Apparently I'd rather die . . .

. . . than walk in the Avon Walk For Breast Cancer again. Or at least that’s the subconscious message I’ve been sending myself.


Sure I did it once—walked those forty grueling, painful miles in two days. I thought I’d properly built up to it, thought I’d sufficiently trained during the weeks before. And maybe I did. Maybe it was the actual weekend event that did me in, the way I hooked up with that friend I hadn’t seen in six years, the friend with the extra loooong legs that took one stride to my three. The friend I insisted on keeping up with that first day.

Mile twenty six saw me wearing more blisters than feet. 

Needless to say, day two was torture. If not for my meditation practice and my ability to send my mind to a happier place (a place far from my feet), I would not have made that second day. It was two weeks before I could walk normally again, two weeks before my feet stopped oozing with every step.

That was three years ago.

Proud and stubborn, I signed up for the walk again the following year, dutifully starting my training walks twelve weeks before the race. About five weeks out, I dropped a paper cutter onto the top of my foot and had to have stitches. I was told no walking for at least three weeks so I laid off long enough to heal. I started the training walks again until, a couple days before the race, I pinched a nerve in my neck doing a yoga pose. I’m talking excruciating pain all down my right side whenever I moved. So that was it for me . . no walking.

I didn’t sign up the following year. I was too busy and (gulp) somewhat intimidated by past events. So I just gave myself to my team, offering support and help in fund raising. I had planned to be out there the weekend of the race, cheering them on and handing out water . . . that kind of stuff. But, oh my gosh! If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll remember this. It happened the day before the walk. So last year, instead of walking those forty miles, I was sitting in a hospital bed with tubes dripping someone else's blood into my arm.  

So now April is rolling around again and I’m a little terrified. The Avon Foundation is sending me e-mails and cards reminding me that it’s time to sign up again. And I'm trying really hard to pretend not to see them. See... I hate to imagine what kind of avoidance strategy my subconscious has in store for me this time. 

The pros and cons of Menopause

I've been organizing my photographs for the last few days . . . some twenty years of memories stuffed into boxes, cabinets and multiple albums around the house. Of course I ran across pictures of myself from way back when, long before the big "M" was looming so large. And I got to thinking how every phase in life has it's pros and cons, even this one.

Like how my once non-existent belly now rests comfortably on my upper thighs whenever I sit. And how the top part of my menopausal middle provides a nice little shelf for my breasts.

This from a woman once in complete control of the comings and goings of body fat. Once able to push her body through extreme sports and grueling exercise. Sure, I can still push it. But it just won't go as far. And all the injuries from years of extreme physical work are squatting in my hips, knees and shoulders--nagging reminders of the things I once did.

Those times of greater capability and a well-trimmed middle are a distant memory as my girth expands of its own accord—regardless of whether I live on a diet of lettuce and spend hours a day intimate with my elliptical. My body is on a journey of its own, taking me along with it.

So, what of those “pros” I hinted at? They’re certainly not "form" related. But they are certainly there. Like the wisdom of fifty-some years assuring me that form is no longer (indeed it never was) what defines me. As young people we are very tuned to the external—how thin are our hips, how clear our skin, how large our breasts. Even further away we go into our clothes, our cars, our houses and lawns. We see our outward display as paramount to our success.

But as we grow in wisdom and age, we turn our gaze inward, looking toward our character, our spirituality, our relationship with ourselves, others and God. Depth of thought and mindfulness become more meaningful—like taking time to honor the smallest things, like giving instead of having.

And as we go even deeper, we learn that we are not (and have never been) our bodies. We start to fully grasp the idea that our bodies are merely temporary dwellings for our true selves. And if we listen carefully to that deeper voice, we realize that our purpose in life extends far beyond the mere polishing and maintenance of our dwelling. 

I once read a scholarly essay on how the Chakras so closely mirror the stages in our lives. How we start at the root where grounding, safety and survival are prominent in our thinking. From there we move up to the egoic stage, the age of power and acquisition. On to the solar plexus where we learn discipline and begin to see the value in reigning in our egos. Next is the fourth chakra, the Heart Chakra, the movement toward spiritual maturity. It’s usually during mid-life when all the good stuff starts happening. The heart chakra is seen as the bridge between the three lower chakras and one’s higher, spiritual ambitions. On to the fifth, sixth and finally the seventh chakra located at the crown of the head. The crown chakra is considered the stage of infinite consciousness.

But we can only reach the crown by moving through the lower stages first. We simply have to be egoic for a while! We simply have to learn the importance of taking care of our dwelling before we can abandon it to our higher ideals. It’s part of life.

I know this menopausal body has served me well. It stayed fairly polished during the years when I needed it to sparkle. It remained a solid dwelling place for the entity I know now as “me.” And now, as I witness its gentle and natural decline, it forces me to slow down, allowing more time to ponder what is truly important in life. Rather than to fixate on this belly, as it lounges here against these thickening thighs. Rather than to dwell over those photographs of a thinner, trimmer, more active me. 

The Cost of Avoidance

I have a plethora of nieces and nephews scattered around in different states. Not a single one lives close. Logistics being what they are, I don’t know these kids as well as I’d like to. Sure there are a few of the older ones on Facebook and we enjoy that strange and distant virtual closeness that’s so part of today’s culture. But the younger ones—well, our relationship is reduced to those two phone calls a year: “Thanks for the birthday/Christmas gift, Auntie Linda.”  Followed by a brief, somewhat formal conversation. Far from the tight relationship I enjoyed with my own aunts and uncles when I was growing up. Heck, they and my parents were practically interchangeable.  

Anyway I’ve fallen into the habit of getting all these kids the same thing for Christmas. There’s two parts to my gift. The first (and in my humble opinion, the best part) is a signed book from one of the writers conferences I attend earlier in the year. I try to find a book and author who would be best for each of my nieces and nephews at their particular ages. And I love doing this for them. I like to think that I’m being a good auntie by introducing them to such greats as John Scieszka and Norton Juster, Judy Blume and M.T. Anderson. I can only hope that the kids appreciate these personally signed books as much as their obligatory thank you call implies!

But, since I can never be sure, there’s the second part to my gift—a small gift card usually to Walmart where they can buy anything they want. But this year I decided to avoid the big monolith. And I did my Christmas shopping at local vendors and shops wherever I could. Which was all well and good. But what to do about those gift cards? Running short on time (all these things have to be packaged up and mailed) I ended up deciding on Visa Gift Cards. What I learned is that, unlike Walmart gift cards, the Visa ones cost $3.95 each! Basically I had to pay for money? Which, of course, is ridiculous and I will never do again.

Did I mention how I like to wrap them up all cute before sending them off?  

Anyway . . . next year’s gifts to the distant sibling and sibling-in-law offspring will look a little different. Sure, there will still be the books . . .  personally signed by authors I meet. But there is likely to be far less plastic involved.    

Sometimes doctors fix ya and sometimes they don't

It was some seventeen years ago when I had a caesarian section. At the time I was under the impression that they were done rarely and only in cases of absolute need. At the time I thought mine was one of those. Since then I’ve learned how pitocin (given to induce labor) actually induces stress in the fetus creating a need for C-sections. (Google Pit to Distress). If mine had been an actual emergency, my C-section would have happened as soon as they discovered the stress in my baby, not three hours later, after office hours, when it was more convenient for my OB.

As a result of my unnecessarian, the muscles cut in my midsections are weaker than they should be, an imbalance that’s caused seventeen years of lifting, standing, running and walking incorrectly. Not totally responsible but certainly contributing to the arthritis I’m now sporting in my lower back.

As a result of my arthritis, I went to another kind of doctor, a rheumatologist who assured me that certain pain meds were safe if taken with food and bla, bla, bla . . . etc. etc. etc . . .  all advice I followed to the letter. “If they stop working,” he advised, “we’ll find something else for you.”

Well, they never stopped working, they kept me happy, pain free, and functioning normally. Until the day I wound up unconscious on the floor and had to be hauled away in an ambulance. Turns out I had three bleeding ulcers and had lost two pints of blood. Turns out NSAIDs are actually responsible for some 16,000 deaths a year. (see previous post about that.) 

  

While I was in the hospital getting my bloody stomach fixed, I was assigned a GI doctor who I like immensely (in spite of the places he’s been). He helped heal up the holes in my stomach and then kept seeing me for regular check-ups. Every time we talked he asked if anything else was going on. So I eventually got over my embarrassment and told him about a certain “other” chronic problem I was having (and I’ll spare the details here).

I told him how doctor number one (the OB) had suggested that this "other problem" is caused by a tilt in my uterus and the sure-fire fix would be to take the thing out . . . said I’d be fine without it since my baby making days were over and I didn't need the thing anyway. He said artificial hormones would compensate for what I’d lose and they’d be safe as long as I took them according to directions. And bla, bla, bla, . . . etc, etc, etc . . . 

Gee, where had I heard that before?

In the long run, my GI doctor (did I mention how much I adore him?) has suggested certain dietetic changes and other sundry, natural stuff that has everything working as it should. No surgery, no drugs. Just me, my weakened ab muscles, my arthritic back, my compromised stomach, and my diet.

So yeah, I have some back pain. I have some issues with my posture. I have a few regrets—okay, maybe lots of them. But I also have a big strapping seventeen year old boy. And what could be wrong with that!?

And I have a much more cautionary relationship with our "healthcare" system.

Walks along the bayou

One thing I like about Houston's suburbs is its sophisticated system of channels that drain the once copious amounts of rain away from the thousands of homes that live here. They're not really bayous . . . that's just my pet name for them. My dogs love them as much if not more than I do and they pry me away from my computer for their daily romps. It's an interesting enough adventure that I've taken to carrying my camera along.

Here are some of the things I see during my adventures on the bayou . . . lots of birds, lots of turtles and lots of water.

Day after a big rain

Piper LOVES chasing the Blue Herons and the Ibises (or sould that be Ibi?) 

Such are our walks on the "bayou." Lots of exercise for everyone. Even, begrudgingly . . . the birds!