him. The third doctor? The hematologist and blood clot specialist? He said flying, especially a relatively normal length flight (I disagree that the nearly six hour flight to Hawaii is normal length but still) like the one we'll take should be fine. He'll up my blood thinners around the travel dates. He said no compression socks or any other measures since I still have the clots in my legs. He said to do all the good stuff like wiggling and walking and moving. Even more than just moving my feet, because your hips can get blood clots too. So I'll walk. I'll move. I'll wiggle. And I'll go to Hawaii with Mom, Dad and Angela in 14 days.

These last couple of weeks have been crunch time. We booked our flights (Delta direct to Honolulu) and hotel room (Outrigger Waikiki Beach Resort) in January but nothing else. So last week Angela and I got busy. And then I found out that our resort has a wonderful concierge service and that Nicole could help with anything! So things have been a breeze.

We've arranged a car for the first half of the week we're there to drive to the North Shore, Diamondhead, Pearl Harbor, etc. We've booked Angela and my Dad 18 holes at Ko Olina Golf Club (I'm bugged big time to miss golfing in Hawaii but healing is still happening!). And while Ang and Dad are hitting the links, Mom and I will take a whale watching breakfast cruise. We've booked our tour at Pearl Harbor. We've arranged to attend a lu'au our last night on the island. And we've planned lots and lots of time to sit at the beach, to swim, to eat, to relax.

So we're going to Hawaii! Ahhhh! It's really unbelievable. I'm feeling so much better than I was just two months ago, I'm so thankful for that and the healing that continues. Mom and Dad will come out the week of the 23rd, driving, and then we'll all fly out together. So, aloha!

It's All Good

I'm not a very patient person. And yet? I play golf. I write novels and screenplays. I cook. I cross-stitch. I am a Christian.

All things that require extreme patience. And all things that can drive me mad.

I've done several things lately that have required me to increase my patience and increase my faith. That have required me to reach deep down inside of myself and see what I'm made of.

Me on my first solo walk

The first? I walked 25 minutes, up one small hill along the way, to Angela's school last Friday night. It was my first walk of any length by myself. It scared me. It gave me confidence. It also required patience because I had to walk slowly. I had to breath slowly. I had to remind myself that it's all good. (That's my new motto - see the hedgehogs above. Angela got those for me my first week out of the hospital and they stare at me all day, watching over me and reminding me that because I can see them I'm alive and it really is all good.)

The view on my first solo walk

The second thing that required patience? Waiting to drive. Before last Wednesday I hadn't driven in 49 days. An eternity for someone who's used to jumping in the car to run errand after errand, to take herself places, to be independent. But I did it. I drove to the grocery store by myself. Then two days later I drove to my friend Krista's apartment building. And there? I went swimming. I walked in the water for almost two hours. I swam and talked and pretended that life was back to normal. It was glorious. (It was also 94 degrees in March, and yeah, there's no such thing as global warming.) And then I spent most of the weekend on the couch.

Me & Krista at her pool

Patience.

My leg told me that a trip to the grocery store alone, a trip to Krista's alone, and a trip to the mall with Angela was a little too much all in a four day span. I spent almost 48 hours back on bed rest. Mom and Angela monitored my leg (in person and via FaceTime). And you know what? With some patience, I survived. I realized that this will not be the last time this happens. I realized that I will be dealing with this new medical condition for a while. My new hematologist says I'm on blood thinners for life now. But, I also realized as I walked into the hematologist/oncologist's office that I was blessed to be there for a blood issue and not for a cancer issue.

Life is still different. I still get angry. I still get upset. I still have an occasional panic attack. (Three medical professionals, including two MDs, have told me these are expected. I've been given suggestions of what to do to calm myself and ride through them. It works. They suck but I also know that life is valleys and hills. Again, that patience thing creeping in.) I still wish this hadn't happened. And yet? I'm still alive. There's a reason I'm still alive. And I'm still recovering. I've learned to be patient with myself. I'm not working yet (I start teaching again the day after Easter.) and I get to be gentle with myself. I get to take care of myself. And I'm trying. Very hard. As hard as these little guys are trying to eat us out of house and home. (Note to all - get a hummingbird feeder and you will need a lot of hummingbird food.)

Lenten Devotion #3

Written for the Hollywood UMC booklet

 

1 Corinthians 1:22-25

 For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

It’s hard to grasp this idea, that God is bigger than we will ever be. That God is stronger than we will ever be. That God is smarter than we will ever be. And yet? It’s comforting. 

I’m still fortunate to have my parents alive and a part of my life. I still call my mom when I get sick or my dad when I have a question about the furnace. I am smaller, younger than them. I am not smarter. I am not stronger. I will never be. Not in my eyes. And just as I am comforted by my parents, I am comforted by my God. By the fact that He is and always will be, so much more than me. So much better. So much stronger. So much more.

There is nothing God cannot handle. Nothing He cannot figure out. Nothing He cannot do. Nothing He cannot arrange. NOTHING. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. He is so much more than we can even fathom.

There is immense comfort in knowing this. Immense relief as well. We are taken care of by a father who is literally the best at everything. No matter what happens to us, or what we do, God is more. He always will be. And He’s on our side. Even if you can’t call your own parents anymore, you can always call on Him.

Dear Lord,

Help us when we ask and when we don’t. Thank you for your love. You are amazing. Amen.