Debridement

Posted on by stilllearning2b

When I was fourteen, I spent several months doing intensive outpatient physical therapy for an arm that had decided to go on strike. I was receiving therapy at an excellent rehabilitation hospital that primarily served inpatients who were working to overcome severe injuries and illnesses.

I spent most of my time in the outpatient gym, a large room outfitted with various tables, pulleys and other torture devices.

But that’s not where the real torture occurred.

Everyone in the outpatient room was pretty much okay, maybe a 6 or 7 on a Likert scale where 1 is dead and 10 is Olympian-healthy. We may have grumbled and cursed and even shed some tears, but we didn’t know what real torture was.

That was reserved for a couple of small, private therapy areas near the pool, just down the hall from the outpatient area. Those treatment rooms were primarily utilized by the burn patients. That was the hell-hole they had to venture to on a regular basis to have their wounds debrided.

For those of you unfamiliar with the process, this is where the patients are placed in a whirlpool tub and the old, dead or dying skin is removed through mechanical means. The nerves beneath the necrotic tissue are raw, screaming with each assault. Often, the patient’s screams could be heard as well echoing down the hall.

It’s a brutal process, especially for those who have burns over a large area of their body. They would begin to feel healed, a barrier forming over their exposed tissue. But the skin formed too soon, before the blood supply was ready to keep up. So that barrier, although it appeared intact, was really an impediment to healing. If left on its own, the dying tissue would spread infection to the rest of the body. And so the old would be removed to allow fresh real estate for new, healthy skin to grow.

For most of us in the outpatient gym, our healing journeys were pretty linear. The data on our charts and the weights on our pulleys spoke of continuous improvement. We could see the impact of our efforts on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

For those scorched souls that I saw wheeled down the corridors and heard wailing down the halls, a linear path to healing was unthinkable. They would make progress only to start back again after being knocked down by infection or delayed healing. I’m sure on many days, getting healthy felt like an impossibility to them.

But in many cases, it did happen.

I remember one man in particular. He sat next to me one day as we both we on the upper body cycle (picture bicycle pedals that you power with your arms). My right hand was fastened to the handle with an adhesive wrap, but other than that minor adjustment, I was pedaling along just fine.

The man next to me? His fingers gripping the handles had burned to not much more than nubs and kept slipping off the pegs. The scars wove up his wrists, disappearing under his long sleeves. I wondered how far the scars extended. Looking down, I saw his unscathed legs visible beneath his shorts. They looked somehow wrong on him, as though the scars had become his normal tissue and the unblemished flesh belonged to someone else.

We chatted that day as we both rotated our pedals to nowhere. He spoke of being burned in a grilling accident, the flames licking up the lighter fluid and developing a taste for human flesh. He told me he was hospitalized for several weeks and then in the inpatient unit of the rehabilitation center for many more. He had been discharged recently and was in the early stages of outpatient therapy.

I asked him about those treatment rooms, about the screams we could hear down the hall. I asked how it felt, both physically and psychologically, returning for more even knowing what was in store.

He spoke of the pain, both of the body and of the mind. But he said it with a levity that surprised me.

He told me how before each treatment, he reminded himself that the debridement was removing the old, the dead, the poison. He saw the pain as the death throes of his enemies, their waste allowing new life to form. He shared the minor successes that were major celebrations. Even though he had setbacks, he never let them become permanent, choosing instead to focus on the slow, but steady improvement. He pedaled that day, not with a grimace belying the pain I knew he felt, but with a smile, happy to be alive and moving.

I learned two things from him that day-

Be careful what you complain about. Someone always has it worse.

And time doesn’t heal all wounds. It debrides them.

Allowing them to heal.

Displacement

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I was enjoying a bath the other day. The hot water filling the tub to the brim, my body submerged except for my hands holding a book and my face peeking out from the suds. I was relaxed. Content.

I heard Tiger begin to dance on the wood floors below as the garage door rumbled open.

That was soon followed by Brock’s voice, “Where’s mama?” he asked Tiger as both man and dog bounded up the steps.

“That looks good,” he said, slipping off his clothes and sliding behind me in the tub. For the next few minutes, we talked about our days  with the sound of the water draining through the overflow in the background. Eventually, the sound of the escaping water stopped as equilibrium was reached once again. The volume of the water replaced with an equal volume of Brock.

We stayed that way for some time, enjoying the company and the warm water.

He exited the tub before me, stepping out while simultaneously grabbing a towel.

The change in the bath was shocking. The water that had once covered my entire body now didn’t even make it around my hips. The once-full bath had been reduced to a few inches of tepid water. Unwilling to end my soak on that note, I turned the faucet on once again, allowing the hot water to fill the void left by Brock’s absence.

We are all aware of the effects of physical displacement in our lives. We are careful not to fill a pot to the brim before adding the potatoes. We know that a full tub will overflow when splashing kids are added. We ask for room in our coffee so that the cream can added without creating a mess. We are not surprised when water levels appear to plummet when objects are removed.

Yet we are often not as aware of the effects of emotional displacement. Of what happens when people are added to or subtracted from our lives.

In the beginning of a relationship, it is like being joined in the tub by another. Other relationships and commitments shift out of the way to allow room for the new company. It can be an uncomfortable change, friendships and activities and habits all vying for attention. Trying to decide what stays and what goes. Figuring out just how much to let the new presence in and how much will have to go to allow it to settle in.

And then, you get comfortable. Your life is full and has reached equilibrium. There may be less of the metaphorical water, but the volume of the relationship makes up the difference.

As long as your partner is there with you, the water level is fine. But as soon as he or she stands up to leave, the loss is shocking. Your body, once buoyant in the support of the water, feels heavy and collapsed on the cold surface beneath. You can stay there, cold and heavy, nerves raw to the whispers of the incoming air.

Or you can turn on the tap, filling your life again with warmth and support. Finding ways to replace the removed volume with new friends and old. Revisiting former passions and finding new ones. Enjoying the buoyancy that comes from a full life.

The tub may still feel empty, but at least you’re not needlessly suffering. Bonus points if you add a rubber ducky:)

Chutes and Ladders

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Do you remember the game Chutes and Ladders?

The slow, steady climb to the top of the board?

The delighted squeal that would escape your lips when luck granted you a ladder, bypassing multiple rows in a single move?

The utter helplessness and defeat when that same luck turned and landed you on a chute, plummeting you back to the beginning?

After the divorce, I felt like I was trapped in some twisted version of the game, the final square holding the peace and healing I so desperately desired. For long periods of time, I would trudge slowly through the levels. Not making great progress, but progress nonetheless. Sometimes, I would be blessed with a ladder, a sudden jolt of insight or a pleasing outcome that would elevate my healing to new levels.

And then there were the chutes. The triggers. The memories.

Inevitably, they seemed to appear just when I was feeling confident. Comfortable. As though they fed on optimism.

I would find myself disoriented within their slippery embraces. Only to realize that I was back to the beginning once I regained my senses. Peace once again a far off dream.

 

Chutes and Ladders is based on an ancient Indian game that was designed to teach Hindu children about karma. The final square symbolized nirvana, the ladders represented virtues and the snakes, the original version of the chutes, were vices. There were fewer ladders than snakes, showing that it is often more difficult to climb than it is to fall. At the end of the game, salvation was granted to the one who made it to the final square while the rest of the players faced rebirth at a lower rung.

 

Although intended to teach about choice and consequence, the game itself is based entirely upon chance. Fate.

Which makes it easy. But also frustrating.

Because in life, we always have choice.

In life, we can learn from our mistakes.

In life, we can accept where we are in the moment yet always strive to do better.

In life, we can slow the slide and even climb out of the chute.

In life, we can roll the dice but we can also build the ladder.

In life, we become better at climbing the more we do it.

In life, success comes not from watching others fall, but in helping to lift them up.

In life, nirvana is not only the end goal, but is a presence to be found along the journey.

In life, we cannot control every play of the game but we can learn to steer its outcome.

 

It’s so easy to feel helpless and powerless after divorce, subject to the whims of the dice that may send us back to square one on any given day.

It’s so easy to feel defeated. Tired of the climb when every ladder towards healing seems to be paired with a chute greased with pain.

It’s so easy to fixate on your small patch of real estate on the game board, that you fail to see the bigger picture.

The fact that you are making progress. Maybe not steady. And certainly not linear. But progress.

Peace is possible.

Keep climbing.

Anniversaries That Aren’t

Posted on by stilllearning2b

This one passed with barely any recognition. It was just another day. I only became aware of its familiar form as I was signing passes for students. Yesterday marked what would have been (note: NOT what should have been) the 14th anniversary of my first marriage. And there were no ghosts. No whimpers from the past. No nothing.

It was a day unmarred by bygones and what-ifs.

But it hasn’t always been that way.

Here’s my post from last year’s anniversaries that aren’t:

 

Today would have been my thirteenth wedding anniversary. Thirteen years ago today, I married my high school sweetheart on an empty beach in Florida. The photos from that day capture the love we had. The youth. The innocence. The promise.

wedding pic

What would have been our tenth anniversary was the hardest. He has left five months prior and we were still legally married. I used a psychiatrist’s appointment as an excuse for a sick day off work (the last day before winter break and a planned trip to San Antonio). After the morning appointment, I took a Xanax (one of three I took during the whole experience) and spent the day in my bed in my friend’s guest room. I distinctly remember not wanting to be alone and feeling reassured that her husband and then her father were going to be there throughout the day. I couldn’t muster up the energy to be social. I don’t think I ever made it down stairs, but I remember listening to the sounds coming in my door. I spent the day in a fugue state – not awake and not asleep. I tried to read, but couldn’t. I tried to sleep, but that eluded me too. I cried. A lot. I wrote. I cried some more. I could not face that anniversary that wasn’t.

By the would-have-been eleventh anniversary, I was in a much better place. I was situated in my own apartment and in the early stages of a new relationship. It was still a very difficult day. A sad day. I went to work. I functioned. But I also broke down and cried a few times. I was afraid to be alone that evening and spent the night at Brock’s. I still mourned what had been lost, but I also saw hope for the future.

Last year, on would be anniversary number twelve, I felt okay. I didn’t feel like I was a damn holding back a wall of sadness that was waiting to crush me. I felt okay. But I didn’t trust it. I remember tiptoeing through the day, as if I might release the pain if I tread too hard. The pain didn’t come. I spent a normal (as normal as a middle school can be) day at work and spent a quiet evening on the couch with Brock.

And today? On lucky number thirteen? I’m alone at the moment and I okay. No, I’m more than okay. I’ve been aware of the date but it hasn’t hurt. I left a note for Brock this morning as this same date is a difficult anniversary for him for different reasons) and I received an image with the following quote from him on my Facebook:

Good relationships don’t just happen. They take time, patience, and people who truly want to be together.

That definitely helps keep any demons at bay:) I came home to Brock and his friend, who just had knee surgery, on the couch laughing and playing Call of Duty. It was a scene that made me smile – two friends helping each other and laughing while doing it. By the time I got back from the gym, Brock was at ju jitsu, where he will be until after I’m asleep (I’m pitiful in the evening). I’m alone on December 18, but I’m not alone. I’ve let people into my heart and they are with me even now. Oh, and Tiger and Maddy too:) It’s hard to feel alone when you have a 90 lb pit bull on your lap!

photo-181

Anniversaries that aren’t are strange things. They are meaningless and yet we mark them. It’s a time when we used to reflect upon the past years of the relationship. Now that the relationship is over, we find ourselves playing a game of “what if?,” wondering what this day might have looked like otherwise. These anniversaries are so piercing at first, the loss overwhelming and threatening to undo a year’s worth of work. But they don’t have to stay that way. We can let them soften, let them become mere curiosities on the calendar. I see it like a number line. I used to count the positive numbers away from my wedding day. Now, I am on the other side of zero, counting away from my divorce date. I can see today as would-have-been thirteen or I can celebrate it as it-is-three. I bet you can guess which view I choose:)

So, I am wishing myself a happy anniversary. And I am celebrating three years of loving and laughing and learning. That’s an anniversary I can celebrate every year!

 

 

And today, yet another year out, I am still celebrating. And wishing all of you happy anniversaries that aren’t.

Announcement

 

Excuses

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Our brains are rather comical creatures. Have you ever noticed how they have a tendency to throw up excuses faster than a juggler’s balls in the final act rather than simply face reality? Have you observed the energy expended as your children come up with one creative reason after another to avoid homework or cleaning their room when simply addressing the task at hand would often be easier? Do you get frustrated with friends or family when they complain about a situation and yet fail to make any changes?

Do you ever notice your own excuses?

It’s okay.

We all make them.

You can admit it here.

Sometimes it can be helpful when someone calls us out on them.

(Assuming we’re willing to listen, of course.)

Often others see what we cannot.

But sometimes, you’re on your own. Maybe others do not register your excuses. Or maybe they perceive you as too fragile to tackle them head on or they are too timid themselves. Or perhaps they’re busy creating their own excuses as well.

Regardless, sometimes you have to push your own head down into the metaphorical bucket of cold water. To wake up. To stop the stutter of excuses.

When these excuses get in the way of moving forward, I call  them healing hangups. They are beliefs and perceptions that hold us back.

I caught myself in two healing hangups after the divorce and it wasn’t until I addressed them both that I was able to unhook from the pull of the past.

The first hangup I had was the belief that in order to heal, I would have to find understanding. I was so blindsided that I felt a desperate need to understand why my husband could do those things. I needed to to know what drove his actions. I grasped at labels for a time, seeking comprehension in a diagnosis. I read books. I talked to others. I was always searching for elusive “why.”

I now see it as a snipe hunt; there was no label, no information that would really answer the question that my heart cried out for – How can you betray someone you claim to love? How can hold me so closely while planning your escape? How can leave me when you swore you would protect me? There are no answers. No understanding.

No answer that would make it okay.

It was a slow process, that shift from wanting to know why to learning how to find peace in spite of. Part of it was creating my own understanding without worry for its veracity.Some of it was realizing that if I could understand why he did what he did, it would mean that I was capable of the same. And part of it was realizing that I was using that as an excuse to delay healing –

“I’ll be okay once I understand why.”

But if I held on to that excuse, I would never be okay. And, at some point, I realized that it was more important for me to be okay than to understand.

Of course, excuses rarely travel alone; they bring plenty of backup. In my case, my other healing hangup was my need for him to face consequences. Now, sometimes those were elaborate schemes dreamt up in my raging mind (how does circumcision by paper cut sound?), but most of them were a need to simply face the natural and legal consequences of his actions.

I held tightly to those excuses. I intentionally delayed trying to address the anger until after his court date for the bigamy had arrived. I was so sure that I would feel relief once he had to face the consequences – feel the blowback of his choices.

Unfortunately, that consequence proved to be a dud.

No problem. I had another excuse ready. I’ll be able to release the anger once he faces me in civil court for the divorce.

Uh, yeah. Another dud.

So, there I was. Court dates over and he escaped with only the most minor of scratches.

Again, I had a choice. I could continue to let it be an excuse holding me back or I could choose to let it go. I’ll let the title of this post let you know the selection I opted for: Why Criminal Pursuit is a Game I Refuse to Play.

There were no consequences that would make it okay.

Those choices were not easy. Taming excuses is like playing Whack-a-Mole with your mind. You gotta be fierce and determined to hit them all. And, of course, a helping hand is always advantageous.

Are there excuses that you have noticed your mind creating to shield you from the difficult and real work of moving forward? What healing hangups do you have?