Alchemy For Peace

Each year’s Christmas tree is a beauty all its own.  The magic of twinkling lights on a tree bejeweled with ornaments that tell the story of my life is never lost on me. I welcome the light it brings in December’s darkness.   

The world is a hard place right now and for me the tree is a reminder to be grateful for the many blessings in my life.  Tonight it seems especially lovely and my heart is grateful. I hope that this bit of holiday joy can be a beacon for more peace in a world that badly needs it.  

Disabling

My hip has grown worse in the past month and now I mostly get around with the aid of a cane.  Pain is my daily companion and pain relief is not effective.  Sleeping continues to be a significant challenge.  Though I am physically and mentally exhausted, I can rarely rest.  At night, I require narcotics to have shot at two hour windows of sleep, mostly managed when I sit up.  Being in constant pain has a way of fraying neatly all of my patience for myself and dimming my coping skills to a mere shadow of their former self. I’ve struggled mightily to be in good temper about the situation.  I cry on a daily basis.  

The only solution is a total hip replacement.  I’ve read volumes of medical research and by all accounts, a new hip will work and find me right as rain.  I’ve seen several surgeons but none are willing to operate until I lose weight.  Some are murky about the target; others use the discredited BMI standard.  Ultimately, I lack the emotional bandwidth to keep trying to find a surgeon who will operate now.  And so I’ve yielded to deliberate weight loss - dieting - as the avenue to relief.  It’s a dangerous road for me.  I am eating a daily calorie diet of 800-1200 calories; once a week I mix it up and approach 1800 calories.  A combination of self-loathing and pain seems to dim my appetite, so I’m not as hungry as I feared.  Food restriction has been made weirdly easier because of my long-standing body dysmorphia, a condition that fills me with self-loathing.   For many years, I have managed the worst side effects of dysmorphia by using body positivity and intuitive eating.  Neither of those tools are available to me while I restrict food to reach an arbitrary BMI standard.  Most doctors know that BMI is bullshit and, rather than defend it, they use the insurance companies as their excuse.  In some ways, that’s neither here nor there as I am now stuck: forced to restrict food and contend with a dysmorphia that is in full command.  I assume that everyone who sees me is filled with loathing for my body, as I am.  Though I do my best to compartmentalize that sentiment, it’s still in command more than I would like, as I knew would be the case once I started restricting food.  I put on a brave face for everyone but my son and my sister; both have been incredibly good to me.  My sister is both a kind and patient advocate as I lose weight while gripping tightly to the shards of my sanity. She’ll come East to help when I have the surgery and is basically a candidate for sainthood for dealing with my bullshit.  The only good news in this fucked up situation is that food restriction is working. I am close to the BMI goal for surgery set by one of the surgeons.  I hope like hell he'll stick to that proposal because in this strange race to exchange one crippling disability for another, I'm at risk for losing it all together.

Finding My Strength

 The loss of my independence has been the greatest struggle of this hip situation for me.  I cannot just easily stand up, walk around, and do what I want.  Pain makes me cautious and slow and I do not enjoy that.  For all activities, I have to be aware of the prospect of overwhelming pain.  Since some things have to get done - work, laundry, tidying the house, grocery shopping - those chores are the focus of my time.  I try my best to have pain under control so that I can do the things I must do.   Things that I might like to do - a walk in the park, a trip to the craft store, gardening beyond basic yard work - require pain-free (or pain in control) time and that is a spare commodity.  It’s frustrating and it feels a little unreal that my life can be so suddenly limited.  Add to that the fact that I must lose some weight to have the surgery that will enable me to live freely again and I find myself feeling like my life matters less because I’m fat.  Since it’s been the work of my lifetime to believe that I matter and have value no matter my weight, it’s a demoralizing place to occupy.  

So I slog on, still (mostly) convinced that I matter, no matter what medicine claims.  And when the pain is at its greatest, I demand that my internal dialogue cheer me on, with every step repeating that I matter and that I am the toughest lady around.  Because I do matter and damnit, I am tough. 

The Beauty of Pain Management

On Tuesday, I saw a doctor whose specialty is pain management.  God bless her.  She’s the first medical professional I've seen since this hip journey began who is not just decent instead of being an asshole but went out of her way to be kind and caring while helping me to manage this shit show.  Thanks to her, I’ve been able to get some real rest at night.  We’re working toward a solution to help with pain during the day.  She has an e-mail and actually responds to questions.  She has a plan and a backup plan. 

So I’ve got a start on pain management as I work toward qualifying for surgery.  Thanks to improved pain management, I’ve got enough emotional bandwidth to look for surgeons willing to operate on a fat lady and I've got an appointment on that front.

Progress.

Meanwhile, Here at the Appliance Graveyard

Last Fall, when the seals on the fridge began to fail and then the handle broke off, a new refrigerator became a priority.  T struggled with our stove and talked me into a new stove as well.  Those arrived in September and both were nice - if pricey - additions to my world. *In 2023, one-by- one, nearly all of the remaining appliances at Sassafras House went on strike.  In late July, the hot water heater failed.  As it was nearly 15 years old, this was an understandable development.  Within 48 hours, a new one was installed.  In late August, the microwave began to make alarming sounds that indicated that it too had reached its term limit.  A new one was purchased and installed (the latter step was rather a customer service nightmare, but now that it’s done, my frustration from the experience is fading). *I was no sooner enjoying the new microwave, when the washer failed to drain water consistently and began to sound like a freight train was rolling through the basement.  Uh-oh. I called for repair, which sought to replace the transmission.  Alas, the whole internal mechanism had frozen.  The new transmission could not be installed.  I heard taps play in the background as the repairman drove away and I headed out in search of a new washer.  The new washer was installed last Saturday and it washes like a dream.  The dryer is - I hope - prepared to live a few more years.  At least I hope so, because my appliance budget is tapped out (and then some!).

A Loathing Strategy

My most recent foray into the world of medicine has been difficult and harrowing.  I need a replacement hip because mine is a disaster.  Because medicine uses the outdated and unhelpful BMI standard to set boundaries for such surgeries, I must lose weight before I can have the surgery.   There is a *a lot* about this that is frustrating, including the fact that I am dealing with a pretty high level of pain.  To tell a patient “I know you’re miserable but no help is available” requires a great deal of bed side manner to not seem like a total dick.  Suffice it to say, I do not have that doctor.  And the fact that I will remain in pain until I meet an arbitrary number on a discredited metric is, ahem, frustrating.  It feels as if my life matters less because I am fat.  And it doesn't just feel that way, it *is* that way.  No physician that I have seen in the last few days is willing to look me in the eye as they explain that I must simply endure the pain.  Again, this is cold comfort. At the orthopedist, I was advised to come back in three months.  Because I *for sure* welcome the charge for that kind of dismissive and dehumanizing experience again.  

For now, the plan is to try not to eat so that I can lose weight and meet the metric, at which point I will return to the orthopedist and have the surgery.  The corollary plan is to do my best to avoid the self-loathing of my body that I had done a really great job vanquishing in the last 20+ years.  I know that self-loathing is not a helpful tool in this struggle, but body dysmorphia waits for no one, especially in a world where your primary problem cannot be solved because medicine has decided you are too fat.  Self-loathing is therefore in full command now, which is not awesome.  I will struggle on because there is no other choice.  Until then, pain and I will be unhappy companions.  And I will indulge in a whole lot of ongoing dislike and disrespect for medical science with each aching step.

Among the Trees: On the Journey to This Moment

It’s no secret that the last year in my life has offered a seemingly steady stream of unexpected challenges.  I’ve found a core of resilience that I didn’t know that I had in me.  I’m proud of that strength and I continue to do the work to sustain it.  

Last week, I spent an afternoon in Colonial Park and had the time to reflect on how far life has come since last June, when my freshly-minted college-graduate son was struggling to sort out the meaning of his life.  It was a hard journey for me as a parent and far harder for him.  During those difficult weeks, JT and I spent a lot of time together, much of it in the rose garden, tucked under the wisteria wrestling with his demons.  

That difficult summer was before the end of my 11 year relationship with T and the passing of my father.  I won’t say that by now I am battle scarred, but I have arrived at a point where I don’t take anything good for granted.  Every day, I look for gratitude and from it I find grace.  I take the time to be grateful for the peace of that grace, no matter how small.  

My memory of the struggles of the last year made it all the more sweet last week when JT was offered a teaching job at a nearby school.  The position is a terrific opportunity, with a chance to do some things he knows he enjoys - coach middle school sports - as well as the prospect of trying something new - working as a third grade teaching assistant.  He’s excited and proud of himself.  I am so glad for him, perhaps as proud as I’ve ever been.  I know the work that got him here.  Last week, as I walked the paths of this familiar and beloved park and sat in the quiet shade of the wisteria to read my book, I thought of how far we’ve come.  I felt at peace in all the ways I've longed for over the last year.  I reflected on my blessings, all of them, but chiefly my immense gratitude that my boy is here to turn his beautiful face to the light and the sunshine. 

Let Freedom Ring

For most of my life, I’ve been the sort of person who reads the Declaration of Independence and gets teary-eyed at the ideas expressed by the preamble.  I’m aware that the founders fell far short of the notions being embraced; I know very well our history of slavery and vast inequality.  Still, the words - and their promise - have rung true to me as powerful aspirations that represent what the United States can become.

My belief in the words of the Declaration have made the last few years especially difficult.  A great deal of the problem seems to lie with the Supreme Court and their 2022 decision to cast aside 50 years of precedent and declare that bodily privacy was no longer protected by the Constitution.  It’s true that the Constitution did not explicitly declare body privacy.  It was document written in the 18th century, when such a notion did not exist.  But it’s equally clear that a group of men who would not house soldiers in their private property or permit a search of their homes without sworn warrants clearly understood the notion that a home was private.  The human body is the penultimate of home.  It houses our soul; the very core of our being.  That body should not be regulated by the government with no limits; it cannot be invaded.  It took women more than 140 years to gain the right to vote and that struggle is symptomatic of all that women endure in our aspiration for equality. Last year’s invalidation of the right to bodily privacy for women, a ruling that effectively denies certain kinds of medical care to half of the nation, is clearly a decision that puts men squarely back in the driver’s seat when it comes to women’s bodies.  It’s inexcusable.  I’ve spent the last year frustrated and angry, wondering what other rights marginalized groups might lose. 

Last week provided the answer.  On Thursday, a majority of the justices of the Supreme Court struck down affirmative action, the 50 year old effort by America’s colleges to correct some of the inequities and injustices wrought by our history of racism and exclusion.  That the majority opinion used the 14th Amendment’s guarantee of equal protection under the law to do so is especially appalling.  The 14th Amendment is one of three post-Civil War Amendments to the Constitution.  The 14th made former enslaved people into American citizens due the “equal protection of the law.”  It was added to the Constitution in 1868 but for many years equal protection was merely an unfulfilled promise, as Jim Crow laws and legal, social, and political inequality continued apace.  Not until 1954’s Brown v. Board of Education ruling was equal protection under the law applied to Black school children.  That opened the door to end the most aggressive forms of de jure inequality and segregation.  But de facto inequality continued apace.  Affirmative action began to be used in the late 1960s to ensure that historically excluded groups had the opportunity to have a seat at the table of power.  It benefitted white women more than it helped people of color and was an imperfect remedy to a nation whose original sin was the protection of slavery while claiming rights to liberty and equality it would not extend to everyone.  In her dissent to the ruling which invalidated affirmative action, Justice Kentanji Brown-Jackson said it best, “With let-them-eat-care obliviousness, today, the majority pulls the ripcord and announces “colorblindness for all” by legal fiat.  But deeming race irrelevant in law does not make it so in life.”  

A day later. the majority on the Supreme Court declared that business owners could discriminate against gay customers because of the business owner’s religious views.  This ruling turns a blind eye to state or federal laws which enshrine equal protection under the law as some state governments and the federal government seek to prevent overt discrimination against gay, lesbian, or trans Americans.  Coming as it did after the rulings on the right to privacy and affirmative action, it was no surprise.  

But that doesn’t mean it’s not a sucker punch…it is, especially in the midst of so many states bent on limiting the rights of trans people to freely live their truth.  It also makes it hard for me to get emotional or teary-eyed about the 4th of July and celebrations of independence.  Until we recognize that each and every one of us are created equal and are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, none of us can truly be free.  That painful truth is evident every day, but especially today as we celebrate a national independence that is yet incomplete. 

A Rough Patch

As I restructure my life and move through this first year without a partner and without my Dad, I’m learning that rough patches will appear without warning.   I do my best to predict and prepare for them, but it’s often an imperfect balance.  The two losses are vastly different and separate but that they are happening within just a few months of one another combines them in my mind.  

For reasons I can’t completely sort out, grocery shopping remains a challenge.  I don’t quite know why, but it’s hard and I often cry on my drive home.  Contemplating my Summer garden is happy right up until the moment I want to ask my Dad a gardening question and then I feel sad that I won’t hear from him that the tomatoes are looking splendid this year.  I’m not fragile or even brittle but I am sometimes sad and I feel tender, as if there is a deeper hurt just under the surface bruise.  

I have this vivid memory of my Dad telling me I was beautiful - it happened years ago, at a moment when I desperately needed the reminder - and though I’ve never forgotten it, it’s not been a memory that resurfaces often.  But it has appeared in my dreams of late and it feels intentional, a message from my sub-conscious,  While it brought me comfort all those years ago when he said it to me, now it stings and I’m not sure why.  

I am gentle and try to be kind to myself but even that is rather a double-edged sword as it reminds me that I am truly on my own.  In my weaker moments, my internal dialogue repeats that I am alone because I am too difficult to be loved and cherished.  I shut down that voice when it speaks, but I can’t quite seem to disable it.

I maintain a pretty blistering pace at work and a lengthy to-do list for the weekends in order to dodge unsettling feelings.  Being busy feels useful.  I enjoy time by myself without feeling lonely - that has always been true for me - but I now I seem to worry this won’t always be the case.  Again, that’s a strange development, since I have always been a loner of sorts.  I would like some easy weeks without an abrupt reminder of what I have lost but I feel like it will be a while before that happens.  Right now I am grateful for a peaceful day.  Loss and grief are like that, I think.  And so I move forward and even when I stumble, I keep my chin up.

April 1: Teacup, the Pothos Plant

This pothos plant has been around for a while….at least 15 years by my reckoning.

The plant lives in a giant blue tea cup planter that has white polka dots.  Such a thing is as on-brand for me as humanly possible,  lover of tea cups and polka dots that I am.  

The plant owns this corner of the red bench in the Winter and will take center stage on the front porch table come warmer weather.  Cuttings from this pothos are the foundation for several additional pothos plants that live in my care.  A pothos is easy to care for and unfailingly lovely, which is a happy development for this gardener.  It's worthy of a celebration always, but especially as April makes its appearance.

One Small Flower

Earlier this year, JT and I got matching tattoos on our left forearms.  I have to say that I rather liked it and knew pretty quickly that my first tattoo would not be my last, though I had no specific plans.  But I kept thinking about flowers and plants and once my dad died, I knew. 

My love of plants and gardens is the biggest gift my father gave me.  I will miss talking plants with him and I decided to keep those memories close to me for the coming years.  Gardening is about growing things; it's taught me the value of patience.  In this 56th year of my life, a year when I am once-again sorting out who I am and who I will be, a reminder to look anew at life seems fitting.

This flower, a forget-me-not, is on my inner right wrist.  I can see it whenever I like but can tuck it away if I please.  It's a welcome reminder of my dad and the joy he took in growing things.  My dad was not the tattoo type and he likely would not have approved.  But I do think that he would understand the power of a floral talisman to keep me company and guard my memories.  

Gratitude Journal: The Growing Season

A few week ago, when I got back to New Jersey after my stay in California, I took a walk at Colonial Park and saw a forsythia just starting to bloom.  That’s an early bloom; the first of the season.  My first thought was “I’ll tell dad.”  Then I remembered that he’s not taking my calls these days and, honestly, it sucked.  To have the start of Spring without my dad around to discuss gardens, seedlings, and all things turning green has been hard.  

I learned to love gardens and plants from him and I am reminded that in these growing things is the comfort I need.  Plants grow and then fade and die.  In some cases, that happens in a year.  In others, a growing thing (looking at you, redwoods), can last for ages, well past the life of one human.  There are lessons in that, of course.  Human life is fragile and short when measured against historical time.  What can endure is the mark we make on this world and the people around us. 

In that respect, my dad has the edge.  For his kind heart, he was known and admired by so many people.    He adored his grandsons beyond a reason and rationality and they knew it and loved him back.  He was fiercely loved by the rest of us as well.  And his gardening lives on, in the peach trees he ordered in December, delivered from his favorite nursery a few days after he died.  In the lemon trees he planted in all of his yards; in the daffodils I saw blooming around his house and all the places he lived in Clovis; in the irises that grow in my backyard; bulbs that came from his grandmother’s garden. 

Days and then years will come and go.  But Spring will always bring new growth.  In that fresh green, I will look for my gardener dad and the joy his plants brought him.  I know I’ll find him there. 

March 1: Lily, Who Brings Me Peace

This plant is known to me as Lily, because I love the name Lily and the plant is a peace lily so…..let’s just say I won’t tamper with a good thing.  

I’ve had her for nearly 10 years.  Though she started as a tiny little plant, she’s grown quite a bit and now occupies a sizable planter.  Lily blooms pretty reliably, usually in the late Spring when she moves to the front porch, and sometimes in the late Fall, when she comes indoors for the Winter. 

Lily has spent most of this year’s cold weather season seated here by the back deck window, where light can be found on the sunny days and where I can say hello and bask in her glow each morning when I come downstairs.  She’s low maintenance and high reward, which is a happy development in all living things, but especially a house plant.   That she invariably makes me smile is her plant super power and I am grateful for Lily.

February 1: Ursula the Aloe

I have a friend who names all of her houseplants.  Lest you conclude that she only has three or four plants, I hasten to report that she has nearly as many houseplants as I do.  I am impressed by her naming game.  Most of my plants don’t have names but a few do and this month’s plant certainly does.  Internet, please meet Ursula.

Three years ago, Ursula lived in this blue pot and she was only slightly larger than the aloe that lives here today.  

The plant currently in this modest blue pot is an offshoot from Ursula (a pup…that is seriously what they are called).  Her name is Avril.  Keeping Avril was risky given how Ursula has grown.  But I can’t say no to a plant, so here we are.  

In the Winter, Ursula lives in the living room, next to the radiator and on a plant stand so that she can be easily moved should such a need arise.  She’ll relocate to the front porch come Spring.  But no matter where she lives, Ursula is impressive, if prickly.  Though she’s something of an inconvenient companion, I just can’t bring myself to give her up.

January 1: Taking Root

In December, I began to think again about this blog, which has been neglected in the last couple of years.  For a long time, I was grateful for this place to record my thoughts and mark the passage of time.  I’m not the sort to make resolutions, but I’ve enjoyed writing of late and the blog is back for now.  I’m looking forward to posting more often this year.   

As has been my custom, I’ll start each month with a post about something in the natural world.  This year, that’s going to be the houseplants that bring me happiness on a daily basis.  I’ve a bit of a green thumb and I love houseplants.  More than two dozen flourish in my care and they are all over the house and my office at school.  Some go outside for the summer; all of them bring me joy and help me to feel grounded. 

Like any good mama, I don’t have a favorite plant.  Each is valued on their own terms and each is meaningful to me for a different reason.  For January, I pick this little pothos, which currently has a spot on the radiator in the dining room. 

I have many a pothos plant; they are easy to care for and they grow in abundance.  Some of mine have variegated leaves; others are a verdant green  This plant was started from clippings from the plant that lives on the top of my living room bookshelf.  It had begun to trail the floor and, loathe to throw out the trimmings, I showed JT how to transplant them.  We did that in the midst of our hard summer and I can remember telling him that life was sometimes like a plant waiting to take root; not always much to look at but always with potential.  I told him that the tiny transplant was an investment in hope for the future.  Privately, I crossed my fingers that the plant would take root and begin to thrive and that when it did, JT would also be better situated. 

This little plant is in a better place today, as is the son who helped me to grow it.  I start 2023 with gratitude for this growth, and that feels like the right note for a new year.