How Dare You Know Me

Let me paint y'all a little picture. It's early evening after a long day, I'm in the kitchen tackling a sink full of dishes that I knew I should have tackled days ago. I'm frustrated with this chore (largely because it's a physical representation of other things that I should have already done, like going back through the looming pile of hospital and doctor's bills). I can spend about 5 minutes standing out of my wheelchair at a time, putting the majority of my weight on my good leg, and that has me frustrated, too. My exhausted mind meets my procrastination combined with an annoying physical limitation...recipe for, well, you'll see.

Instead of taking a minute to get in touch with how I'm feeling, and putting forth the effort to improve my mood, I try to speed through the chore and end up dropping a plate that my mother has just given me, one with great sentimental value. It hits my favorite bowl- an imported piece of Japanese pottery- and both items acquire irreparable chips. I sit down in my wheelchair and just cry.

My husband, bless his heart, has witnessed the scene and attempts to bring some perspective by reminding me that mistakes are made, accidents happen. I cry out, "I know accidents happen, but I'm tired of everything being hard! I'm tired! Tired of hurting, tired of everything being difficult!" At this point I'm absolutely aware that I'm indulging my misery, but I don't care. I've spent 93% of my waking hours working really hard to stay positive. And for a minute I just want to fall apart.

After a minute or so, my husband gently checks-in, asking if I want to talk about it. I restate with more than a little whine in my tone that I just want something to be easy. Then, get this, he has the audacity to speak the truth. "Well, that's is your 'm.o.' isn't it? Wanting things to be easy? I mean, isn't that why you drank?" First, let me acknowledge the excellent use of "m.o.". An abbreviation of the Latin modus operandi, it literally means "way of operating". And secondly, yes, dear husband, this is why I drank.

I spent much of my adult life despairing that life was hard, and self-medicating with alcohol. It was something that worked for me for a long time. However, when it stopped working, I didn't stop trying to make it work. Instead, I increased the dosage and frequency of my drinking. My husband, many of my friends, and some of my family saw this behavior for what it was, alcoholism. But it took me longer to admit that I was powerless over alcohol, my life unmanageable. Once I did, my life became better than I ever thought it could be. I've found the best years of my life lie in each moment that I spend in the attempt to be present, practice acceptance and live in gratitude. (Sidenote: I'm very open about my recovery from alcoholism. If you have questions or are curious, please feel free to contact me.)

So, yeah. Breakdown at the kitchen sink. Momentary annoyance that my husband knows me. How dare you know me. And with my next breath...thank God for the ones who know me.

Crossfit and Heroes

Before my car wreck I was an active person, accumulating several miles each week in addition to regular Crossfit workouts. If you aren't familiar with Crossfit, the essential structure is comprised of high-intensity movements from several fitness regimen like weightlifting, running, gymnastics, rowing, etc... In a standard WOD (Workout of the Day) you'll find varied exercises to support strength, metabolic/cardiovascular health, and mobility. I like the phrase stating that a Crossfit athlete is "stronger than a runner and faster than a lifter."

I participated in my first WOD on Christmas Eve. A friend had invited me to her box (in the Crossfit world, gyms are called a "box"), to workout with her. I was greeted by so many smiles! These people seemed actually EXCITED to workout!? What on earth was I getting myself into?? My friend introduced me to fellow athletes saying, "this is her first Crossfit workout!", to which the most common reply was, "Oh, you're gonna love it!" Well, I did fall in love and I fell in love hard.

Here is the funny thing: I have always been afraid of pushing myself physically, worried that I would embarrass myself or fail. This fear held me back from trying organized sports, both in childhood and as an adult. Despite my past fears and trepidation, I gave the workout my all. Wanna hear what happened? Well, I made it through the WOD and couldn't believe how great I felt afterward! Oh, physically I was a mess, but the emotional, spiritual payoff was amazing. I think it's because the process of pushing my mental and physical limits with a group of like-minded, encouraging athletes was a new experience. Soon, I'd gained enough skill and fitness that daily WODs made me feel fantastic all around. I set and hit some important fitness goals. I ran my first consecutive mile. I conquered a "real" push-up. I was hitting weightlifting PRs (personal records) and seeing some real muscle definition. Then, just 3 months after my first WOD, came the car accident.

I was driving home from an early morning workout when I was hit by a truck on the front passenger side of my tiny little car. I broke my left leg and my right arm, and suffered abdominal trauma that required and immediate surgery as well as a follow-up a few days later. I couldn't breathe without pain. I had one good leg, and one good arm, and my core muscles were a mess. Upon impact, my abdominal muscles tensed (a natural response to the impact of the crash), and because these muscles were flexed with no give, they partially ripped off their insertion and origin points along my lower ribs, pubic bone and iliac crest. In addition, the impact punched holes in these muscles and laid a pretty intense bruise across my chest and abdomen. The up-side? My internal organs were undamaged. I had no internal bleeding or rupture...a miracle I owe to Crossfit.

I was in the hospital for 5 weeks. During my recovery, I've had moments of complete and utter despair. It was quite a shock to go from a 250 pound deadlift to not being able to lift my torso off the bed. I've cried with frustration in physical therapy, trying just to bring my broken arm above my waist. I've felt like I will never be strong again. I've felt like giving up. That feeling is what brings us to the experience I had this morning, as a non-participating spectator at the Memorial Day Hero WOD, "Murph".

“Murph” is one of a line of classic Crossfit workouts known as Hero WODs, honoring men and women who have fallen in the line of duty. This one is in honor of Navy Lieutenant Michael Murphy, who was killed in action in Afghanistan on June 28th, 2005. One of my coaches at the box had checked in with me a few days back and I mentioned that I might come to cheer and support if I could find a ride. Well, she immediately offered to drive me and wouldn't let me back out the day before when I said I felt weird about it. So, she picked me up and we showed up to the box a few minutes before her 10 am heat began. There was a group already working out, and an air of nervous excitement as the next heat of athletes gathered, talked strategy and warmed-up. I rolled outside in my wheelchair to watch them start off on their first mile. ("Murph" is a beast of a WOD consisting of a 1-mile run, 100 pull-ups, 200 push-ups, 300 air squats and then another 1-mile run.)

It was powerful to watch these amazing men and women push their bodies past what their mind said they could do, seeing on their faces the exhaustion and effort. I saw faces twisted in pain as callouses ripped open during pull-ups, I saw determination worn like a badge. I hollered what I thought were encouraging phrases like, "you got this!", "looking good!", and "way to go!". More than once I had to fight off tears as I watched. I was so proud, and if I'm being honest I was so jealous.

I know I will get better. I've had people tell me I'll come back from this and I'll be even stronger. I am so damn lucky that I will recover. I know that. But you see, it's my head that knows it, not my heart. I'll keep going, and trust that my heart will catch up with what my head knows. Until then, to the men and women who showed up today in honor of our fallen heroes, thank you. Thank you for reminding me what is important. For showing me that sacrifice is what makes us strong.  I'll see you next year for Murph.

For the Love of Pets

There is a connection that can only

happen between a pet and their human.

And when they die it's

like when you get a little superglue on your fingers

and it hurts to pull them apart

but you have to pull them apart.

That is what it feels like to love

and loose your pet.

Because you knew they would die,

and they would die before you.

Incredible creatures whose
loyalty, trust, and desire to please
is all the more pure in that
you didn't ever have to ask for it.

All I want to say is,

what an amazing connection.

To have a living being who wants only

to be happy by being with you.

It feels like when your eyes are closed

and there is a cloud over the sun,

then without opening your eyes

all of the sudden you feel warmth

on your skin, the touch of the sun's rays

traveling thousands of miles to warm your body.

An inevitable, wonderful gift. 

Being Alone and My "WE"

A friend of mine wrote, "My spiritual health is excellent when I realize that the better I get, the more I discover how much help I need from others."

I've been moving through some really difficult days and realizing that I've been trying to be overly self-reliant. I am awful at seeking help. I feel unsettled, queasy. Whether it's asking my husband to push my wheelchair when I get tired, contacting a friend for a ride, or getting a stranger to hold the door open, I dread the moment.

I was in a serious car wreck 3 months and 13 days ago. I remember lying there on the grass, hearing "oh, my God" and "don't move" from the people gathered around. There was a woman who came and held my hand. When she saw my lips moving and asked if I was okay, I responded that I was trying to remember a prayer. She squeezed my hand and said, "you're gonna be okay." I struggled to remember anything past, "God, I offer myself to Thee," so I just repeated that opening line over and over as I leaked blood and tears onto the ground, her steady hand holding mine.

That woman stayed beside me until the ambulance arrived. When I got moved to the spinal board I felt her hand disconnect from mine. In that moment, I felt so alone. She had been right beside me, but I never looked at her. I had no idea what she looked like or who she was. She was the first of so many people who have offered their time, comfort, skill and company through the duration of my recovery. I still regret that I don't know who she was, and I daydream about tracking her down somehow to say thank you.

As my pain intensified and I began to be really frightened, this woman's hand was replaced by the voice of an EMT, Andy. In the 5 minute ride from the accident site to the hospital, he was the first to tell me I was going to have to let go of the guilt I felt at having caused the wreck. He told me I could hold myself responsible without being guilt-ridden. He said "they're called ACCIDENTS for a reason." When we got to Seton Northwest, I heard him tell his partner, Rachel, that they should wait because he thought I would be sent to Brackenridge (a level 1 Trauma Center), based on the severity of my injuries. He was right. So I got to listen to that reassuring voice for another 20 minutes as we drove southbound through rush hour traffic. Rachel drove with the sirens on, earnestly apologizing every time we hit a bump.

We arrived at Brackenridge, and as I was wheeled into the emergency room I called out my thanks to Andy and Rachel. I had gotten their names and I knew what they looked like, but I felt that same disconnect as when my hand lost contact with the woman who held it at the accident site. 

The trauma team settled me in, and I waited in a small room, completely and utterly alone. From where I was, laying in a hospital bed with my neck immobilized, I could see a clock above my head. I watched the minutes, then the hours tick by, nurses or doctors occasionally coming in to check on me, relay information, or administer medication. My phone had not been retrieved from the accident site and the only telephone number I could remember was my husband's, but no one had been able to get in touch with him. Remarkably, as I lay there watching that clock, I began to feel a web of connectedness. I visualized strings of all colors attached to my body, with someone I knew at the end of each string. Some of those strings were iridescent gold and reached into the heavens above me, attached to someone I loved whose earthly life was over. Some strings were dull and tattered, barely connecting me to the person on the other end. Others were seemingly made of the strongest threads, multi-colored woven cords like climbing rope. As I breathed in and out, or tried adjusting my position, these strings moved with me. I imagined that even though those on the other end didn't know what had happened to me, cosmically there was good intention, love and peace flowing into me from them...from you. This web of my connections to my community, my WE, was being perfectly and powerfully maintained by my Higher Power. No strings were tangled, and each one offered the presence of someone who cared about me. It turns out I wasn't alone after all.

To the Spirit of the Universe, be with me this day as I struggle once again to find my connectedness in this world. Guide my heart and hands as I seek to serve, and make me gracious to receive the help that others offer me. Give me courage to find a voice for what I want and need, and be there in the moments that I become selfish, to help me find the fear that lies underneath these desires. Be with us all, as together we move through each breath, moment, minute, hour and day.