Worthy of Love and Belonging*

 * - Brené Brown

Most of my readers probably know that I'm a psychotherapist (aka a counsellor). My practice includes adults age 16 and up, individuals and couples. 

What some might not know is that in training, student counsellors are taught that it is considered necessary for every counsellor to HAVE a counsellor. So yes, I have one. My therapist helps me stay on track personally, holds me accountable for important things I often forget when I am busy. In particular, such things include self-care, which is written into the Code of Ethics of my certifying body. In fact, it's in the very first article of that Code! 

Blossoms - free image from Pixabay

Since seeing this particular therapist, I've been taking more time to do some of the things I let slide before. I spend more time out in Nature, marvelling at the handiwork I see. I reach out to friends and to people that have touched my life in some way, even if just to say thank you (those are powerful words, just saying). I look after my emotional needs. I tell people that I care about how I feel about them. I spend time thinking about any unresolved feelings about past events that may be hindering me, and I work to clear those things the same way I help my clients do the same. (How can I help them to heal, unless I first heal myself?)  I take time to enjoy the relationships I have in my life.

The other day, I was outside on our property. Our pink weigelas are in a riot of bloom, and there is a honeybee hive not far from here. Coming in close to the bush, I could smell the gentle but heady scent of the flowers. And then I saw her. A honeybee had crawled into one of the weigela blossoms. I could only see the back half of her as the flowers are trumpet-shaped. As I watched, I could see her hind end rhythmically going up and down as she drank deeply the nectar that was inside of that flower. Time seemed to stand still. There was only the bee in the flower. And I marvelled at how bees have two stomachs: one for nectar and one for pollen. And I considered in my soul how the bee takes only what she needs to feed her body, and gives the rest to the hive to feed the colony. In so doing, she is nourished to be able to contribute to the good of all, and she tastes the sweetness of what she will give to her sisters at the hive. What a beautiful picture of self-care in the context of a natural care-giver! 

I've carried that picture with me ever since, in my mind's eye. It's okay to gain strength as I give to those who need some of that same strength. It's okay to look after me on a regular basis - it helps me to better help others. 

The secret - and I think the bee knows this instinctively without having to be taught (unlike us humans) - is in adopting and believing in a phrase that Brené Brown uses often: "[I am] worthy of love and belonging." The bee is a crucial member of the hive and knows instinctively her role and her worth. She is listened to when she returns to the hive to tell the others where to find nectar. She is believed. She is respected. She belongs. And ... just so ... in my new and renewed relationships with those who are my equals, I belong as well. I am valued. I am worthy of love ... and respect ... and friendship ... and belonging. That reality brings me such gratitude. 

These are thoughts that have been percolating in my mind lately. And these thoughts are the reasons why I have been reaching out to people who are in my life, letting them know how much I appreciate them, spending time with them, sending a note to connect with them, and realizing more and more that I grow in attachment with others. Not necessarily in a crowd (because that's not my style) but in individual connections with one or two people at a time. As I do so, I get to remember how very rich (not in dollars, but in the depth of those individual relationships) I am. I'm so thankful! 

Dearest Judy

 One of the hardest things about life is when the opposite happens, and we are forced (ready or not) to say goodbye. I am no stranger to separation by death. Yet every time it happens to a beloved family member or a close friend, it feels just as awful, just as violent - whether the person died in their sleep or in a tragic accident, or whether there was time to prepare or not. 

One of those incidents happened not long ago. A dear friend, unbeknownst to me, had a stroke and dropped out of view. When Judy was not on social media for 3 weeks, I began to get concerned and I contacted her family, who told me about the stroke. She was in the hospital. 

Judy had always been so strong, so independent, that we did not think much of the fact that she was getting old and it was getting harder for her to move around. We enjoyed her company, her laugh, her stories, her enjoyment of the little things, and most of all her love. When she would call me, she would identify herself as "Judy too," as my name is Judy. We would invite her to our house for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. She and I would make "play dates" or as I called them, "aerie times", referencing our favourite metaphor, the eagle. She would invite our family to Dairy Queen and pay for our meals. She prayed every single day for each of us, as well as for her family and other friends. What a precious lady.

My husband and I went to see her on Christmas day 2023 when she was in the stroke unit; she was largely unresponsive, and her words slurred when she spoke, as if she was drunk. About a week later, we went in to see her again. This time she had been moved to a full-care unit where people go to recover. We were hopeful that she would get better. However, it struck me while we were there that they had put in a feeding tube through her abdominal wall into her stomach. She was totally dependent on them. I remember being grateful that the stroke seemed to affect her ability to compare the quality of her current life with the one she had been living prior to the stroke. We wanted to make our visits a regular thing.

The week after that, we got sick with some sort of flu and we didn't go to see her for fear that she would catch our sickness, which would not have been good. We were sick for about three weeks. 

During the time we were sick, Judy passed away. We didn't know. One day in early February, I went onto her wall on Facebook, and learned from a post someone left that she had passed, just about a month or so prior to her 80th birthday. 

I'd been keeping a Christmas card for her in my purse, which i wrote to her after our second visit. Yesterday I was looking for something else ... and I found it. Slowly, I un-tucked the back flap of the envelope, and slid the card out. The picture was of a cardinal. Inside I had written a short note to her from us, and I started it out with "Dearest Judy," as I often did on Christmas or her birthday. 

I froze. Floods of memories from before the stroke came to me, as if to comfort me. 

Try as I might, I could not (and cannot) be sad for her. In 2007, she lost her beloved husband Bob to a heart attack, and she often spoke of him with us, because we knew him from when they were married. We knew that they were reunited after all this time (this coming April 3rd it would have been 17 years). She is happy and pain-free for the first time in many years - head injuries from a previous relationship gave her Menière's Disease, affecting her hearing and her balance. She is finally free of it. 

No, I cannot be sad for her. However, I can be sad for me. I will miss this wonderful big sister of mine, who was technically old enough to be my mother. I will miss our long talks, our prayer sessions, our sing-songs, her vivid imagination, and so much more. I will miss how articulate and talented in writing she was, how spiritual and yet down-to-earth she was. 

And I can imagine her keeping watch over us all, in that "great cloud of witnesses" the Scriptures mention (Hebrews 11, I believe, but I could be wrong.) I can picture her joining our daughter Arielle's twerking class (Mother Theresa was her first graduate, haha)... and dancing with all her might. I can imagine her singing while Bob makes his heavenly electric guitar just wail ... and I know that while it seems like a long time here, it won't be long for her when she turns around and I'll be standing there, arms wide for a big hug.

Life after Fiona

From an October 2022 post:

[Hurricane] Fiona took away.  She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity. 

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

 

Spring came slowly to PEI this year. The weather was colder for longer. However, the grass did green up, the dandelions came, the crocus and the tulips came up, blossomed, and faded, and the ground was warm enough to plant our garden by early June. 

After Fiona, we thought we might have lost the opportunity to see any kind of positive result, but about two weeks ago, we noticed something in our back yard. One of our apple trees, the one we almost lost because it had been pushed to almost a 45 degree angle by the storm, and which we shored up with some thick, padded staking wire, was producing blossoms. Not just one or two, but dozens of blossoms! One of the branches wasn't, and we decided that come autumn, we would prune it back.  But yesterday, we were thrilled to see that while the other blossoms had come and gone, new blossoms were growing on the branch we previously thought was 'dead'!! 

Apple blossoms from our Red Nova tree, June 2023

So this year, we will see some apples in the fall! This from a tree we thought had bitten the dust. 

As a matter of fact, all the plants in our back yard are looking greener and less spindly since the storm took away trees that shaded them, and in that way giving them more sunlight for longer in the day.  

Even the vegetable garden is growing better. We are getting carrots coming up for the first time in three years, as well as beets, spinach, and herbs, all of which apparently prefer full sun. Who knew! 

Our flowering bushes are budding. We are awash in lilac blossoms, plus weigela, spirea, hydrangea and rose buds. It's lovely to witness. We are so grateful. 

 

As I mentioned in my post, "Hashtag Fiona2022" last fall, we have developed closer relationships with more of our neighbours, and it's been amazing to see how those friendships have enriched our day-to-day lives. 

It's caused us to rethink other kinds of storms as well: events that happen to us that seem unpleasant and cause us distress. Sometimes, while the events themselves are difficult, they may clear some of the debris - things in our lives that are unnecessary - from our lives. These are things like unbalanced relationships, old habits and ways of thinking, and other hindrances to living a full life, making way for new and renewed relationships with equals, new habits, new ways of thinking, and a new capacity to experience joy. 

 

Life gets better if we let it.

Hashtag Fiona2022

Fiona - Hurricane Fiona - took her good sweet time roaring through Atlantic Canada last Saturday, September 24, 2022. The intensity of the wind was about 150 kph, or 90 mph... a Category 2.  I know others have had worse, but it's the worst this little corner of creation has ever seen. In a hurricane, there are mini-tornadoes that twist around such things as tree trunks and transformers and literally rip them apart, leaving them looking like some giant hand reached down and broke them like individual matchsticks. 

The next-door neighbour's 100-foot-high maple came out by its roots, crashing  over power lines on both sides of the road, its crown landing on another neighbour's lawn across the street. With it, it took out the power pole that his, our, and two neighbours across the street were connected to. Lines severed, pole smashed into four pieces. Fortunately the power went out a few minutes before that.  

Neighbour's maple -
its roots exposed for all to see.

Base of the power pole
shattered.

We were spared the tragedy that so many experienced: damage to their homes and vehicles. In both cases, there were close calls! 

But we lost a good third of the trees on our property, mature shade trees and evergreens alike. And in the wake of that kind of devastation, seeing that other still-standing trees were weakened so the next storm might bring them down on someone's house - perhaps our own - led to the decision to cut down a few more of them. And yes, we have been grieving the loss of these, our dear tree friends, tall sentinels of our home and providers of shade and privacy. 

Yesterday, as the sound of chain saws filled the air from power company crews and others working in the neighbourhood, I noticed something that hadn't been there before: there was more light in our back yard. Those shade trees, while providing protection from exposure, had been blocking valuable sunlight from reaching our backyard garden and fledgling apple trees. 

And since the storm had demolished our neighbour's privacy fence, the sunlight could reach his beautiful landscaping. 

But the most amazing thing for me was that I could look across the neighbourhood and see something I wish I could bottle and sell: the people who live in these houses were helping each other, pitching in and sharing information and resources, and reaching out to connect with each other.

Fiona took away.  She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity. 

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

Face-plant

I fell down yesterday. 

It was totally avoidable. I wasn't watching where I was stepping. And I landed face first in the dirt with a skinned knee, a bruised elbow, and a bump on my right cheekbone. 

The reasons for my fall (I could call them excuses) were that someone left the garden hose in a high-traffic area, I was distracted by trying to focus on the dog who was anxious to make his way to the yard to do his business, and the path was fairly narrow. However, I could have avoided the situation if I had just been more careful about where I placed my feet. So, I take full responsibility for my error. 

The end result was that I was flat on my stomach with my face in the dirt, pebbles and grass, about 2 feet from an outdoor garbage can, and I felt helpless to right myself. 

The dog did his best to help. Unfortunately, his version of helping was prancing around my head and licking my face until I could hardly breathe. 

No help there.

I'd been in that position for about 2 minutes (it felt like longer) when I heard the door open and someone step out onto the deck above me. He told me later that he didn't even know I was down there until he moved closer to the railing and saw my white Crocs upside down on the pavement (my feet still in them.) Then he saw my legs and oh-my-gosh-are-you-all-right? he was there in no time flat. "Can you get up?" he asked. "I think so," I stammered, "but the dog wants to help me and I don't want to hurt him ..." 

He laughed, "I can see that," and picked up the leash. He held the dog back while I got to my hands and knees and then got my feet under me and stood up. He offered his arm to lean on as I pulled myself to my feet.

Without his help, I would not have been able to get out of my predicament. So I was (and am) extremely grateful for him coming to my aid.  I made sure to thank him sincerely. After that, we started joking around about it. Laughing privately after the fact helped me not feel so embarrassed.

Sometimes, whether by their own fault or not, people need help and not judgment or criticism. That was one instance.

My would-be hero. NOT!   ;)

When someone makes a mistake and needs help to get out of a jam, it could be very easy to ridicule or find fault. "You should not have done that" can be reserved for after the crisis ... or not said at all, how about that? My benefactor was more interested in whether I was hurt than whose fault it was that I fell. I like that. It confirmed to me the fact that he cares about me. When an examination revealed that my glasses were also bent in the fall, he drove me to the optician's office to get them fixed (which they did, thank you very much!) 

So in spite of the aches and pains I had later in the day, and in spite of the embarrassment of the fall, and the vulnerability, and the silly behavior of the dog, and the extra trip to town, I could look back on the day and call it a good one. Why? because in spite of it all, I knew I was loved, cared for, and appreciated.  I was not angry at the dog for preventing me from getting up or for distracting me. I was determined not to let my attention wander like that again, and grateful that I didn't sprain my ankle, and that's it. 

That's all. A fast fall on the hard-packed, dusty ground, a bit of road rash on one knee, and the helping hand of my best friend. What could be more simple than that?  

Perhaps the next time I see someone in a helpless position, whether by accident or not, I will not be so quick to judge, and quicker to just lend a hand. 

Feeling ==> showing

Ever noticed how in some relationships, if you ask each individual, they feel lots of love for the other person but each person feels unloved? Parents and children, spouses, friends, brothers and sisters often fall prey to this seeming roadblock. We love the other person but we are not sure they love us.

The problem is not loving. The problem is SHOWING love. Let me explain.

A teenager loves his parents but they don't really talk much (no common interests, perhaps), and he doesn't know if they really love him because all they seem to do is tell him no. The parents love the teen but they wonder if the teen loves them back because all the teen seems to do is break the rules. Each of them silently asks the question, "Do you still love me?" What a tragedy. 

So on it goes. The problem is not that they don't love each other; they DO! The problem is that they have no idea how to SHOW that love. 

In his book, "How to Really Love Your Teenager", Dr. Ross Campbell, a child psychiatrist, describes this phenomenon and also gives the solution. The answer is in learning to communicate love in a way that the other person will understand. In our Western culture, his advice is sound. He gives three cornerstones to communicating love:

1. Eye contact
2. Physical contact
3. Focused attention

It sounds simple, doesn't it? Yet it can be hard to learn to do. I have learned, however, that it does work. Making the time to talk, and not being distracted by other things, can do a lot to bridge the gaps and repair relationships. Each person needs to know that they matter to the other. You can say it, and yes, please do, but showing it backs up those words. Establishing this kind of relationship early is the best way to ensure that the other person is secure in the relationship, but it is never too late to start.

I'd like to say a few things about each of these cornerstones I mentioned above. Perhaps by giving some examples, I can spark your imagination to try something that would be specific and meaningful to you. You can do them with family members (spouse, kids, parents, siblings) or close friends. They don't just apply to teens. (Everyone needs to feel worthy of love and belonging, as Brené Brown says.)

Eye contact - In our family, the 'wink' - even from across a room - can convey a special meaning. It can mean, "I notice what you're doing, way to go!" Similarly, it can mean, "I'm proud of you." And in certain situations where the person may be nervous, the 'wink' can mean, "I believe in you! You got this!" 

Okay, I know that these days, a lot of teens don't make eye contact well. But they will know that you are looking at them when they talk to you. And in some cases, it's a good bridge-builder to have talks while driving in the car. They don't feel threatened by your gaze, but you can talk about pretty important stuff when you have to be 20 minutes (or longer) in a car going somewhere together. 

But adults? Yeah, we were brought up to pay attention. In our generation, it shows respect when you look at someone who is talking to you.  So show respect. Please. It could save your relationships.

Physical contact - I get it that some folks are not touchy-feely. That's okay. But sometimes a hand on someone's shoulder when they are having a rough day can express in a non-verbal way that you care about their feelings. And nowhere is this more true than in families: with your spouse and with your child(ren). 

In our family, a hug goes a long way. Not just that sterile, pat-pat-pat type of hug but one of those fierce, heart-felt, "I'm with you" hugs. Life is tough sometimes! Hugs can help. They can communicate a feeling of solidarity, support, and caring. I've experienced hugs from one of my family members that lifted me off my feet - and aside from throwing me a little off-balance, those hugs told me that, as a teary Samwise Gamgee said in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, when the burden of carrying the One Ring got too much for Frodo to bear, "I may not be able to carry it for you, Mister Frodo, but I can carry you." And Sam picked Frodo up, Ring and all, and carried him the rest of the way to the top of the mountain. Such expression of love and support is hard to show with just a few Hallmark cards a year. 

Focused attention - In our fast-paced, information-highway world, giving someone focused attention takes something we don't think we have: time. Off with the TV, the cell phone, and/or the video game. Make a date. Go somewhere; it doesn't have to cost a dime. Our kids and I used to go to the local public pool; they would play in the water while I watched. Sometimes I would even go in the pool and splash around a bit. But I was always watching them, drinking in their enjoyment, knowing that at any moment they would look back to see if I was looking. And I was. "Watch me, Mommy!" means something to a child. It's important to him or her. I could have sat there with a book but it would not have meant as much as being WITH them, being PRESENT. 

Photo by it's me neosiam from Pexels

I lost track of the times we would go to the animal shelter and just visit with the critters. Our one family rule was that we were there to look and visit the animals, not whine and plead to take one (or all) of them home (unless previously decided.) I remember the folks at the shelter got to recognize us. We obeyed all the shelter rules (no running; ask permission; wash your hands after you handle the animals, etc.) and we had a whole lot of fun. And it never cost us a nickel (or in those days, a penny. We don't have pennies in Canada anymore.) 

I also can't count the number of times I have heard someone say to me about their spouse, "He (or she) never listens to me!" as they described a spouse totally absorbed in the TV or the newspaper, or a computer game. Or some sort of sport or hobby. It's a relationship. You can't have a relationship without relating!! Focused attention means that you give the person your undivided attention. And that needs to happen on a regular basis. I'm not saying not to read the paper, watch TV, or have a hobby or interest. Just make time for the people you love doing something you will both / all enjoy.

One more side-note about spending time together while giving focused attention. You know when you tell your friend, "Yeah, we really should get together sometime," and it doesn't happen for weeks? or even months? Ummm, "sometime" usually doesn't work, especially if you (or your friend) has mental wellness issues. Instead of "sometime," how about "WHEN can we spend time together (or have coffee, or lunch, or an evening)?" Nail down a time and a place. Put it on your appointment calendar. I'm just saying. And I'm talking to me as much as to anyone else.

As 2019 dawns, we might do well to invest our time in strengthening the relationships we have and making connections with the people who mean the most to us. It will be worth it. Trust me.

T.L.C.

The night before last, there was a "cat explosion" in our house.

They happen frequently. The three cats are sitting within sight of one another, and nobody knows who starts it, but it seems that all three of them jump as if zapped by electricity and they all race off in different directions. It's comical to watch! 

But this last time, someone zigged when they should have zagged. And one of the cats got hurt.  Of course, cats are not all that good at showing that they are in pain, but the kitty in question did have her hair all poofed out longer than usual for this type of event. Later, we saw her limping - and we thought she'd hurt a joint in her ankle in the back. We helped her, made a little bed for her in a large dog-crate with some litter in there and a couple of food dishes, so that she wouldn't be tempted to try to jump up on things or do too much, and today, she went to see the vet to get checked over. 

It turns out that it was a hip problem - a stretched ligament or tendon most likely - and the vet gave her an anti-inflammatory shot and gave us some medication to give in her food. 

This is our little Eris - named after the
goddess of Chaos in Greek mythology.
The photo was taken in April 2016.

We were concerned that her "brothers" - who are both bigger than she is - would take advantage of her weakness and try to bully her.

Quite the opposite. There has been quizzical trilling, sniffing, and reaching out paws to her, and one or the other of them is not far from her crate, keeping her company whenever they can. The oldest perched on her crate this morning, and was there most of the day (except for when she was at the vet's) guarding her and letting her know he was there by occasionally hanging his paws in front of the door, letting her sniff them. 

Both of the boys have been very gentle with her, and have not tried to engage her in playing (which to them means roughhousing!) They have stayed close, and have changed their favourite perches so they can see what she is doing in the crate.  What a tremendous model of tender loving care! The whole family has been so concerned for her, looking after her, making sure she is fed, comfortable, and settled down. The vet says that she will need to take it easy like this for another week and a half, and wants to check her over again on Monday just to see if there has been any improvement. 

Such care and love expressed toward a little seven and a half pound ball of cuteness... who has melted our hearts over and over again... and seeing her brothers take such good care of her is so heartening. It's so not what we expected, such a surprising display of concern and caring, that we are in awe.

It's so encouraging. I'm so grateful to have them all in my life. :-D



 

All in - chronicles of an in-patient

It's been quite the unusual start to the year. My brother and I had surgery within 5 days of one another - his was for a resection of bowel due to stage 1 colon cancer, and mine was for a total hysterectomy due to pre-cancerous cells in the uterus.

In both cases, excellent surgeons (his in his province and mine in mine) removed the faulty plumbing (so to speak) and cauterized the blood vessels that were nourishing their respective areas. All is well. 

But the experience of going "all in", of committing to the process, of facing the unknown? That's terrifying. Literally. 

I would daresay that nobody knows better than someone with multiple health issues (not the least of which is obesity) the terror involved in facing the prospect of undergoing a general anesthetic (not to mention the whole notion of someone cutting into your body). They explain the risks to you in no uncertain terms; you have to sign a waiver releasing them of any legal repercussions should you die on the table. That's serious stuff, and not "just a formality." Needless to say, that should be enough to give anyone cause for concern.

Add to that my own private terror of The Needle (more specifically, the Intravenous) - the knowledge that not only is someone going to take a hunking two-inch-long steel needle and poke a hole into your vein, but then take a tube (which by definition is BIGGER in diameter than the needle) and slide it into the vein along that same needle - and the pain involved in that process (especially if they MISS), and you have a recipe for the screaming meemies!  As a matter of fact, THAT was the thing that scared me more than dying on the table. Let that sink in for a minute.

And even though they numbed the area with some cream in advance, the pain of their first attempt left me writhing and calling out for my higher power on the bed as they held my arm down and tried to force the tube into a vein in my hand that was no longer yielding blood. So they had to start all over again somewhere else - first the cream and then a repeat of that experience on my opposite forearm ... and with another nurse. This time, she realized that it was a dud with the tube only half-way in - and removed it. "We'll wait for the anesthetist," she stated. "He's really good." 

And he was. He told me what he was going to do and when, he took his time finding a vein, and true to his word, he used a pediatric (child-sized) needle - and from the time of the initial pin-prick until the tube was in, was only about three seconds and the most painless I had ever felt. My jaw just dropped - it was so the opposite of what I had endured the previous two attempts!! He told me that he was going to wait until I was under the anesthetic before putting in an adult-sized intravenous tube - for which I thanked him. 

And then I realized that this was it. That hurdle was behind me, and I was now caught up in a process in which the only way out was forward. There was no turning back now. I was all in. 

The too-much-information details

They had put compression stockings on me to keep me from getting blood clots - which only confirmed to me the fact that I would be "out" for longer than I had ever been before (an estimated 3 hours compared to the 1 hour in previous surgeries elsewhere) and that I would be on my back for almost 24 hours after that. And the stockings were still there, although rolled down a bit, when I awoke in recovery over four hours later.

My first thought - I'm alive! My second thought - I'm awake! My third thought - my mouth is so dry! I spoke that thought out loud, and a nurse moistened the inside of my lips with what looked like a tiny water-filled sponge on the end of a stick. After a while they gave me an ice-chip. It was glorious!

I was surprised how little pain there was - compared to my expectations that is - and I remember feeling some cramping in my belly area, about a five out of ten.  They suggested something for the pain - and I said yes - they mumbled something about Fentanyl as they pushed it into the IV tube (wow that stuff is strong.)  Apparently the 'good drugs' loosened my tongue (and according to the nurse who was looking after me, I was a "delight." Whatever that means.) And I noticed how much it felt like I had to urinate. "That's the catheter," someone said. "You're doing okay, just let it happen, it always feels like that." Oh. Oh good. Good to know.

This image, entitled "I Am Here To Help You"
is by stockimages and can be found at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

After I was settled in my room, which was in the maternity ward (oh how ironic since they'd just taken my uterus OUT) I remember them cleaning me up, using plenty of water to do so (one of the best, most decadently cared-for experiences I have had in a long time!), and then changing my sheets with me in the bed and the IV still hooked up to my right hand. That they could do this completely amazed me. (Obviously the Fentanyl was still having an effect on me...)

I remember my family suddenly being there and other sensations - the most disturbing of which was my panic reaction when the pregnant lady in the bed beside me got an ultrasound and I could hear the baby's heartbeat. I wasn't prepared for that fight-or-flight reaction. With all my heart I wanted to be anywhere but in that room. The emotions were raw, wrenching, horrific. With every beat of that baby's heart, I could remember the last time I had an ultrasound and heard that noise - all the while knowing in my current situation ... that my youngest daughter would never return to me. I was instantly transported into grief, as fresh as the day I learned she had died in that car crash over 3 years ago, and all I wanted to do was escape that noise: blooka-blooka-blooka... on and on.  I said something about earplugs - and my oldest daughter (who was visiting along with her dad) reached into her pocket and handed me a set of earplugs that so happened to be there. (I looked at her like she was magic, and inserted the earplugs. They stayed in my ears except for nurses' visits, until I gave up trying to sleep around 6:30 am.) My roommate was discharged the next day.

I did sleep a tiny bit that night, but only for five to fifteen minutes at a time - not enough for my body to get any rest. I was afraid that I would drop the call button (not realizing - because of the drugs - that I could tell them about that so they could tie its cord to the bed rail). In my mind, I was responsible for keeping track of that button because it was my lifeline to getting help, so I spent the whole night holding onto it. Not being a back-sleeper, I found that position very uncomfortable (even more so with that huge iron bar under the mattress at the level of my upper backside) but I could do nothing to change it. Makng any movement at all on my own was exhausting; I felt like I'd been run over by a truck or something. Everything was sore ... and I was so tired!  I remember once complaining about the bar underneath of me, and two of the staff moved me (sheet and all) up toward the head of the bed. Then they adjusted the bed to take the pressure off my lower back.It helped a little, but I am short, and gravity is a thing, so soon I was back down on the bar again. I would need to endure this for another 12 hours.  (Only today - four and a half days later - is the bone bruise from this iron-bar experience beginning to show through my skin.)

The next morning, around 7:30 am, they gave me a heparin shot - I stopped the nurse and asked what it was for before the needle went in - and probably I seemed a little paranoid about it (given my experience with sharp objects, it seemed perfectly valid to me!) Heparin is a medication that prevents blood clots - often referred to as a 'blood thinner' but it just stops the blood from clotting and doesn't actually thin the blood. The shot stung, but not as much as I expected. Then the nurse got this empty syringe and headed toward me. I asked her what that thing was for, and she said it was to take my "Foley" out (I had to look it up just now to understand what the syringe was for - thanks, Wikipedia!) I asked her what a Foley was and she said it was my catheter. She hooked the empty syringe up to the tube beside my bed (where the urine-bag was), withdrew some clear liquid, and then pulled out the catheter. Just like that. Interesting sensation, that was. It was no wonder I always felt like I had a full bladder. (Shudder!) Within three hours - since I was still on the intravenous fluids - I had to go to the bathroom!

The good, the bad, and the ugly

The good. I was expecting a fluid breakfast on the morning following my surgery, but they brought me toast, a boiled egg, some sort of shiny glutenous mass that looked something like watered-down oatmeal (it was.) They also had lots of fluids: milk, water, and hot water with a teabag and some sweetener, as well as some diced peaches. I could barely see over the tray because I was so far down in the bed that only my shoulders and head would raise when the head of the bed was raised.  I got someone to help me with that, and was finally able to see my food.  The peaches tasted good and so did the egg! I was grateful for the food and made sure to only eat as much as I would have eaten at home - which was about half of the toast, almost all the egg (which by then was tepid), all the peaches, and a few bites of the oatmeal (ugh! even with the teensy bit of brown sugar they gave me...) I used half the milk to make the orange pekoe tea easier on the stomach. There was no coffee. I asked for ice chips and ice water. 

I drank a LOT of water, and even more so after the catheter came out.

Medication time rolled around: the nurse gave me my diabetes pills, a large blue pill they called apo-naproxen that was supposed to help with the cramping, and there was also a stool softener. And at about 10:30, I saw the on-call surgeon, who apparently had assisted with my operation. He explained to me what they'd done, how I was going to be feeling, and when I might get discharged. He said it might be later that day if I was feeling up to it, and that if it was, the nurses could contact him for the paperwork.  (Given the discomfort I was in because of that iron bar under me, I grabbed onto that possibility like a drowning man grabs a buoy.) He drew me some diagrams and talked about the unexpected hernia repair they did - they had not known I had an umbilical hernia and that affected the length of the surgery since they had to check to see if they could still use my belly-button as an entrance port for the tube that contained the micro-camera. They could. Then after they were done doing what I was booked for surgery to do, they had to repair the hernia. The visit was very informative and I got a lot out of what he said. The diagrams helped. The biggest grin came after he said that I would never EVER have to have another pap test AGAIN! 

Soon afterward, the nurse came and blocked off the IV tube and put a "saline lock" on what was still attached and inserted into my right hand. If I would promise to drink water, she said, they could take out the IV tube in a few hours. (Another amazing motivator - since I'm right-handed!)

Every new step I took: getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, getting washed up [mostly] by myself, getting dressed, putting on my socks and shoes, going for a walk, sitting down, standing up, lying down, turning over in bed - all of it took every ounce of strength I had in whatever moment I was doing it.  I was (and HAD to be) totally committed to the task at hand, and when I would finish one small thing and feel "all in," I'd rest a while and then start another. 

There were a few bright spots. I had an amazing nurse and personal care worker.  Plus I surprised my husband and daughter by being dressed and taking a short walk in the hallway (more like an amble, really, quite slow!) when they came in to see me that day, the day after the surgery. Lunch came and they stayed while I ate beef barley soup, half a rubbery breast of chicken, diced carrots and mashed potatoes with margarine. No salt. And instead of the tea, I just used the hot water and milk to make a warm milk drink I used to drink when I was a little girl. Again, I was grateful for the food, and for the company. 

Shortly after that, they removed the nasal tubes they'd been giving me oxygen through. Having that thing off me was wonderful!

I discovered a little seating area in the unit - rocking chairs and a coffee table, by a south-east facing window.  I spent some time there, and even got a chance to visit with a friend for a few minutes - but had to do so outside the unit because at my invitation, she came during the rest period, which I thought started at 2 (it started at 1:30. She arrived at 1:45 and stayed until 2). 

The bad. By that time (about 2 pm), I was so exhausted from having been up (either walking or sitting) ever since 10:45 that morning, that I wanted to lie down. The level of bone-weary tiredness I felt gave new meaning to the expression, "all in." I wearily asked my friend if it would be okay if I went back to my room - and she walked me back to the unit and left me at the door. 

Every step - even though slow - was an effort. My belly felt incredibly tired. Sometimes it cramped with air - apparently when they do surgery by laparascopy, they inflate the abdomen with air. Some of the air gets trapped in there and somehow manages to work its way into the intestine, where it travels - not so quietly and definitely not painlessly - into the colon and out of the body. This is far from comfortable! And it had been happening ever since I woke up from surgery. After a while it just wears you down.

As I was saying, I wanted to lie down and rest, so I slowly walked back to my room, which was at the opposite end of the unit from where my friend dropped me off.  However, a visitor to my brand new pregnant room-mate was wearing some sort of artificial vanilla scented product (either conditioner or deodorant or hand cream or something) and she was sitting right in front of the bathroom door inside my room. The chemical was so overpowering to me that I could not even go into my room. 

I was at the breaking point. It ... wasn't pretty.

The ugly. With the discomfort, plus the frustrations of the previous day, the insomnia and the fatigue on top of it, this was when my patience ran out ... and I began to be what the nurses would have called "difficult" - but only when I was out of earshot.  I told them about the scent problem. "I don't smell anything," a staff member told me. I sighed. "It's not the smell. It's the chemical!!! I can't go in there. I'll have a reaction."  

I wandered the halls for an hour while my roommate and her visitor blithely visited with each other, and even after the visitor left. I even used the washroom in another semi-private (unoccupied) room - which for some reason upset them more than my complaining did! - and I got frustrated and sighed heavily.  I said I was tired of explaining my sensitivities to every single person (even though I had not explained it to the people to whom I was talking) because nobody understood what this was like for me. I felt like I'd explained it to so many people since being admitted the previous day, that something MUST be on my chart. It was on my allergies bracelet, I reasoned to myself. Were these people stupid or did they just not care that I'd been up for hours wandering around? When I rolled my eyes one more time and said I was tired of explaining my sensitivities to everyone, one of the nurses - annoyed - told me that I hadn't explained it to her.  I said that was true, but I felt like I had to explain it to every single person every single time, and I was tired of it. So ... she said that she wasn't going to ask me to explain it to her. (Yeah I guess I had that one coming, in hindsight.) 

Anyway, I mentioned needing a place to lie down, and possibly using the cot in the family room across the hall from my room because I still couldn't get near my room even though the visitor had left over ten minutes previous to that.  (The chemicals used in making fragrances, as I've often mentioned on this blog, linger long after the person has left.) Nobody said anything. I made my way to the end of the hall and turned into the family room. I headed toward the cot, wearily. I started to get on the cot. At that point, their frustration with me showed through, and the PCW told me that the family room was for use by new mothers and their families (nobody was using it at that time) and that I was not allowed to lie down on the cot because the cleaning staff would not be in until the next day. "You can lay down in your room," she said glibly. "No I can't. I can't get near that room."  "I can't smell anything in there, and I've got a good smeller," she told me. 

Sighhh. The "care" in "health care" seemed sadly lacking at that moment. It sucks not being believed, and I have had that experience way too many times with my chemical sensitivities.

I went to the seating area (at the opposite end of the unit) and sat for a while, close to tears, staring at the floor. The sun had gone around the side of the building, so it wasn't warm there anymore - not nearly as comforting as I thought it might be.  After about 20 minutes, I decided to chance another attempt, and walked slowly back toward my room, passing by the nurses' station on the way. My nurse was standing there and asked if she could get me to sit so she could take my vital signs since she had been getting ready to go to my room anyway. I sat and she took my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen levels. I told her that I had been up ever since they got me up, and that I would really like to go home. She said she would try to get in touch with the on-call surgeon but that he'd been delivering babies all day, it might be a while before he was able to get away. She said she was going to take out my IV tubing once I got settled there. The IV tubing was only supposed to be in there for 24 hours. It had been about 27 hours at the time.  I got up and made my way toward the room. "I wonder if they will reach the doctor tonight or if I'll have to spend another night on that awful bed," I said to myself.

As I neared my room, I could hear the voice of my second pregnant roommate in a row. She was crying out, sobbing in pain, amid other female voices. At least two staff members were with her, trying to make her comfortable. The baby was pressing on her sciatic nerve, and she was in excruciating pain. I silently went into the room and tentatively tested the air. The chemical had dissipated. It was okay for me to stay. I grabbed my pillow, tucked it under my waterproof butt-pad, and then took my rumpled-up blankets and made a pillow with them for my head, and slowly lowered myself onto my side in the bed with one hip on the pillow area, laying on my side for the first time in over 36 hours.  

Illustration "Sketch Of Woman Crying"
by luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

My roommate was crying aloud with her pain as they tried to find a way for her to get out of her bed and go to the bathroom without her pain intensifying exponentially. She was crying loudly and begging them to stop, to make the pain go away; ten feet away, beside her and unknown to her, I was crying silently in my own kind of pain. The frustration and tension of the day welled up in me and I wept - as uncomfortable as it was for my belly and as selfish as I felt (and ashamed as I felt for my selfishness) - on my bed. All I wanted was to go back home. So, I quietly sobbed into my makeshift pillow. My sobbing was muffled by my roommate's.

Nobody saw; nobody knew. Nobody. There was just me on one side of the curtain and two or three staff members with my roommate on the other side of the curtain. 

After my roommate got settled - about 20 minutes later - with some Dilaudid, I slowly got up and went out to the hallway. People were still busy. Nobody had heard from the doctor yet. I went back to my room and sat on the chair beside my bed. The food services lady came with my supper - that same beef barley soup, a couple of crackers, and the most disgusting macaroni and cheese. Still, it was food and I was grateful. I tried a bite of the cookie that came with it, but it had coconut in it, so I left it alone.

Around 5:30 or so, I found my nurse and asked if I could get a couple of extra pillows and a sheet or two for my bed, so I could lie down on my side and maybe catch a nap. At the time, however, all the staff were busy with a new influx of babies and moms, so she pointed me to the cart and showed me where everything was: pillows, pillowcases, and sheets.  So I took what I needed to my room - and I made my bed.  Me.  Not supposed to lift anything above 5 pounds, intravenous "saline lock" still attached to (and into a vein in) my right hand, and here I was, making my bed. Desperation does funny things I guess. Anyway, I got it done and I laid down again, on my side, waiting for my nurse to come in and keep her promise to take the intravenous tubing out of my hand.

I vaguely remember her coming to my bedside at one point, and asking me how long my doctor told me that I would be off work. I said, "Three to six weeks," and she said, "Awesome, I'll tell the on-call doctor..." and she was gone. My IV tubing was still in my hand. I rested my right hand on the bed in front of me. 

And so, this part of the saga ends... and another begins

I must have drifted off, because it was 6:50 pm when I opened my eyes and my nurse was sitting in front of me. "The doctor got back to me and I have your papers here, including your doctor's note for work."  I slowly sat up and she went over the post-surgical care information with me, after I texted my family to let them know I could come home.  They promised to be there around 7:30. The nurse finally removed my IV tubing. It felt so good to be free of that thing!  I was so grateful to be able to get out of there and to not need to spend another night on that iron bar!   

As I gathered together my belongings, I saw the young lady who had been crying in pain earlier. She seemed more comfortable but very groggy - her partner had been in and told them that they gave her twice as much Dilaudid as she was used to. The medication made her feel overheated, so she had a cold cloth on her forehead. We chatted for a little while, swapped stories. She wished me the best and I did the same for her.  

Soon afterward, my family was in the room and we were getting ready to leave. We stopped by the nurses' station on the way out, and they noted the time of my departure. My daughter insisted on wheeling me out in a wheelchair; I did not argue! My husband went ahead and brought the car up to the entrance.  We got me in the vehicle and my husband drove to our pharmacy, where the pharmacists know the whole family. My daughter went in to fill the prescriptions the doctor left for me. Then we drove home ... an exercise in enduring pain from jostling over the potholes and failed repair attempts that riddle our little city's roadways every few feet. When I finally got out of the car and slowly made my way through the cold, bracing air up the deck stairs and into our house, I was so relieved that my whole body relaxed so much that even my family noticed it.

I was finally where I belonged: home.