Impermanence

The Chinese symbols for Impermanence

There are times lately that I hear a song that was on one of my running play lists and my urge to run is overwhelming. It's been a very long time since I've had that luxury. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll never be able to run again. 

Typically, I don't write posts about my health (actually ever), but here goes. 

In February I started having some lower back pain which I assumed was caused by a very minor slip on some ice while I was running. I figured I would take a few weeks, maybe even a month off, and I'd be back to normal. I took the month of March off and did some very short runs a few times in April without any pain. In early May I went for my traditional early spring hike up Waterfall Canyon. I was sore for several days after, which I chalked up to being out of shape. The soreness never went away and soon turned into severe Sciatic pain all the way down my right leg and into my foot. 

May was pretty much a blur of excruciating, debilitating pain for much of the time, but I still managed to keep up on most of my regular household and yard chores. Still in pain when June rolled around, I decided I might need more than the chiropractic and massage care I'd been getting. By that point part of my lower leg and foot had been numb for several weeks. I finally limped my way in to see a spine specialist who sent me for a MRI. The diagnosis? A bulging disc at the L5 S1 level. It also showed that I had a moderate case of Scoliosis. Who knows how long I've been walking around with a crooked spine? June was spent going to one doctor appointment after another and racking up huge bills. My pain had subsided a little, but the numbness continued. July brought a trip to the ER after stubbing my toe at home and barely tripping. The pain was excruciating! I'd trade childbirth without any painkillers 10 times over that kind of pain again. By that point I felt pretty hopeless, very fragile, discouraged, and vulnerable. I was ready for relief no matter the cost or method and decided I wanted surgery ASAP.

Picture of a traction table - my new best friend. 

Fortunately, before I took the drastic step of going under the knife I met with a doctor whom I'd made an appointment with weeks earlier. I left that first appointment with him feeling optimistic and hopeful for the first time in months. Finally I felt I'd found a knowledgeable doctor who really cared and wasn't just a health care provider, but a healer in the true sense of the word. Of course, he isn't covered by my insurance, but by that point I didn't care. I just wanted to be well again. Using a method called Positional Release Therapy, along with traction and some home exercises to strengthen my core, I'm happy to report that I'm finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. I'm even starting to feel some sensation in my toes and leg again! 

The last 5 1/2 months haven't been an easy journey for me. I was under strict orders to not do any lifting, bending, or anything else that would put strain on my back. I couldn't carry the laundry basket upstairs, pull weeds, mow the lawn, trim shrubs, vacuum, walk the dog, make the bed, scrub the bathtub--the list was endless. My poor yard, housekeeping and my pride suffered. I fought the urge to put a sign in my yard saying "I have a doctor's note" to excuse the dismal condition it was in. I'm not someone that's used to being dependent on others for the most basic of life's tasks. I'm a horrible invalid. Not being able to do hardly anything physical has taken a definite mental toll. I drive by people running outside and am jealous of their ability to run. Do they appreciate what a gift they have? Do they know how quickly life can change? My days of running 1/2 marathons seem like a lifetime ago. It's funny how much of an identity I built around being a 'runner'. I never realized it until I wasn't able to run. There were times all I could do was cry and wonder if I would ever regain full function. 

I'm trying to make peace with my new normal, which really means I'm trying to make peace with change. A few weeks ago during one of my treatment sessions I finally dared ask the question I was afraid to hear the answer to. "What are the chances I'll be able to run again?" I surprised myself by nearly breaking into tears when I asked. My doctor was honest and straightforward, telling me that in my current condition the likelihood is about 50/50 that I'll be able to run again without pain or aggravating my condition. That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear, but it's better than a definite no. 

Later we talked about life and the many curve balls it throws at us. We have some pretty deep, philosophical talks during my treatment sessions. I've decided that finding a doctor that has Tibetan prayer flags hung in their treatment room is a very good indicator of the kind of care given there. He reminded me of one of the essential doctrines of Buddhism, that of impermanence. Everything in our existence is inconstant and in a never-ending state of flux. It reminded me of the common platitude 'This too shall pass' that people are so fond of using when times are tough. As much as I bristle against the dismissive nature of platitudes in general and that one in particular, it's true. Things change. Life moves on. We can either fight it or accept it. When I look back on the last several years I'm reminded of this truth. There was a time when I doubted that I would be able to live with the heartbreak and crushing grief I felt after Julie died. I couldn't imagine a future where things would be better and I would laugh and be happy again. Four months ago I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't in near-constant pain with numbness in my leg and foot. I imagined living the rest of my life that way and felt despair. Now, here I sit several months later and my pain is gone. I can even sometimes feel some sensation in my leg and foot again. I'm healing. Things change. Not always for the better, but just like the really good times, the really bad times don't last. 

Letting go of control and accepting life as it comes is probably the thing I struggle most with in life. I fear losing control. Even when life has shown me time and again that I really have very little control, I still struggle to just let things be. I'm learning and trying to be more open to accepting the uncertain, ever-changing nature of life. I never could have predicted the twists and turns my life has taken. For better or for worse, the challenges I've faced have made me the person I am today. The one thing I know for certain is that I am strong. I am capable, and I will survive and thrive no matter what. 

"By letting it go it all gets done. The world is won by those who let it go. But when you try and try, the world is beyond the winning." ~ Lao Tzu

Survivors

This post was going to be about money, goals and paying off debt but that topic will have to wait for another day. My mind has been preoccupied and unsettled all week, my heart heavy and sad, so I'll write about what's on my mind instead. 

Last week there were two murder-suicides in Utah, one in a community close to where I live. In both instances young children were killed by their parents before they took their own lives, an added dimension of horror to an already horrific situation. All of the victims are strangers to me, although one of them was a friend to many people I know. Still, my heart is heavy and sad for these strangers, for the beautiful lives lost, and the grief and despair I know so many of their friends and family are now experiencing and will live with forever. 

There was a time in my life when such news would have given me only momentary pause. I would have thought how sad it was for their families, but then would have quickly forgotten all about it and carried on with my life. Now such news causes an instant, visceral reaction in me, triggering memories and thoughts that take me back to the darkest days of my life. Not only my mind, but my body remembers what such devastating news and grief feels like, triggering what can best be described as a post-traumatic stress reaction. 

Now, every suicide I hear about is personal to me. I grieve for the person that was in such emotional pain that they felt the only way to escape it was to end their life. I feel deep regret that the epidemic of suicide is continuing, that people still don't seem to be hearing the message of hope that so many survivors are sharing. My heart aches for their families and friends, knowing how profoundly their lives will be affected. I cry for them, for me, and for my sweet sister Julie. My mind remembers things that most of the time are buried so deeply that they seem forgotten. I remember the phone call from my sister telling me she knew something was horribly wrong. I remember being told our worst nightmare was true, where I was, and how time seemed to stop as I felt the world as I knew it shifting and falling away. I remember calling my dad to break the news, the exact words I said, his scream and feeling his anguish from clear across the country. Every heartbreaking moment of the first days, weeks and months after Julie's death comes back to me. 

I want to reach out to the survivors, the newest members of our awful club and tell them I understand. There will be questions they'll never have the answers to, but hopefully they'll be able to make peace with those unknowns. I want to let them know that even though they don't think they can survive this, they can. Their broken hearts can heal. Joy will eventually return to their lives. 

All of these thoughts and memories remind me that grieving is a circular process. It never really ends, but is does change and soften. Anger turns to compassion and understanding. Denial and avoidance turns to acceptance. There will always be grief and sadness for the lives cut short, the dreams unrealized, and the beloved individuals who will no longer share their gifts with the world. I'm reminded of how far I've come and how much I've healed, that I'm a survivor in the truest sense of the word. I've come to truly appreciate and cherish moments like I had yesterday while I was running. Julie was there in my mind the entire time. Yes, my thoughts of her made me sad and filled with regret that she'll never run beside me again. But I refused to give in to the sadness. I kept on determined, putting one foot in front of the other, moving forward, happy to be alive. 

Long Trip Alone

On May 29, 2010 my life changed forever. At the time I thought that day was the darkest of my life. In the immediate aftermath of Julie's suicide a deeper, more intense pain didn't seem possible. But, the deep, dark sadness and grief that took hold of my soul that day continued to descend, almost unabated, for the next year until I was in the depths of a black hole with seemingly no way out. For just over a year I struggled alone, trying to deal with a loss and grief like none I'd ever experienced. Finally, I cracked, unable to take the pain any more. I realized I could no longer do it alone. 

The year following Julie's death had been filled with stress and strife. My family, always fractured and with many unresolved issues, was now a house divided. Just weeks before, some of us had come together to remember the first anniversary of Julie's passing and to inter her ashes. Bitter hostility and disagreement had kept some away, my parents unable to put aside their differences and be together for the sake of their children. 

I've always been the peacemaker in the family, trying like hell to maintain civility and bring everyone together. I guess I've never let go of the fantasy of an intact family unit. I finally let go of the fantasy that weekend. Repressed feelings of anger, regret, hurt, sadness, betrayal and loss, shoved inside me since I was 11 years old, were brought to the surface again. That was the week I cracked, no longer able to tolerate the negativity, fighting and bitter accusations. The crack that appeared in my psyche quickly grew into a giant, gaping wound. Just a few short weeks later, I was completely frazzled, unable to cope and in desperate need of help, right then. I couldn't bear the thought of jumping through the hoops required by my insurance, waiting weeks to be seen by a therapist. Finally, in desperation, I drove alone and distraught to the hospital, and checked myself into the inpatient psychiatric ward. 

My official diagnosis and reason for being there was extreme anxiety and depression with some complicated grief thrown in. Really, I was there due to my broken heart, but I don't think a CPT billing code exists for that. Like Humpty Dumpty, I was completely broken and shattered, with no idea how to pick up the pieces and put myself back together again. My world had been shaken to its very foundation, leaving me to question myself and everything around me. Guilt, regret and 'what if''s' were eating me alive. I didn't know how to go on. I wasn't sure I even wanted to. Mostly I just wanted to lie down in a quiet room, go to sleep and never wake up again. I didn't want to die. I just didn't want to feel the pain I was feeling anymore.

Despite my deep longing for rest and isolation, that's the last thing they allow in the psych ward. Thankfully though, I was immediately put on some very strong anti-anxiety and anti-depressant drugs. Finally, after more than a year I was able to get some relief from the chaos in my mind. Yes, I'd gone 13 months trying to gut it out alone without the help of any form of medication or therapy. Until then, the strongest thing I'd taken was some Benadryl a few nights in the weeks after Julie's death when I was desperate for a full night's sleep.

I didn't stay in the hospital long. I quickly realized I didn't need to be locked up, not allowed to wear shoes or any clothing with drawstrings, belts or anything else I might use to harm myself. On my second day there I met with a therapist. After explaining to her what the last year of my life had been like, she very kindly told me, "This isn't what your sister would want for you. She would want you to be happy. You need to do whatever it takes to get better so you can live your life." As strange as it may sound to a rational person, not only had I never thought about things in such profoundly simple terms, nobody had bothered to point this out to me. I was sick, but I could get the help I needed on an outpatient basis. 

Finally, after 13 months, I gave myself permission to fully grieve. I quit pretending for the world that two weeks had been plenty of time to cope with losing my sister, mourn, and attend to all the awful details that came with her death. I took time off work, telling them I didn't know when I'd be back and not to bother me. I stayed in bed, almost catatonic, sad, crying, and physically hurting inside from my grief. My daughter stayed at her dad's so I didn't feel obligated to take care of anyone but myself. I slept as much as I wanted. I quit trying to regulate the degree to which I'd allow myself to feel my loss. 

After a few weeks, very slowly, in a way that was nearly unnoticeable to me, the darkness that had enveloped me for so long started to lift. I went to therapy appointments like it was my job. I took my medications religiously. I reminded myself daily to be kind to ME, and to not feel compelled to pretend to the world that everything was okay. Eventually, about six months later, I felt different. The sadness and pain was still there, but it was different, no longer all-encompassing and much more manageable. I was beginning to accept my new normal. 

It was like a re-birth. I'd been dismantled down to my very core and put back together. Parts of me died, forever ceasing to exist when Julie died. My psychic reconstruction meant I was different inside. My very soul is different now. I see and feel things differently, and perceive the world in ways I never did before. I look the same on the outside, but I'm a completely different Keicha now.

For the last twenty-eight months I've been on a journey that I didn't choose, and if I had a choice, would never choose. At first I tried to do it alone. My breakdown forced me to realize the foolishness of my stubborn, solitary journey. It allowed me to open my mind and heart to letting others help me, and made me realize I needed to heal so that I can help others. Thankfully, mercifully, I'm no longer traveling this hard road alone. 

Yesterday marked another milestone in my journey of healing. Together with thousands of others survivors and people whose lives have been affected by suicide, I walked. We walked - strong, proud, tearful, and brave - in the light of day, confronting the darkness of suicide. We walked for hope and healing, for my beautiful, beloved sister Julie, and for so many others.  

Hour of Lead

Two weeks ago I went to my first suicide survivors support group.  I left the meeting intending never to return, completely traumatized and convinced there was nothing for me to gain by attending.  The couple of days before were very stressful and I was feeling more than a little resentful about having to drive nearly an hour each way on a weeknight, right after work to "deal" with my sister's suicide. On my ride down I ranted to my sister Amy.  "Here I am once again cleaning up her mess! How convenient that she just died and left the rest of us to try to figure out how to pick up the pieces and go on.  How easy to just escape by suicide.  Now I get to spend a full evening a week for the next seven weeks going to this stupid group because of what she did.  As if I don't have 100 other things I'd rather be doing!"  I was angry, resentful and bitter.


Things didn't get better once I arrived (twenty minutes late after getting lost on the sprawling University of Utah campus and trying to find parking).  Because it was the first night, people were introducing themselves and telling why they were there.  Four of the seven in attendance had experienced their loss within the last six months, with several having lost their loved ones less than three months ago.  Their grief was still raw. Their shell-shocked looks were all too familiar. After listening to a few of them talk I wanted to run from the room.  Being confronted with their shock and fresh, palpable grief opened barely closed wounds in my own mind and soul.  It was overwhelming.  "How on earth can this be good for me?" I wondered to myself.  Even though I recognized exactly where they were and very much related to their feelings, mercifully I've progressed beyond the immediate shock and have come to terms as best I can with many of the issues that lead to Julie's suicide.  The facilitator's comments were repetitive.  She quoted a book I've already read, talked about statistics and facts I now know by heart.  


During the drive home I mentally replayed the meeting, recalling what I shared with the group.  I thought about the emotions I'd shared, the things I'm still struggling to accept, to come to terms with, and I cried and cried.  


The next day I was again thinking about the meeting and wondering if there was anything to really be gained by going back.  Then it occurred to me how glad I was that I was almost two years out from the worst day of my life.  Seeing others experiencing such fresh trauma reminded me that I have made some progress.  It's given me a very different perspective.  As horrible as my experience is and was, there are others who have faced the same, or much worse. I also realized that by being there I could perhaps offer some hope for those dealing with such recent losses.  I can show them someone that has survived two years, someone whose life has gone on, who still laughs, hopes, dreams and enjoys life.  It wasn't just about me!  It's about all of us--surviving and supporting each other.  


Last week I returned with a much better attitude.  This week I'm actually looking forward to going. Instead of focusing on my anger and resentment on the cause behind my being there, I'm trying very hard to focus on how far I've come.  A few nights ago I came across this stanza from the poem After great pain, a formal feeling comes by Emily Dickinson. 

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

Reading it made me realize how far I've come.  I've lived through the hour of lead. I'm past it and at long last I'm starting to let go.