Valentine, Party of One

Last week, I had one of those spiraling days of doubt that occur every once in a while.  It was Friday and I was physically and emotionally spent.  The pain and disability of my hip caught up with me like a fury spinning wildly.  Days like that are hard when you are a without a partner and I’ve had far too many of them lately.  The fact that the Valentine’s Day sucker-punch was just around the corner didn’t help. My sister’s support, some rest, and a good book got me over the hump. 

Today is Valentine’s Day and though I suspect I will forever be sad that I never found a partner willing (or able?) to love me through the hard parts of a relationship, I’m not dwelling on that.  I have Valentine treats for some friends and big plans to score some flowers for myself once I have a new hip and can walk into the shop and select a bouquet. As of today, I am 7 days from surgery. Tonight, I’ll open the Valentine treat I bought myself, raise a toast to me and getting through the hell of the last 6 months, and I'll remind myself that I am tough as nails when the need arises.  That will make for a sweet -  if untraditional - Valentine's Day and I'll take it.

Style Journal: Making My Peace with Pants

 As an adolescent - really as a tween - I learned that some clothes and styles were off-limits because of my weight.  Once the dreaded "not flattering" concern was uttered by my mom and grandmother, extreme self-consciousness set in.  A fear of being too fat, and therefore unworthy, took hold.  I remember dieting at the age of 12 when I weighed all of 125 pounds and was 5’3”.  After age 12, I didn’t go to public places where swimsuits were being worn.  Rather than reject the message that I was unworthy because of my body, I molded my life around the limits sent by that message.  For more than 25 years, I mostly refused to wear pants or shorts because I could not stand my appearance in them.  This avoidance continued long after a therapist explained to me that I have body dysmorphia.  She helped me to develop the tools to manage the feelings brought on by the dysmorphia and though I still experience an inaccurate view of my physical appearance, I understand it to be a thing that I don’t have to believe or accept.  So the dysmorphia exists away from my sense of self.  

All of this is relevant because my current disabled status has made pants a rather valuable asset in my world.  In the Winter, I wear tights with skirts and dresses.  But as my hip disability has worsened, the process of putting on tights in the morning became difficult and then unbearable.  This  weekend, I gave up Winter tights in exchange for pants.  They are loose-fitting pants - in a size too large, as is my way - but putting them on is manageable and doesn’t aggravate my crummy hip.  I think that the transition to pants has been made easier by the abundance of wide-leg styles.  I regularly buy clothes that are too big (see: coping with body dysmorphia) and wide-leg pants are a style gift.  I like them in various forms, though especially soft, flowy knits — pants my sister has named “dress sweats.” I think I will love them even after my hip has been fixed.  I’ll not call that the silver lining of the misery - there is not silver lining enough for what I’ve been through - but it is something.  

On Not Wishing Away Time

It has taken more than half my time on earth for me to learn the lesson that I must embrace life when and where it happens and not wish it away.  I learned the lesson the hard way, mostly after I conceived my son nearly 25 years ago.  By then, I’d spent a lifetime believing that there were things I couldn’t do or have because of who I was: a fat lesbian and a smart woman who scared the shit out of patriarchy.   Limits were set by society and for many years I accepted some of them. Becoming a mama was something I feared would be unavailable to me.  Against that particular perceived limit, I fought back.  When I became pregnant, I vowed that I would raise a child who always knew his value and worth and needn’t wait to love, or be loved, or live the life of his choosing.  In the subsequent years, I learned to take on other limits and not feel that I had to wait to enjoy the full measure of life.  I came to embrace wearing a swimsuit despite my imperfect thighs.  I came to love doing things on my own: movies, dining out, going to the gym, going to parks and museums on my own, even vacationing by myself.  If I wanted to do it, I could and I did.  It was empowering.

Then came the wonky hip.  Since last August, when the pain became suddenly unbearable, I have faced a world of limits brought on by doctors who denied me care because I’m fat.  I’ve rarely been a fan of modern medicine and this circumstance has turned my lack of enthusiasm into palatable dislike and distrust.  I am a woman who does not hate but if I made an exception to that rule, it would be for the medical field, which has almost never been my ally.  As I restricted food to lose weight and qualify for the hip replacement surgery everyone agreed would cure me, my dislike of doctors grew as their withholding of treatment shrank my world.  I resisted as much as I could but pain and sleeplessness are a toxic combination.  The last 6 months have mostly been miserable.  No longer able to walk very far, I have been confined to a life of home and work, my independence limited outside of my home (and even within it….going downstairs to do laundry is very hard for me; everything takes longer when you are disabled and in near-constant pain).  I have found myself wishing away my current existence in exchange for a future when things will be better, the exact approach to life I rejected so many years ago.  

With just under two weeks until surgery, I finally see light at the end of the tunnel.  With a hip replacement, I believe I will regain my independence.  I will once again be able to live my life on my terms.  Whether I will be able to let go of my anger at the 6 months of my life lost because of the denial of medical treatment remains to be seen. I’m only 56 years old.  I have many years left on earth, though not so many that I welcome my time being wasted by doctors who don’t seem to understand what an oath like “do no harm” actually requires of them.

Among the Trees: Sunshine & Hope

Most of January was damp and cold.  We had a smidge of snow - enough to earn a snow day - but mostly we had endless grey skies and rain.  I find January is a bleak month anyway, what with its late sunrises and early sunsets, but add in gloomy grey skies and my growing hip discomfort and the month had little to recommend it.  February was less than 48 hours old when it delivered blue skies and sunshine.  Though the cold persisted - it’s still Winter - the sun was welcome.  It’s also true that our days are lengthening, with an extra minute of sunlight morning and night and that helps.  Normally, Winter walks sustain my soul but my temporary disability has robbed me of that comfort.  On Saturday, when I could sit out in the back deck and turn my face to the sunlight, for a still-chilly 30 minutes, I felt hopeful.  I’m two weeks away from surgery and I am so ready for the return of walks in the woods.  Until then, I've had some sunlight and it was glorious.

The Countdown Continues

On Monday morning, I taught my classes and when I returned to my office, there was an e-mail from my surgeon’s office: my hip replacement was delayed, likely to February 28.  I was appalled.  It took a day of back-and-forth with the office, before we landed on a one-week delay.  Now my surgery is on February 21.  I’ve been waiting for relief since September and strictly speaking another week is just that - 7 more days - but it was another blow in an already demoralizing journey.  I made a last-minute appointment with my pain doctor to renew the meds that help me to get some sleep, updated my supply of ibuprofen and Tylenol for daytime support, adjusted my countdown calendar, and got back to life.  Today I have two pre-op appointments: testing at the hospital and a visit with the surgeon’s office.  Next week, I'll see my primary care doc for surgery clearance.  With 19 days to go, I am lslowly imping toward the finish line.

February 1: Cardinal in the Backyard

Years ago, my taught me that the sight of a cardinal was a visit from a loved one who had passed; a sign that all was well in the great beyond.  When I saw this cardinal on the fencepost in my yard a few weeks ago, I was glad.  

Tomorrow will be a year since my Dad’s passing.  I miss him.  I miss his voice on the phone; I miss his to-the-point e-mails; I miss his jokes and his laugh.  It’s hard to believe that we’ve been a full season of life without him in this world.   I can hear his political commentary in my mind, see him in my growing plants and garden plans, think of his outsized joy in his grandsons. I remember him by telling stories about him or using a patented dad-phrase.  It’s not enough - it never will be - but the memories are of a  man who loved and was loved; who had a good life.  That’s happy.