Seeking a Sign

Throughout my life, I’ve had phases of playing with and contemplating the unseen forces of this world – God, if you will. Or hell, call it Life, Great Mystery, the Universe, Spirit, the Divine, Consciousness, the Higher Self, or – as my siblings and I, with our warped senses of humor, call it: Dog. (This stems from the age-old joke about the agnostic dyslexic insomniac who stays up all night wondering if there’s a dog. Buh-dum-bum.)

I’ve wrestled with the question of fate vs. freewill since my 20s and now, in my 50s, I’m still attempting to understand their interplay. But I keep seeking answers. Intermittently.

I’m currently in another phase of diving deeply into the Unknown as I write this, regularly listening to various podcasts and online talks on the subject of consciousness, intention, dharma, and the role we, as individuals, can play in co-creating – or at least influencing – our reality. This latest spiritual exploration was likely triggered by the need to rebuild my life around my mobility challenges and restrictions.

Clearly, my corporate days are long gone. A high-pressure office environment filled with type-As and long hours would put me in a wheelchair in no time, if not flat out kill me. And my days of traveling extensively to give back-to-back speeches as an advocate are gone as well. Travel is now maybe a twice a year thing until further notice because it’s just too damn hard on my body at this stage in my (fingers crossed) recovery.

One of the author/lecturers whose work I’ve been listening to lately suggests that during your meditation practice each morning, you ask Higher Intelligence (as he likes to call it, whatever “it” is) for a sign that both “surprises and delights” you. You can ask for the sign in whatever area of your life needs clarity: your health, finances, career – whatever!

So this morning, I asked Higher Intelligence/God/Dog to show me a sign today regarding a book manuscript I’ve been working on, the subject matter of which is similar to this blog: joint replacements, mobility challenges, and all of the ancillary themes that come into play when you’re dealing with this sort of medical adventure. My writing had stalled over the past month, which led me to second guessing whether or not this project would even have an audience. So I put my request for a sign out to the Great Whatever and left for my walk with the dog.

Typically, I drive the three minutes to the trail RuPaul and I like to walk along, where he is then free to run off-leash and splash in the pond at the beginning of the two-mile loop. But this morning my husband had the car, so RuPaul and I walked a mile along surface streets before we arrived at the trailhead. It was only 8 a.m., but the temperatures here in Boulder have been wickedly hot this week.

Ru and I began our slow trek around the loop, passing a man who appeared to be 5 – 10 years my senior and was hobbling along with two hiking poles. Seeing him made me remember how much I had relied on hiking poles as I was both losing my mobility years ago and regaining it after my first three joint replacements. It made me grateful that I no longer needed to use poles, so long as the trail I was on was relatively flat (which this one is). I said hello to the man before passing him and continuing on my way.

About a third of a mile into the two-mile loop, I felt faint, my legs quaking a bit and my head feeling dizzy. Remarkably (because I’m usually a stubborn old mule when it comes to overriding the signals my body sends me), I did the smart thing and turned around, walking Ru back to the pond area where I sat on a bench in the shade to rest and he went in the water to cool off.

Minutes later, the older gentleman with the hiking poles joined me. He, too, had had to turn back on this particularly hot morning. He asked if he could share the bench to rest, and his dog, Lily, a young and vivacious white lab, joined RuPaul in the water.

The man wore a UCLA cap, so I asked if he’d gone to school there, as UCLA is my grad school alma mater. Yes, he had. I asked what program. Med school.

A conversation ensued, during which he mentioned his joint replacements. I mentioned mine. We laughed when we discovered we each had four new joints. Unlike me, however, he needed three revision surgeries on one of his hip replacements because it had gotten infected. Clearly, it still bothered him quite a bit.

He was curious about my ankle replacement, so not only did I find myself pulling off a sock for this stranger so he could admire my scar, but also whipping out my iPhone to show him the photos I’d had a surgical nurse take for me in the operating room while the front of my foot and ankle area was splayed open with retractors. Gory, to say the least. Fascinating…but gory.

At some point the man said to me, “You know, you ought to write a book. You seem to have a great attitude about your joint replacements and you obviously know a lot about the recovery process.”

“Interesting that you should say that,” I replied, “because I actually have a manuscript underway.”

“Really? That’s terrific. But I want to tell you something: make sure it’s mostly stories rather than some scientific or technical book. The personal stories are what people like me need.”

Funny, but that was actually one of the questions I’d been wrestling with as my writing momentum subsided the past few weeks. Did anyone really want to read stories about another person’s experiences with joint replacements? Or did they just want the tips and tricks for surviving the process that I had been listing at the conclusion of each chapter? Here, it seemed, was my answer. From a doc, no less!

“Let me ask you something,” he said, his tone a bit conspiratorial. “You ever feel suicidal during this whole process?”

“Suicidal? Not quite. But wishing I were dead? Absolutely,” I said. “But it never got so bad that I was actually plotting how I might check out.” He shook his head in understanding, seemingly vindicated.

“At times,” I continued, “my sense of despair was overwhelming, despite having a great husband and a kid I adore. Usually it happened when I was overcome with physical pain and a sense of hopelessness. Throw in a bunch of meds that mess with your brain chemistry and, yeah, I definitely felt like death wouldn’t be such a bad thing at times.”

“Totally get it,” he said, seemingly gratified that I, too, had inhabited the same dark place he was still grappling with. “I mentioned that I was feeling a bit suicidal to my sisters a while back,” he added. “They couldn’t handle it. They sort of freaked out. In a weird way, it’s nice to hear that someone else who’s been through as many joint replacements as I have also dealt with hopelessness and depression.” (I made a mental note to include a chapter about despair in my book manuscript.)

The air temperatures were rising, so we both made a move to leave. He asked for my email address in case he had other questions or needed the ear of someone who understood what he was going through. I gladly gave it to him, and I suspect I’ll run into him on the trail again as well. We said our farewells and parted ways, RuPaul trailing behind me, Lily following him with her tennis ball in her mouth. Despite the sweltering heat during my walk home, I was buoyed by the simple, yet meaningful, human interaction I’d just shared with a stranger who’s on a similar path to mine.

And that’s when it hit me: he was my sign!

I had never before taken the time to sit on that bench by the pond, preferring instead to keep moving along the trail lest my new ankle stiffen up or my other ankle that’s awaiting replacement lock up. But this morning I did just that: sat on the bench by the pond for the first time and relaxed.

I hadn’t mentioned my manuscript to him. He simply kept asking questions about my health circumstances and I kept answering them. He hadn’t come across as pandering or making idle conversation; he seemed genuinely interested in my perspective. He also struck me as a fellow mobility warrior in need of a bit of encouragement – precisely the type of person for whom I intended my manuscript.

During our conversation, he had admitted that he was a bit despondent over all of his health challenges, but he was eager to have a shift in perspective. I remember all too well that same feeling, the desperation of wanting – no, needing – to find others who’d walked the road of multiple joint replacements before me, if for no other reason than to gain a bit of hope.

Sometimes, simply meeting someone who truly understands what you’re going through because they’ve been there themselves can make all the difference in giving life – and your recovery process – your best effort for one more day, one more physical therapy session, one more walk with the dog.

One day at a time.

That’s all any of us can do.

I’m a Freak About Hospitals

It only takes one long-term stay in the intensive care unit to turn a person into a bit of a basket case when it comes to hospitals. I’m 19 years past my six-week stay in the ICU and still have to pop a valium just to walk through the hospital doors on the morning of each of my surgeries – 9 since my ICU stint: 8 orthopedic and 1 for breast cancer, which, weirdly enough, turned out to be the easiest of the medical challenges I’ve dealt with during the past decade.

A few years after my near-fatal illness with my first and last pregnancy, I came upon research that revealed the strong likelihood of having PTSD – posttraumatic stress disorder – if one survived HELLP Syndrome, which I had. I remember balking at the notion that I had some underlying pent up trauma in my system waiting to pounce. Nonsense! I’m fine! was my typical response whenever the topic came up in various discussions regarding preeclampsia, eclampsia and HELLP Syndrome. Optimism has always been a strength of mine, but it has also been a curse that leads to denial and lack of attention to particular issues.

Eventually, however, a few clues made their way into my psyche, the most memorable one happening seven years after that fateful pregnancy-related clusterfuck. Namely, I visited a new doctor and required a blood draw. Despite having informed the receptionist that I was a “tough stick” since surviving D.I.C. and would need their most experienced nurse to draw my blood, they set me up with a woman barely out of high school who had been on the job for all of three days. Not wanting to be perceived as a problem patient, I didn’t protest. That is, until she’d stuck me no less than five times without any success and I burst into tears. Oh, but not just tears. Despite my tendency toward stoicism, I also erupted in an uncontrollable, loud, and messy tirade about medical professionals never listening to patients, poking and prodding them without regard to what they’re going through, not listening, poking, hurting, prodding, hurting more, ignoring, not listening. I even stunned myself as the words were streaming from my mouth, surprised at the ferocity of my outburst.

Well, honey, let me tell you, I’m pretty sure every unsuspecting patient in the waiting area was listening because they couldn’t help but hear me. I only calmed down when the nurse with actual experience moved in and drew my blood with efficiency. I walked out with tears still wet on my face and, once in my car, I proceeded to cry and pound the steering wheel and talk to myself like a madman for another half an hour before I was able to drive myself back home. PTSD? You bet!

So if a simple blood draw could send me into shockwaves like those, imagine how hard it was for me to calmly walk into a hospital for what would involve IV needles, let alone being cut open. Funny thing is, once the IV is in place, I’m fine. The surgeries themselves don’t scare me because I’m under anesthesia. Hell, I don’t even care if the folks in the operating room want to make my inert body dance the Hokey Pokey once I’m under. In fact, I’ve dared them to do so and film it on my iPhone for me. (To date, none have taken me up on my challenge.)

I had never experienced Valium, or any sort of muscle relaxant, until I was getting some dental work done in my early 40s and was a bit squeamish about the removal of my old dental fillings. My dentist prescribed two doses worth of the medication for me and my nerves were as calm as a gentle spring breeze when I walked into his office for the treatment. So when my joints started to fail me and the orthopedic surgeries began, I decided to ask about popping a Valium the morning of each surgery, again, not so much to quell surgery fears as to quell needle fears. (Although no food or liquids is permitted the morning of surgery, you’ll get a pass for a small sip of water to down any necessary medications.) It worked like a charm and I’m certain the hospital personnel found me to be a much more compliant and pleasant patient than I would have been without a little prescription help. This has now become part of my pre-surgical protocol. Surgery alone is anxiety-inducing enough, and if you’ve got some prior hospital experience or other fears that tend to fuel your apprehension, why not take steps to assuage it, right?

There are plenty of other things I do to calm my nerves for the hospital pre-op procedures. I always take my Bose headphones and an eye mask with me. Sitting in the waiting room, I put on calming guided meditations or simple wave sounds and meditate until I’m taken back to the pre-op area to get started.

Even there, I will keep my eyes covered and my ears tuned to the music or meditation, not on what the nurses and docs are saying as they take my blood pressure, get the IV going, and have me sign what feels like the amount of paperwork one would need to take out a mortgage. I always tell the nurse overseeing my pre-op procedures to tap my arm if she needs me to remove my headphones and pay attention to her. They likely enjoy having a quiet meditative patient to better focus on their prep work, so my headphones and iPhone, it seems, provide a bonus to everyone involved.

Now let’s discuss warm blankets. I love them. And hospitals have them. If offered one, I suggest taking it. Some hospitals even have these gizmos that are like reverse vacuum cleaners that pump warm air into a thin mattress-like paper blanket, which stays warm as long as the machine is running. Score! To me, warm blankets are a must. You’ve seen how thin those lovely hospital gowns are, right? Nothing like a backside built-in air conditioner, not to mention loss of dignity involved in wearing one. Also, ever notice how chilled you get when the IV starts pumping fluids into your system? For me though, beyond the obvious physical heat warm blankets provide, they also feel like a nurturing hug to me.

My love of (ok, obsession with) warm hospital blankets likely stems from my interactions with one of the ICU nurses I encountered back in 2000. Although I was a tad crazy at the time – in polite circles this is known as “ICU Psychosis” – Susan reminded me of a nurturing mother who always knew the right thing to say or do to calm me. Beyond her demeanor, Susan also had the habit of bringing me fresh warm blankets at the start of her shift and the end of her shift, her version of hello and good-bye. In the weeks of hallucinations and indescribable pain I experienced, Susan was like a bright light shining amidst the storm of my ICU experience. On the night before I was discharged from the hospital, I made her promise to stop by and see me at the end of her shift with a different patient. I then fell asleep and, not wanting to disturb me given how difficult it was for me to rest while in the ICU, Susan came to say farewell but left without speaking to me. When I awoke a half hour after her shift had ended, I discovered four warm blankets all tucked around my body, complements of Susan. It felt like her way of saying, “You’re safe. All will be well. I love you. Goodbye and good luck.”

As someone who chooses the surgeon over the hospital or the medical practice, I’ve now been a patient at three different hospitals for my various joint replacement surgeries, for a total of eight different hospitals for my various overnight stays. One of them, OrthoColorado, which is in Colorado, duh, took the prize for best check-in and pre-op experience.

Owned by a large orthopedic practice in Golden, OrthoColorado has perfected the check-in experience, starting with the ski lodge-esque lobby boasting a large fireplace and an abundance of gorgeous fresh-cut flowers that I would later learn are actually damn good fakes. There are no mauve walls dripping with bad art. The look is as tasteful as it is calming. This well-thought-out physical environment immediately put me at ease about the surgery that would take place an hour later. (But let’s be honest: Valium was also helping considerably.)

The check-in process was more like sitting with the concierge at a fine hotel to plan activities during my stay. There was no leaning against an ugly institutional counter while a bored person behind a computer asked for my ID without so much as pretending to look up at me. I was led to a private area and invited to sit in a comfy leather chair while running through the requisite paperwork and process. At the conclusion of checking in, I was given a special code that would appear on the large screen in the lobby with any news about my progress throughout my stay, keeping my equally antsy husband in the loop. While I was back in the pre-op area, it would list me as such. Same with my move into the operating room and then to the post-op area before moving to an overnight room. Keeping the loved ones of patients informed is a huge relief for them, while also limiting the number of nervous people interrupting the staff for updates. Win-win!

The piece de resistance came, however, once back in the pre-op area. Yeah, that place where someone was going to stick me with a big fat needle to get my IV fluids started. Before I could launch into my “I’m a really tough stick and I need someone with tons of experience inserting my IV” schtick, I was asked by the nurse if I’d like a foot rub.

A foot rub? Are you serious? Why yes! I’d freaking love a foot rub!

So in came the massage therapist, I kid you not, who gently rubbed my feet and carried on a conversation with me, while that sneaky nurse managed to insert my IV needle without incident. Color me impressed. Since I had earlier shared my fear of needles with the “concierge,” the folks in the pre-op area already knew to set me up with a lidocaine shot to numb the area (much tinier needle) prior to inserting my IV and to have their most experienced nurse do the actual IV stick. Not only that, but given my needle-phobia, they called in the massage therapist. Now that’s anticipating a patient’s needs! It was the complete opposite of my PTSD moment mentioned earlier. When my husband came back to see me in the pre-op area, he found me laughing with a gaggle of medical professionals, all of whom would’ve never known I was a bit of a freak about hospitals.

In addition to foot rubs, another thing you may be offered during the pre-op phase of your joint replacement is an optional anti-nausea patch. If you can tolerate them, I’d suggest a hearty Yes, please! Having been through numerous surgeries by now, I recall having come out of several of my earlier surgeries with the distinct desire to vomit. Ginger ale and crackers were offered in an attempt to quell my upset stomach. However, after I’d been introduced to anti-nausea patches, I discovered it’s much more pleasant to proactively avoid the nausea rather than to deal with it once it hits. Take. The. Patch.

It’s not helpful to be anxious about the mere act of showing up for surgery. So if you’re like me – a bit of a freak about hospitals – I encourage you to take whatever steps are necessary and doctor-approved to calm your nerves prior to and on the day of your joint replacement. Going into surgery with a strong, optimistic, and calm attitude and disposition will help immensely in your recovery. So will foot rubs.

Learning Acceptance

I could no longer deny that my body was falling apart when I awoke in a Washington D.C. hotel to go to work at my job with the Foundation for America’s Blood Centers and I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t get out of bed without excruciating pain. After popping a few ibuprofen and finally, and in great discomfort, wall-walking my way to the bathroom, I got back in bed and remained there for several days before flying back to my home in Boulder, Colorado, without so much as five minutes spent at the D.C. offices. A month or so later I realized I had to resign my position as the president of that nonprofit, the same organization whose members had helped save my life eleven years earlier with a plethora of safe and available blood. I had already been dealing with a “frozen” shoulder for a decade and now it appeared my feet and ankles were going as well. My knees, one of which had already undergone arthroscopic surgery, were aching more, sometimes compounded by sharp shooting pains. Hips, still holding their own, though without much range of motion. I was in my 40s at that point, and certain that someday I’d be one of those cool old ladies who runs 10Ks with her younger pals. Um, nope.

The arthroscopic surgeries began to pile up, until there was nothing left to scope. Then the injections of synthetic synovial fluid began. When they no longer worked, I turned to cortisone injections. When their efficacy eroded, I stopped taking walks, still in deep denial about what was happening to my major joints, still convinced I could reverse end-stage osteoarthritis and whatever autoimmune illness I had – one doc said ankylosing spondylitis; another said fibromyalgia – with all the green juice and seated yoga I was doing. Denial knows no bounds, am I right?

My husband, daughter, and I were in Michigan visiting my in-laws over Christmas of 2016 and I could barely pull myself up the stairs from our lower level bedrooms to the main floor. My pain level during that visit finally flipped a switch within me, shifting from denial to acceptance regarding the reality of my deteriorating joints. I returned to Boulder and set up an appointment with my orthopedic doc, a great guy who’d been warning me for years that I likely wouldn’t be leaving this world without at least 4-6 joint replacements. I’ll bet you ten bucks I can fix this without replacements was my standard response. I hope you win that bet was his.

“I owe you ten bucks,” I said when he walked into the examination room.

“Keep it,” he said. “Let’s just get you set up to meet with some joint replacement surgeons and get you some shiny new parts.”

And so my journey of becoming bionic began. Within 19 months, I had undergone four total joint replacements: an ankle, a shoulder, and both knees. The other ankle needs replacing too, as soon as my new shoulder is strong enough to bear my weight on crutches. The other shoulder is beginning to show the telltale signs of end-stage degeneration, and one of my hips is acting up as well, though I suspect I’ll get another five years out of them before active discussions of hip replacements are necessary.

Becoming bionic was not a part of my plan; and trust me when I say that most of my life I’ve been a girl with a plan. Lots of plans in fact. Big plans! But you know the old saying: We plan, God laughs. And so I finally surrendered to the reality of my life. My plans for climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and completing an Ironman were definitely off the table now. And I continue to learn from this entire experience of the slow, chronic loss of mobility and my efforts to regain what I can in the way of pain-free movement.

I’m learning to work with what I have versus what I wish I had.

I’m learning to focus on all the richness in my life, even if that richness comes with a wonky walk, neuropathy in my feet, occasional surgeries, lots of physical therapy, and a deep fear of any walking surface that appears slippery: shiny tile floors, icy patches on sidewalks, snow, rain, mud.

I’m learning to seek the inspiration I receive from those who’ve walked before me, especially the inspiration I receive regularly from my sister-in-law, Val, who is in her 23^rd year with chronic progressive MS and is completely frozen except for her face, mind, and sense of humor.

I am learning to value the lessons that come with Life’s challenges.

I’m learning acceptance.

Good Days and Bad Days

The last seven years, I’ve been on a fascinating – and, at times, emotionally and physically painful – journey of losing mobility and dealing with chronic pain. Since beginning my process of “becoming bionic” in 2017 (three joint replacements down, two to go), my body often feels whacked from surgeries and meds and going under anesthesia five times within the last year alone. Sometimes, it’s difficult to find my true self in the occasionally tangled up energetic mess that is my body-mind-soul connection.

Suffice it to say, I have my Good Days and my Bad Days. Fortunately the ratio seems to be trending at 10:1, Good to Bad. So hey – no complaints. Unless, of course, it happens to be a Bad Day.

Today is a Bad Day.

I was unable to fall asleep last night until, well, 7:30 this morning. Got a whopping three hours, which meant my emotional balance, and thus my outlook on life in general, was in the shitter. Jeff and Clare were both out, and as I lay on the couch crying for no discernible reason (see: Bad Days, above), I contemplated calling my mother and asking her to pick up a pizza for me so I could eat my emotions – despite the fact that I had recently asked her to ignore me if I requested anymore pizzas. (During these past five weeks of non-weight-bearing recovery from my first ankle replacement, Mom has been my PT Appointment Chauffeur, Grocery Shopper, and yes, Pizza Retriever.)

Just as I was about to dial Mom’s number, the front door opened and a friend I don’t get to spend much time with strolled in unannounced carrying a quart of healthy homemade soup. She breezed into my kitchen as if it were her own and put the soup on the stovetop before riffling through my cupboards and drawers to find a bowl, spoon and napkin. She then delivered a hot nutritious meal to me on the couch. A completely unscheduled, yet perfectly timed, visit.

She wasn’t able to stay long, maybe a half hour max. But in that brief period of time she managed to completely shift the trajectory of my day with her positive energy, some meaningful conversation about learning to live with uncertainty, and yes, her soup. I felt as if I’d been graced with a visit from the Mary Poppins of food for the soul.

Today, as it turns out, was a Good Day. Thanks, Michele.

“I Reject That!”

I know how lucky I am to have survived a near-fatal pregnancy 17 years ago. I know that most women who go as far over the edge as I did with eclampsia-turned-HELLP-Syndrome don’t make it out of the ICU alive.

Six weeks and 203 pints of blood after my ordeal began back in 2000, I was discharged from the hospital – a “miracle” by some standards. But there was a long-term price to pay for beating the medical odds and that bill came due about seven years ago.

During all the internal hemorrhaging a decade earlier, a necrotic process had taken root in my major joints – ankles, knees, hips and shoulders – resulting in difficulty walking, chronic pain and several labrum and meniscus surgeries.

I was also diagnosed with an autoimmune illness similar to Rheumatoid Arthritis (Ankylosing Spondylitis) and began giving myself weekly injections of low-dose chemotherapy to keep my inflammation levels under control. I ate my vegetables, drank my kale juice, and limited my pizza intake. (I’ve had a lifelong love affair with dough, tomato sauce and mozzarella.)

But I was in denial – deep, deep denial – about the inevitable deterioration of my major joints when it was determined that pretty much all of the cartilage was gone from my shoulders…and then ankles…and then knees (the hips are still working hard to hold their own). I made it bone-on-bone for several more years. I swam. I did a gentle-but-restorative form of yoga known as Kaiut. (Most of the positions are done sitting or lying on the floor, so Kaiut is perfect for me.)

I assured myself that my Kaiut yoga practice would save me from having to undergo the 5-8 joint replacements that my orthopedic surgeon warned me I’d eventually need. He said I’d know when it was time. I bet him ten bucks that I’d avoid all replacements through yoga. He said he hoped I was right.

Turns out I was wrong.

In January of this year, I was finally able to admit that I did, indeed, need to begin the process of replacing my major joints one by one or else face the rest of my life in pain and, most likely, in a wheelchair. I began with the knees, six weeks apart, this past spring. It was as (temporarily) hellish as I had been warned. But I am convinced that all that Kaiut yoga – while it didn’t allow me to avoid joint replacements – did, in hindsight, help me prepare for them. And that was good enough for me.

Five weeks after my second total knee replacement, I received a text from Jeff, the owner of my favorite yoga studio, who is also my favorite Kaiut instructor. He offered to give me a free private lesson if my husband could get me there. (I was still unable to bend my newest knee enough to drive myself.)

We arrived three days later for that session. To say it was amazing would be an understatement. Jeff walked me through a series of poses, all of them lying on the floor with my feet on the wall. I was shocked at how much I could do even with the limitations of surgery. Two days later, I was back in class on a regular basis.

The sequence of Kaiut poses changes every two days, so I am never quite sure what each class will entail, let alone how much of it I’ll be able to do. But I love being there anyway if only to soak up all the good yoga vibes.

To get on the floor at the beginning of each class, I stack four bolsters against the back wall, sit on them and then slide the rest of the way down. At the end of class, Jeff and someone else hoist me up to standing by my elbows (my shoulders being too deteriorated to be pulled forward by my hands). If there’s a standing pose or a pose done on all fours, I do Legs Up the Wall instead.

Today, sandwiched between my husband and a pal, I heard Jeff give the cue to get on all fours. As I prepared to put my legs up the wall, I began to wonder if I was deluding myself in thinking that I could actually regain full mobility, imagined that I might be headed for a wheelchair regardless of how many joint replacements I get. Almost immediately I heard a very loud, very insistent voice in my head yell, “I REJECT THAT!”

And then I got mad. Mad at my medical circumstances, but madder at my lapse in optimism. And that was the moment I decided to try getting on all fours.

I rolled sideways from the bolster I was sitting on to another bolster as padding for my knees. I wound up diagonally across my mat, my hands on my husband’s mat and my feet on my friend’s mat. The thought of shifting my body and bolster so I was facing forward seemed too difficult, so I stayed put. They didn’t care. They could tell this was something big for me – my first attempt at putting weight on my new knees, now 10 and 16 weeks old. Trembling, I pulled another bolster under my arms and leaned forward, breathing heavily, straining to hold the position, catawampus though it was. My heart raced as if I were sprinting, but I was determined to hold my amended position as long as the others in class were sitting back on their heels.

As soon as Jeff said, “Now come out of the position and stand,” I flopped onto my back as if I’d just finished a marathon, ready to give myself a nice long Legs Up the Wall break. But no sooner did my ass hit the floor than Jeff was over at my side saying, “Nope, I want you standing too, Lauren. You can do this.”

WTF?!

My first three weeks back at yoga class, Jeff had let me do pretty much whatever I wanted, taking breaks as needed and ignoring the poses I couldn’t yet do. Standing poses – I assumed Jeff understood – were off limits given my crappy ankles, but this morning, he decided otherwise.

I’ve been working with Jeff for just over two years now, so he knows my mobility issues well. He asked my husband to help hoist me to standing and had me – and everyone else in class – move right into a pose facing the wall. That got me breathing even harder, my body having atrophied over the previous three months of recovery and heavy pain medications. At times, I couldn’t even keep my hands on the wall, letting them fall at my side while I leaned against the wall with my head (definitely not part of the pose). When we were finally instructed to release the pose, I was exhausted, but in the best of ways.

I hadn’t strained like that in my 2+ years of having a consistent Kaiut yoga practice, and I have to say IT FELT AWESOME! Not because I had strained, but because I had overcome my own mental block. That one yoga class this morning was more powerful than any of the physical therapy sessions I’ve had to date.

While yoga’s goal is typically inner peace, sometimes the goal should be discovering what you’re capable of by being challenged to go beyond your self-created limitations.

Namaste, Jeff. Namas-freakin’-te! Woot woot!

Jeff Bailey, Yoga Teacher Extraordinaire

Everyone Needs a Lift Sometimes

Today I bought a lift chair.

I’ve been preparing for my upcoming joint replacement surgeries: one shoulder, two knees and, most likely, a new ankle—all before the year’s end. Jeff and I rearranged the TV room, removing a chair and an end table in order to fit my new used stationary bike (for recovery) and my new used lift chair (for recovery from doing the stationary bike).

I had a lift chair once before, following six weeks in the intensive care unit after Clare’s dramatic and near-fatal birth. It was probably the ugliest chair I’d ever had in my possession, boasting an outdated maroon print the likes of which I’d never choose for normal furniture. But damn, I loved that chair. After awaking from a 14-to-16-hour sleep, I would, with Jeff’s help, maneuver from the hospital bed in our bedroom to the living room, where I would park my broken ass in that blessed lift chair for a couple hours until I was exhausted and ready for more sleep. But the funny thing was, no matter how high the lift chair would raise me toward being upright, I still needed Jeff to boost me those last five inches to standing. When we finally got rid of that chair, I felt I had accomplished a feat greater than any of the marathons I’d run in the past. I had graduated from needing a lift, so to speak, fully capable of standing by myself.

My new lift chair is, thankfully, not as ugly as the first one. And, being used, I found it on Craigslist for a mere $50. Which is about 1/10^th of what I would’ve spent if I’d bought it new. My husband and I were set to pick it up yesterday, but the seller got busy with something else and said he had to cancel. Then my husband left town for a weeklong business trip early this morning, so the seller offered to deliver the chair to my home all the way from its current location 45 minutes away. At first, I was thrilled because these things are heavy as hell and I’m not exactly in lift-chair-lifting shape (see: joint replacements, above), and I really, REALLY wanted to get my in-home recovery area set up well in advance of my first joint replacement surgery on May 9^th.

I thought about the seller’s offer to bring the chair right to my home. And then I thought about a new client of mine, a real go-getter of a woman whose only hint of past trauma is the substantial scar peeking out from her neckline. Twenty-four years ago, my client tried selling her car on Craigslist and wound up with a serial killer—a literal serial killer—coming to her home, purportedly to check out the car. At night. In the rain. My client sustained a broken neck and multiple stab wounds before a neighbor heard her screaming and called 911. (My client’s attacker was later caught and charged with the deaths of several other young women and is now serving life in prison.)

So let’s just say I was a bit nervous about having a stranger deliver a used chair to my home. I tried reading into the seller’s text messages. His two young daughters were mentioned. His mother was mentioned. His work and class schedules were mentioned. All details that indicated he wasn’t a serial killer. Then again, anyone can lie in a text, right?

But I really wanted that chair, wanted to cross one more item off my pre-surgery to-do list. So I said I’d be delighted to have him deliver it. And then I made sure someone was here with me. And I kept RuPaul home from doggie daycare—not that poodles are known for their prowess as bodyguards, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a (not so) menacing dog in my presence.

The seller—Jay—arrived this afternoon with the lift chair in the back of his run-down pickup truck. He walked with a limp, but was strong enough to handle the chair with the help of a neighbor of mine. And then, as I am wont to do, I started asking him questions about his need for the chair. What can I say? I believe everyone has a story and I was curious about his. In other words, I’m nosey.

At 30 years old, Jay began experiencing searing pain in one of his hips. He reported the pain to a doctor, who recommended an MRI. But Jay had no health insurance and couldn’t afford the MRI, so his doctor loaded him up with opioid prescriptions and sent him on his way.

More of Jay’s joints began to deteriorate and his level of pain continued to increase, as did his dependency on the pain medications. When he realized he had a problem with addiction, he worked hard to get off the meds before turning to alcohol for escape.

“Alcohol ruined my life,” he said, humbly. No whining, just a deep sadness within his voice.

“When Obamacare came along, I was finally able to get the surgeries I needed,” Jay said. To date, he has had total joint replacements in both shoulders, both knees and both hips. He still has deep pain in his hips, and his ankles are shot too. I asked if ankle replacements were coming.

“No,” he said, somewhat resigned. “The next stop for me is a wheelchair.”

Jay is only 34 years old. My heart broke when he told me this.

I paid Jay twice the price he was asking for the chair, thanking him profusely for delivering it.

And now, I’m sitting in Jay’s chair—my new used lift chair—with a greater appreciation for the hardships that so many people face, day in, day out, often with no sign of relief on the horizon. Ordinary people with extraordinary challenges.

I’m hopeful that one day I can offer assistance to people like Jay, people who are struggling with their own medical burdens. Because everyone needs a lift sometimes.