Just a Day

My thirteenth accident anniversary fell on Wednesday of last week. This anniversary perplexes me. My feelings lie somewhere between celebration and trepidation. Yes, another year of living life with challenges is accomplished, yet another year has also passed since that day that changed my life so drastically. The recollection of the details of the day are difficult and filled with pain. A lifeless, broken body isn't exactly a pleasant vision, nor is it a moment to celebrate. Each year I deal with the day a little differently. In years past, I planned fun events or meals out with friends. Several years, due to illness or depression, I stayed home and read books or watched movies all day. But, this year, I think I finally did the right thing.

I rode a roller coaster of emotions during this past year. Last July, I was still sick, still infected, and still slowly climbed the gargantuan mountain of healing, and in stark contrast, I also learned my infection finally vanished after a decade of attack. As the anniversary approached, I pondered what I wanted to do to honor it. I am no longer an extreme person. Inner peace is my goal and a loud, festive celebration just didn't seem to fit. So, in the end, I chose not to do anything. I decided to allow it to come and go as if it was just another day on the calendar. This option appealed to me because immediately after I fell, my greatest hope was that my life would stay the same and not be a constant reminder of the day I fell, the day I felt like I lost everything. One of my first questions I posed to the doctor, was whether or not I had the ability to drive a car. I feared the loss of freedom and unrealized dreams more than anything else. I was determined not to give up on the life I planned. Of course, the change was inevitable. Plans changed and dreams changed. Some stayed the same, but many took a hit and a lot of alteration. However, the loss of freedom was only temporary and, overtime, the learned ability to ask for help only deepened relationships, rather than divide them.

When I woke up last Wednesday I remembered what day it was and thought back to the day thirteen years prior. I briefly recalled how and where I woke up that day and what I did throughout the day. For a minute, I felt sad for the girl who didn't know how her day would end, but then my dog barked like a maniac at this black cat that always crosses our driveway. I jolted out of my coma of remembrance and jumped up to stop her from waking up all of my neighbors. As the day progressed, I meditated, shopped for groceries, and prepared to head out to Ashlea's house for the evening and honestly, I forgot what day it was. My normal routine took over and the rush to get ready and gather the homemade pizza ingredients occupied my mind and I simply forgot.

Several nights a month, I dream that Ashlea and I star in a cooking show. It is a reoccurring dream and it always leaves me laughing. She and I talk about recipes and food a lot, so I can only assume this is why the dream keeps replaying itself. I finally arrived at her house late, of course. It takes me forever to spin around and get dressed and gather anything and traffic didn't help the issue either. We started to make the dough, allowing the yeast to activate, adding the flour and honey and turning the mixer on for ten minutes. We put the dough in a bowl, covered it with a towel and let it rise. While it was rising, we prepared all of the toppings. We sliced peppers and onions and olives, reduced balsamic vinegar, and made the basil pesto. And while we were doing all of this, Ashlea remarked on how fun it was and I joked we were staring in our cooking show. We were living a dream. And once again, the gravity of the day eluded me. After dinner, we played fashion show with her darling and loving children, watched a special preview of the new episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey, and had our famous, as dubbed by Kyle, Ashlea and Sarah goodbye. She and I can never, ever stop talking. We must be peeled from each other or forced to leave. After watching the kids chase and catch fireflies for a minute and trying to prolong the conversation a little longer, I finally ended up in my car and pulled out of her driveway and headed home.

It was a hot, summer night. It was dark, but the sky glowed with a perfectly crescent moon. I drove onto the highway and decided to open the sunroof and roll down the windows. I almost turned on the radio, but stopped and opted for silence. And then it hit me. The significance of what day it was finally dawned on me. But, it wasn't like all of the other years. I didn't cry tears of sadness and I didn't remember the hurt and broken girl. What I felt, was a sense of freedom, a sense of accomplishment, and a sense of knowledge that I was right where I was supposed to be. And then I thought of something. Thirteen years later, thirteen years after I questioned whether or not I could drive again, I was driving. My hand controls now second nature and driving a regular occurrence. A tear wet my cheek, but it was a joyous tear. It was a tear that said I faced my fears and I won. I worried that day, all these years ago, if I would ever go where I wanted to go again, if I would ever have the kind of friendships I had before, if I would ever be the person I was before, if I could have a dog, I would ever realize a dream, and today I finally had the answers. Somethings, like driving and having a dog, turned out as planned, and others did not, they turned out better than ever imagined. This life, this life filled with challenges and struggle and a bit of suffering, well, it delivers the spectacular in spades. My relationships are better, I love harder, forgive frequently, and I enjoy simple abundance. Sure, it's been an uneasy path and will continue to be, but the growth that has happened along the way is worth every rock and every ravine. And as the wind blew on my face, I drove home, filled with love, filled with light, and a happiness I haven't felt in a long time. I drive, I am free, and I still dream and sometimes I actually live the dreams. I just wanted these things to exist as a part of my everyday life again, I wanted my life to be a life, not just a life after an accident or traumatic event. And without even noticing, without even trying, I discovered my prayers, my wishes were answered. The day was just a day in my regular old life. And the answers to those prayers, those wishes, popped up and beamed right in my face, just like that glowing moon that followed me home.

The Kids are All Right

I planned to post a list of books I read and reference quite often. A few of you asked for recommendations and I decided to share the generated list with everyone, instead of just the few. I am still gathering titles for list. I never realized how interesting and fun it is to culminate the books I devoured over the last several years. This list just grows and grows and grows. Hopefully, I'll finish it and post the list in a few days. In the mean time, I choose to share a quick story.

Earlier this evening, my mom, two young girls visiting from Georgia, and I walked to the little popcorn shop a couple of blocks away. I live in a quaint neighborhood with a small town square lined with adorable boutiques, an antiqued ice cream shop complete with marble counter tops and floors and hot pink decor, and a local fire station that looks as if it jumped out of the pages of a story book. The square hosts a lively farmer's market on Sunday. All throughout the summer, kids of all ages walk and run through the streets and during the school year, dash to the popcorn shop right after the dismissal bell rings. Kids and adults alike gather around the wrought iron tables perfectly placed in front of the popcorn shop and munch on popcorn and slurp Hawaiian shave ice. Yes, apparently it is shave ice, not shaved ice.

We ventured up for the shave ice and some truffle popcorn. Since the town is quite old, some businesses are grandfathered in and, therefore, aren't require to meet disability law. Most of the establishments are accessible, but the few that aren't either have a portable ramp or offer to help lift my chair up the two or three steps. Tonight I opted to sit outside while my mom and the young ones ordered and collected our goodies. The weather is perfectly warm with a nice breeze and very low humidity. Rain dominated the forecast since the beginning of July and finally stopped a couple of days ago. I was happy to sit with Belle and enjoy the early evening. I sat waiting at one of the iron tables, while a group of three boys sat at the other table. They appeared to be in between their eighth and ninth grade years of school.

Sometimes kids this age are given a hard time. Teenagers, as they are called, get a bad wrap. Adults seem to forget we were once this age and act as if teenage behavior is some foreign, unknown phenomenon from beyond. When, in reality, the behavior teenagers exhibit is just a normal part of the growth process. They are just kids struggling to find their ground while swimming in the murky waters of too young for certain things and too old for other things. Waffling between adulthood and childhood is tricky business. Attitudes form because they are just trying to figure it all out. As adults, we should give them a break. I know most of us know just how hard it is to be thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and so on. Insecurity takes hold in the form of pimples, body changes, and the desire to want to be like everyone else. I also notice discussion centered around how disconnected today's kids are. I hear comments like, they are attached to their phones and they can't communicate unless the communication takes place through a device. This kind of talk really bugs me. As a former teacher and nanny, I do admit I have a bias towards kids of all ages, but this generation of young people isn't any worse off than any other generation. All generations have distractions. Teaching self control is part of life, whatever the distractions happen to be. Kids aren't anymore distracted today than they were when I was hooked to the Nintendo or gabbing on the land line phone. In fact, I notice the opposite with the kids navigating today's world. I notice kids who are more aware, friendlier, and far more open to difference than ever before.

I've stated this a few times, but once again, I feel truly blessed because I see humanity at its best. Just as adults rush to help out, kids and teenagers also run to hold doors and help push my chair up icy ramps. This particular group of boys, hanging out in front of the popcorn shop, enjoying popcorn and Fanta Grape Soda, were no exception. Right away, the boys commented on my dog and shared how cute they think she is. They made direct eye contact with me and shared stories about their own dogs and answered my questions in complete sentences. I learned what high school they will attend in the fall and heard tales of recent summer adventures. The boys showed me tricks with their straws and fed my dog pieces of popcorn. Not once did any of them take out a smart phone or attempt to send a text. They were alert, kind, and pleasant. My disability was a non issue and never mentioned or even noticed. And when my mom and the young girls walked down the steps, headed over to the table and placed the newly purchased treats on the table, these boys, these teenage boys, noticed there was only one available chair left. Each boy jumped out of his seat and offered his chair. They cleaned up their mess, throwing away napkins, straws, and popcorn bags. And as they walked away, they turned around, looked directly at me, and said, "It was nice to talking to you."

I don't know why there is so much suffering in this world. I can't explain why bad things happen. I certainly worry about the world we are leaving behind, the world we are leaving these kids. But, what I do know, what I don't worry about, is the kids inheriting this world, the kids tasked with handling and accepting the future, they are just fine. They are confident, polite, chivalrous, friendly, and kind. The kids are all right.

Loving Without Expectation

As much as I try not to, I worry about relationships quite a bit. How I define myself no longer fits into the acceptable definition column. I no longer fulfill a laundry list of expectations or a check list of attributes. My life requires a lot of accommodation and sacrifice and I can only imagine how that appears to someone else seeking a partnership. I worry the other person only sees a life of sacrifice. 

I thought this was confirmed as I wheeled up the hill to meet a few friends at a local wine bar the other night and lady stopped me to tell me she felt sorry for me. I know she has issues of her own. I see her stumble home from the wine bar, late at night, and unable to walk in an upright position. I tried to force her words out of my mind, but they stuck. They stuck because these words, these feelings of pity, are one of my greatest fears. I work every single day to eliminate fear from my mind and replace it with love, but the fear just keeps reappearing. And this encounter didn't help my practice at all. When I venture out, to the grocery, to a baseball game, or to Homegoods, I always worry people feel sorry for me. I don't want to be seen as pathetic or in need of pity. I desire people to look past my injury and see my soul, see my light, but I know that isn't always possible. So I worry. And this worry, especially, comes crashing down when I think about a life partner or significant other. I don't want it to, it just does.

I think we label one another far too much. When we bring someone home to meet our parents or our friends, we list all of their highly regarded accomplishments. I used to have these things. I might be introduced as a dancer or a teacher or whatever someone used to describe just how special and significant I was. In these description situations,people tend to think things like, wow she did well for herself, or wow he is batting way above his average. And honestly, I fell for it too. I fell for the check list and the attributes making someone special and worthy. I fell for the attraction to another based on how cute he was or what school he attended. This way of thinking, how we look on paper, works for a while, at least until it doesn't anymore. Eventually, that playwright, or United Nations Ambassador, or opera singer, or president of a company, or professor, or celebrity chef, reveals himself or herself as human. The curtain is pulled back and the wizard is just a tiny man speaking with a large, booming voice and hiding behind the curtain. 

This might sound devastating or pessimistic, but it isn't. When we pull back the curtain and get to the gut of who we really are, learn to love with out expectation, we are brought to an entirely new and undiscovered territory. A place that does not have definition or definable attributes or accomplishment. A place that is equal and empathetic. A place where we can finally see each other as we truly are, without the make up and the cute clothes. And please don't misunderstand me, I like cute clothes and playwrights, and opera singers, and poets, and actors. But I don't like them because of their titles or descriptions. I usually end up liking them most when I see their human side emerge. I like them most when they fall or they fail and rise to new levels and share their devastation, when they share their human side. The truth and humanness never bother me. 

A discussion occurs, quite frequently, how, as a culture, we like to raise people up and watch them fall. Some say it is because we are obsessed with the failure; we are obsessed with the mighty falling. But, I disagree. I think this 'fall' is so intriguing because it is human. This 'fall' portrays a great and might fortress, as a crumbling human wall that has now opened itself to sensitivity and realness. For once, we can finally see ourselves in this larger than life person, this enigma. 

No one is perfect. No one will fulfill all of our needs every single waking moment. And during my late nights of worry as I obsess how I am defined, I realized I will never live up to any definition, walking or not walking. I can only hold fast to my descriptions and accomplishments for so long. Eventually, I will become real, breakable, and beyond definition. Others may feel sorry for me or be in awe of me, but neither of these matter. I may feel like I don't fall into a category of must date this girl or checks on a check off list, but in the end, it doesn't really matter. People will think what they think and I can't stop them. What I can do, what is humanly possible for me to do, is to not give in to the definitions others may align with my condition, with my humanness. Whether or not someone else feels sorry for me, is a moot point. Whether or not someone sees a life with me as a struggle or sacrifice is also moot. The only thing that matters, the only option I have, the only description applicable, is how I see myself. Is how I choose to respond to my condition, my humanness, and my ability. Because the response and attitude I have towards myself is one that I inevitably, without a doubt, is the one I will extend to others. A long time ago, I stopped seeing a stumbling lady as a drunk or helpless victim. Instead, I started seeing her as a wounded warrior. You see, whatever wounds or broken bones or disabilities we carry or learn to live with or learn to live in spite of, are not who we are. They are not what define us. They are what make us into who we are and give a glimpse into where we've been.

And as I worried this is how people see me, what this lady said to me might just be true, I had an epiphany. When a person feels sorry for me, or sees my scars and broken bones as a defeat or weakness, or recognizes my wheelchair as a burden, she is only seeing herself in me. And she just might be recognizing herself and her weakness for the first time. She sees that part of her that is broken and scarred and is afraid to live in the light, scars and all. She sees that part of her that is crippled or paralyzed. What she really feels sorry for is her inability to love all of the parts of herself, is her inability to see her own humanness. And in turn, what I really worry about, what I really lose sleep over, is not whether or not someone else with love me, it is whether or not I really love myself unconditionally and without expectation.

I will never be checks on a check list. I am neither chart topping accomplishments, nor heartbreaking failures. If judged by my medical records, I am, all at the same time, a supreme mess and an unbelievable miracle. The only thing I will ever be, the only thing I can ever be, is my human, flawed, broken, self. I, too, can learn to love without expectation and without condition. However, I must first extend this very thing to myself. I certainly can't ask another to do it for me. The relationship with myself is the most important, the most crucial. It is what gives me eyes to see and air to breathe and a heart to love.

You Only Live Once

Praise and blame, gain and loss, pleasure and sorrow come and go like the wind. To be happy, rest like a giant tree in the midst of them all.
~Buddha

I finally just learned what the Internet jargon or text speak, YOLO, means. If you are clueless like me, it  is an acronym for, you only live once. I see it all over the Internet as captions of pictures of things like drinking a big, frosty alcoholic beverage during the day, eating a large and indulgent meal or dessert, or a vacation to some tropical paradise. The phrase always stands out, especially when associated with the aforementioned activities because, well, if I did any of these things, I would pay greatly. I can't drink alcohol during the day. My accident really has little to do with this. It's more of an issue with my tolerance level and falling asleep after only a few drinks. Keeping up all day, while drinking, is just not one of my talents. And eating whatever I want and in large quantities not only makes me feel sick, but it also causes issues with my body that are just absurd and completely frustrating. And vacations, well they just don't happen for me. My physical issues come along with me and I never truly get any kind of break or vacation from paralysis. I must pack an extra bag of supplies just to keep my body working correctly. Vacations turn out to be far more of a hassle then a pleasure for me.

I know I sound like the Grinch right now, but there is a point to this rant. Only living once is something I think about often. As a young girl, I used to lie awake with anticipation while I counted the nights of sleep until Christmas arrived or my birthday finally came to pass. I eagerly anticipated summer camp and trips to far away places. Packing was exciting and arriving at the airport, even more exciting. And while I couldn't wait for it to arrive, the trip, or holiday, or birthday, would come and go and once again, I would be in a state of disappointment and feeling let down, until I found the next adventure.

After my accident, I made sure to always have something to look forward to. My calendar, always filled with social events and work commitments, had little room for anything else. I distinctly remember thinking things like, I just have to get through this day and then tomorrow, I will wake up, go to breakfast with a friend, shop with a friend, go home to change, and then go to a movie with a friend. And then the following day all of my friends will meet at my house and we will pile in the car and head to Keeneland for the day. Excitement and busyness seemed to keep me going. I thrived on complication and busyness. One evening, a friend and I stayed up until the wee hours of the next morning frying chicken and baking homemade cake for a birthday party. I slept all of two hours, woke up, and left to volunteer for the entire day.  I then gave myself only one hour, in between activities, to get ready for the fried chicken birthday party. Oh, and then we all went out that night to listen to a band play at a local bar. I basically never stopped planning and anticipating and coming down from the busy highs. You only live once. I said this to myself all the time, every time I dashed out of the door as I was on to the next thing.

This lifestyle grew more and more difficult the sicker I became. Popping Advil became a full time job, just so I could keep up with my living. Hospital stays and blood transfusions interrupted my fast pace living and irritated me immensely. I used to think, don't you see, I am trying to live. I am trying to seize the moment, I am trying to take large bites out of life and swallow them whole. I am brave, I am strong, I am tough, and I am busy. I keep going when the going gets tough. I do not give up. See me, I am doing it, I am living. But the thing was, I wasn't living. I was just anticipating and filling up time. In a nutshell, I was escaping the silence, escaping the downtime, and avoiding the pain.

There is an art to doing nothing. It isn't for the faint of heart. When the silence sets in, so do the tingles of pain. Thoughts rush in and tears flow. I remember stupid comments I said or moments where I was nasty. I remember embarrassment, I focus on failure, and I basically have time to think. And when this quiet is all there is, I realize I am not always brave, I am not always strong, and I am certainly not always tough. I am vulnerable and afraid and I don't like it. It's so much easier to pick up the phone and make a lunch date or breakfast plans than it is to sit with discomfort. I know this because I experienced it.

My illness forced isolation. My depression forced sitting alone with my thoughts. At first, I hated it. I hated the spears of judgement I threw at myself. I hated the way I saw myself and thought of myself. I felt out of control and wanted to run from myself. But, this time I couldn't. I finally reached a point where I was too sick to do anything. My only option was to lie in my bed, without anticipation, without plans, and stare at the ceiling. I could drown out the pain with the television or a book, but sometimes those were just too exhausting. My eyes stung from fevers and my head ached. Silence and rest were the only options. And as I inched closer to death, I didn't think about the nights out I was missing, or the places I hadn't yet visited. I actually thought about the way I treated others and the way I treated myself. I worked through all of my regret. And the regret wasn't found in missed opportunities or missed football games, it was found in moments when I was nasty or mean or left someone out of the equation. The regrets were found in moments where I snapped at someone and didn't listen to them and just continued talking about my own life. I regret looking through people. I regret hurting rather than helping. As the many days of silence increased, so did the pain. For all of my only living once moments, I could think of a moment where I was unloving, unkind, and unaware of an other's feelings. I was moving too fast before to stop and really noticing and now that my life came to a screeching halt, the mistakes were personified. Doing nothing was painful and made me feel weak, sensitive, and sorry. Pretending to be okay and high on life was no longer an option. I wasn't able to pretend I was perfect and able to handle everything like a champ. I couldn't bottle my anger and lash out at everyone else anymore. The tables were turned, and I had to take a long, hard look at myself, broken and ill, for the first time.

And then the change happened. It occurred somewhere between the self-loathing and the bad memories. I found myself, literally on the ground, begging for forgiveness and promising to change. I swore I would find my bravery and do right with it this time. I promised to use the toughness, I once thought I had, to stand up for another, rather than beat them down with the rest of the crowd. I promised to accept and love myself, but work to make sure I was the best version of myself I could possibly be. I promised to live as if I only had once chance to do this right. I promised to finish strong.

As I started to heal, I noticed my desire to fill my calendar no longer existed. I was so accustomed to doing nothing that I had to force myself to do anything. Staying in on New Years Eve or just sitting with my dog became my new way of life. And as I sat and continued to listen to the silence I learned what only living once really means. It doesn't mean filling up every moment or living in a constant state of forced spontaneity. It doesn't mean spending every waking moment with another person or friend. It doesn't meant attending every concert, or football game, or dinner out. What it truly means, is living as if this life really and truly only comes around once. And this means, taking care of my body. Eating was nourishes it most, filling it with good food, rather than what only pleases my taste buds. It means allowing enough nothing time to remain calm and peaceful and kind. It means leaving space in my calendar to breathe. It means sitting and looking out the window and listening to the rain fall or the trees blow in the wind. It means, instead of checking off adventures on a list, actually living the adventure that life already is, all of life, even the parts of it from which I want to run and never look back.

I find life isn't about chasing and grasping moments and minutes of excitement. It isn't about anticipation and grandeur. And it certainly isn't about vacations and escapes from reality. What life is truly about, what truly living in the moment means, is accepting all of the moments as a part of the magnificent and the heart wrenching portrait that life is. There will always, always be clouds, but there is always, always a blue sky waiting behind them. I can't fill and force every moment to overflow with sunshine and rainbows. It just isn't possible. The work it takes exhausts me and leaves me utterly lacking. I feel most whole, most fulfilled, when I sit with complexity of life. When I work through the pain, find the joy along the way, and rise above the clouds and see the sun and blue skies.

Sitting in silence taught me I was both sensitive and brave. It taught me I was weak and strong. It taught me I was human. All of the parts of myself are worthy of respect and love. And knowing this allows me to see all of the parts in everyone else and respect and love those parts too. But, the greatest thing the silence taught me was to go with the flow of the great ocean of life, instead of against it. Because when I float with the waves, appreciate the high and low tides, I am more loving and kind. I am open and free. I am in a state of giving, rather than taking. Chasing happiness all of the time left me, mostly, unhappy. Sitting with the tension of the good and the bad, remaining comfortable with the silence, leaves me utterly peaceful and serene. It allows me to truly only live once and without regret. I am less mean, less nasty, less harsh, and far more fulfilled. Instead of watching the empty days of the calendar, I watch my words and actions. I try to live up to the promise I made, to be the best version of myself possible. I may not succeed every, single day. I may feel failure or disappointment, but that is okay. That is what living is. Living life is picking myself up when I fall, holding some one's hand when she falls, crying both tears of sadness and joy, and learning to rest, peacefully, in the midst of it all.

Dealing with Things Directly

I called home one afternoon, while at my local watering hole, the hospital, to inform my roommate the doctor was behind on his patients and as a consequence, I was late. At this time, the doctor either admitted me for the night or I was late. I regularly called to prevent worry. This day, however, was different. She answered the phone in a New Jersey mob boss accent. Or a Midwestern, young girl version of a New Jersey mob boss accent. A few weeks prior, we purchased HBO and HBO on demand. Sex and the City was in its final few seasons, and of course, we needed to watch it live. Shows weren't as readily available as they are today, so this was very important. Jos, my roommate, home for the day on a well deserved break from her doctoral studies, chose to watch a few of the featured shows on HBO. As she answered every question in this hilarious accent, I hysterically laughed and then asked the reason behind the accent. She explained she happened to turn on an on demand episode of The Sopranos and was hooked. She continued to say things like, fuh-gedda-boud-dit, and use the f word in every other sentence with an emphasis on the f. After a day at the hospital, I loved and appreciated the humorous and theatrical impression. Jos informed me I must return home and watch an episode. When I finally arrived, I watched one episode and it grabbed me like a magnet.

I never thought I was a Sopranos type of girl. Violence in movies or film was just not my thing. At twenty, the summer before my accident, I saw Saving Private Ryan and almost left the theater while the opening scene brutally played out in front of me. So, the idea of a show about murder, rape, and brutal crime didn't spark much interest in me. But, I caved and sat through the episode on the edge of my wheelchair and turned to Jos, stunned and in awe. The Sopranos, while horrifically violent and filled with vile characters, carried an unparalleled weight of thematic presence, accompanied by a slew of brilliant writers, fantastic actors and actresses. We quickly morphed into avid Sopranos watchers. In fact, as Jos put it, Carrie Bradshaw and Tony Soprano became our third and fourth roommates. Our show nights, were a happy, bright time, amongst my many, dark days.

After a few years, Jos moved to Colorado and I to another building just down the road from our old apartment. My illness was at its worst. Survival was the only thing I knew. I spent my days at the hospital, where I underwent Hyperbaric Oxygen treatments, and the nights at home, struggling to stay alive. My diagnosis was unknown at this time and my doctors, incompetent. I administered heavy intravenous antibiotics, twice daily, through a PICC line, only to learn years later, they were the incorrect antibiotic, which is why the fevers and daily purging continued. Every morning, I took a shower, put on my special scrubs, the only thing safe to wear in the hyperbaric chamber, and drove to the hospital for treatment. There is a small flatscreen attached to the top of the chamber and the technician played the patient's choice of DVD. At first, I watched light hearted movies and shows. But after a few sessions grew tired of too much happy. I was ill, depressed, and dying. Light, happy movies only irritated me. It was so tiresome to watch perfectly healthy people live perfect and happy lives. And at this time, I grasped for anything with some ounce of meaning. I prayed constantly, tried to meditate regularly, but ultimately felt worse. I know this was because of the illness and not the methods, but still, I was angry and sad. I finally asked to watch The Sopranos during treatment. I needed to see something dark, something filled with as much punishment as I felt I received for whatever wrongdoing I felt I committed. I had trouble escaping this mindset. I felt my accident and illness were punishments for a previous mistake or sin. 

Yes, I do agree The Sopranos is an odd choice. I do agree the violence is too much sometimes. There are a few episodes during which I must reach for the remote control and fast forward for a few minutes. However, among the violence, and the brutality, and the hate, and the darkness, and the sin, and the suffering, and the selfishness, there lies hope. This anti-hero, Tony Soprano, endeared me and intrigued me. I watched, day after day, as he confessed to his psychiatrist and somehow thought his life deserved redemption. I finally started to think if Tony felt worthy of redemption, maybe I could feel this way too. He saw his violence and lewd behavior as an escape from his demons and despair and I needed an escape from my own demons and despair. I saw in his eyes, the same depression and angst I saw in my eyes. Yes, our eyes told very different stories, but I felt a bit of him inside of me. I felt the rage and the depression. I felt unlovable and broken. I know it is just a television show. I know Tony is just a character on this television show. But, the place I was in, the feelings I conjured on a daily basis, needed a hard hit of something, and this just happened to be it. One episode tells the story of his daughter, Meadow, and how and why she begs him not to clip, or kill, her soccer coach. Tony is enraged because he discovers this coach is molesting his daughter's teammate. She implores him to call the authorities instead of his usual approach, inflicting harm or death. In the end, Tony honors her wishes and arrives home later that evening, drunk, repeating the words, I didn't hurt nobody, Carm, I didn't hurt nobody. Carmela or Carm, as he calls her, sits with him as he sobs. He changed, if only for a minute, he changed his behavior and did something right.

I used many methods to overcome my battle with this nasty blood infection. I, honestly, think every one of them worked. Praying led me to an undiscovered and powerful faith and a forgiveness and love I never thought possible. Meditation calmed me and taught me to appreciate silence. And along the way and along the discovery of the plethora of available techniques to heal, I found visualization. There is, yet, another episode in the series where Tony's psychiatrist experiences a traumatic and brutal attack. The police, her son, and her husband are futile in their efforts to help her and fail to apprehend her attacker. She knows if she tells Tony he can squash her predator like an ant. She even has a dream and sees Tony in the form of a Rottweiler, as he devours her attacker. One aspect of visualization therapy involves a method of picturing a character of a movie, book, or film, attacking the infection or particular illness. I chose Tony, as the Rottweiler. As dark and brutal as this sounds, this is what depression and illness were like for me. They were an angry, dark, relentless quicksand, that sucked me in and forced me to grasp for breath and relief any way possible. And the Tony character and the Rottweiler were my relief and fighters. 

In addition to this visualization, I heard Tony say a few words that never, ever left me. I started my life as a paralyzed individual with what I like to call, a Pollyanna approach, to paralysis. I smiled and nodded and comforted everyone around me. I agreed with doctors and followed directions. I allowed nurses to make decisions for me and relied on the advice of the medical professionals that surrounded me. And then one day, in the middle of this tornado of devastation, and after the realization this approach was quickly taking my life, I heard a few words that changed me. I like to deal with things directly. Tony said these very words to his psychiatrist. In the moment I heard them, they resonated right away. I said them over and over to myself the entire treatment that day, as to not forget. I repeated the line the entire drive home and when I arrived back at my place, I wrote them on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall of my bedroom. I decided right then and there, no more Pollyanna, it was time for Tony Soprano. I adopted this new attitude and pressed forward and fixed many broken pieces. I fought my way to my current doctor and finally experienced healing.

I know this is unconventional and strange. I know it sounds vile and deplorable to trust a mob boss character's flaws and imperfections. But, I, too, felt this vile and deplorable. I felt I didn't deserve to live. I felt misunderstood and selfish. I wanted what everyone else had, I wanted to be well and I wasn't and begged for a reason. I quickly learned there wasn't an explanation behind the suffering, that part didn't matter. What mattered, was my response. And yes, I needed a little New Jersey mob boss attitude to fix the mess. But, I also learned, I needed a little God, a little Buddha, a little peace, and a little trust. Now, I use much more positive thinking and less of the Rottweiler. I visualize my wounds peacefully healing, filling in bit by bit, instead of a big, strong animal and man attacking the infection that caused them. The infection is gone now, I don't need the dog or the larger than life man as much, or at all. Although, when I need a new wheelchair and exhaust every peaceful, positive avenue to get it, I might jump into character and tap into my inner mob boss, but Tony and the Rottweiler are, mostly, a thing of the past for now. I don't forget their help and I certainly credit them as a large part of my healing.

This past Wednesday the actor, James Gandolfini, died of a massive heart attack. He played Tony Soprano. I cried. I cried because as a man, he is far to young to die, but mostly I cried because of the memories his passing conjured up inside of me. For a second, I worried it was a sign, my anti-hero, my Rottweiler, was dead. I worried it meant I might acquire an illness again and not be able to fight it. However, after the tears and the recognition of the fear, I discovered I was very, very wrong. James Gandolfini left behind Tony and that dog. I have the box set of the entire series of his show stored in a cabinet, next to my television. I can see them anytime I want. Also, it dawned on me this man, this actor, may have left behind a great work of art, a great story, a fantastic show, but what he didn't know he left behind, was a tiny piece of himself that helped a sick, hopeless, pathetic, and scared girl who felt alone and terrified and one day decided to use this grand, giant character as protection. He will always be remembered for this show, this masterpiece, but this tiny dot he left behind inside of me, will go largely unknown. 

And since I am positive now. Since I believe in the good and finally decided to trust in a better day and the proliferation of a bright and shining light, I see this is a lesson to learn. No matter how big of an impact I desire to leave behind, no matter how great I think my stamp must be to honor the gifts I have received along this dark and scary path of healing, it is the small moments, the small gestures, the small kindnesses, the small moments of love, that truly matter. I may never know their impact. I may never know whom I touch or what I heal, but it doesn't matter. What really counts, is that I try. James Gandolfini knew his character was large and impactful, but he didn't know the small ways it affected people, especially me. I only hope, one day, to pay this gift forward, no matter how small. Because it is the little things that count. It is the moments that resonate, when I least expect it, that count the most. And always giving of myself will pay it forward in the best way possible. Our lives are a gift to us, what we do with them is our gift to others. May we all rest in peace. 

Oneness

For a long time, following my injury, I decided I didn't believe in God. I use this term, only because I grew up in the Episcopal church and God is what we called the higher power working in our world. I hesitate to over use this name because I now think it doesn't really have to have a hard and fast name. This doesn't mean I don't have faith in anything because I do. I just don't really have a name for it and I don't really think it needs a name. A few years ago, a friend asked if I really define myself as a Christian. I felt a bit offended, but also a bit perplexed because I kind of agreed.

As a young girl, I attended a Catholic elementary school, went to mass one day a week, said the stations of the cross at Lent, and then attended the Episcopal church services on Sundays. I never really questioned the existence of God. I eagerly raised my hand in Sunday school and recited the answers to many of the questions. St. Mary's grade school taught religion very well and I knew the Bible stories inside and out. In the second grade, I organized a prayer group for all of the non-Catholic students who were not receiving the sacrament of First Holy Communion. During my senior year of high school, I gave the youth sermon at my Episcopal church. I assumed my belief system was pretty solid.

However, I experienced a terrible, traumatic accident and this uprooted any foundation of belief I thought I built. I immediately thought this whole church and God thing was a joke and something people just do and believe to make themselves feel better. I couldn't imagine believing in something that caused so much suffering and hardship. Even though I struggled with these thoughts, I continued to volunteer and help out with various groups at the Episcopal church. I just saw the activities as an opportunity to serve and nothing more. When I was at my lowest moments, getting out and helping others always seemed to remedy the situation, until it didn't. I kept volunteering, almost making a full time job out of it. I hoped to find some relief to my pain in the service, but nothing changed. I just kept feeling worse and falling deeper and deeper into depression. My health deteriorated, my relationships crumbled, and I was left feeling utterly hopeless and alone. I opened my eyes to all of the suffering brewing and boiling over in this world and only felt more and more disconnected from God or anything like him.

It was quite some time before I awakened to the possibility of a higher power. All I could see was a sick girl who was ignored and thus forced herself to be heard. I purchased countless books and read until my eyes hurt. I tried anything and everything to heal my body, but soon realized my soul was the one in need of the true healing.

When I say I read everything, I mean everything. A few weeks ago I went to the bookstore to buy a friend a book. I knew what I wanted to purchase, but decided to peruse the shelves anyway. I started in the New Age section, then the Christian, Judaism, and Buddhism sections, and ended in the Self Help shelves. As I looked through all of the authors and their books, I felt a sense of warmth, a sense of connection. I actually thought, my friends, all of my friends. There they were, the entire history of my journey staring back at me. There were many books I still need to read, but the authors all very familiar and close to my heart. These are the people who brought my connection back, these spiritual advisers, these poets, these guides, and these teachers. I don't think one is better than another. All encourage a spiritual practice. All encourage prayer, meditation, and seeking. I read from all different authors and concluded everyone shares the same exact message from Einstein, to Buddha, to Jesus, to Mohammed, to God, to Rumi and Pantanjali. As I left with my gift for my dear friend, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be on this side of my journey, the side that allows me to pass on my friends to my friend. Gratitude for the part of me that sees the seeker in another. Gratitude for the part of me that trusts we are all the same and isn't afraid to share a piece of myself with another.

You see, this is what I have come to believe in, oneness. I don't know what it is called or if it has a particular name. All I know is that we are all one, sharing in one, never ending, always forgiving, loving relationship with each other and ourselves. I am everyone I come in contact with and they are me. We all want the same things and we all deserve the same things. The higher power is the love and the forgiveness that passes all understanding. It is the higher power we all possess and we all feel called to practice. When I feel out of sorts, judgemental, cruel, or unhappy, I am not acting from this true and honest place. I am reacting to my fear, my worry, my hurt, and most of all, my pain. I assume another doesn't feel these deficits I feel and so I want to be heard and do so through attack. But the thing is, we all feel hurt, we all feel pain. Finding this common thread is what heals.

I don't really define myself as anything anymore. I discovered this is limiting to my growth. Some say believing in everything is believing in nothing. I disagree. Believing in everything is believing in everyone. I welcome difference because I see the similarities, not the polarities. Tears are tears. A person's skin color, or sexuality, or name, or hair style, or body art, or body shape, or disability, or strength, or suffering, or income doesn't matter. Everyone cries and everyone laughs and mostly, everyone has the ability to love and begs to be loved. Now, when I struggle to feel a connection, I know it is because I need to forgive or to love, nothing more. Connection isn't found in dutiful service, it is found in seeing oneness. When I see my oneness, the soup I serve or the door I hold takes on an entirely different meaning. I see the person I serve and I see me, I see you, I see all of us. This is what matters to me now. I believe in oneness.

Thank you

First of all, my heart filled with immense gratitude after I read your comments and emails. All of your words truly solidified my belief that we all live in a state of service. When we reach out and share our true and real feelings, the ripples of love, forgiveness, hope, and encouragement we provide are infinite.   Thank you for your stories and comments. I treasure all of them.

I started a new practice of trying to go to bed early and wake up early. I easily fall into a pattern where I stay up extremely late and watch Real Housewives. It is ridiculous and doesn't serve me very well. The problem is, I rhythmically flow with this new routine until Sunday arrives, then I stay up to watch Mad Men and the cycle starts again. Instead of stressing about this and throwing myself off for the entire week, I chose to make Sunday nights the one night I stay up late and indulge for a bit. I guess you could call it my cheat day. I honestly don't have an issue with my night owl personality, but I think it developed because of my previous inability to successfully sleep. When I was so sick and so depressed I never, ever slept. I watched the clock tick and heard the birds sing in the wee hours of the morning. Now, I sleep like a champ. I started sleeping again a few months ago and I want to give into sleep as much as possible. It is healing. One of my favorite authors and spiritual teachers, Gabrielle Bernstein,  has a fun phrase, sleep more and party less. Now that I am able, I try to allow my body to rest when it begs for it. So, I am cutting it short tonight and will be back in a few days for more. My new groove is developing slowly, but surely.

I am currently reading, A Course in Miracles. This book and workbook are filled with so many ideas and words that need to be read over and over again. It takes me days to get through a few pages. For this reason, I am not very far at all, but I came across something the other day I want to share. I put the words into practice, especially today, and my entire perspective shifted. There is a lot in this world I can not control and I fear. I can consume my mind with thoughts of difficulty and challenge. If I focus on these things, I can destroy my self confidence and energy to persevere. After reading these few short sentences, I decided to let go of the fear completely and replace it with love. I did it, entirely, for the first time today.

Perfect love casts out fear.
If fear exists,
Then there is not perfect love.
But:
Only perfect love exists.
If there is fear, 
It produces a state that does not exist. 
- A Course in Miracles

This perfect love is not romantic or sentimental love, it is truly trusting we are powerful and loved and that we possess the ability to see ourselves in another and live a life of service. All of the events in our lives are born out of love and occur to deepen our own love for ourselves and our ability to expand and give this love to others. It isn't easy to grasp, it took me a few days, but my perspective and fear shifted. I wanted to share this with you because you shared so much love with me with. I hope it helps in some small way.

I will be back sooner than later. I am off to pray, meditate, and fall asleep without turning on Bravo. I will not turn on Bravo, I will not turn on Bravo...

Goodnight.