Coast redwood grove at dawn
After several decades of living with a chronic, potentially debilitating illness, you’d think I’d know my limits. (I have either mixed connective tissue disease or lupus, depending the doc and the interpretation. The name doesn’t particularly matter; it doesn’t change the symptoms I experience every day.)
Apparently I don’t. (Know my limits.) Since I returned home from a Mother’s Day weekend trip to California, I’ve been half-sick with various symptoms. Some days my bones ache deep inside like I’m getting the flu (there’s nothing like aching bones to make me feel old); some days I’m feverish all night long and sleep restlessly; some days I wake with a throat so sore it feels like someone’s abraded it with one of the big-toothed files in Richard’s shop, and the glands in my throat are swollen in hard, painful knots.
That’s my body speaking to me. When I fail to pay attention to its more subtle messages—tiredness, forgetting words, losing my balance, struggling to breathe, or dropping things, it speaks louder, raising its “voice” the way we do when we feel like our audience isn’t listening. If speaking louder doesn’t work, we resort to other, more drastic methods, like shouting or throwing things. I’m afraid my body is approaching the throw-things stage.
Banksia and Monterey cypress at the University of California-Santa Cruz arboretum
It’s my own fault. I’ve been in high gear since I got home, trying to catch up, to make progress on my various projects, all of which feel urgent, before I leave again in two weeks to take my dad to Washington state for a family gathering. I’ve been “pushing through” instead of listening within. I’ve been frantically ticking off things on my to-do list. A list which does not, now that I think about it, include resting and refilling the well I draw my energy from, whether physical, emotional, creative, or spiritual.
It occurs to me that part of the problem is that I seem to have only two gears: up and at ‘em, and horizontal (as in lying flat-out on the couch). I’m either going full-tilt-boogie or I’m not going at all. That doesn’t sound particularly sustainable, does it?
That’s what I suspect my body is trying to communicate to me. Slow down or else…. I know that “or else,” though it’s been a very long time since I got myself into a bad enough patch that I’ve had to pay really drastic consequences for neglecting my own well-being.
Claret cup cactus blooming in my restored native grassland front yard
How drastic? Oh, just two bouts of mono, one after another, walking pneumonia, plus several serious injuries attributable to severe fatigue and a car crash that could have killed me. How long since my body had to shout that loud? Um, since Richard and I began living together almost thirty years ago.
Oh.
Could there be a connection between my current inability to find a sustainable middle gear and the loss of the love of my life?
Well, duh.
There’s one of me know, and in my own stubbornly independent way, I’m trying to do what two people did before. Huh.
Rocky Mountain iris, the native iris, growing along our restored block of urban creek
Apparently I need to re-think how I’m approaching this Woman Alone thing. I could start with learning to say “no” more often, and asking for help before I get stuck. (I’m working on both of those.) I could also practice recognizing that grief and exhaustion are part of the process and that they require their own time and space. I could add “rest” and “reflect” to my to-do list.
What it comes down to is that I need find a new life-rhythm. I’m still living as if there are two of us, and the other one is a strong and healthy guy who can do everything I cannot. And more besides.
This coming Sunday will mark six months since Richard’s death. It’s time for me to get serious about finding that middle gear so I can live a healthy life without him.
I’m going to start by heading out to the kitchen garden and picking myself a bowl of fresh salad greens for lunch. Preparing meals from the food I’ve grown with my own hands in our soil takes time, but it’s a wonderful way to slow down and nourish myself, body, mind and spirit.
Such an eloquent description, Susan, of a territory I know too well, having gone through it and still often forgetting to slow down until I crash. Don’t be hard on yourself for not having mastered the art of slowing down, but congratulate yourself on having figured it out! You speak for many of us. The rewards of being good to our bodies include not feeling as ill, needing less medical intervention, and a reduction of stress . . . all good, and opening the path to healing and joy. Thanks for the reminder to nourish ourselves. It’s a choice between being a concern and a burden to those who love us and worry about us, or being filled with enough energy (and not necessarily physical energy . . . even compassion requires that we have a certain amount of ability to focus and think clearly) to be of help to others.
Samantha, Thank you for your empathy and thoughtful comments, especially the reminder that “even compassion requires that we have a certain amount of ability to focus and think clearly.” That’s something I can feel, but hadn’t conceptualized as another thing that requires sufficient energy. (It’s interesting how much my body knows from experience but my brain hasn’t registered in words and thoughts yet!) Slowing down is my goal….
I can understand. With the fibro (that’s a whole other story) I had been doing fine. Then, after dealing with the loss of my mother and the resulting added responsibilities, I find I am having to learn a whole new way of getting through everything. And I am, but like you know it is a process, and learning to listen to my body has been a big part of that. I also realize that my priorities are in a state of flux also. I am trying to look at it as a chance for growth and change. Know I am with you in spirit on this journey.
Doris, I so appreciate what you say about finding your balance (more or less!) with one challenge and then having another one shift your world. I think learning to listen to our bodies is perhaps the biggest lesson of our lives, because we get so many (mostly wordless) messages that who we are is all in our mind, and our bodies are not to be trusted. Good for you for adopting the positive challenge that the hard stuff is an opportunity for growth and change–that’s an achievement in itself, don’t you think? Thanks for walking with me. It’s a comfort to know you’re there in spirit.
Ah, Susan. How well I relate to this! I raise a toast to middle gear for both of us.
To middle gear ala terraphilia… love yourself Susan.
Terraphilia is a concept I should definitely apply to my own life. Thanks for the reminder, Rosanne!
Middle gear it is for both of us, Bobbe. May your Florida time help you with finding the pace that works, and summers in Salida give you peace as well!
I love those lightbulb- well duh moments! I find myself in a similar situation, trying to adapt to living in the States without losing the self that I found in Yemen. Six months doesn’t seem very long to me, Susan, for all the adjustments you have to make, but it’s good that you recognize some of the issues and are working on them, a little at a time.
Khadijah, I can only imagine the wrenching disconnect of your move from a spiritually-rich but materially impoverished culture to the materially-relative-rich but spiritually challenging culture. That you are surviving at all is a testament to your ability to cope with the immediate issues and be aware of your own needs and dreams at the same time. You’ll need both talents over this journey. As you say, six months isn’t very long to make the adjustments I need to make. And you’ve had less than that to find your way in the States with your wonderful “tribe.” Take your own advice and be patient with yourself (while you practice saying “no”!).
This doesn’t surprise me. You two were a system for a long time. It’s going to take you longer than 6 months to figure it out. Go easy on yourself. We’re here to help (even if miles away).
Xox
D
“A system”–I like that, Denese! Thank you for the gift of your perspective, as well as your empathy and help. Bless you!
Previous comments have really said it all. However, I would like to add that it is difficult in the culture we have created in this country to slow down. We live in a mad-rush, multi-tasking country where if you are not keeping up with that insane pace then you are out of the game. This has to change and it will probably only change when we do it one person at a time. It’s your turn to slow down, Susan. I hope you and your Dad are flying to Washington.
Hugs, Lindy
Lindy, you are right: changing our insane pace has to come one person at a time. Our collective actions make up our culture, so we have to change from within to change the culture. Maybe we need a “slow life” movement…. Yes, my Dad and I are flying to Washington. He never stops talking, so he would drive me crazy (well, really more crazy) if I had him in the car with me for three days on the road….
Me, I’m wondering if there’s anyone else who can help with the traveling-with-your-Dad companionship (or take it on completely . . . ). I know that’s unlikely, but maybe not impossible. . . .
That’s for the thought, Deb. Given my dad, it’s impossible. He won’t go if it’s not me taking him, and he insists on saying he’s doing it so that I have company on the trip. He’s sweet in his own way, but his reality is a ways off mine….
I know how hard it is to do self care during grief and stress. But you wisely see and know how to find your middle road. Rest up and recharge!
I’m working on that, Susan G-T. As you well know, finding daily time for the rest and recharge part isn’t easy!
6 months is such a short time and look you opened to this so important awareness so quickly. Some would take years. Seems your illness is a gift at this time helping you find middle gear sooner than later. It seems so cliche that negatives can be positives, but in my own life this is such a deep truth. Honoring it is hard for me as I am stubborn. I know you did this well in the ‘system’ you and Richard created I’m glad that you have heard the yelling and will be creating a new system for yourself. Your openess and creativity provide a perfect stage for this. You will likely master woman alone before most women. I’m guessing there is a book there, as there are so many in you. Hugs to you on this journey.
Susan, I do think my illness has that silver lining of reminding me of what others cannot see so easily. Of course, it also means I can hurt myself in the long-term, permanent sense more easily too. Watching my mother die of the effects of her rheumatoid arthritis was an all-to graphic illustration of where I don’t want to go. Still, each time I confront what you so rightly call this “deep truth,” I remember that stubbornness (I am stubborn too, as you know!) and a drive to do good with my life, using my experience and talents to make the world a better place, can be useful in learning again how to take care of myself. And yes, there is a book there. More than one, in fact. I’m writing the next memoir already, about our journey with Richard’s brain cancer, about love and what it teaches us about dying well. I call it “Bless the Birds.” Hugs to you on yours!
Susan, it is so difficult to find the right gear. I’ve ever only known one gear–life in the fast lane. The past few years in Cal I was working two jobs, taking care of my dad, racing bikes, and trying to do well at all of it. I was living by the seat of my pants and I went to bed at night understanding that it was just the way it was. Then major injury and health issues came, seemingly one after another. While they were unpredicted, they happened and I had to accept change. I’ve been forced to stop being in the fast lane, at least for a while. We are strong by nature so it just goes to show you how much the body can take. I’m not even sure what the perfect gear is any more? I now find that if I do the best I can for myself and my family and take each day as it comes, I don’t get as overwhelmed by everything I have no control over. I loved your garden haiku about being playful. If we can do a little more of this it may help? I think being open about our feelings and connecting to what we do and love, helps our body, mind and spirit. Take all the time you need for you.
Robin, I think many of us live in the fast gear as long as we can, racing to take in all of life, as much as possible, every day. I think that what your experience and mine teaches us is to accept the changes that come to us–welcome and not, and to use what we have in any given time as well as we can. Do you know the Ram Dass book, STILL HERE, written after his traumatic stroke? I love it for the title alone. And yes, a playful attitude is key–to so many things….
Here’s a bit of black humor, from the Monty Python parrot skit. I use it from time to time. “Not dead yet!”
bobbi c.
That’s parallel to the title of Ram Dass’s memoir, Bobbi: Still Here. I like it!
Yesterday, at work, I had a melt-down—the kind that makes people need to step in to help, yet wisely afraid of doing so. Only this morning (after sleeping for twelve straight hours), did the notion begin trickling into my brain of re-organizing/re-prioritizing how I do things at the paying job.
Not to equate my struggles with yours, but to point out the timeliness of reading this current blogpost.
I think it was Voltaire who likened life to a game of cards, of it being how we play the hand we’re dealt. Seems to me it’s not a single hand of cards, but several rounds. Occasionally the cards get reshuffled, and we no longer hold the same cards. What worked previously won’t with our current hand. “And so it goes.”
Continued brightest blessings on the Washington State journey, as well as The Journey.
Eduardo, I am sorry that you had a melt-down at work. Sometimes our bodies have to make quite a ruckus before we notice. But you did, and it sounds like you’ve seen some positive changes you can make in your paying job. I bet those positive changes will spill over into other areas of your life as well. So it does go!
Eduardo, I’m cheering for your “sleeping twelve straight hours.” I took a more-than-an-hour nap at late morning today, grateful that I could sleep because I knew I needed it (and being able to sleep when needed is not always a given).
You get extra points for that long sleep.
Dear Susan,
I only have two speeds, too, so I definitely understand that. I come to a screeching halt, both mentally and physically, then get very frustrated about favorite projects. I’m trying to teach myself to just take a step backwards, and wait. The energy eventually comes back. The key is to do the step backwards thing before all the stress makes my body ill. That’s the hard part, knowing WHEN to step back. Six months really isn’t a long time, given how long you and Richard were married. Give yourself time to heal. Big hugs from Texas! bobbi c.
Bobbi, Thanks for the support and reassurance. I know six months isn’t very long, but as you know, I’m not very patient (with myself, especially).
But you’re right, finding middle gear takes practice…. Hugs back to you in your fabulous Two Sisters Cottage!
Well, Susan, there’s nothing I can add to the comments already made. I, too, know the two-speed-only dance – and it’s not sustainable. Even knowing that, it’s hard to find the middle gear, but we must. The knowledge of the intellect doesn’t always translate to emotions. Slowing down means emotions can catch up with us and that’s frightening, especially if we’ve been “doing” emotions in controllable dribs and drabs. It’s the uncontrollable that’s frightening and appallingly close. Sigh.
Sam, I think your comment that knowledge from the intellect doesn’t always catch up to our emotions is spot on. We know in our mind that we need to slow down, but we always “get” how to be that way until our bodies make us. I’m working on listening so my body doesn’t have to shout so loud (or be sick so often). I’m also fascinated by the way you describe slowing and and then emotions catching up to us so that they’re overwhelming or frightening. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I’m going to let that metaphor sit in my mind and see what I learn from it. Thank you for adding your perspective.
Susan, I think I’ve shared with you that besides chronic fatigue syndrome (and unless you live with that or are close to that, you’ll probably think, well everyond gets tireds — but you and I know that most people aren’t tired LIKE THIS) and fibromyalgia, I have an illness similar to yours, and also with different names by different docs, and others who simply don’t believe it. My first real crash came after my father died, I lost my job, got a new one that I quickly hated (open pit mining is every bit as vile as the “fracking” drilling, and even though I was there to make them comply with the environmental laws, it was very difficult to go there every day), got married, my mother died, then my husband left me and I lost a baby that I hadn’t told him about (I didn’t want to guilt him into staying). I knew I had CFS, but I thought I was coping. Until I wasn’t anymore. I had been in the fast lane for all my life; my father told me in grade school that anything less than an A meant I wasn’t trying, and that never let up; both parents expected my education to continue past a BA degree (it did), and I had jobs with 50-60 hour weeks, and trips from coast to coast almost weekly, after standing under a high voltage powerline for a year. Oy. (Uff da!) So I know the fast lane, and I know the horizontal. You have your (empty) well of energy; I have a basket of little lights. The only way to replace the lights that I pay for activities and strong emotions (and migraines) with is to rest, mind body and spirit. Meditating and yoga are gifts I give myself. The loss of someone you’ve spent so many years with, and the changes you went through during Richard’s illness, that’s a lot of energy. A whole lot of energy. (You could light up Salida with that energy). Dealing with loss and grief doesn’t have rules, but it tends to have stages, and it sounds like your body just told you that. (My body has been talking to me a lot, but the low-tyramine diet is helping to keep it from screaming, strangely enough. Fewer migraines, too.) I can’t compare my losses to yours, but I am familiar with it. And I’ve been a Woman Alone since 1996. It is not easy. I don’t have a large network of friends, but they are GOOD friends. I hope you know that when I meditate with my candle, both you and Richard are in my thoughts — and in my inner visions, thanks to all your photos. Work on that “no” word (I am, and while I haven’t mastered it, I’m getting better!), remember to sometimes put yourself first, so that you’ll be able to make positive changes in the world around you. Love yourself, and find that middle gear. (easier said than done; I’m still looking for mine! I know I pay for every time I spend an entire day “doing” things, from gardening to writing to cooking to walking the dog, and often I pay with a day of downtime. As in, lying in bed time. (my poor doggie! I do get up to feed her and let her in and out!) So don’t try to move too fast, and give yourself time to grieve, and to accept the offers of friendship and compassion and energy from the people around you. (Your father sounds like a handful — good luck.) Blessings, Susan.
Lori, I am in awe of all you’ve gone through, and all you’ve learned. The fact that you know your limitations as well as you do and have managed to research and write one book, and to be membership chair of a national writing organization as well given what you deal with astounds me. You’ve got a rich treasure of stories to tell from experience, and I am excited that you’re working on them. And the fact that in the teeth of what you’re managing and all you’re working on learning, you can keep me in your morning blessings…. I’m humbled, and thankful. And yes, I’m working on ‘no’ too….
I am so glad you listened before your body had to shout.
Thanks, Diana. I’m glad too. It’s pretty seriously demoralizing to find myself being so clueless…. So I’m working on being more attentive. Habits die hard though!
I would substitute ‘humanizing’ for ‘demoralizing’. I had (and still have) a lot of work to do to convince myself that I can not will my body to go on beyond the realm of the feasible. Yes, I can push pretty hard and accomplish a lot. But there is a lot more that won’t get done when the crash comes to stay.
I do a lot better now, but with drastic changes in circumstance it tends to start the learning curve back at zero point. All the rules changed on you. I have a less drastic change ahead when I move to 100% fully accessible housing AND have loads of paths to explore. I suspect I will need to be cautious not to over do… I am SO looking forward to cleaning house! (never thought I would feel that, but it will be sheer joy to cook dinner and clean our home again.)
{{{{gentle healing hugs}}}}
Diana, Humanizing is a much better word for what I’m experiencing than demoralizing. Thanks! I think of the crash and burn thing as just a destructive as say, yo-yo dieting, which we know from new research can have permanently negative effects on your health. So I’m trying to learn to notice when I’m pushing and pull back before things get too bad. It’s not worth how long it takes when, as you say, the crash comes to stay. I’m excited that you guys are moving to a house that’s 100 percent accessible. When will that happen? No one wants to be excluded from doing the things that make a house feel like home…. Blessings to you!
It will happen as soon as July 15th, or as late as August 15th, we think. Oscar literally walked in to the rental agency less than an hour after the apartment became available and we snapped it up. There is a lot of cosmetic work that needs to be done before we can move in, and the rental agency is being wonderful, for example agreeing to put in vinyl ‘wood’ flooring instead of the normal plush carpeting. (plush carpeting and a manual wheelchair feels like hiking through thigh-high grass).
We have until August 23rd to vacate this place (We filed bankruptcy and chose to have the bank foreclose on the house since it is not accessible).
We have been slowly sorting, discarding and packing for about a year now, so we are almost ready at this point, I think.
It is SO helpful to me to know that this “sorting, discarding and packing” can take a year! I can ease up on myself, and remember the definition I found once on a Garfield greeting card: “Time is Nature’s way of preventing everything from happening all at once.” ‘Gotta remember that . . . . and not stress out.
Samantha, You’re making a huge life change, so it’s imperative to ease up on yourself. The sorting, giving-away or recycling, and packing will take as long as it takes. Remember that you’re going through your life’s accumulation in stuff, and you can’t just do that in a few days or weeks! I love that Garfield greeting card quote, BTW. Keep that in mind at all times….
Thanks, Susan. I tend to downplay what’s happening in my life, which is not a good thing. You’re right, this is a major transition, right up there with leaving home at 17, buying our first house when I was 30, divorcing and having to give it up when I was 47, and now I’m approaching my 75th birthday and a whole new life!! It’s exciting, when I give myself permission to really think about it!! I needed to hear from you to appreciate it.
I think anyone who has the courage to make a major change in their life–as you’re doing in your move to Florida–at almost 75 ought to be able to celebrate that courage and the vision behind it. So good for you, Samantha!
Samantha,
I just remember that it took a lot longer than a year to accumulate the stuff, so it seems sensible that ‘deaccumulating’ takes time, too LOL.
The truly wonderful thing was the rediscovery of treasures that will be reintegrated into our life rather than packed away. A reward for all the hard (and emotional) work!
What you say is true, Diana, but please pray with me that it doesn’t take as many years to clear through all this stuff as it took me to acquire it! Luckily, my life has been stripped bare and I’ve had to start over again five times, now, so I have only 13 years worth of stuff to get through this time. But while I’ve lived here both my parents died and I acquired part of THEIR 60+ years of pack rat living. I need to get this place ready to put onto the real estate market if that becomes necessary. Maybe I’ll give myself about a year . . . one month of clearing for each year I’ve lived here . . . and work double-time because I’m leaving for Florida in October. I’m torn between accepting the reality of the situation and wanting to overcome it.
Diana, I am sorry that getting to a more accessible place involved bankruptcy and foreclosure–seems to me in a healthy society, we wouldn’t make you and Oscar go through that–but I’m glad you’ll end up with an accessible place to live. It’s great that the rental agency sees the value in being accommodating. I know what it’s like to push a wheelchair through thick carpet from both my mom’s experience and Richard’s, so I completely understand why you’d want the vinyl “wood” flooring. Richard was in a wheelchair for a few weeks during his two months of hospice care, and I was so glad that we had designed our house to be accessible. It has polished concrete floors with bamboo “planking” in the kitchen and back bedroom, and that makes wheelchair use easy. (Well, okay, relatively easy, since I weigh 110 and he weighed 180, and I was pushing him!) I hope the move goes well when it’s time.
I feel it will. We are already talking strategies to get me into the healthy environment as soon as the final papers are signed.
Each step I take endangers my ankle joint and, with my other immune problems risks infection and ultimately amputation.
(I am lacking a spleen… must have vented too much as a teen :-} )
The bankruptcy sounds awful, but it was ultimately freeing.. and now Oscar is in a job that he adores, teaching and mentoring in small groups and individually.Worth every bit of angst.
I found this very touching–I was widowed many years ago in my early forties–our daughter was six. I found it exhausting, in part because I went right back to work. I used to dream I was climbing a NYC style fire escape into the sky–all night long.
I’ve been told that being widowed can make you more vulnerable healthwise. I didn’t find a simple answer. Sometimes I push, sometimes take it very easy…even after years and re-marriage I’m a different person…and that isn’t bad.
Strangely, the intervening years have been my happiest–maybe just because I value them and let go of small problems when able.
Take good care of yourself–I do know that has helped!
Miriam, Your dream of climbing the NY-style fire escape all night long is such an evocative version of the sort of dreams I have that could be summarized as “you can’t get there from here, no matter how hard and long you try.” I’ve never had your version–I imagine we all have them, and each one is unique to our own lives and experiences–but the feeling is very familiar. What strikes me most about your comments is that you say you are a different person after the experience of losing your husband. I feel that too, as if that life I shared with Richard was one me, and now I’m finding out who this Woman Alone me is. He’ll always be part of who I am, and our 29 years together definitely shape this part of the journey. But he’s not here now, and that means I have the peril and opportunity of finding out more clearly who I am as just me. I find I’m liking that part of this path I didn’t expect to be on. And I’m liking the me I’m discovering as well. I imagine you found that too, when you had the energy to….
Susan- I just found your site and love your words.
My husband died in 2006. My body immediately became gluten intolerant- we do know when that life line has been severed and our bodies react. My words would be to kind to yourself, get all the assistance you can get- easier said than done. I think the aloneness coupled with unwanted dependence on others are two knives of grief.
But- it gets better. You can grow through the grief and life can be rich again. Never the same, but good. I have moved back West and I know Bill would be proud of who I am becoming. And that love tie will always sustain those of us who have been left behind.
Blessings on your journey, Kathryn
Kathryn, Welcome, and thank you for your thoughts! My sympathy on losing your husband, and on the journey that thrust you on. That your body reacted by becoming gluten intolerant so instantly is fascinating. We really do feel our lives in our gut, but we don’t always get such a clear and present message as you did. Good for you for moving back West and exploring this you-on-your-own! I’m fortunate, I think, to live in a place I love and in a community that was very supportive to Richard and me, and continues to be a haven. It’s home, and that feels good. (Now if only I could figure out a way to make a living here without having to be on the road so much…. That will come, I hope.) Blessings to you.