The Waiting Room

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Yesterday morning, I helped my husband slide his wedding band off his finger and I slipped it onto my left thumb for safekeeping. I gave him one last kiss before he was wheeled down the hall and out my reach. It was a simple surgery. Brief. Yet my hand trembled as it placed his belongings in a locker and secured them with the twist of a key. A tear made its way down my cheek when I slapped my fist against the plate to open the door to the waiting room.

The waiting room.

The stone-trimmed walls and bistro complete with a Starbucks put a cheery spin on what it really was – a powerless limbo. A place where the minutes ticking by water the fears. The uncertainties growing taller while the rational mind hold hands with the worries and mutters platitudes interspersed with statistics and chances.

I kept glancing at his ring on my thumb, the sight both comforting and alarming. For some reason, it felt wrong to send him off without it, as though it was some talisman against trouble. I hoped it proved effective when worn on my hand as well.

photo-11

I tried to occupy myself with people watching, filling in the stories of their lives. I listened to a college age girl talking to her grandmother. The younger one had faced years of surgeries and was losing her sight. Her words spoke of wisdom and acceptance beyond her years. I saw another woman sign in for surgery, unsure who was going to pick her up or who to call with reports on her progress. I felt sad for her and wished I could provide comfort. I saw two women in their 60s who take turns nursing each other through the ailments of advancing age. The one facing surgery that day seemed matter of fact about the ordeal.

But mostly, I saw people like me. People who were waiting for the call that their loved one fell on the right side of the statistics and awoke from anesthesia without complications. People who felt powerless and impotent while their loved one was kept away. People who tried to hide their unease with small talk and pinched smiles, while distracting themselves from the wait.

It took me a moment to realize that the receptionist was talking to me. She had called out my husband’s last name. The name I never assumed.

She ushered me into a private room, “The doctor would like to come speak with you.”

I fervently swatted away the fear that swarmed my brain at being taken into a private room. I assured myself that the timing was perfect for the surgery to have concluded without error. And the news was good. I even laughed with the doctor as we talked about martial arts and the traits of those who practice.

And the wait continued as he was sewn up and prompted to breath again on his own. I had just settled into a book when my phone trilled an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Is this Lisa? I’m the nurse who’s taking care of your husband. I just had to give you a call. Just as he was waking up, his first words were, ‘I love my wife so much. We’re two peas in a pod.'”

The smile that swept my face that time wasn’t pinched by fear. It was carried wide by relief.

It’s funny, those words, “I love you,” have meant less to me after my first husband could say them and yet not mean them. Those words yesterday, the first uttered after unconsciousness, meant something. No, not something. Everything.

Half an hour later, my alarm buzzed, messaging me that I could go back and see him.

I kissed his lips, stained with blood from the intubation, and slid his ring back where it belonged.

The wait was over.

Adhesion

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I had surgery on my wrist over twenty years ago. A ligament that was putting pressure on the median nerve was severed to allow the electrical signals to travel unimpeded to and from my hand. The surgery was ultimately a success, providing some pain relief and an increase in sensation and function. However, it was not without its side effects. As a result of the cut ligament, my median nerve was exposed and the slightest pressure on the inside of my wrist felt like the sharp ulnar pain of hitting the “funny bone.”

 

Superficial palmar nerves.
Superficial palmar nerves. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

I learned to avoid that sensation. I grew protective of my wrist, afraid to flex it too far or expose it to the risk of injury. I babied it, wrapping it in a protective brace whenever it started to hurt or my hand started to numb. Those measures, appropriate in the months after the surgery, were probably too extreme as they continued through the years.

 

But I was conditioned by that point. I was so pain averse with my wrist that I would fall on my face rather than brace myself with my hands. (it’s okay to laugh as you picture the predicaments I ended up in!) The pain avoidance was an overreaction, like someone who suffered a burn from a stove top being afraid to cook, but it was an overreaction that I accepted.

After years of being afraid of pushing the limits of my wrist, the inevitable occurred – scar tissue began to form around the site of the surgery. The self-imposed limited range of motion became enforced by adhesion. This scar tissue replaced the fear of pain with real pain when I tried to move my wrist too far.

I am just now beginning to release that adhesion, to unstick the glues that bind my wrist and hold it tight. It wasn’t an intentional process, rather it snuck up on me (probably the only way it could ever have happened) while on the yoga mat. Through yoga, I have slowly been tearing through the ropey tissue that has hindered my movement. I find that I can flex it further and hold more weight without the pain becoming overwhelming. The release has been physical but also emotional, as I learn not to fear the pain radiating from my wrist. I have learned to trust that the discomfort is temporary and bearable. I don’t have to avoid it.

I used what I learned from my wrist in healing from my divorce. The initial pain of the separation was the sharp pierce of the surgeon’s blade through flesh, leaving tender nerves exposed. At first, I was afraid of the pain. I sought to avoid it by medication and distraction. Lack of flexion in the beginning allowed some adhesion to occur, wrapping me in its bindings and holding me in place. Luckily, I didn’t hold my heart as still as I had my wrist, or the sticking would have been worse, perhaps even permanent. I knew that I had to keep my emotional self moving and fluid so that I did not become stuck. I knew that the pain wasn’t fatal and that it would diminish with time. I could have braced my heart like I had braced my wrist, but then I would still be learning how to let it be free twenty years from now.

I am now more afraid of adhesion than I am of pain.

You Up For Something New?

Posted on by stilllearning2b

That was the text that came to my phone at 3:30 this afternoon. Of course, there’s only one appropriate response:

“Sure.”

The text came from a friend of mine that I frequently refer to as my “sprinting buddy.” We first met at the gym a couple of years ago. He was in the early stages of trying to regain his fitness after a knee surgery that ended with a staph infection and landed him in the hospital. When we met, he had been cleared by the physical therapist to lift weights again but his leg was still weak and shaky. I admired his spirit from our first meeting. He wasn’t moaning about the years he lost fighting for his leg. He didn’t complain about the loss of fitness he once had. Instead, he talked about his dream to play tennis again and, even more, to sprint again.

Our casual gym discussion eventually turned into a weekly “leg day” workout. I delighted in coming up with exercises that would challenge him and his strengthening leg. He never complained (only would text me the next day to let me know if his legs were sore or not). Although, I did sense a wary look when I pulled out the Bosu Ball or the kettlebell:)  We did squats and lunges. We balanced and jumped. And his leg grew stronger while we shared giggles over the customs associated with our mutual Norwegian roots.

Throughout that time, he still dreamed of sprinting, something he enjoyed and excelled at in high school when he was on the track team. His first tries that year fell flat. He just wasn’t ready.

At the end of that school year, I switched jobs and gyms. We lost touch for a few months. Then, I got a text asking if I wanted to meet up to run sprints. I was thrilled. We met at a nearby park where I watched as he wrapped his knee in a couple of layers of protective gear and jogged a couple of test laps. The mind was ready to run, but the body still needed convincing.

The look on his face while running that day was amazing as he ran the dream that had kept him going through the ordeal with his knee. The joy was contagious. I found myself pushing myself harder and having more fun than I ever had before while sprinting.

We continue to meet up to run sprints whenever we can. He has since well surpassed me (I think there may be some cheetah mixed in with that Scandinavian blood). Every time we run, it leaves me feeling so refreshed and relaxed, even through the wheezes as I struggle for air.

The parallels between our recoveries these past couple years have been interesting. He was cleared by his physical therapist about the same time I was cleared by my psychiatrist. We were no longer “sick” yet we had quite a ways to go before we were fully operational at the levels we were accustomed to. We both tried to push the healing process along on our own timelines only to be reminded that it wasn’t within our control. And finally, we both came through the other side stronger and more grateful than ever before.

So, what was with the something different? Normally, we run 100 yard sprints. He had worked his way to 200 yarders while I was training and recovering from the marathon (sneaky!). Today was my first stab at them. And, I gotta say, they were pretty awesome.

I love the feeling of running while giving 100%. I love the satisfied exhaustion I feel after sprinting. I love having friends in my life that are an inspiration. But most of all, I love to see people accomplish their goals and delight in the fruition of a dream.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish catching my breath:)