Last night as Jack and I were doing the after dinner dog walk, a neighbor stopped me. She was so happy to see me, she said. She'd be thinking about me and what I did. She wanted to tell me that she thought I was courageous and brave, generous and selfless. And that she'd be planning to write me a note but it meant so much more that she got to tell me in person.
She had tears in her eyes. By the end of her tribute so did I. She then turned to Jack and asked him if he knew how amazing I was. He muttered a half-hearted yes. There are few things that irritate him more than when I stop and chat, which happens fairly often.
For 5 minutes or so I basked in her admiration. But that glow soon floated away like a bubble.
I don't feel like that person.
Right now I feel like my thighs have never been fatter. I can feel the skin sagging under my chin. I know there are muscles in my upper arms but they're engulfed in jiggles.
Even my feet are starting to look old.
I can't wear pants. I can't seem to wear any of my vintage anymore. I'm living in shapeless black sundresses which, for those of you who know me in the real world, goes against my entire fashion sense.
My entire family is in Vermont right now for a bar mitzvah and I'm not. I didn't think I was up to the 7 plus hour car ride. I wasn't sure I could handle all that goes along with flying - the trek through airports, dealing with luggage, various cars. And right now I am so disappointed in myself. I can usually push through anything. I have fierce willpower and drive. I've done what many would think impossible, or at least crazy.
And now I'm flat on my fat butt wallowing in timid.
It is stunningly beautiful out and I'm afraid to do too much. Everyone's looking to me to make plans and I can't. I'm the loser with a holiday weekend and nothing to do.
Everyone I know is doing something different. Weekend houses. Beach. Travel. Classes.
My days are nothing but feeling guilty about not entertaining the kids better, at needing to sleep, at getting increasing disappointed in myself for the limitations I still have.
I can't control my body at the moment and it's making me crazy. I feel like a failure. I can't hold onto the reason I'm here and all the good that I did. I feel like that woman was talking about someone else.
It's not even 8am and I'm dreading this day. This long weekend. The week ahead with 2 kids and no plans.
I wish I could think of myself as the admirable, inspiring person other people see me as.
But right now I can only see the opposite. And it's not pretty.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
coming back home
Yesterday I saw my super cool surgeon for my second post-surgery check up. Armed with questions, he cleared me for tattoos, bike riding (as long as it's not uphill), colonics (he also said colonoscopies are fine, not that that's on my to-do list), vitamins, driving, and yoga.
Yup. Yoga.
And so, I went to my first class.
My practice pants were slightly tight. The 2 weeks of carbo loading is starting to catch up. I slowly walked to the studio in sweltering heat, conscious of conserving energy I'd need. I even took the elevator that regularly breaks down as the stairs would have been too much.
My teacher did a double take when she saw me and then just beamed. Part of me that had been frozen for the past 3 weeks started to melt a bit as I unfurled my carnation pink mat in the back row.
I sat. And it was not comfortable. My back ached before chanting even started. I was acutely aware at how much trauma my body had suffered and the toll it had taken as discomfort bordering on pain radiated down from my shoulder blades.
But as I took a deep breath and a collective OM filled the studio, tears slid down my checks.
I couldn't stop smiling. And silently crying. Since surgery this part of my life that's grown to mean so much went missing. I couldn't find it myself. The calm and peace I'd found through the practice had disappeared.
Only it hadn't. It was more that I'd forgotten how to find it.
We started to move. My body was home. I know these poses so well I slid easily into the practice. Up to a certain point. Turns out there's much I can't do. Basic basics are beyond me at the moment. Holding a plank pose caused abdominal aches deep inside. Being flat on my belly was far too uncomfortable. Anything arching my back felt wrong. Side plank? I was acutely aware of how my strength had been compromised. And so, I compromised. I did what I could and let myself be fine with that.
There were moments I forgot my body wasn't fine. My hands still easily reached the floor. Warrior poses and triangle (my favorite) felt right. My balance was spot on.
At a certain point, as deep twisting began and my middle blatantly refused to go there, I quietly rolled up my mat and left the class. Turns out I'd made it 3/4 of the way through, lasting far longer than I'd ever imagined I would.
As I slowly, slowly walked home I let amazement and gratitude take over.
Three weeks and one day post-op I was back in the flow. Modified, but delicious nonetheless.
Yet again, my body blows me away.
Yup. Yoga.
And so, I went to my first class.
My practice pants were slightly tight. The 2 weeks of carbo loading is starting to catch up. I slowly walked to the studio in sweltering heat, conscious of conserving energy I'd need. I even took the elevator that regularly breaks down as the stairs would have been too much.
My teacher did a double take when she saw me and then just beamed. Part of me that had been frozen for the past 3 weeks started to melt a bit as I unfurled my carnation pink mat in the back row.
I sat. And it was not comfortable. My back ached before chanting even started. I was acutely aware at how much trauma my body had suffered and the toll it had taken as discomfort bordering on pain radiated down from my shoulder blades.
But as I took a deep breath and a collective OM filled the studio, tears slid down my checks.
I couldn't stop smiling. And silently crying. Since surgery this part of my life that's grown to mean so much went missing. I couldn't find it myself. The calm and peace I'd found through the practice had disappeared.
Only it hadn't. It was more that I'd forgotten how to find it.
We started to move. My body was home. I know these poses so well I slid easily into the practice. Up to a certain point. Turns out there's much I can't do. Basic basics are beyond me at the moment. Holding a plank pose caused abdominal aches deep inside. Being flat on my belly was far too uncomfortable. Anything arching my back felt wrong. Side plank? I was acutely aware of how my strength had been compromised. And so, I compromised. I did what I could and let myself be fine with that.
There were moments I forgot my body wasn't fine. My hands still easily reached the floor. Warrior poses and triangle (my favorite) felt right. My balance was spot on.
At a certain point, as deep twisting began and my middle blatantly refused to go there, I quietly rolled up my mat and left the class. Turns out I'd made it 3/4 of the way through, lasting far longer than I'd ever imagined I would.
As I slowly, slowly walked home I let amazement and gratitude take over.
Three weeks and one day post-op I was back in the flow. Modified, but delicious nonetheless.
Yet again, my body blows me away.
Monday, June 27, 2011
21 days post op
This morning I was out of the house at 7:30 to help run a middle school orientation for new families. I spent the next 3.5 plus hours organizing, chatting, schmoozing, answering, intervening, re-directing, reassuring, and placating.
I was on. Seriously on.
Twice I had to sit on the floor in the corner of the stifling cafeteria the meeting was held in. Once I slowly made my way to the principal's office and sat quietly on a bench for 10 minutes, not able to hold my head up anymore. But, I rallied and headed back into the fray.
Three weeks post surgery.
Many at Iz's school knew about the transplant but it turned out not everyone realized it had happened. The incredulous looks on faces as I reassured them that yes, it was over and I was already healing were priceless. The amazement and enthusiasm and support of all those in the know blew me away.
At one point I walked, slowly, to the supermarket around the corner to pick up last minutes things we needed. And it hit me.
I only have one kidney.
Yup.
I. Have. One. Kidney.
And that is fine. Perfectly fine. Totally fine.
Every day I feel more and more like myself. And myself is an energetic, capable, driven. Enthusiastic. Motivated. Healthy.
Fine.
Three weeks post surgery.
This too is a miracle. To be down an organ and feel glimmers of my strengths washing back over me. These 4 incisions on my body that will always remind me that I was opened up and rearranged and that my missing kidney radically changed someone's life. And that I was brave enough to make the decision to donate and never waver or look back.
I was on. Seriously on.
Twice I had to sit on the floor in the corner of the stifling cafeteria the meeting was held in. Once I slowly made my way to the principal's office and sat quietly on a bench for 10 minutes, not able to hold my head up anymore. But, I rallied and headed back into the fray.
Three weeks post surgery.
Many at Iz's school knew about the transplant but it turned out not everyone realized it had happened. The incredulous looks on faces as I reassured them that yes, it was over and I was already healing were priceless. The amazement and enthusiasm and support of all those in the know blew me away.
At one point I walked, slowly, to the supermarket around the corner to pick up last minutes things we needed. And it hit me.
I only have one kidney.
Yup.
I. Have. One. Kidney.
And that is fine. Perfectly fine. Totally fine.
Every day I feel more and more like myself. And myself is an energetic, capable, driven. Enthusiastic. Motivated. Healthy.
Fine.
Three weeks post surgery.
This too is a miracle. To be down an organ and feel glimmers of my strengths washing back over me. These 4 incisions on my body that will always remind me that I was opened up and rearranged and that my missing kidney radically changed someone's life. And that I was brave enough to make the decision to donate and never waver or look back.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
not worth fighting for
Last night, as I was out walking the dogs, a woman approached me on the street. She looked vaguely familiar, I think she lives in my building. I smiled hello and she said: I heard about what you did. What a wonderful thing. Your brother is very lucky. And then she walked away.
Over the past 6 months, I've been fascinated at how people have reacted to this kidney journey. People I barely know how come out of the shadows, treating me almost reverently for doing this. People I know well have been acting differently, as if I've morphed into a deeper, more thoughtful person than I was before.
These reactions aren't about me, they're about what I've done. Donating a kidney is just about the most selfless thing someone can do. As my brother said when as I was dropping him off at the hospital, most people stare down surgery for their own reasons but how many choose to do it entirely for someone else?
Kidney donors do.
I'm touched and grateful for this outpouring of support. As I (slowly) recover and find my center again, the karma that's bouncing back at me is easing the way.
On the other hand there are many in my life who have yet to say a word, glancing away as I walk by, choosing not to acknowledge that I'm even there. Some are people I don't know well. Others I consider among my close friends. Perhaps such an altruistic act makes them uncomfortable. Maybe they don't know what to say, how to act. Who knows.
Its hard not to let myself fall into a dark place when confronting the obvious disinterest of those I thought I could count on.
And then, there's family.
I had a falling out with my father soon after my brother asked me to be tested. There was a day of escalating emails, of accusations and anger, fingers pointed and insults hurled that ended with his wife calling me a self-involved loser, a crazy fucking bitch and my father asking that I never be in touch with them again.
We haven't spoken since.
We went through this entire process without him.
Knowing how deeply his wife has always resented me, it's not a surprise. But still.
I was lying in bed at 4am and it hit me, that to him I'm not worth fighting for. Having a relationship with me causes a huge rift in his marriage and it's turned out, after all these years, to be easier to cut me off rather than fight for me. Even when two of your children are grappling with illness, uncertainty, endless testing and frustration and fear, she wins.
But, as I'm writing this I'm realizing it's not about me. Not me personally.
It's him. It's her. Their stuff, not mine. All I can do is be myself and that isn't going to work for everyone.
Years ago someone once told me (and she meant it as an insult) I should be a cruise director, as that would address my obsessive need to be liked. Perhaps one of my lessons in all this is to let go of that too.
Living by how others judge me only leads to self-doubt and insecurity. What I need to work on is owning who I am.
And who I am just did a remarkable, brave, life-changing thing.
Over the past 6 months, I've been fascinated at how people have reacted to this kidney journey. People I barely know how come out of the shadows, treating me almost reverently for doing this. People I know well have been acting differently, as if I've morphed into a deeper, more thoughtful person than I was before.
These reactions aren't about me, they're about what I've done. Donating a kidney is just about the most selfless thing someone can do. As my brother said when as I was dropping him off at the hospital, most people stare down surgery for their own reasons but how many choose to do it entirely for someone else?
Kidney donors do.
I'm touched and grateful for this outpouring of support. As I (slowly) recover and find my center again, the karma that's bouncing back at me is easing the way.
On the other hand there are many in my life who have yet to say a word, glancing away as I walk by, choosing not to acknowledge that I'm even there. Some are people I don't know well. Others I consider among my close friends. Perhaps such an altruistic act makes them uncomfortable. Maybe they don't know what to say, how to act. Who knows.
Its hard not to let myself fall into a dark place when confronting the obvious disinterest of those I thought I could count on.
And then, there's family.
I had a falling out with my father soon after my brother asked me to be tested. There was a day of escalating emails, of accusations and anger, fingers pointed and insults hurled that ended with his wife calling me a self-involved loser, a crazy fucking bitch and my father asking that I never be in touch with them again.
We haven't spoken since.
We went through this entire process without him.
Knowing how deeply his wife has always resented me, it's not a surprise. But still.
I was lying in bed at 4am and it hit me, that to him I'm not worth fighting for. Having a relationship with me causes a huge rift in his marriage and it's turned out, after all these years, to be easier to cut me off rather than fight for me. Even when two of your children are grappling with illness, uncertainty, endless testing and frustration and fear, she wins.
But, as I'm writing this I'm realizing it's not about me. Not me personally.
It's him. It's her. Their stuff, not mine. All I can do is be myself and that isn't going to work for everyone.
Years ago someone once told me (and she meant it as an insult) I should be a cruise director, as that would address my obsessive need to be liked. Perhaps one of my lessons in all this is to let go of that too.
Living by how others judge me only leads to self-doubt and insecurity. What I need to work on is owning who I am.
And who I am just did a remarkable, brave, life-changing thing.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
3 weeks ago
This morning, after popping in to the Old Navy Tankathon that's been heavily advertised on facebook for days (if you're reading this in real time, don't bother - only XL steel grey tanks were left), I headed to my yoga studio.
Not to practice, more to see how I felt there.
3 weeks ago today I was bathed in sweat, smack in the middle of an hour 45 minute yoga class of nothing but Led Zeppelin. The playlist was a gift to me from one of my favorite teachers. I'd taken a class the night before and that was after a 10 mile bike ride. I'm not normally that exercised crazed, but while staring down surgery and recovery, I guess I wanted to fit in as much as I could.
Today I took the elevator to the studio instead of climbing the stairs.
I lasted less than 10 minutes sitting on the floor.
I slowly, slowly, slowly walked home, slightly light-headed as I navigated the heavy Saturday traffic on 6th Avenue.
But, I had made it through the door.
Hey, just the fact that I thought of stopping by was a huge leap from where I've been.
Up until now I hadn't even thought of yoga, of moving, of being back to where I was. I've been so consumed with the here and now, not in a particularly good way, that I lost track about what was. And what will be.
My life was uprooted, my center shifted, my equilibrium thrown off course. Things I took for granted are impossible at the moment.
There's still much healing to be done. Both by my body and my mind.
There's also much to let go of. The anticipation. The roller coaster. The fears and doubts. So much was stored up inside, whether I was aware of it or not. This experience shook me. Hard.
Today though, my center made a surprise appearance. As I sat in the pink and orange room, leaning against the sun-drenched wall, staring up at the painting of Ganesh I love so much, my heart filled. My soul eased.
And I knew I'd be back.
Not to practice, more to see how I felt there.
3 weeks ago today I was bathed in sweat, smack in the middle of an hour 45 minute yoga class of nothing but Led Zeppelin. The playlist was a gift to me from one of my favorite teachers. I'd taken a class the night before and that was after a 10 mile bike ride. I'm not normally that exercised crazed, but while staring down surgery and recovery, I guess I wanted to fit in as much as I could.
Today I took the elevator to the studio instead of climbing the stairs.
I lasted less than 10 minutes sitting on the floor.
I slowly, slowly, slowly walked home, slightly light-headed as I navigated the heavy Saturday traffic on 6th Avenue.
But, I had made it through the door.
Hey, just the fact that I thought of stopping by was a huge leap from where I've been.
Up until now I hadn't even thought of yoga, of moving, of being back to where I was. I've been so consumed with the here and now, not in a particularly good way, that I lost track about what was. And what will be.
My life was uprooted, my center shifted, my equilibrium thrown off course. Things I took for granted are impossible at the moment.
There's still much healing to be done. Both by my body and my mind.
There's also much to let go of. The anticipation. The roller coaster. The fears and doubts. So much was stored up inside, whether I was aware of it or not. This experience shook me. Hard.
Today though, my center made a surprise appearance. As I sat in the pink and orange room, leaning against the sun-drenched wall, staring up at the painting of Ganesh I love so much, my heart filled. My soul eased.
And I knew I'd be back.
Friday, June 24, 2011
changing expectations
For 6 or so months, my life was filled with expectation. No matter how hard I fought them, no matter how much I tried to stay in the moment, no matter how grounded I tried to be, it was impossible not to feel what loomed in the future.
Through it all, in spite of the anxiety and panic and frustration bordering on anger at times, I was fine. Very often emotional toast but, for the most part, physically fine.
On the other side of this, I'm not so fine. At least not yet. I'm getting more fine by the day, but I'm in an entirely different place. My body has gone through just about its biggest smack down ever. Even though I gave birth twice, drugs weren't such an issue. And what left me was supposed to. This time I gave up an integral part of my basic biology. There's healing to be done. Incisions to mend. Shock to overcome. Gas to pass. New pathways to be created at fundamental levels.
Partnered with these physical challenges is the death of expectation. It's over. We're done. One of my kidneys has a new home. There's no more waiting and planning and hoping and praying for all to work out.
It worked out.
But all that energy still needs to disperse, to dissolve, to get re-directed, re-absorbed, re-focused. Only I'm not up to the task.
Again, yet.
I'm beginning to think though, that the past 6 months is going to be my new project. To have lived through this truly life-changing experience is something most people never get to do. And this story has so many more sides than just mine that deserve to be told. A transplant takes two just to start with. And from there, there are so many who played integral parts.
Once the title comes, I think I'll be ready to start.
Through it all, in spite of the anxiety and panic and frustration bordering on anger at times, I was fine. Very often emotional toast but, for the most part, physically fine.
On the other side of this, I'm not so fine. At least not yet. I'm getting more fine by the day, but I'm in an entirely different place. My body has gone through just about its biggest smack down ever. Even though I gave birth twice, drugs weren't such an issue. And what left me was supposed to. This time I gave up an integral part of my basic biology. There's healing to be done. Incisions to mend. Shock to overcome. Gas to pass. New pathways to be created at fundamental levels.
Partnered with these physical challenges is the death of expectation. It's over. We're done. One of my kidneys has a new home. There's no more waiting and planning and hoping and praying for all to work out.
It worked out.
But all that energy still needs to disperse, to dissolve, to get re-directed, re-absorbed, re-focused. Only I'm not up to the task.
Again, yet.
I'm beginning to think though, that the past 6 months is going to be my new project. To have lived through this truly life-changing experience is something most people never get to do. And this story has so many more sides than just mine that deserve to be told. A transplant takes two just to start with. And from there, there are so many who played integral parts.
Once the title comes, I think I'll be ready to start.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
no, I'm not a machine
Years (and years and years) ago, I broke my finger in a step class at my upper east side gym. The room was jam-packed with frenetic, cardio-obsessed women. The teacher was more a drill sergeant than an aerobics instructor. 20 minutes into class I kicked my middle finger doing a repeater step and knew that something cracked. Pain washed over me. My finger swelled, throbbed, turned purple. But, I finished the class. The next day, my middle finger wrapped tightly in a splint, I was back at the gym. I modified by riding an exercise bike, but I wasn't backing down from my usual schedule. There was no way a fracture was interfering with my work out.
I can be really hard core.
It comes from my anorexic past. My body became something to be mastered, controlled. It bent to my will, no matter how insane or unhealthy or ridiculous my will was.
I'm realizing, this frustration at not being Wonder Woman stems from that very self-destructive place.
I'd thought I'd left that part of me firmly in my past. And for the most part I have. But, in extreme situations, it comes flooding back. Not the need to exercise until I can't walk. Not the starvation (I'm eating a vegan cookies and cream cupcake as I write this), not even the feeling fat part. But the profound disappointment in myself at not being able to control everything I want to is back front and center.
What's such a shame, what's pathetic really, is that it's keeping me from truly celebrating this amazing thing I've done. And I've done an amazing thing. Yesterday, as I felt more like myself than I have since before the surgery, I thought about writing out a total gold star post. Because, deep down, I'm so proud of myself. Or at least I must be. I haven't gotten to appreciation yet. I'm trapped in this darker place.
I've lost my center. I've lost the peace and calm and ease I had finally found after these last few tumultuous months. Today, at accupuncture, the first positive thing I've done for myself (besides nap), in a long time, Patsy looked me squared in the eye and said: you're not a machine. She stressed I can't expect to have gone through the major, big deal surgery I had and expect all to quickly go back to normal. Not only does my body have to heal from being cut open and hard core drugs, it has to create new pathways, learning to live one organ down.
That takes time.
Patience.
Empathy and understanding.
None of those are easy for me when it comes to me. In fact, all the above go against who I've been for most of my adult life. But, before surgery there were glimmers of acceptance and letting go.
Sigh.
I can't see that from here. But I'm hoping I'll find there again.
I can be really hard core.
It comes from my anorexic past. My body became something to be mastered, controlled. It bent to my will, no matter how insane or unhealthy or ridiculous my will was.
I'm realizing, this frustration at not being Wonder Woman stems from that very self-destructive place.
I'd thought I'd left that part of me firmly in my past. And for the most part I have. But, in extreme situations, it comes flooding back. Not the need to exercise until I can't walk. Not the starvation (I'm eating a vegan cookies and cream cupcake as I write this), not even the feeling fat part. But the profound disappointment in myself at not being able to control everything I want to is back front and center.
What's such a shame, what's pathetic really, is that it's keeping me from truly celebrating this amazing thing I've done. And I've done an amazing thing. Yesterday, as I felt more like myself than I have since before the surgery, I thought about writing out a total gold star post. Because, deep down, I'm so proud of myself. Or at least I must be. I haven't gotten to appreciation yet. I'm trapped in this darker place.
I've lost my center. I've lost the peace and calm and ease I had finally found after these last few tumultuous months. Today, at accupuncture, the first positive thing I've done for myself (besides nap), in a long time, Patsy looked me squared in the eye and said: you're not a machine. She stressed I can't expect to have gone through the major, big deal surgery I had and expect all to quickly go back to normal. Not only does my body have to heal from being cut open and hard core drugs, it has to create new pathways, learning to live one organ down.
That takes time.
Patience.
Empathy and understanding.
None of those are easy for me when it comes to me. In fact, all the above go against who I've been for most of my adult life. But, before surgery there were glimmers of acceptance and letting go.
Sigh.
I can't see that from here. But I'm hoping I'll find there again.
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