Writing in the Dark

 It's 5:00 am, the sky is a long way from daylight. The house is quiet, except for me and the running of our new refrigerator. I've been awake for a while, and the morning urge for coffee finally pushed me out of bed. 

I'm writing in the dark literally, and also, having terminated my FB account, few people will ever see what I have written. I have a few followers to whom I send my gratitude. I like to think that I occasionally have something to say, and it is affirming to know that someone reads it. So now I am writing without an audience, and I am sending it to the darkness outside.

I have been reading Ann Patchett's book, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage. One of her essays is about her history as a writer. She became a writer because an urge  from the time she was a toddler compelled her to write. All the jobs she had along the way were to keep house and home so that she could work on her real job as a writer. She talks about the work of writing and recommends that us would-be's sit down every day, in a quiet place, and write something. If nothing comes at first, sit there until it does. Then write. Writing is like a muscle. You have to exercise it to do it well. 

I understand this. I have always wanted to write and scribbled things from early on. I think I lacked the discipline to really pursue a writing career, although I have had several jobs for which writing was an essential task. I wrote better during those times, because I wrote every day.

There are times when I don't write. Those are the dry times, when life feels dry, and I have nothing to offer up except journals, filled with woe-is-me, and I won't even send that out to the darkness. Those are my get-a-grip times.

At other times, life fairly hums with poetry, and my head is filled with words and phrases that swirl around competing for their right order. I remember a phrase from an old hymn: All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres. No kidding, I often feel like that. I am most often inspired by some element of nature singing -  morning light when I open the curtains; afternoon sun shining through yellow leaves on a Gingko tree; crisp, cool air on the first day of Autumn. And the deep quietness of night when I can't sleep  - the dark sacred night (from What a Wonderful World). and BTW, Louis Armstrong singing What a Wonderful World.

When I hear these things, when I am inspired to write, I know that I am awake; I am paying attention, and my head is on straight. I am not at these times lost in that other kind of darkness that lurks expectantly for me to give in. Not today,  I say, not today. I hear the beauty of it all inside my head, and I want to put that on paper. 

Today, as the sun comes up, I am going to write something, anything, and send it out to an unknown audience (there is life in outer space, right???), just because I want to do it. Just because I need to. 

 “This is what it means to live in a pluralistic society,” he says. “You are encountered with ideas that you agree with, and ideas that you don’t agree with, and the diversity of a community is something that makes us richer, stronger, more empathetic to one another, and is really necessary for a healthy democratic society.” - Nick Higgins, Chief Librarian at Brooklyn Public Library

Ouchy

When I returned to writing this blog, I attributed my absence from writing to anger. I didn't want to be yet another angry voice ranting on line. It's the middle of the night, and looking over this blog, I see that it is yet again full of anger. It says quite loudly that I am angry, and I've been angry for a while now. 

I used to write about flowers and feeling serene in my garden. Now I rage about aging and pain, and the fact that our country is moving in an insane direction. 

I don't feel serene. I haven't since 2016, and it is getting worse. Four years of a daily overdose of the Monster in Chief, seems to have pushed me over the edge. I have developed an anger flash point with a hair trigger, and it fires every time I listen to the news or hear a conversation from someone who has drunk the internet KoolAid and believes it. 

I thought aging was about finding serenity and equanimity Huh! I found anger. I have a quote hanging over my bathroom sink so that I can read it every day. It says that peace doesn't mean finding a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work (or Donald Trump, Q-Anon, or people who want to ban books). It means finding yourself in the midst of turmoil and knowing that your heart is calm. It is a good thing the plaque hangs where I can see it, because it is going to take some work,

I think I should learn to be calm, because calmness is called for. Anger stirs things up and energizes one to take action when bad things are happening. Calmness and determination are needed to respond and work for change in a meaningful way.

Honestly, I have been consumed by a recent, unsettling move, accompanied by pain, and the death of my dear, little dog, who was a model of calm and a reliable source of centering for me. I am angry about many things, but it is time to move on. I don't want this to keep eating away at me from the inside. My life is too precious. 

I both believe that we are going to hell in a handbasket and that we are capable of great goodness and the ability to stop this madness. We are going to have to get organized and address the issues that disturb us from a place of calmness. 

Anger just incites people. I have read and written understandably angry postings on FB for six years, and I don't believe we have accomplished much. We are preaching to the choir, and I have un-followed most of the people who disagree with me anyway.

I want to be able to speak to the issues that disturb me so that I will be heard, and that means approaching people in a way that will enable them to listen. I want to speak in a way that leaves me feeling better, not exhausted and futile. 

To accomplish this, I am going to have to return to a life that includes a bit of serenity and joy. Moving to a new place has caused such upheaval in my life, but it also brings new opportunities and the possibility of new friends. I have to find and savor those things that nourish my soul and bring me peace. 

Despite my years of murderous anger, I am not a good angry person. It's too destructive. I'm going to try to channel it into something constructive, and find that peace really is still in my heart. 

Writing a blog is not just for others. It informs me about what is really happening in my head and my heart, and I am sometimes surprised by what I find.

So Many Books ...

Once you learn to read, you will be forever free. – Frederick Douglass

  

  When I was a very little girl, I had my own set of red-bound story books. My father sat me on his lap at night and read them to me. The opening page was smudged where my fingers traced the footprints leading us into fairy tales, tall tales, and wondrous adventures.

       The day I learned to read a book for myself, I ran all the way home, shouting the news to my waiting mom. "Look, Jane, look. See Spot run."

    I got my first library card in Asheboro, North Carolina. Mom took us to the library every week, and I read their entire collection of biographies for children. The little books were bound in blue, and each opened with a silhouette of the person about whom the biography was written. I know many people who happily remember reading those little blue books.

    When I was in junior high school, I found a racy book at a relative's house that seemed dangerous and exciting to read. I never told anyone. It did not cause me to become pregnant or take up drugs.

    In high school, I read To Kill a Mockingbird and felt ashamed. I read The Razor's Edge, recommended to me by a favorite teacher. It inspired the notion of a personal spiritual quest, and changed my life. My brother, my niece, and I have read it many times and talk about it to this day.

    In college I read late into the night. I loved English Lit. and hated geology. I read books that made me angry and books that made me cry. I trudged my way through books that seemed like a waste of time, but increased in value over the years. I read about people and places that were different from me. I experienced more of the world than my then circumscribed life allowed, and I grew as a person. 

    I am happy to say that I still have a library card, and I have read countless books since college. Books still make me angry and make me cry. They make me feel proud and despairing. I still learn from what I read, and I am capable of calling something "inspired" or "bullshit", as I see fit. 

    Books are my life companions. I would be so much less as a person without them. Whether they take up a well-thumbed residence on my bedside table or are hurried off to Goodwill barely touched, it is my choice, and I like making that choice for myself. I might get into heated discussions about books, but I don't want to prevent you from reading any sort of trifling, trashy book with which you choose to waste your time. 

    I have recently been reading the heartbreaking news that there is a movement throughout our country to remove long lists of books, deemed by some few people to be offensive, not only from school libraries, but from PUBLIC libraries. Law suits have even been attempted against retail vendors to control what can be sold. Librarians have had their lives threatened by bullies and thugs masquerading as concerned citizens. 

    This is no less than an attempt to control what we can read and what we can know and think about.

    Do you imagine that I will sit idly by and allow you to take my books away from me? Over my dead body.

    

     

    

I Must Have Been Dreaming

 A funny thing happened to me this past week. I found myself in the office of an orthopedic surgeon. I had met him before. This was a return visit, during which he further discussed my aching back and told me in detail what he proposed to do to me - while I am under general anesthesia, I might add. 

To keep this as simple and non-gross as possible, I will say (warning: this is actually pretty gross) that he proposed to open up my back, peel the muscles away from my spine; saw several vertebrae in half; remove the bone; and fool around with some nerves (I believe sawing and slicing away bone were mentioned). Then he would glue the whole mess together with some of my powdered bone, mixed with something like insta-bone, then sew the muscles back together, minus the bones over my spine.

Crazy, right? No, here is the real crazy part. He was dead serious. Even worse, I am fairly certain I remember that moments later I signed some papers requesting and giving my consent for such maneuvers - all to occur on (get ready) Halloween. 

Am I delusional, or is it the Gummy Bears I have been chewing for sleep? 

I know that I could not have rationally and consciously agreed to such a thing because, for one thing, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm not kidding. It's a well-known fact. 

I'm that girl who won't read instructions; ignores the details; and pretty much goes with my intuition on most things. Consequences? No, not something with which I might be familiar. 

No serious, adult person would expect me to make a decision of this magnitude. My first instinct would be to say, you are going to have to ask my parents about this. Sigh!

Second, even the thought of a surgery like this scares the dickens out of me. Oh, I know, back surgery is not what it used to be; so much easier; minimally invasive, yada, yada, yada. I am nodding my head in agreement, but I KNOW that when the big day comes, I am highly likely to make a run for it, down the hall and out to the car, with my designer surgical gown flapping behind me.

Oh, I have done the research. I know all about my surgeon - his credentials; his reviews; his standing in the medical community. I  have read and watched videos about this kind of surgery, which makes me feel more likely to be able to perform the surgery than to undergo it. I brought my list of questions, and made sure they were all carefully and thoroughly addressed. I have discussed this with friends and family. She is READY! The problem is: I am not that person. That person is a fully developed, responsible adult. While I, on the other hand, pale in comparison to a scared, little rabbit who doesn't know her P's from her Q's. 

So, how could anyone reasonably expect me to signify advised consent by signing on the little, dotted line? I'm sure I left the staff howling with laughter at the horrible joke they had perpetrated on me. That's it, right?

So, here I am. My favorite month, and my favorite season begin next weekend. I have a whole month to enjoy before I am expected to starve myself, don the gown (one that goes all the way around, I hope); lie down to oblivion; and wake up to feeling so much better... some better...  eventually better?

Hey, can I do this by Zoom? By avatar? Could I pay someone to do it for me?

Help. I'm going to need help. I can't even FIND my Big Girl Panties. Could we think about this a little longer? How about if I phone a friend???

Sigh 😓

It's Three a.m. for goodness sakes!

 It's 3 a.m., and I have been awake since 1:10 a.m. Sleep, that wonderful state of being I recall from childhood, is now that elusive creature with whom I would like to become acquainted again. Insomnia plagues me, and I plain hate it.

In it's most recent incarnation, I go to sleep easily, but wake up at ridiculous times like 1:30, 2:30 etc. I have no clue what drives this. My long-time buddy, Insomnia, likes to play around. At times I can't get to sleep or I wake up at crazy times and can't get back to sleep. And then those nights when all of the above options are at play. Insomnia is a faithful, but unwelcome, companion. I've known it for years. I think I may have written about once before.

I don't know what to do at such hours of awakening. Reading would be my first choice, but my eyes water, and I can't concentrate in the middle of the night. TV is not recommend, and neither is my computer, but here I am. My dear bed, so cool and welcoming just a few hours ago, becomes a hot, torturing mess, as I toss and tun and pound my innocent pillows. 

What do other insomniacs do? I'd like to hear some suggestions. If you are awake, navigating unwillingly through the night, send me a message. There should be an insomniacs club on FB, so we know we are in good company.

Usually, I just wait for 5:30 or 6:00 to come around, when I might doze off a bit  to finish off the night. That's about the time my buddy moves on to awaken some other sufferer. 

I hate to lose old friendships, but I would gladly kiss this one good-bye. Leave me in peace, and let me get some sleep.

This I Believe. At least I Think So

What a time we've had over the last week or so - full of death and pageantry.  My blog thoughts are meandering from the death of the Queen; through life review; winding in and out of a movie called Father Stu, and ending up at "This I Believe," an old NPR show about core beliefs. Let's hope we don't get lost, and that we  arrive some place before it all ends - the post, not the end of life.

    Which brings me to "The Queen" and the end of her exceptionally long life and reign. Yes, I watched the whole thing and thought about Queen Elizabeth quite a bit during the period of mourning and the funeral. It was compelling! What magnificent pageantry! How carefully executed! What a send off! (All meticulously planned by HRH, herself!)

    Clearly she was beloved by many of her countrymen and rightly so as far as I can tell.  She was greatly admired for her lifelong dedication to duty, and I liked that she loved her animals, who showed up for her funeral in gratitude. She was the only Queen I've ever known, and I kind of feel like she belonged to us as well. (I did think, for a long time, that Prince Charles might want to marry me, seeing as how we were both near the same age and grew up together. I wrote him about this, but he was non-committal.) 

    But when all was done, and I turned off the TV,  I began to think. How much did this cost? How much frightfully expensive pageantry does one human being really need? Yes, she kept her word in serving her country, but, my goodness, she had an awful lot of help in doing so. And she made great strides during her reign in becoming a more approachable monarch Well, how many centuries did that take? It doesn't matter. the UK was willing to give her a send-off fit for a queen. And that's what counts. 

I wonder if this kind of thing is the measure of success that we non-royals should aspire to? Should we feel disappointed in ourselves if not a single mounted knight in gold braid shows up for our funeral? Of course not.

Questions about what we have accomplished in our lives and how we will be remembered (will we be remembered?) are common in older people. It's called summing up, and it is one of the tasks of late life. We review our lives and discern to what extent we have succeeded or if we have not. 

Most of us will not be looking to our grateful countrymen for the answer to that question, but  many of us do look outside ourselves.  Lengthy obituaries in the newspaper speak to this: look what she did! She accomplished so much! And we surely want someone to say good things about us when we die. Someone? ... Anyone?

I don't think much about how I will be remembered, my legacy and such. I think happiness in late life is more closely related to self-examination. How have I measured up? Am I the kind of person I wanted to be? Have I done what I felt was important to do? Have I treated others the way I would like to be treated? Have I said what I needed to? You have to fill in the blanks here with your own measures of success. 

Happiness and contentment come when we can say yes to these questions. I may be Queen of all I see, but if I can't stand to be with myself in the dark of night, then I'm not going to be happy and peaceful as things wind down. Remember that poem and Simon and Garfunkel song, "Richard Cory?" That didn't end well.

Feeling right with myself is a moving target for me. Just when I think, ok, I'm there, something happens that disturbs my equilibrium,  and I have to go through a period of self doubt and re-examination. Like now, when I am dealing with pain, and having to rethink what I do and how I do it. How well am I coping? Will I be able to adjust my life to cope with the changes in my body? I'm not sure if I will be able to measure up to these challenges.

I think these periods of reflection and re-examination are normal and necessary for us to be able to answer "yes" when we ask ourselves if we are liking the person we see in the mirror.

Life moves on. We are constantly learning and growing. Change is necessary and healthy to keep from becoming stuck or having regrets that burden us. We are literally not the same person that we used to be.  I sometimes look back and cringe at things I've said and done. But as a friend once told me, being able to look back and feel remorse shows that you have grown, and you now have the understanding and opportunity to act differently and to make amends, if needed. 

We can still do this, even if we are old. Now we have arrived at the movie, Father Stu, the story of a man who, against all odds, changed himself from an angry atheist into a priest. He was an inspiration to those who knew him. I like the scene in which he visits a prison and tells the men in the audience, "Don't give up on yourself. Never, never give up on yourself." He knew what they needed to hear about themselves - that it wasn't too late, regardless of what they might have been through and how hopeless they might feel.

We can give up on ourselves and others in so many ways. I'm too old to change my ways we say to ourselves, and we can make that true. We can remain that person who can't feel at ease with herself in the dark of night, or we can stick our necks out, get buffeted by life, and become who we really want to be. We can give other people a chance too, if we give up our broken records of the past and wrestle with the present until we come to a new understanding. Why do it? To make the world a better place and win a horse-drawn ride to the grave? I don't think so. It's so that when we walk through our own life review, we can experience peacefulness and joy instead of regret. 

So for my "This I Believe" statement: I believe it's not too late to be our best selves. Never give up on yourself. Never, never give up on yourself! 

 

Are you talkin' to me?...Are you talkin' to ME?

    Is it just me, or are people actually speaking to me differently now that I am a senior? (I don't want to be a "senior": I just want to be Sandi, BTW!). Has anyone else noticed this?

I can't describe exactly how it sounds, but it's kind of babying, hyper-solicitous or jovial tone. If you've noticed this, how would you describe it? I know when I hear it because it elicits a Travis Bickle response in me. Hey, are you talking to me??

 My insurance company offers free Zoom classes, and I signed up for one on preventing falls. My chronic failure to read details had caused me to sign up for a class that was not about exercise - rather it was about facing your fears about falling. Ruh! Roh! Big Mistake!

 About a dozen people in the class, all appeared to be retirement aged. We introduced ourselves, and several people were retired professionals.   None of us gave any outward appearance of senility.

The instructor began talking to the class in a loud, excessively jolly voice. "Oh, I am so glad to see you all here. You remembered to come, and you have all been able to turn on your computers!, That is just so wonderful!" she began. I began to feel a rising tide of resentment in my stomach.

    "Oh, Miss Sandi, Mr. Bill, how are you today?" She didn't ask anyone how they wished to be addressed. (Gurgle) She then asked us to turn to page 2 of the lesson book and write down the dates and times of each class. "I know we are all old school, and we tend to forget things if we don't write them down." (Loud fake laughter.)

    I waved my smart phone at the camera and shut her down! Can you imagine addressing any other group of adults in such an infantilizing manner? My next step was to write a letter of complaint to the insurance company. I hope Mr. Bill did the same thing.

    One afternoon, walking in my neighborhood, I met a young man whom I knew and liked. We got into a conversation. "Wow," he exclaimed, you still have some knowledge about what is going on in the world."

     Sometimes I wonder if I have "doddering old fool" imprinted on my forehead. Why do some people assume that I am deaf and senile? I'm not happy about this.  

So far my brain seems to be in decent woking order, and I do read and listen to the news. I guess I am somewhat hypersensitive about this. I worked in mental health, and it was a cardinal rule, personally and professionally, "don't talk down to people."

I have to say, however, this situation has forced me to think back about whether I still might have done this to people who are older than I. I am thinking especially about my mother.

My mom had Alzheimer's, and she did suffer cognitive decline, obviously. My brother and I found ourselves transitioning inevitably into the role of decision makers in her life. At times, we had to tell her what she was going to do, a radical change from trying to be obedient children. A difficult change. So tempting to speak as if talking to a child (though I am fairly confident that we never said, "Because I said so." ) She was still an adult and our mother, and I think we tried hard to speak to her in that way. I hope we did.

So, I am concluding that a measure of forbearance and kindness is called for. I believe that these folks mean to be kind to us doddering old fools. They have no clue that I am still armed and dangerous! I plan to dazzle them with my ability to use words with more than two syllables and discuss the variations in rainfall in my backyard. They will learn not to mess with me!

When I Was Younger

When I was younger,

I wanted to do big things -

save the world, end wars, achieve success.

Armed with passion and absolutes, 

I marched off to that rock and roll beat.

But something happened. 

Now I am older, and I just want 

to be truly and thoroughly myself;

to help where I can; 

and always, always to notice 

the first daffodil bloom in spring.

But I still march to that rock and roll beat.

. 

Thank You For Bringing Me Here

 An anonymous reader left me a positive and significant comment, following my last blog entry - "Aging gracefully AND gratefully😊"

Frankly, I'm not managing the gracefully too well for the time being, I've kind of had my pins knocked out from under me. BUT, I emphasize that it's temporary. Graceful is not exactly my norm anyway, so I will set that goal aside for a bit.

"Gratefully" is the reminder for which I am, well, grateful and one that I often need. It's just too easy to dwell on the hurts and hassles, and I'm great for heading for the dark side when those things seem to be ruling my life.

I do try to be grateful, and I picked up a mantra in yoga class that helps - Thank you for bringing me here.  I began whispering that to myself on those mornings when my body felt like the last thing it wanted was to lie down on a yoga mat. But if I could drag these achy bones and joints down to the floor, I found that repeating  that phrase to myself changed my perspective. 

Thank you for bringing me here. These are magic words for me, suitable for many occasions - especially those in which I don't want to be, though even better when I'm standing on a mountain top with a magnificent sunset spread out before me (you didn't think I would climb all the way up a mountain before sunrise, did you?) It's easy to be grateful when I have a beautiful sunset. 

It's when I find myself in those places I don't want to be that gratitude comes hard. So to say "thank you for bringing me HERE" (this place of discomfort and pain) - was quite a stretch for me. I had to meditate on this for a while. Like I'm supposed to be grateful for this? Man, I just want it to go away!

It's useful for the minor inconveniences that I encounter  - I'm running late and the train picks that exact time to run 50 cars across my path. First I grumble, then I say: Thank you for bringing me here". I once heard someone else say, "This is God's way of telling me to slow down." A position of gratitude is that I am able to take a deep breath, calm myself, and maybe think through a bit better whatever I'm hurrying off to do. (Schmaltzy, yes, but better than driving my blood pressure higher.) Gratitude changes my perspective.

"Bringing me here" represents where I have been and what I have gone through  along the way. Bumpy with nearly impassible obstacles at times, nevertheless, by grace I have made it this far, And, I can take from that, that I might possess the chutzpah and the perseverance to make it beyond this place of difficulty. I often need a reminder that my life experiences, both good and challenging, have value and provide a training ground for what is yet to come.

So, "here,"this place I've come to has value, and there is a purpose to my being here. An enjoyable purpose, we can always hope, but regardless, this experience is part of the fabric of my life, and it is not wasted. My life, bumpy as it may be, is not a waste, and I need to be present for it. 

The "thank you" part is very personal. Who or what has brought you to this place? When I say it, I think of all the people who, in whatever way, have made it possible for me to be -  to be alive; to be who I am; to have the life that I have. Some have accompanied me on the journey my entire life: some I met while waiting at the airport. I could not count them all, if I counted to the end of my days.

I once had a conversation with a potential date, and the man made a disparaging remark about uneducated people he considered beneath him. My family, many of whom worked in the cotton mills of North and South Carolina, snapped sharply into focus, and I realized how hard my kinfolks had worked in their lives to give me a stable, loving childhood and a good education. I declined to go out with this person, but I am grateful that his remarks provoked this awareness in me.

Lying down on a yoga mat feeling grateful might not seem like one of the big things in life, but I know that it is both a symbol of and a gateway to good things. Thank you for bringing me here, to all the other places I've been, and to whatever comes next. I'm grateful for the help, because I could not have found my way alone.

And thank you to Anonymous for guiding me to thinking about gratitude and writing this post.

On Second Thought

When I write something, I obsessively re-read, edit, and re-write. I am trying to let go of that a bit so that I can get something written and posted more often. However.... I do want to clarify some things about the last two posts I have written.

• I just posted some thoughts about having to clear your throat of physical complaints before you can have a conversation about anything else, and -  Duh! - I've done it again. I have just launched my return to writing my Blog with two posts about that very thing! Oh, well, at least I am true to form. I'll finish these few after-thoughts, then move on to other conversations. 
• I would like to say clearly that "old age" and "aches and pains" are not synonymous. It is kind of a tired joke about aging, and I regret implying that such problems are inevitable. Body parts do tend to show wear and tear as we age, but that is not always true or disabling for many of us.
•  I don't like to perpetuate those old jokes about aging, and I don't like to hear them. I don't know about you, but I look old, and I don't need to advertise it with self-deprecating jokes that we have all heard ad nauseum. We are now, as always, individuals. And we don't have to paint ourselves with the same brush. Which brings me to the next bullet...
• Why Me? I didn't address the "Why Me?" of my medical issues, though I think there was an undertone of this in my blog posts. Generally, I think the answer is we are vulnerable, time-limited human beings and things happen to us. That's all I can say. Specifically, I can say that my problems are the result of a genetic predisposition to back issues and the abundance of bad lifestyle decisions I have made over the years, which were unkind to the well-being of my body. In other words, I own it. I don't blame anyone, nor do I waste time thinking my challenges are unfair. (Alright, I have probably spent some time feeling this, but I've moved on.) There is nothing unfair about it because I did not come with a written guarantee on any of my parts.
• So, let's have some new conversations about aging or any topic. Life is so full. There are many things to think about and discuss. I'll write about them as soon as my Ibuprofen kicks in.

Pain? Oh, no thank you, I thought you said 'Spain'

I was sitting in my surgeon's office waiting for a post-rotator Cuff repair check-up. The waiting room was filled with women of a certain age. Talk was lively and impassioned  It seems that my surgeon was hosting the Medical Drama Queen competition, and I had arrived to witness the finals. Each contestant recounted the numbers and seriousness of her multiple surgeries and her Richter scale of pain. They finally turned to me, clearly a rank amateur with my one surgery - "What did you have?" inquired the woman next to me. "Rotator cuff repair, and I..."

     "OH MY GOD! I had that. Oh, the pain, the pain. The whole hospital could hear me screaming with pain ...."

    I used to tell this story to be funny. Now I think I should have looked at these women with more compassion.

Pain, what can you say about it? A: I never expected to have it for more than a day or so. B: Now, I do. 

    To make a long pain story short, it began with my double knee replacements and an accompanying tendonitis that wouldn't go away. While working through this, my occasional neck and back arthritic pains decided, "Hey, we like it here. Let's just stay like forever and eat up her spine." And so it began.

Most recently, a nice surgeon told me, "Hey, your back is a mess. It's just worn out." I'm headed for surgery, and I'm told I will feel better, but one thing is clear, pain, at some level is here to stay. 

I think that is the hardest part. Learning that I have to accept a reality of no longer expecting problems like this to be short lived. Some things are chronic and will remain so.

Aches and pains seems to be the most common complaint I hear from my friends. We pledge not to talk about it, but then we do. It's like we have to clear our throats with our litany of complaints before we can have a conversation about anything else.

(It's at this point that. I realize this post is not leading to any golden answers. Sorry!)

Pain is subjective. It's why I have so much trouble with the dreaded Pain Scale. If I answer honestly, based on how the levels are actually described, I wouldn't be able to claim a level that sounds high enough to justify the effort and expense of a  visit, much less the attention of a doctor.  "It's a 10, damn it," I long to scream. 'It's a 10, and I'm sticking with it."

I do like to know what other people with pain issues have tried, especially things that seem to work, but, as in all life's challenges, I have to discover what works for me. And, I have to advocate for myself The usual path of solutions, might not be the right path for me. 

For example: I was referred to a pain clinic. This was not for me. It felt like a factory, and I, a lifelong non-abuser, got tired of having to fill out drug screening forms and pee all the time. I get it, I do, they have to do it, but it was not for me.

I don't want to be a different person because of pain, but I am learning that I have to act differently in some ways.

I have to pace myself; do things when I am feeling better; and I have to rest. Fortunately, I am very skilled at the third one. I just have trouble giving myself permission to do it.

I have to ask for help, especially from my kind, forbearing husband. I cannot carry 50 lb. bags of potting soil or move large furniture by myself. (Probably I should have figured this out long ago!)

Water therapy and massage are a gift I give myself, when I can afford it. Yoga and my yoga group are life savers. I'm trying to stop striving and to rest more in the asanas now.

I do talk with my friends, but I try to ask how they are doing first. I couldn't make it without them and their support.

I sometimes say, "I'm sorry, I can't today."

I have promised myself, that I will not become dependent upon pain killers (not that anyone is offering to give me any), but I can understand how that could easily happen - even to me. There are times when I would take anything.

CBD salve works wonders on my neck and knees, though some people say it doesn't do anything for them. That's ok. I BELIEVE it does, and that's what really counts. 

I am working to stay active and engaged. Since I moved recently, I have to put some new things in place, but I have to do it. I don't want to become isolated by my medical issues.

That's enough. I hope this gets me into the next round of the Medical Drama Queen competition! I would like to know about your experience with pain. How do you cope? Please leave me a comment, and I wish you a pain(less) day!

Old Sneaks Up On You

 I thought I was doing fine. No kidding. One minute I was climbing tall mountains around Asheville (well, at least part of the way) and hauling 50 lb. bags of potting soil, and then WHAM! All of a sudden, I'm spending my days juggling doctors' appointments and wondering when my back is going to feel good enough so that I can clean up the piles of lint and unidentifiable objects underneath my bed. 

My current list of conditions runs to two pages and my medications and supplements would, and do, fill a drugstore. And to add insult to injury, my ears are ringing all the %&&$$ time! Yes, I'm a Southerner, and I say Ten-Eye-Tus!

Well, I knew that my count of years was dangerously high, but I thought I was staying active and engaged, and managing quite well. I never expected that things could change so dramatically and so quickly. Apparently getting old is a wall that slams you when you are thinking of something else. And, here's the kicker, I can't get one "condition" under satisfactory management before the doctor is adding another one that I am suffering instead of a experiencing a natural high up on Black Balsam. Who do I speak to about slowing things down a bit until I can get a grip?

I actually had one health care provider say, "You are getting old. Your body is breaking down, and you can't accept it." I was so shocked, I forgot to say, "Would you please introduce me to the person who said, 'I'm so happy: my body is breaking down."

I wonder if this has happened to other people in this way? How do you handle it?So far I've tried angry; depressed; hiding out; complaining day and night; and just plain resentfulness. Score: Old Age - 5, Sandi - 0.

In the middle of this we moved ourselves to a new town, and that was so difficult, but it did give me permission (in my opinion) to hang around the house doing nothing and not combing my hair. I'm pretty sure this is not going to work for me either. I've still got some time left (some being an indefinite amount), and I don't want to spend it feeling, well, OLD!

It has recently occurred to me that the solution to this old problem, is not in a 30-day supply of anything. I'm going to have to do something about it myself. Writing this is a task I have set myself to start using my brain again, and think these things through. Not sure what comes next. Any ideas? Is it time for my next dose? Honey could you please find my phone for me, again?

Dusting off the Old Blog

Hello again! I've not been writing this blog for quite sometime. I was feeling disgusted and certain that what the world does not need is another angry person venting on the Internet about He Who Shall Not Be Named. I couldn't think of anything else to write about, so I just gave it up. A couple of friends, whom I admire, told me I could take it up again, and I think that they are right. It will do me good to share some of what's happening in my life. It's a way to process things, and since COVID, my husband has gone above and beyond in the listening department. He deserves a break.

I hope have some readers, and I hope they will find some common themes and join the conversation by leaving comments. 

I'm going to risk being virtually slapped by being yet another person who says to you, "You know we are all in this together." While that doesn't feel very true right now, I know that we do share common interests and experiences as we run, walk, crawl, and fumble our way through our lives . So pour another cup, and let's talk.

WARNING! If you choose to read beyond this point, please know that I have been tempted to rename this blog: The Pain Journals! Enter at your own risk!