Saturday, February 07, 2004
from the middle of January...
There's something scouring about the pain I was in, something beautiful. Since the accident, the physical reality of death has been sitting in my chest. And it has left me in a little isolation, because I feel like I have an understanding of the preciousness of this life that I never had, that most people don't have. I don't feel like I'll lose it, not after all this pain. I know that I will see this all as a beautiful gift when I am through with it. I know that this has changed my life.
Everything feels simple right now. I feel an enormous euphoria at the start of pain diminishing. I have hurt, constantly, since December 14th. And since December 20th, this sciatica pain has grown worse every day. Yesterday was the first time it hurt a little less. And today, a little less too. And now, I know, that every action I take will be to heal my body. Standing in the kitchen and doing my dishes is actually therapy for my back. The mundane feels miraculous, for so many reasons. And so, I'm going to dive into physical therapy, massages, acupuncture. Eating right--if I lose some weight, it will help the pain disappear as well. Every mouthful feels like a chance to take care of myself or add more pain. Easy choice. When I can, I'm going to return joyfully to yoga, and every time I take a pose, I'll remember when I was scrunched into the bed in a fetal position, trying to find a place without pain. The world is so enormously beautiful.
Of course, it's more beautiful when I'm just on the other edge of it. This morning, I woke up after an almost-full night's sleep. I slept from 11 to 4:30, without waking up. I took my Vicodin, waited a half hour for it to kick in, then slept until 9. This is the most sleep I've had since the accident on December 14th. Sleep is an enormous gift. When I woke up, I could feel another lifting, the steroids working to clear out the inflammation, and thus the pain retracted, just a bit. I have an image of a wave that has crashed onto the shore, enormously, and then starts the sure drift back to the ocean.
Today was the first day I could stand up straight while walking. How many times have you done that today? It felt like a victory in my body. I took a long shower, feeling the water on my back. I dried my hair, lifting my arms to do that for the first time in weeks. I smiled when the weak sunlight broke through the clouds to enter my bathroom window. I heard a loud whistling outside, and I walked slowly to see the sound. All the traffic on Queen Anne was stopped on McGraw by a policeman on a big motorcycle. He held up his hand to stop them all so a procession of cars could leave the cemetery two blocks from here in a continuous stream. I did a quick bow to those people suffering with grief, then turned back to my bedroom. Put on my blue Merrell walking shoes. Grabbed my keys. And walked to Macrina, half a block away, to buy a cup of coffee.
It was the first time I had left the house for a week, other than to crawl into a car to go to doctor's appointments. The air felt damp on my cheek, and I started to cry at the joy of it. The sky, the chipped paint on the crosswalk, the feeling of my feet walking evenly on the pavement. I walked into Macrina and closed my eyes to smell everything. The people who work there know me by name, since I used to come in nearly every day: the guy with tattoos and black, horn-rimmed glasses and sweet face; Jennifer, who bustles behind the counter and greets everyone with a big smile; Claire with a Victorian face, brown hair draped around her soft eyes. They all asked me where I had been the last two weeks, and I told them about the pain, the scouring pain, and the glory of the lifting of it. I told them how wonderful it was to be there. They poured my drip coffee in a to go cup, and I felt the warmth of it in my hands. It felt good.
I pulled out a twenty to pay for the coffee, and spontaneously, I made a decision. "Claire, keep the change. And whoever comes in next, let the change pay for their coffees. Buy people coffees until the money runs out." She stared at me. "What?" When she finally understood, she smiled. I hobbled out slowly, smiling. The woman behind me in line had been grumpy when she walked in. I could tell. But as I was leaving, I heard Claire say, "She paid for your coffee." The woman turned to me, and I could see her face lifting, her grumpiness leaving.
"Thank you," she said, in this wondering voice.
And I said, "I so enjoyed getting this cup of coffee this morning. I wanted everyone else to enjoy it as much as me. Have a good day." And I walked home, slowly.
Later in the day, Vanessa, one of my favorite students, came over to see me. So alive. So loving. She had missed me, and she wondered if she could sit with me. I've been sending my writing class exercises by email, even on the nights when I was in the most pain, because I wanted to give them the experience of writing fiction. Someone from the class has been printing the sheet off, then copying it for everyone. And they've been conducting class, every day, without a sub in the room. Eighteen seniors sitting in a room, having class, even without a teacher. Vanessa told me today, "If you had just been gone, we would have blown it off. But we knew that you were writing us from our sick bed, and that you were working for us. We had to stay." So apparently, yesterday, they had a fabulous, spirited discussion about what kinds of fiction they like, about when to use first and third person, and they all were involved. That made my day, to hear that.
About an hour into her visit, I was an hour into my pain pill, when the pain is the most contained. So I said to Vanessa, " I need to walk around the block. Would you go with me?" And so, I went outside again. And we walked slowly, in the warm air, so slowly, talking all the time. Mindful walking, all the time. It took forty minutes to walk around the block, because that's all I could do. But halfway through the walk, the pain, which had flared up when I started walking, settled down. And since this is exactly what the doctor told me what would happen, that walking and moving are my best therapy, I felt another lifting. It's going to work. I am going to heal.
At the end of our walk, we walked by Macrina. So I went inside again, to buy Vanessa a coffee. The same people were still working there, and they greeted me with huge smiles. "You!" they all said. "You are so kind, to buy coffee for everyone." I just smiled, knowing that the joy had bounced back to me. But Claire turned to me, after starting to make Vanessa's latte, and said, "People commented on it all day. Everyone said that you had made their day." I left there with tears in my eyes again.
It's so easy to love people. We just put up all these barriers, and think that we have to focus our energies on loving certain people. All wrong. I can see that more clearly than ever after this accident, this scouring pain. I feel cleared out. I want to heal my body, so that I can be as well and energetic and free of pain as I can be, so I can love other people.
That's it.
Love,
Shauna
There's something scouring about the pain I was in, something beautiful. Since the accident, the physical reality of death has been sitting in my chest. And it has left me in a little isolation, because I feel like I have an understanding of the preciousness of this life that I never had, that most people don't have. I don't feel like I'll lose it, not after all this pain. I know that I will see this all as a beautiful gift when I am through with it. I know that this has changed my life.
Everything feels simple right now. I feel an enormous euphoria at the start of pain diminishing. I have hurt, constantly, since December 14th. And since December 20th, this sciatica pain has grown worse every day. Yesterday was the first time it hurt a little less. And today, a little less too. And now, I know, that every action I take will be to heal my body. Standing in the kitchen and doing my dishes is actually therapy for my back. The mundane feels miraculous, for so many reasons. And so, I'm going to dive into physical therapy, massages, acupuncture. Eating right--if I lose some weight, it will help the pain disappear as well. Every mouthful feels like a chance to take care of myself or add more pain. Easy choice. When I can, I'm going to return joyfully to yoga, and every time I take a pose, I'll remember when I was scrunched into the bed in a fetal position, trying to find a place without pain. The world is so enormously beautiful.
Of course, it's more beautiful when I'm just on the other edge of it. This morning, I woke up after an almost-full night's sleep. I slept from 11 to 4:30, without waking up. I took my Vicodin, waited a half hour for it to kick in, then slept until 9. This is the most sleep I've had since the accident on December 14th. Sleep is an enormous gift. When I woke up, I could feel another lifting, the steroids working to clear out the inflammation, and thus the pain retracted, just a bit. I have an image of a wave that has crashed onto the shore, enormously, and then starts the sure drift back to the ocean.
Today was the first day I could stand up straight while walking. How many times have you done that today? It felt like a victory in my body. I took a long shower, feeling the water on my back. I dried my hair, lifting my arms to do that for the first time in weeks. I smiled when the weak sunlight broke through the clouds to enter my bathroom window. I heard a loud whistling outside, and I walked slowly to see the sound. All the traffic on Queen Anne was stopped on McGraw by a policeman on a big motorcycle. He held up his hand to stop them all so a procession of cars could leave the cemetery two blocks from here in a continuous stream. I did a quick bow to those people suffering with grief, then turned back to my bedroom. Put on my blue Merrell walking shoes. Grabbed my keys. And walked to Macrina, half a block away, to buy a cup of coffee.
It was the first time I had left the house for a week, other than to crawl into a car to go to doctor's appointments. The air felt damp on my cheek, and I started to cry at the joy of it. The sky, the chipped paint on the crosswalk, the feeling of my feet walking evenly on the pavement. I walked into Macrina and closed my eyes to smell everything. The people who work there know me by name, since I used to come in nearly every day: the guy with tattoos and black, horn-rimmed glasses and sweet face; Jennifer, who bustles behind the counter and greets everyone with a big smile; Claire with a Victorian face, brown hair draped around her soft eyes. They all asked me where I had been the last two weeks, and I told them about the pain, the scouring pain, and the glory of the lifting of it. I told them how wonderful it was to be there. They poured my drip coffee in a to go cup, and I felt the warmth of it in my hands. It felt good.
I pulled out a twenty to pay for the coffee, and spontaneously, I made a decision. "Claire, keep the change. And whoever comes in next, let the change pay for their coffees. Buy people coffees until the money runs out." She stared at me. "What?" When she finally understood, she smiled. I hobbled out slowly, smiling. The woman behind me in line had been grumpy when she walked in. I could tell. But as I was leaving, I heard Claire say, "She paid for your coffee." The woman turned to me, and I could see her face lifting, her grumpiness leaving.
"Thank you," she said, in this wondering voice.
And I said, "I so enjoyed getting this cup of coffee this morning. I wanted everyone else to enjoy it as much as me. Have a good day." And I walked home, slowly.
Later in the day, Vanessa, one of my favorite students, came over to see me. So alive. So loving. She had missed me, and she wondered if she could sit with me. I've been sending my writing class exercises by email, even on the nights when I was in the most pain, because I wanted to give them the experience of writing fiction. Someone from the class has been printing the sheet off, then copying it for everyone. And they've been conducting class, every day, without a sub in the room. Eighteen seniors sitting in a room, having class, even without a teacher. Vanessa told me today, "If you had just been gone, we would have blown it off. But we knew that you were writing us from our sick bed, and that you were working for us. We had to stay." So apparently, yesterday, they had a fabulous, spirited discussion about what kinds of fiction they like, about when to use first and third person, and they all were involved. That made my day, to hear that.
About an hour into her visit, I was an hour into my pain pill, when the pain is the most contained. So I said to Vanessa, " I need to walk around the block. Would you go with me?" And so, I went outside again. And we walked slowly, in the warm air, so slowly, talking all the time. Mindful walking, all the time. It took forty minutes to walk around the block, because that's all I could do. But halfway through the walk, the pain, which had flared up when I started walking, settled down. And since this is exactly what the doctor told me what would happen, that walking and moving are my best therapy, I felt another lifting. It's going to work. I am going to heal.
At the end of our walk, we walked by Macrina. So I went inside again, to buy Vanessa a coffee. The same people were still working there, and they greeted me with huge smiles. "You!" they all said. "You are so kind, to buy coffee for everyone." I just smiled, knowing that the joy had bounced back to me. But Claire turned to me, after starting to make Vanessa's latte, and said, "People commented on it all day. Everyone said that you had made their day." I left there with tears in my eyes again.
It's so easy to love people. We just put up all these barriers, and think that we have to focus our energies on loving certain people. All wrong. I can see that more clearly than ever after this accident, this scouring pain. I feel cleared out. I want to heal my body, so that I can be as well and energetic and free of pain as I can be, so I can love other people.
That's it.
Love,
Shauna
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