Ever since my rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis, I have been learning a lot about some new limitations. I don't always know what my energy level will be like from day to day so I've become very reluctant to make plans. Cute shoes very rarely equal comfortable shoes. My favorite shirts quickly end up in the back of the closet - or a donation box - if they have too many buttons. Cooking has become more of a chore and less of a hobby. Driving any kind of distance requires slippers and some NSAIDs. I miss a lot of work due to my chosen treatment path and the resulting suppressed immune system. I have slowed down. I carefully select the activities in which I participate. I have to shrug it off when people ask me about it and then are quick to tell me that they have the same thing in their knees or their grandmother also had it in her hands.
I sit in the hospital room's reclining chair every eight weeks and contemplate this new me while the medicine slowly (So. Very. Slowly.) drips into my one remaining good vein. I wait patiently for my blood panels to come back and show that my liver and kidneys are still hanging in there and so I can continue this course of treatment. Inevitably, someone will be in the infusion room waiting for their dose to finish.
Most recently a woman was already in the room, halfway through her treatment. She was reading a book as many of us often do to while away the hours of drip, drip, drip. But then I noticed her hands and the tell tale swan neck deformity of her fingers. My mind flashed back to my freshman year of high school, biology class. My teacher, living with the same affliction, would have to place the chalk, pen, scalpel, what-have-you in his right hand with his left because he was unable to grasp them. I remember being fascinated by his adaptive habits and curious about the illness that predicated them. I never once thought to ask. Well, I know now. I often wonder things about that teacher that I also discuss with those people in my infusion room. When were you diagnosed? How quickly has it progressed? Sero-negative or sero-positive? Do you have autoimmune disorders as well? How much has your life changed and in what ways?
I am my harshest critic, especially when I find yet another thing that is either more difficult to do now or just plain impossible. Adopting a new routine has been challenging and still is on most days. Invisible illnesses have started to garner much attention. People that
often look healthy are not...but they have not let their disease stop
them from living their lives. The more I learn about my limitations though, the more I've become much more sympathetic to others. And that has been the bright side for me.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Thursday, May 01, 2014
It All Started To Come Together
The pneumonia, the ever-present joint pain, the crushing fatigue....it all hounded me for the better part of 2013. With the exception of the pneumonia, none of it was very alarming. I kept putting off the return to running for little aches and pains, convincing myself that they were nothing. The weekend before Christmas I had been wrapping gifts and preparing for a large dinner at my house. I was not surprised when my lower back started spasming...I didn't think much of it and popped 4 ibuprofen. My friend offered her TENS unit with some simple instructions on how to use it. I spent the next few hours wrapping gifts and being softly zapped every few seconds.
I woke up the next morning unable to pick up my arms or move my legs. It felt as if every nerve ending was on fire. I was terrified. My husband helped me out of bed and helped me get dressed. I spent some time on my exercise ball, trying to stretch out my back in hopes that it was what was causing all of the pain. I took some Tramadol that I had left over from my shoulder surgery and waited for it to take effect. I can't explain the shock and horror of becoming an invalid nearly overnight when just 12 months previously I was finishing a marathon in just barely over 4 hours! I could not comprehend how, once again, my body was turning against me. The Tramadol helped and I was able to continue preparing for the large dinner party that night.
Eventually the sharp pain reduced to a much tolerable level, but it was replaced with an achy stiffness in my hands and feet. Getting out of bed required patience because I was unable to put any weight on my feet without "warming them up". My waking routine because a series of flexing and rotating of my feet and hands until I felt comfortable enough to use them. I made an appointment with my primary care physician, sure that she would send me back to my physical therapist for some back work. I vowed to never run a marathon again.
She instead gave me large doses of steroids that offered such great relief that I was able to forgive the awful side effects: massive weight gain, acne, mood swings, brain fog... After a myriad of tests, ruling out MS and a host of other scary diseases that I had never heard of, I was sent to a rheumatologist. I knew that my Grave's Disease diagnosis so many years ago made it more likely that I would be diagnosed with yet another autoimmune disease. Knowing this, I was still not prepared for the new label I was given: Rheumatoid Arthritis.
My thoughts were immediately consumed by images of my freshman year Biology teacher whose hands were so deformed (by what I now know was RA) that he had to wedge a piece of chalk with one hand into the other hand so that he could write on the board. He was unable to demonstrate a proper dissection of the earth worm because he lost most of his fine motor skills. His hands were so twisted and gnarled that I could hardly stop staring at them all those years ago. Tears sprang into my eyes. I looked from my hands to my new doctor's eyes and back to my hands. He finally paused and said "You're not hearing me, are you?" I shook my head and he decided to send me down to the lab to get my baseline x-rays. I had to have x-rays of my hands and feet in various positions as well as my lungs.
My head was spinning. I was in shock.
I woke up the next morning unable to pick up my arms or move my legs. It felt as if every nerve ending was on fire. I was terrified. My husband helped me out of bed and helped me get dressed. I spent some time on my exercise ball, trying to stretch out my back in hopes that it was what was causing all of the pain. I took some Tramadol that I had left over from my shoulder surgery and waited for it to take effect. I can't explain the shock and horror of becoming an invalid nearly overnight when just 12 months previously I was finishing a marathon in just barely over 4 hours! I could not comprehend how, once again, my body was turning against me. The Tramadol helped and I was able to continue preparing for the large dinner party that night.
Eventually the sharp pain reduced to a much tolerable level, but it was replaced with an achy stiffness in my hands and feet. Getting out of bed required patience because I was unable to put any weight on my feet without "warming them up". My waking routine because a series of flexing and rotating of my feet and hands until I felt comfortable enough to use them. I made an appointment with my primary care physician, sure that she would send me back to my physical therapist for some back work. I vowed to never run a marathon again.
She instead gave me large doses of steroids that offered such great relief that I was able to forgive the awful side effects: massive weight gain, acne, mood swings, brain fog... After a myriad of tests, ruling out MS and a host of other scary diseases that I had never heard of, I was sent to a rheumatologist. I knew that my Grave's Disease diagnosis so many years ago made it more likely that I would be diagnosed with yet another autoimmune disease. Knowing this, I was still not prepared for the new label I was given: Rheumatoid Arthritis.
My thoughts were immediately consumed by images of my freshman year Biology teacher whose hands were so deformed (by what I now know was RA) that he had to wedge a piece of chalk with one hand into the other hand so that he could write on the board. He was unable to demonstrate a proper dissection of the earth worm because he lost most of his fine motor skills. His hands were so twisted and gnarled that I could hardly stop staring at them all those years ago. Tears sprang into my eyes. I looked from my hands to my new doctor's eyes and back to my hands. He finally paused and said "You're not hearing me, are you?" I shook my head and he decided to send me down to the lab to get my baseline x-rays. I had to have x-rays of my hands and feet in various positions as well as my lungs.
My head was spinning. I was in shock.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Pneumonia in the Caribbean
My goal for 2012 was to spend only as much time working as I would need to fund a year of amazing travel. That was exactly what I did. My consulting gigs were picking up so I spent a majority of the year on various vacations.
In February, friends and I spent a week on St. Thomas touring the surrounding islands while in a near-constant state of inebriation. We rented an amazing house that came with a barely-road-worthy vehicle. The beaches, the water, the food, the entertainment and, of course, bars were the best I ever experienced. I came home from that trip certain that I would never have another trip as amazing as that one.
Barely back from that vacation, my family convinced me to go on a Caribbean cruise with them. Always the agreeable sort, I wrapped up some work and repacked my suitcase. I booked an interior room in an area of the ship that I can only describe as a single's lounge for that was indeed the idea behind this set of rooms. My room had mood lighting ranging from sultry red to moonlight blue. I rarely slept alone as my nieces liked to share my room with me which was so small that I could touch the bed, shower and bathroom all at the same time. The stops were amazing; St. Thomas (it was like returning home!), St. Maarten (my favorite...if I ever go missing, check there first), and The Bahamas (went on a snorkeling excursion here). I had to make a quick visit (no more than 5 minutes tops) to the infirmary while I was on the boat for an ice pack for my shoulder. It was still painful from my fall and the crowded bed was less than comfortable.
The water was pretty rough the day of the snorkeling excursion. My shoulder made it difficult to do a lot of swimming but since my sister is deathly afraid of the water (ocean, pool, pond, puddle....she saw Jaws, ok?) I agreed to take the two younger ones out with me. It was exhausting and a little chilly. Getting back up on the catamaran required you to tread water in line while waiting for the ladder. Waiting to climb up next the guy in front of me fell off the ladder and directly on top of me. Panicking, he flailed a bit and managed to keep me submerged for what seemed like hours. Had I been prepared I would have been able to take a deep breath and swim away. Instead, I swallowed a small amount of seawater and wanted to beat him with my snorkel.
When we disembarked in Miami at the end of the week, I was feeling a little more tired than usual. I chalked it up to trying to keep up with my nieces and nephews. I still had a couple of days at my sister's house before I flew back home. Shortly after the two hour drive from Miami, I laid down in my niece's bed and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later and was feeling feverish. My mom gave me some water and some ibuprofen and I went back to sleep for nearly 36 hours. I developed a slight cough on the flight home and couldn't wait to be back in my own bed.
The next day, feeling even worse, I called my doctor and she asked me to come in. She suspected I had bronchitis, gave me an antibiotic and an inhaler and sent me on my way. After four days of sleeping most of the time, I woke up the next morning to what I would describe as delirium. My entire body was shaking violently, I was freezing cold, pouring sweat and barely able to get out of bed. With a little assistance I was able to get up and call the doctor. She ordered a chest X-ray and confirmed that I had pneumonia.
Did I inhale seawater during that awful snorkeling trip? Nah, I would have noticed that immediately. Did I inhale some awful virus in the short amount of time I was in the ship's infirmary getting my ice pack? That sounded ridiculous. I stopped wondering and gave in to the crushing fatigue. I fell into bed and didn't rejoin society for at least two weeks.
In February, friends and I spent a week on St. Thomas touring the surrounding islands while in a near-constant state of inebriation. We rented an amazing house that came with a barely-road-worthy vehicle. The beaches, the water, the food, the entertainment and, of course, bars were the best I ever experienced. I came home from that trip certain that I would never have another trip as amazing as that one.
Barely back from that vacation, my family convinced me to go on a Caribbean cruise with them. Always the agreeable sort, I wrapped up some work and repacked my suitcase. I booked an interior room in an area of the ship that I can only describe as a single's lounge for that was indeed the idea behind this set of rooms. My room had mood lighting ranging from sultry red to moonlight blue. I rarely slept alone as my nieces liked to share my room with me which was so small that I could touch the bed, shower and bathroom all at the same time. The stops were amazing; St. Thomas (it was like returning home!), St. Maarten (my favorite...if I ever go missing, check there first), and The Bahamas (went on a snorkeling excursion here). I had to make a quick visit (no more than 5 minutes tops) to the infirmary while I was on the boat for an ice pack for my shoulder. It was still painful from my fall and the crowded bed was less than comfortable.
The water was pretty rough the day of the snorkeling excursion. My shoulder made it difficult to do a lot of swimming but since my sister is deathly afraid of the water (ocean, pool, pond, puddle....she saw Jaws, ok?) I agreed to take the two younger ones out with me. It was exhausting and a little chilly. Getting back up on the catamaran required you to tread water in line while waiting for the ladder. Waiting to climb up next the guy in front of me fell off the ladder and directly on top of me. Panicking, he flailed a bit and managed to keep me submerged for what seemed like hours. Had I been prepared I would have been able to take a deep breath and swim away. Instead, I swallowed a small amount of seawater and wanted to beat him with my snorkel.
When we disembarked in Miami at the end of the week, I was feeling a little more tired than usual. I chalked it up to trying to keep up with my nieces and nephews. I still had a couple of days at my sister's house before I flew back home. Shortly after the two hour drive from Miami, I laid down in my niece's bed and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later and was feeling feverish. My mom gave me some water and some ibuprofen and I went back to sleep for nearly 36 hours. I developed a slight cough on the flight home and couldn't wait to be back in my own bed.
The next day, feeling even worse, I called my doctor and she asked me to come in. She suspected I had bronchitis, gave me an antibiotic and an inhaler and sent me on my way. After four days of sleeping most of the time, I woke up the next morning to what I would describe as delirium. My entire body was shaking violently, I was freezing cold, pouring sweat and barely able to get out of bed. With a little assistance I was able to get up and call the doctor. She ordered a chest X-ray and confirmed that I had pneumonia.
Did I inhale seawater during that awful snorkeling trip? Nah, I would have noticed that immediately. Did I inhale some awful virus in the short amount of time I was in the ship's infirmary getting my ice pack? That sounded ridiculous. I stopped wondering and gave in to the crushing fatigue. I fell into bed and didn't rejoin society for at least two weeks.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The Marathon
Q: How do you know if someone has run a marathon?
A: Don't worry, they'll tell you.
Guilty.
Thanks to my best friend Karen, I was in great shape. She dragged me out of bed every morning before the sun rose and took me to a trainer that enforced a program that strengthened and toned every muscle in my body. Running, swimming, cycling and weights - they all became an integral part of my routine. The goal? The Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Marathon...26.2 miles run at night and most of it along The Strip. Karen and I had run the half the year before and loved it. I was determined to finish the full marathon. Despite an unfortunate fall down some stairs just before the race, I was in top shape.
I remember being the absolute last runner to cross the start line because we were late getting there. Once I caught up to the pack I settled into the familiar rhythm from my training runs. It was daylight when I started and soon the sun set and stars set out a brilliant display for my run. Soon after the halfway point, the full marathoners joined the half marathoners on The Strip for the last half. I ran just over a half mile before I caught site of my friends, wildly waving signs and yelling encouragement. Shortly after that a strange euphoria set in that allowed me to run the next 10 miles with little to no recognition of what I was doing.
The final three miles though were hellish. "It's only a 5k" I kept repeating to myself. With two miles to go I saw my friends again, this time on the opposite side of The Strip and in varying degrees of inebriation. I stopped to get a picture with my friend wearing a powder blue polyester suit holding a "Sweaty women turn me on" sign. I felt what I can only describe as "cement" filling my legs and I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to finish. It was at this time I noticed that the temperature had dropped and a light rain had begun.
With one mile to go my lungs started burning. I desperately wanted to stop and walk the rest of the way; however a race official appeared out of seemingly nowhere and said "you're almost there...you've got this! Get into this lane and finish strong." I looked up and saw the finish archway. The timer in bright yellow was showing 04:16. The euphoria returned and I broke out into what was surely the ugliest sprint in history.
I crossed the finish line and was immediately wrapped in a mylar blanket and a finisher's medal. The wind had picked up and the light rain had turned to sleet. I hurried through the recovery area, grabbing a bagel and some bananas. I started shivering and panic set in when I couldn't find my friends at our meeting spot. I sought refuge in a port-a-potty and waited until I could feel my fingers and toes before venturing out again. I finally was able to reach my friends with my cell phone and we grabbed Karen and and hurried to our waiting, heated vehicle to hit the nearest bar.
We celebrated with wings and our favorite cocktails. Both Karen and I were exhausted and delirious. We were so proud of ourselves and each other! When I got back to the hotel I took a long, hot shower while barely able to support myself. I crawled into bed and slept the sleep that I'm sure only dead people know.
When I returned home, I had planned to take off at least 4 weeks from workouts to allow my body time to rest and recover. I put my running shoes in my closet with a promise to see them soon. Little did I know that my body was hatching a nefarious plan of its own.
A: Don't worry, they'll tell you.
Guilty.
Thanks to my best friend Karen, I was in great shape. She dragged me out of bed every morning before the sun rose and took me to a trainer that enforced a program that strengthened and toned every muscle in my body. Running, swimming, cycling and weights - they all became an integral part of my routine. The goal? The Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Marathon...26.2 miles run at night and most of it along The Strip. Karen and I had run the half the year before and loved it. I was determined to finish the full marathon. Despite an unfortunate fall down some stairs just before the race, I was in top shape.
I remember being the absolute last runner to cross the start line because we were late getting there. Once I caught up to the pack I settled into the familiar rhythm from my training runs. It was daylight when I started and soon the sun set and stars set out a brilliant display for my run. Soon after the halfway point, the full marathoners joined the half marathoners on The Strip for the last half. I ran just over a half mile before I caught site of my friends, wildly waving signs and yelling encouragement. Shortly after that a strange euphoria set in that allowed me to run the next 10 miles with little to no recognition of what I was doing.
The final three miles though were hellish. "It's only a 5k" I kept repeating to myself. With two miles to go I saw my friends again, this time on the opposite side of The Strip and in varying degrees of inebriation. I stopped to get a picture with my friend wearing a powder blue polyester suit holding a "Sweaty women turn me on" sign. I felt what I can only describe as "cement" filling my legs and I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to finish. It was at this time I noticed that the temperature had dropped and a light rain had begun.
With one mile to go my lungs started burning. I desperately wanted to stop and walk the rest of the way; however a race official appeared out of seemingly nowhere and said "you're almost there...you've got this! Get into this lane and finish strong." I looked up and saw the finish archway. The timer in bright yellow was showing 04:16. The euphoria returned and I broke out into what was surely the ugliest sprint in history.
I crossed the finish line and was immediately wrapped in a mylar blanket and a finisher's medal. The wind had picked up and the light rain had turned to sleet. I hurried through the recovery area, grabbing a bagel and some bananas. I started shivering and panic set in when I couldn't find my friends at our meeting spot. I sought refuge in a port-a-potty and waited until I could feel my fingers and toes before venturing out again. I finally was able to reach my friends with my cell phone and we grabbed Karen and and hurried to our waiting, heated vehicle to hit the nearest bar.
We celebrated with wings and our favorite cocktails. Both Karen and I were exhausted and delirious. We were so proud of ourselves and each other! When I got back to the hotel I took a long, hot shower while barely able to support myself. I crawled into bed and slept the sleep that I'm sure only dead people know.
When I returned home, I had planned to take off at least 4 weeks from workouts to allow my body time to rest and recover. I put my running shoes in my closet with a promise to see them soon. Little did I know that my body was hatching a nefarious plan of its own.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
The Art of Feeding
When I was young there was nothing I looked forward to more than spending time with my Grandma. Among a whole list of things, she was a caterer. There were times that I would go to her commercial kitchen and sit on the stainless steel table learning how to ball melon. I also enjoyed playing with the large, rusty can opener slamming it up and down until one of her sisters - Aunt Rita, Aunt Maxine or Aunt Cathie - would ask me to stop. How I never cut myself with that is still a mystery to this day. Other times we would work in her kitchen at home and I would be lucky enough to use the Kitchen Aid mixer. She had an entire kitchen of dishes, gadgets and tools that complemented her chosen profession. I loved watching her, so skilled was she in the art of feeding.
I can remember sitting at her kitchen table with hundreds of index cards and an electric typewriter - the fancy kind that typed in script. I would beg her to let me type up the cards, with her precious recipes on each one. I loved these cards because of the uniqueness of the type. Little did I know that I would one day long for them to be written in her flowing, beautiful handwriting instead.
I believe that one of the greatest gifts she bestowed upon me is my love of cooking. I often imagined that having me in her kitchen, all clumsy and inaccurate, would have been irritating at the least; but I found that teaching children to cook is truly special. The look in their eyes of pride, satisfaction and happiness is inspiring and I find myself sharing those same feelings with them. Whenever I have the opportunity to share this craft with others I do so with great eagerness.
My fondest memories of my Grandma - and trust me, there are too many to count - are always of us in her kitchen. We always had stimulating conversations and I was more than eager to learn. You could see that to her cooking was a way to show great affection to those that were lucky enough to share a meal with her. When I was in my twenties, I spent an evening catering a dinner party with my Grandma and her sister, Maxine. It was a small affair, but I loved the intricacies of that service. The menu was astounding and put together with such thought and care. Grandma and Aunt Maxine taught me a great deal about what it means to feed people - both body and soul - that evening. That lesson is what stands out to me the most all these years later.
I feel a special connection to her now when I'm in a kitchen. She passed away too soon - as people like her often do. And when she did, my Grandpa gave me her recipes boxes. There are hundreds of cards and scraps of paper in her handwriting and typewriter script, like so many love letters, that comfort me when the pain of missing her grows too much to bear.
I can remember sitting at her kitchen table with hundreds of index cards and an electric typewriter - the fancy kind that typed in script. I would beg her to let me type up the cards, with her precious recipes on each one. I loved these cards because of the uniqueness of the type. Little did I know that I would one day long for them to be written in her flowing, beautiful handwriting instead.
I believe that one of the greatest gifts she bestowed upon me is my love of cooking. I often imagined that having me in her kitchen, all clumsy and inaccurate, would have been irritating at the least; but I found that teaching children to cook is truly special. The look in their eyes of pride, satisfaction and happiness is inspiring and I find myself sharing those same feelings with them. Whenever I have the opportunity to share this craft with others I do so with great eagerness.
My fondest memories of my Grandma - and trust me, there are too many to count - are always of us in her kitchen. We always had stimulating conversations and I was more than eager to learn. You could see that to her cooking was a way to show great affection to those that were lucky enough to share a meal with her. When I was in my twenties, I spent an evening catering a dinner party with my Grandma and her sister, Maxine. It was a small affair, but I loved the intricacies of that service. The menu was astounding and put together with such thought and care. Grandma and Aunt Maxine taught me a great deal about what it means to feed people - both body and soul - that evening. That lesson is what stands out to me the most all these years later.
I feel a special connection to her now when I'm in a kitchen. She passed away too soon - as people like her often do. And when she did, my Grandpa gave me her recipes boxes. There are hundreds of cards and scraps of paper in her handwriting and typewriter script, like so many love letters, that comfort me when the pain of missing her grows too much to bear.
Monday, March 11, 2013
I'm Fine
It felt so important to remain positive through the endless tests, medicines, needles, and doctors. I thought long and hard about the children I would have. I wanted at least one boy and one girl. But what if I had multiples because I was, after all, doing IVF!?!? This Amazonian body would be used as it should be...carrying a litter! I decided to pick out six names just to be safe.
And so those names would be recited each time I received test results, had blood drawn, or had some horrible chemical injected into my body. I would imagine their red curls or flaxen wisps of fine hair and bluish-green eyes watching me climb up on that table one more time. And they became the reason why, in spite of my logical and emotionally-guarded mind, I kept showing up day after day and week after week.
Until I didn't need to go anymore. "...many levels are not ideal...reaction to Clomid was poor". And I laid my head to the side of the table silently weeping as one by one those cherub-faced darlings that I longed to hold faded away. I stopped hearing anything that sweet doctor was saying but I could see he was still talking with a genuinely concerned look in his eyes.
Somehow I got myself dressed. And with each piece of clothing I put on, I felt a hole being drilled into my heart that would surely never be filled again. I signed out and tried to ignore the overwhelming sadness in the eyes of the nurse checking me out, asking "Is someone here to take you home?" I heard the robotic, steely voice that I would come to recognize as my own whenever talk of my up-until-now-questionable fertility was raised and I felt the false half smile and sad eyes filling with tears that were tempted to spill directing toward her and knew that this would be my reaction from now on: 'Oh poor soul, I will keep the truth from you to spare you participating in this grief. My fake smile should assure you that I'm fine'. With that disingenuous look on my face I lied to this poor woman who only wanted to comfort me, "No, but I'll be fine."
I somehow made it out to the parking garage. I sat in my car and proceeded to throw a violent temper tantrum the likes that most people would never see; pounding my fists on the dashboard, screaming at the tops of my lungs, stringing a slew of curses together that didn't even make sense. People saw me and I wanted to dare them to make me stop. Go ahead, call the police about the insane woman falling to pieces in the parking garage. I composed myself when I realized that instead of the shock, panic and disgust that I expected, almost all of them were shaking their heads slowly, in understanding. No one was indignant and shaming. Almost immediately I felt the fake smile assume its rightful position and heard the robotic voice say to myself, "I'm fine."
And so those names would be recited each time I received test results, had blood drawn, or had some horrible chemical injected into my body. I would imagine their red curls or flaxen wisps of fine hair and bluish-green eyes watching me climb up on that table one more time. And they became the reason why, in spite of my logical and emotionally-guarded mind, I kept showing up day after day and week after week.
Until I didn't need to go anymore. "...many levels are not ideal...reaction to Clomid was poor". And I laid my head to the side of the table silently weeping as one by one those cherub-faced darlings that I longed to hold faded away. I stopped hearing anything that sweet doctor was saying but I could see he was still talking with a genuinely concerned look in his eyes.
Somehow I got myself dressed. And with each piece of clothing I put on, I felt a hole being drilled into my heart that would surely never be filled again. I signed out and tried to ignore the overwhelming sadness in the eyes of the nurse checking me out, asking "Is someone here to take you home?" I heard the robotic, steely voice that I would come to recognize as my own whenever talk of my up-until-now-questionable fertility was raised and I felt the false half smile and sad eyes filling with tears that were tempted to spill directing toward her and knew that this would be my reaction from now on: 'Oh poor soul, I will keep the truth from you to spare you participating in this grief. My fake smile should assure you that I'm fine'. With that disingenuous look on my face I lied to this poor woman who only wanted to comfort me, "No, but I'll be fine."
I somehow made it out to the parking garage. I sat in my car and proceeded to throw a violent temper tantrum the likes that most people would never see; pounding my fists on the dashboard, screaming at the tops of my lungs, stringing a slew of curses together that didn't even make sense. People saw me and I wanted to dare them to make me stop. Go ahead, call the police about the insane woman falling to pieces in the parking garage. I composed myself when I realized that instead of the shock, panic and disgust that I expected, almost all of them were shaking their heads slowly, in understanding. No one was indignant and shaming. Almost immediately I felt the fake smile assume its rightful position and heard the robotic voice say to myself, "I'm fine."
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Permission Granted
I haven't spent my whole life dreaming about kids. But one day I found that it was all I could think about. Before I knew it, my whole world revolved around fertility - in my case, a lack thereof.
Depression crept in.
I forgot things that I enjoy, I put them on hold and eventually forgot why I ever enjoyed them to begin with. I replaced those things with hope for a baby. If I don’t have a baby I can’t feel happy. I needed a baby like I needed air. But there is no baby and there will never be a baby.
Instead, there are times of grief. A lot of them.. It’s okay if I don’t want to get out of bed every once in a while - I've given myself permission to not be okay.
Depression crept in.
I forgot things that I enjoy, I put them on hold and eventually forgot why I ever enjoyed them to begin with. I replaced those things with hope for a baby. If I don’t have a baby I can’t feel happy. I needed a baby like I needed air. But there is no baby and there will never be a baby.
Instead, there are times of grief. A lot of them.. It’s okay if I don’t want to get out of bed every once in a while - I've given myself permission to not be okay.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
I Hope You Never Understand
I'm doing it again.
I know it when I'm doing it.
But nothing can stop me.
Nothing.
I pour my glass of sweet tea. I lean back and take a sip; hoping, wishing and praying it reaches my heart and fills the pain that is there. That pain, created by the ultimate betrayal of self. The pain that will never be explained or released. The pain that, if inflicted by anyone else, would be unforgivable.
But it's my own body that is the attacker. It goes about itself finding ways to crush my spirit once again. I try to appease it by taking good care of myself. I take all the required medications, supplements and vitamins. I exercise in various ways that are supposed to make my body stronger and more resilient. But that's not what happens.
Instead my body wages war against itself. Over and over again I go through the motions of finding the latest reason for my ailment. And each time the answer has been: auto-immune disease. My thyroid trouble, my endometriosis-induced infertility, and now this latest as-yet-identified ailment that has robbed me of my motor skills, energy and motivation. The diagnoses that are being batted around frighten me. But instead of fear, I feel pain.
So I write. I cry. I write what I feel and all I feel is PAIN. It just hurts so fucking bad. So I cry. Raw, animal-sounding cries.
And then...it's time for him to come home and I haven't moved. Haven't combed my hair. Haven't cleaned up the mess I've made from doing nothing. The clutter visible from every angle.
Do you want to know how it hurts? The sharpness of it? The totality? The emptiness? The pain? I can't spend too much time with anyone because they'll know. They will figure out I just want to die. I'm embarrassed that anyone would know the depth of my pain. So I hide behind sarcasm, false optimism and self-deprecating humor. I feel like everything has been destroyed. I've gained ten more pounds.
Pray to God you never hurt like this. I've had my ass kicked and then some. LET ME GET UP ALREADY! FUCK! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Two Moments
I just spent the better part of the past two weeks away from home. My first trip was to Mexico City and the second was to Disney World. The bipolar swing was exhausting, I'm not going to lie. I will write more about each trip later, but I wanted to make sure I wrote this now. There were two things that stand out the most:
A Religious Experience
For the first memorable time in my life, I felt the presence of God. I have no other words to describe it. Tears sprung into my eyes; the hair on the back of my neck stood up; I had goosebumps all over; I felt like all time had been suspended. And yet none of these words describe that feeling I felt. I walked onto the grounds of the BasÃlica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe - The Villa - and it was a faith-affirming moment. I prayed all of the prayers of my Catholic school childhood. The rush of emotion was almost too much to bear.
Intertwined
Long lines, roller coasters, Mickey ears, camping in a rig nicer than any of my past apartments...not your typical Thanksgiving for me. There were many fantastic moments; many memories were made on this trip. The one that struck me for it's simplistic and random nature was this: 8 of us standing in line for two hours; children growing bored but keeping each other entertained. The line is moving oh-so-slowly and yet the time is passing quickly. Then my sister starts to braid my hair. A simple gesture; one that, in our childhood, didn't happen often because more than likely we were too busy fighting. I kept the braid in my hair for the rest of the day.
A Religious Experience
For the first memorable time in my life, I felt the presence of God. I have no other words to describe it. Tears sprung into my eyes; the hair on the back of my neck stood up; I had goosebumps all over; I felt like all time had been suspended. And yet none of these words describe that feeling I felt. I walked onto the grounds of the BasÃlica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe - The Villa - and it was a faith-affirming moment. I prayed all of the prayers of my Catholic school childhood. The rush of emotion was almost too much to bear.
Intertwined
Long lines, roller coasters, Mickey ears, camping in a rig nicer than any of my past apartments...not your typical Thanksgiving for me. There were many fantastic moments; many memories were made on this trip. The one that struck me for it's simplistic and random nature was this: 8 of us standing in line for two hours; children growing bored but keeping each other entertained. The line is moving oh-so-slowly and yet the time is passing quickly. Then my sister starts to braid my hair. A simple gesture; one that, in our childhood, didn't happen often because more than likely we were too busy fighting. I kept the braid in my hair for the rest of the day.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
The Second Best
When changes occur in your life - no matter how big or small - conversations that you've had and shed countless tears over before happen all over again. I try to put on a brave face and spare the other person's feelings. No one should feel bad for making conversation. And there are sometimes that I will talk about it; explain the shots, the dangerous drugs, the endless appointments, the crushing disappointment, the utter despair, the bitter resignation and the blinding sadness that comes in waves at the most unfortunate times. But not always. Sometimes I pretend to be grateful to be traveling down a road that I would advise most people to be thrilled about; in fact that is what my job calls for most of the time. So I try to act "as if"...as if this is truly all I ever wanted.
And yet that's just not how I feel most days. There is a dark hole that goes largely ignored when I'm having one of the "good days". I can laugh and joke and be wildly productive, sometimes even a joy to be around. Those are the days that I succeed in ignoring what has become a defining part of my adulthood; the days that I act like this is the life I always wanted, when I can overcome the tears and grief and move forward; one foot in front of the other. I'm not saying that this life is bad - because for some people it's not; it's just not what I would have chosen for myself. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
Hope is gone, she confessed
that when you lay your dream to rest
you can get what's second best
but it's hard to get enough
She wants to run away
but there's nowhere that she can go
Nowhere the pain won't come again
There are some limits that I've found have accompanied the soul-crushing despair of being child-less; limits that hurt me personally for their basis in jealousy and bitterness that was never a part of me before. My heart aches when opening invites to baby showers; so I buy incredibly thoughtful gifts that will be most likely be delivered by a stranger so that I can count my tears in peace. When offered the possibility of holding a baby I will likely decline, since the last time I did so erupted in tears so profuse that it surprised even me. But I do find some comfort when I see the utter joy in my friends' eyes when they look at their children or when their children look at them. I remember fondly the experiences I was afforded by my sister that
lovingly included me in her birth experiences. She taught me everything I
know about being a parent - that I'll never use. And each time I bring them to mind the pain always follows. I don't want to lose those memories - I hold onto those feelings with all that I have in me. And I go through life looking for the "second best". I know I will likely be disappointed; I know that it won't be "enough". But there are some days that I let my pain loose like some enraged animal:
I am sad.
I cry.
I feel guilty for not being able to give my husband a child.
I cry.
I am angry.
I cry.
I feel sorry for myself.
I cry some more.
I reset my counter of "Days without a Breakdown" and then I move on.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
I Do All My Own Stunts
I ran the race two weeks post fall and noticed that my right arm was a little sore, but I just assumed it was from carrying it incorrectly during the race. So I decided to take off my requisite 4 weeks from any and all workouts which just happened to coincide with the holidays. Right before Christmas my shoulder started bothering me and my doctor suggested a cortisone shot to see if it worked; so I got the shot and hubby and I packed up the dogs and drove to the midwest for the holidays.
I developed a very limited range of motion in that shoulder and lost almost all strength. I was referred to a Physical Therapist that was like an angel. He spent two days a week for nearly 6 months rehabbing that shoulder and getting it to where I could actually put my hair in a pony tail without having to prop that arm up on the wall first.
When I stopped showing signs of improvement I was referred to a surgeon. Dr. Love (no, not his real name....but DAYUM it should be) was an intimidating 6'9" with hands that could have palmed the moon. Dark hair, skin and blue eyes....if he had told me he wanted to cut my arm off I might have entertained the thought. So handsome was this guy that I agreed to have surgery in 4 weeks to possible repair a torn rotator cuff and repair a bicep tendon tear. It could be nothing, but it might be something he said. Better safe than sorry he said. "You're the doctor" I said. My husband was sitting in the room watching this imaginary love story play out with a smirk on his face. "Were you waiting for him to pull out the stirrups?"
Surgery went well. The anesthetist (another good looking dude - did I miss a calling in Orthopedics?!) performed a nerve block that made my arm completely dead weight. Dr. Love removed a significant bone spur from my shoulder that was digging into my rotator cuff. He cleaned up a lot of scar tissue and ground down the bone spur. I was sent home with a sling and, a few days later, some bruising that looked like I dated Chris Brown.
Now, just 5 1/2 weeks later, I found myself lying on the garage floor. Hubby was gone for the weekend, power was out and I was trying to start the generator. One of the dogs was sitting on the floor behind me as I turned around to get it started, so I tripped over her and landed on my freshly-repaired shoulder. After about 3-4 hours of laying in bed with an ice pack I called Dr. Love's office and they told me to put it in a sling and wait for my upcoming re-check. May have torn any number of tendons this time or could have broken a collar bone. Best case though is that I am just a dumbass that needs to be more careful.
Say No To Drugs
About 4 weeks ago, I had surgery to repair my shoulder. The original injury happened just two weeks before the Las Vegas Marathon. I had been diagnosed with bronchitis and was given cough syrup. This cough syrup evidently has a bit of a reputation...kind of like that girl you went to high school with that wore black leather pants, see through shirts to reveal (gasp!) her lacey black bra and thick black eyeliner that was overshadowed only by her 2 foot bangs that had been teased high enough to make all of Dallas TX swoon. This stuff was ROUGH.
My bedroom is located in the basement of our house. Ever since graduating from college I've had an aversion to sleeping while the sun is up. So my solution was to move to a dimly lit basement room with blackout shades. Work ethic and sense of responsibility be damned...I WILL sleep during waking hours whenever possible.
One of the purposes of the Syzurp is to dry you out and some of the other purposes were evident in the next couple of hours. Well in the middle of the night I was thirsty and though I never do it any other time, I was sleeping with socks on because I was feverish. I went upstairs, grabbed some water in my Purple Drank haze and headed back downstairs to bed. Once I hit step #2, I started skidding down the stairs like a 4 year old on their first pair of roller skates. In the split second it took me to slip off the first step, I realized that I was INEBRIATED! I was not coughing and my throat felt a little better than most of the recent past; but I also was not balanced and quick enough to reach out and grab the walls or handrail for support. Instead I landed straight on my - at that moment in time - toned and awesome-looking butt; but not before I bounced off the wall on my right ready-for-tank-season shoulder. I bounced down the stairs and ended up at the bottom with the wind knocked out of me.
I struggled to catch my breath and faintly heard a low growl from my bedroom that was 15 feet in front of me. Paulie heard the loud ruckus and emitted a weak warning to not disturb him before most likely taking my still-warm spot in the bed. I tried to get up but quickly realized that I was going nowhere on my own two feet. I tried yelling for hubby who was sleeping peacefully (read: without hearing aids in) on the upstairs floor. Trying to wake him would be nearly impossible. I crawled on my hands and knees to my bed where my phone was charging. I called hubby a couple of times before he woke up and said breathlessly "I fell down the stairs". I heard more socked feet running down the hallway and had I caught my breath yet I would have warned him not to take the stairs in socks. Instead I started giggling.
Hubby came into the room, bleary eyed and hard of hearing asking me if I was ok. A large bruise had already started forming on my butt cheek and running up the side of hip. He saw me giggling and sighed..."do you need ice?". "No," I said, "just help me lay back down." And other than some soreness and embarrasment I was fine.
My bedroom is located in the basement of our house. Ever since graduating from college I've had an aversion to sleeping while the sun is up. So my solution was to move to a dimly lit basement room with blackout shades. Work ethic and sense of responsibility be damned...I WILL sleep during waking hours whenever possible.
One of the purposes of the Syzurp is to dry you out and some of the other purposes were evident in the next couple of hours. Well in the middle of the night I was thirsty and though I never do it any other time, I was sleeping with socks on because I was feverish. I went upstairs, grabbed some water in my Purple Drank haze and headed back downstairs to bed. Once I hit step #2, I started skidding down the stairs like a 4 year old on their first pair of roller skates. In the split second it took me to slip off the first step, I realized that I was INEBRIATED! I was not coughing and my throat felt a little better than most of the recent past; but I also was not balanced and quick enough to reach out and grab the walls or handrail for support. Instead I landed straight on my - at that moment in time - toned and awesome-looking butt; but not before I bounced off the wall on my right ready-for-tank-season shoulder. I bounced down the stairs and ended up at the bottom with the wind knocked out of me.
I struggled to catch my breath and faintly heard a low growl from my bedroom that was 15 feet in front of me. Paulie heard the loud ruckus and emitted a weak warning to not disturb him before most likely taking my still-warm spot in the bed. I tried to get up but quickly realized that I was going nowhere on my own two feet. I tried yelling for hubby who was sleeping peacefully (read: without hearing aids in) on the upstairs floor. Trying to wake him would be nearly impossible. I crawled on my hands and knees to my bed where my phone was charging. I called hubby a couple of times before he woke up and said breathlessly "I fell down the stairs". I heard more socked feet running down the hallway and had I caught my breath yet I would have warned him not to take the stairs in socks. Instead I started giggling.
Hubby came into the room, bleary eyed and hard of hearing asking me if I was ok. A large bruise had already started forming on my butt cheek and running up the side of hip. He saw me giggling and sighed..."do you need ice?". "No," I said, "just help me lay back down." And other than some soreness and embarrasment I was fine.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Tummy Babies and Life Lessons
Little Angel said: "Why doesn't Cari have a tummy baby?"
Wise young woman replies: "I don't know, sometimes things aren't fair."
Little Angel said: ""I feel like God wants someone who can't take care of their baby to donate it to her. She would be a better mom than even you!".
Wise young woman takes this comment as a compliment. I ask if she would be doing the donating because clearly this Little Angel child was made for me!
Wise young woman replies: "I don't know, sometimes things aren't fair."
Little Angel said: ""I feel like God wants someone who can't take care of their baby to donate it to her. She would be a better mom than even you!".
Wise young woman takes this comment as a compliment. I ask if she would be doing the donating because clearly this Little Angel child was made for me!
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Manifest Your Destiny, Maintain Your Integrity
When my self-confidence drain-circling picked up speed about 18 months ago, I did what any out-of-their-mind miserable employee does: I quit my job. In the worst-ever-in-my-lifetime job market. I had zero prospects, but I was desperate. I gave them a lame excuse about wanting to switch careers - which at the time seemed to be my only option.
In true Cari Funk fashion, I picked up running as a way to fill in any perceived hole in my life. I know that running is an innate blessing someone in my heritage bestowed upon me. It's also my comfort zone, my security blanket. So for the better part of 2011 I trained for, and finished, a full marathon. I could have set a loftier goal than "just finishing" but that would be missing the point. What I ended up with was a really cool glow in the dark medal and some much needed perspective. And the confidence started to return slowly, ever so slowly.
I still believe in the company even though I left of my own volition; I still have times when my fierce loyalty to them shocks me. I still care about how they're doing. After the break-up, the owner and I have remained friends. Regardless of the reasons I left, I still want the company to succeed. Leaving a job is never easy, but still caring about the people you leave behind makes doing the right thing the only option.
So when he came to me later to talk about a different-but-related job offer, I was truly scared and reluctant. Could I do it? Did I have the skills, the knowledge, the desire?? Eventually all those questions were directly answered (in the affirmative) mostly by him. But that last one - the desire bit - was tough. He couldn't answer that for me. And after working though some time-consuming apprehension, the two of us got to working in a rhythm that has produced spectacular results.
I think, had I not created my own dark, stumbling path of self-discovery I would be in a very different place today. Instead I'm the proud owner of a mildly successful consulting business called 3 Dog Data.
My main client - wouldn't you know - is my former employer. I also consider him in the categories of "mentor", "adviser" and most importantly "friend".
In true Cari Funk fashion, I picked up running as a way to fill in any perceived hole in my life. I know that running is an innate blessing someone in my heritage bestowed upon me. It's also my comfort zone, my security blanket. So for the better part of 2011 I trained for, and finished, a full marathon. I could have set a loftier goal than "just finishing" but that would be missing the point. What I ended up with was a really cool glow in the dark medal and some much needed perspective. And the confidence started to return slowly, ever so slowly.
I still believe in the company even though I left of my own volition; I still have times when my fierce loyalty to them shocks me. I still care about how they're doing. After the break-up, the owner and I have remained friends. Regardless of the reasons I left, I still want the company to succeed. Leaving a job is never easy, but still caring about the people you leave behind makes doing the right thing the only option.
So when he came to me later to talk about a different-but-related job offer, I was truly scared and reluctant. Could I do it? Did I have the skills, the knowledge, the desire?? Eventually all those questions were directly answered (in the affirmative) mostly by him. But that last one - the desire bit - was tough. He couldn't answer that for me. And after working though some time-consuming apprehension, the two of us got to working in a rhythm that has produced spectacular results.
I think, had I not created my own dark, stumbling path of self-discovery I would be in a very different place today. Instead I'm the proud owner of a mildly successful consulting business called 3 Dog Data.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
Run For the Roses
Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby...the 138th Running of the Roses. Coming from the Midwest, I really should know more about "The Fastest Two Minutes in Sports". I know the following:
For 2012, the Kentucky Derby was run on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo. It also coincided with some friends' house warming party. The menu was festive with various forms of Bourbon- and Tequila-laced dishes. I ingested a lot of alcohol that day, but mostly not in liquid form. We brought two recipes to celebrate: Kentucky Derby pie and Mint Julep Melon. I really have to share!
KENTUCKY DERBY PIE
Hubby loved the pie - so much so that I'm making another today just for him. Now I think the "real" recipe for this pie is a guarded secret. If this isn't close to the real thing, it's good anyway and I should come up with a different name for it.
MINT JULEP MELON
Place the cantaloupes in a serving bowl. Strain the syrup over the melon; stir in the lemon juice to taste. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour. Top with mint sprigs.
The melon was refreshing and very minty. The bourbon was not strong at all, but definitely not a child-friendly dish.
So here's to donning crazy hats and cooking with booze....Happy spring!!!
- It's a horse race.
- People drink Mint Juleps from ice-frosted silver julep cups - I use one of those cups, sans frost, for my makeup brushes.
- Women wear awesome hats to the race.
For 2012, the Kentucky Derby was run on May 5th, Cinco de Mayo. It also coincided with some friends' house warming party. The menu was festive with various forms of Bourbon- and Tequila-laced dishes. I ingested a lot of alcohol that day, but mostly not in liquid form. We brought two recipes to celebrate: Kentucky Derby pie and Mint Julep Melon. I really have to share!
KENTUCKY DERBY PIE
- ½ cup of flour
- ½ cup of brown sugar
- ½ cup of white sugar
- 2 eggs, beaten
- ½ cup of melted butter
- 2-4 tablespoons Kentucky bourbon
- 1 cup of walnuts
- 1¼ cups of chocolate chips
- Salt (just a pinch)
- 1 tsp of vanilla extract
- 1-9 inch deep-dish pie shell
Hubby loved the pie - so much so that I'm making another today just for him. Now I think the "real" recipe for this pie is a guarded secret. If this isn't close to the real thing, it's good anyway and I should come up with a different name for it.
MINT JULEP MELON
- 2 cups sugar
- 1/2 cup packed fresh mint leaves and tender stems, plus whole sprigs for garnish
- 1/2 cup bourbon
- 2 cantaloupes peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch pieces (I used a melon baller)
- Juice of 1 lemon
Place the cantaloupes in a serving bowl. Strain the syrup over the melon; stir in the lemon juice to taste. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour. Top with mint sprigs.
The melon was refreshing and very minty. The bourbon was not strong at all, but definitely not a child-friendly dish.
So here's to donning crazy hats and cooking with booze....Happy spring!!!
Monday, April 23, 2012
South of Normal
Some of you have it. That thing that keeps you south of normal. You focus everything you have on it; you become passionate about it. It consumes you. You have a hard time identifying yourself apart from it.
Until.
Until the one day when you are separated from it. You begin to see yourself apart from it. You begin to redefine your life without it being in the description.
And little by little, I come closer to normal. I look forward to the next thing that pulls me south of normal.
Until.
Until the one day when you are separated from it. You begin to see yourself apart from it. You begin to redefine your life without it being in the description.
And little by little, I come closer to normal. I look forward to the next thing that pulls me south of normal.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Spicy Peanut Chicken
One of my very favorite, simple dinners to make. You can adjust the spiciness by adding more or less cayenne pepper.
1/4 cup chicken broth
1 TB cornstarch
1 TB sugar
2 TB soy sauce
1 TB white vinegar
1/4 TB cayenne pepper
1 TB vegetable oil
1 lb chicken; boneless, skinless cut into 3/4" pieces (breast or thighs)
1 garlic clove; finely chopped
1 tsp finely grated ginger root
1 medium red bell pepper, cut into 3/4" pieces
1/3 cup dry roasted peanuts
2 TB green onions, sliced
2 cups cooked rice
Mix broth, cornstarch, sugar, soy, vinegar and cayenne pepper. Set aside.
Heat wok (or 12" skillet) over high heat. Add oil, rotate wok to coat sides.
Add chicken, garlic and ginger root; stir fry for about 3 minutes or until chicken is no longer pink. Add bell pepper and stir fry for 1 minute.
Add broth mixture. Cook and stir until sauce is thickened. Stir in peanuts. Sprinkle with onions and serve over rice.
1/4 cup chicken broth
1 TB cornstarch
1 TB sugar
2 TB soy sauce
1 TB white vinegar
1/4 TB cayenne pepper
1 TB vegetable oil
1 lb chicken; boneless, skinless cut into 3/4" pieces (breast or thighs)
1 garlic clove; finely chopped
1 tsp finely grated ginger root
1 medium red bell pepper, cut into 3/4" pieces
1/3 cup dry roasted peanuts
2 TB green onions, sliced
2 cups cooked rice
Mix broth, cornstarch, sugar, soy, vinegar and cayenne pepper. Set aside.
Heat wok (or 12" skillet) over high heat. Add oil, rotate wok to coat sides.
Add chicken, garlic and ginger root; stir fry for about 3 minutes or until chicken is no longer pink. Add bell pepper and stir fry for 1 minute.
Add broth mixture. Cook and stir until sauce is thickened. Stir in peanuts. Sprinkle with onions and serve over rice.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Career Chronicles Pt. 2
I have a friend that is a deeply spiritual woman. She once talked me into getting my palm read at a holistic fair. The reading was fun and there were some things that made me perk up and listen a little closer. The part that I've had a lot of fun with was the letter "M" on my right palm. She said that I can manifest my own destiny. She used the example that I almost always find a parking spot at the front of the store when I want one. I didn't think much of it until I explained the reading to my friend Karen on our way to get coffee one morning. The weather was foul and the parking lot was full. I bemoaned our sure fate of sloshing through the parking lot when lo and behold, someone pulled out of the spot front and center. Rock star parking was ours! Now I don't always wish for these parking spots, but when I do I almost always get them.
So when my career crisis recently started in earnest, I experienced a floundering feeling that was new and alarming. I had no idea what to do. I called my friend and asked her for the name of her spiritual guide that we had talked about a while back. I made an appointment for a Tarot Card reading. Now, I was raised Catholic and now a sometime non-denominational Christian as an adult. I find church to be cathartic when faced with various troubling times and sometimes just to feel a part of something bigger. So this was definitely something new for me and I admit I was a bit skeptical (and remain so today).
The reading was about 45 minutes long. We talked about past lives (seriously) and my current situation. She turned over a pregnancy card and I thought I had her; I was certain she was going to tell me I was pregnant. I planned to point at her and yell "HA!", then walk out and call it all rubbish; she didn't. Instead she told me that it was related to my career. The most important thing that came up was when she read my present card as well as my aura (no, really). She said that I am free to choose who I am and who I want to be. I have the ability to...wait for it....manifest my own destiny. (I've wondered since if this is a stock phrase for these folks?) I also needed to take care of myself; set boundaries and do what's best for me. She suggested that I start "vision boarding" my hopes and dreams so that I can make them my reality.
I haven't started carrying around crystals (yet) or made any standing appointments. However I did take away something very important from that reading: confidence. I realized that I had been torn down; constantly second guessing myself and doubting my decisions. I can manifest my own destiny, whether at work or in my personal life. I've been looking into vision boarding and found a lot of helpful articles on how to do it. The trouble I had at first was defining my vision. What in the world do I want to be when I grow up? There is, in fact, a vision board for just that. I'm going to spend a great deal of time deciding what I am passionate about; finding my niche and doing what I love.
I was told at the reading: Find what I love to do and when the time is right, the universe will provide!
So when my career crisis recently started in earnest, I experienced a floundering feeling that was new and alarming. I had no idea what to do. I called my friend and asked her for the name of her spiritual guide that we had talked about a while back. I made an appointment for a Tarot Card reading. Now, I was raised Catholic and now a sometime non-denominational Christian as an adult. I find church to be cathartic when faced with various troubling times and sometimes just to feel a part of something bigger. So this was definitely something new for me and I admit I was a bit skeptical (and remain so today).
The reading was about 45 minutes long. We talked about past lives (seriously) and my current situation. She turned over a pregnancy card and I thought I had her; I was certain she was going to tell me I was pregnant. I planned to point at her and yell "HA!", then walk out and call it all rubbish; she didn't. Instead she told me that it was related to my career. The most important thing that came up was when she read my present card as well as my aura (no, really). She said that I am free to choose who I am and who I want to be. I have the ability to...wait for it....manifest my own destiny. (I've wondered since if this is a stock phrase for these folks?) I also needed to take care of myself; set boundaries and do what's best for me. She suggested that I start "vision boarding" my hopes and dreams so that I can make them my reality.
I haven't started carrying around crystals (yet) or made any standing appointments. However I did take away something very important from that reading: confidence. I realized that I had been torn down; constantly second guessing myself and doubting my decisions. I can manifest my own destiny, whether at work or in my personal life. I've been looking into vision boarding and found a lot of helpful articles on how to do it. The trouble I had at first was defining my vision. What in the world do I want to be when I grow up? There is, in fact, a vision board for just that. I'm going to spend a great deal of time deciding what I am passionate about; finding my niche and doing what I love.
I was told at the reading: Find what I love to do and when the time is right, the universe will provide!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Career Chronicles Pt. 1
It has been no secret to those that have been listening to my incessant whining about my career lately that I feel I have stalled professionally. Up until two and a half years ago, I would have been fine with packing up all of my cables, disks and various nerdery and staying home with the handful of kids (ok, just two) that I wanted to have. I find it much more difficult to justify being a stay at home mom to two doxie children when I'm still paying Sallie Mae a ridiculous sum of money each month and there are no prospects of two-footed children padding around the house. I decided a year ago to throw myself fully into being a long-term super nerd (like my dear husband).
But really, who am I kidding? I work in IT because Sallie Mae's continual bitching (read: monthly statement) makes me feel guilty if I even so much as browse a college curriculum catalog. So IT it is. But always in the back of my mind there is a little voice that says "Don't do it. There is more out there for you...you aren't tied to anything!"
Recently I've been going through a rough patch at work. I have been fiercely loyal to my employer and felt that I have always done the right thing for the company. When asked for reciprocity my employer balked. I know that business is business; I just don't always see it that way and so I take things personally. So now, when faced with feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt and betrayal I wonder if sticking it out is really the best thing for either party? I also wonder when will I stop caring about what's best for them?? I am all too aware that I hold a mean grudge. Is this something I can get over? I don't know.
And so I do what a lot of people facing looming unemployment in this awful economy do: I feel overwhelmed and desperate. I pray. I wonder if my husband is as nervous as I am even though he won't even bat an eye. I cry. I take medication to deal with the building anxiety. But I am a smart woman that knows she needs to have a plan. So I'm going to give myself a set number of days (I don't know the number yet...2? 7? 30?) to wallow in self-pity, anger and depression. Then I'm going to get real about what I do from here and make it all about what's right for me.
But really, who am I kidding? I work in IT because Sallie Mae's continual bitching (read: monthly statement) makes me feel guilty if I even so much as browse a college curriculum catalog. So IT it is. But always in the back of my mind there is a little voice that says "Don't do it. There is more out there for you...you aren't tied to anything!"
Recently I've been going through a rough patch at work. I have been fiercely loyal to my employer and felt that I have always done the right thing for the company. When asked for reciprocity my employer balked. I know that business is business; I just don't always see it that way and so I take things personally. So now, when faced with feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt and betrayal I wonder if sticking it out is really the best thing for either party? I also wonder when will I stop caring about what's best for them?? I am all too aware that I hold a mean grudge. Is this something I can get over? I don't know.
And so I do what a lot of people facing looming unemployment in this awful economy do: I feel overwhelmed and desperate. I pray. I wonder if my husband is as nervous as I am even though he won't even bat an eye. I cry. I take medication to deal with the building anxiety. But I am a smart woman that knows she needs to have a plan. So I'm going to give myself a set number of days (I don't know the number yet...2? 7? 30?) to wallow in self-pity, anger and depression. Then I'm going to get real about what I do from here and make it all about what's right for me.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Insanity
Twelve months ago, I was encouraged by a friend to get up before the sun rose and go to a spin class with her. Exercise was the farthest thing from my mind and had been for a handful of years. But she promised me that the instructor was entertaining, the music was great and except for the possibility of falling off the stationary bike, I had very little opportunity for injury. After a few classes I was hooked.
My friend and I joined the same gym and continued to work out together. We pushed each other well beyond the point that we would have dared go by ourselves. We found that by doing this together we could accomplish more than we could alone. We set a few small milestone goals for ourselves in the beginning; run a 5k and then run a 10k. After running at least a dozen 5ks and a 10k we began to wonder what the next goal would be. We decided to set a big goal that, at the time, seemed simply impossible: we were going to run a half marathon. We signed up for the Rock n Roll Half Marathon in Las Vegas.
The goal was daunting but we continued to encourage each other. There were plenty of mornings that 4:30 came entirely too early and I just wanted to turn off the alarm and go back to bed. But then I would think of my friend, waiting in the dark on her porch for me to pick her up and I would reluctantly drag myself out of bed. Throughout the 7 months we trained there were plenty of times that “life” happened: illness, work, travel, family…you name it. But each time that happened, we knew the other would be waiting to help us get back on track.
I told everyone that I signed up for the race. Everyday conversations invariably turned to questions about how my training was coming along. Four of my friends made plans to be in Las Vegas to cheer me on at the race. This campaign was a way to keep my eye on the goal and at the same time presented an opportunity for accountability. People I knew and loved were spending money to see me finish this race (among other things) and there was no way I was going to let them down!
The beginning of the race was breathtaking and the middle of the race was exhausting. But the end of the race was exhilarating. I saw my friends at the finish line frantically cheering me toward the end. I was wishing that my feet had fallen off around mile 8. My right hip and right knee were in agony. I missed my finish time goal by 50 minutes. I didn’t care about any of that. I was so happy to see those familiar faces and the excitement they contained.
My knee still hurts over a week later so I have scheduled two weeks of no running. It would be incredibly easy for me to settle back in to a routine of sleeping past 4AM like normal people do, sitting on the couch and watching TV. The thought of that is both wonderful and frightening all at the same time! So two days ago, I signed up for another half marathon in May of 2011.
My friend and I joined the same gym and continued to work out together. We pushed each other well beyond the point that we would have dared go by ourselves. We found that by doing this together we could accomplish more than we could alone. We set a few small milestone goals for ourselves in the beginning; run a 5k and then run a 10k. After running at least a dozen 5ks and a 10k we began to wonder what the next goal would be. We decided to set a big goal that, at the time, seemed simply impossible: we were going to run a half marathon. We signed up for the Rock n Roll Half Marathon in Las Vegas.
The goal was daunting but we continued to encourage each other. There were plenty of mornings that 4:30 came entirely too early and I just wanted to turn off the alarm and go back to bed. But then I would think of my friend, waiting in the dark on her porch for me to pick her up and I would reluctantly drag myself out of bed. Throughout the 7 months we trained there were plenty of times that “life” happened: illness, work, travel, family…you name it. But each time that happened, we knew the other would be waiting to help us get back on track.
I told everyone that I signed up for the race. Everyday conversations invariably turned to questions about how my training was coming along. Four of my friends made plans to be in Las Vegas to cheer me on at the race. This campaign was a way to keep my eye on the goal and at the same time presented an opportunity for accountability. People I knew and loved were spending money to see me finish this race (among other things) and there was no way I was going to let them down!
The beginning of the race was breathtaking and the middle of the race was exhausting. But the end of the race was exhilarating. I saw my friends at the finish line frantically cheering me toward the end. I was wishing that my feet had fallen off around mile 8. My right hip and right knee were in agony. I missed my finish time goal by 50 minutes. I didn’t care about any of that. I was so happy to see those familiar faces and the excitement they contained.
My knee still hurts over a week later so I have scheduled two weeks of no running. It would be incredibly easy for me to settle back in to a routine of sleeping past 4AM like normal people do, sitting on the couch and watching TV. The thought of that is both wonderful and frightening all at the same time! So two days ago, I signed up for another half marathon in May of 2011.
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