Uncomfortably familiar: another day in the operating theatre

“You must be used to it by now!” .. or “Does it get easier each time?”, are common quips I hear in the lead up to surgery.

For the record, it doesn’t get easier.

Today I had the big toe on my right foot fused. I’ve had bigger ops, but it still hurts and there were still nerves!

The familiarity of pre operative processes, and sometimes familiar faces provide a small sense of security and placate some nerves. The reality though, is that each operation is different and has its own complications; each anaesthetic set to ring alarm bells and attempt to fill even the best anesthetic doctor with fear. The challenges I throw at them each time only getting bigger as I get older.

I would have preferred not to endure today’s surgical assault, but if not now then it would be set for another day. In the lead up to surgery the nerves are far outweighed by the pain and discomfort of 2 weeks of bring denied normal meds for the arthritis. It’s always hard to bear.

I declared this week that I would just have to face it. Try not to worry about it each day but take it as it comes. It was a “suck it up and deal with it” kind of talk, but without minimising the fact that the pain would come. The main difference being that I can only face the pain when I’m in the midst of it. Today’s pain was never going to be alleviated by Tuesday’s meltdown. Not that I had a big one, but I hope you get my point. It enabled me to spend a bit more quality time with the kids.

Orthopaedic surgery is very familiar to me. The pain varies and there’s little preparation for the pain that comes. It really is best taken one moment at a time, so it’s often an uncomfortable ride. Hence the “uncomfortably familiar” title.

Now for the recovery road, which we trust will be quicker than the last op 🙂

One day at a time my friends. It’ll be ok in the end.

If you find yourself in the throws of another “thing”, get the info you need, sit with the pain and trust it to tomorrow. You’re needed here, living in the today.

Don’t worry about tomorrow, today has enough worries of its own. (See Matt 6:34)

– Ang 😊

I’ve been here before …

I’ve been here before. Pain unrelenting, rising and falling unpredictably, bringing life to a halt. Flashes of pain strike like lightning to cripple each moment. Stiffness screaming for relief while straining for every inch of movement.

I’ve been here before. Tears flowing down my face at 3am while the rest of the world sleeps. Uncomfortable no matter how I place myself. Pain shouting louder, as it does with most things after midnight. How long will it last this time? When will relief come?

I’ve been here before. The isolation and discomfort. Watching the world go by as life gives way to survival. Bystanders confused as to why these bones don’t bounce like the rest; unaware of the complications of a chronic illness, poor immune system and low bone density. Once again, that which sounds simple is not. There is good reason why I’ve been told not to fall.

I’ve been here before. Disappointment and cancellations. Struggling to let go of expectations of the ‘shoulds’ and ‘have to’s’ of life. Letting down the family yet again. Or at least that how it feels sometimes. Trying desperately hard to keep going where it really counts. Playing games on the bed and reading books. Being available for a cuddle. If I can grimace through the pain.

I’ve been here before. Coping with moments and with days but days turn to weeks and weeks may turn to months. As the mental drain ebbs and flows, the torment of the mind is often greater than the pain. The exhaustion of pain begging for rest that doesn’t come.

I’ve been here before. Whether days, weeks or months, I know the pain will ease. Or at least, I live with hope that life will resume again and rebuilding will take place.

I’ve been here before.  Though I don’t want to be here and it’s hard to endure yet again, I know there is grace enough to withstand even amidst tears.  The sun will rise on a new day and joy will return. The waiting is the hard bit…

Psalm 30:5

Ang xx

“This too shall pass – it might pass like a kidney stone, but it will pass!”
– unknown author

Don’t forget about today. ..

I jumped out of bed,  ready to undertake the usual bathroom visit and face the day.  For around the last 4 months that has involved placing my right knee on a scooter and whizzing off down the hall. It has become quite second nature.  That is,  until today. 

For some reason this morning, I completely forgot that, as much as I want to,  I can’t just “get up and walk”. 

I’m not sure what inspired this rogue behaviour.  Perhaps it’s the two steps I took unaided the other day.  Perhaps it’s my brain wanting the recovery phase to be over.  Perhaps it’s indivative of something that’s common in humanity…. 

How often do we find ourselves wanting to be farther along the track than we are: older,  wiser, stronger, fitter…   Sometimes we want to skip the hard work and get straight to the destination,  albeit an ever changing one.  

We seldom celebrate where we are today, rather glorifying what could be out could have been. There is something beautiful about who you are and where your life is at today. You’re alive, for one.   Take a moment to remember and celebrate life itself.   

Acknowledge your weaknesses.   Let’s just say, forgetting you can’t walk, or denying there’s a struggle isn’t necessarily a good thing. It could cause more pain than it’s worth! 

Aim for more,  but be realistic about where you are.  Sometimes a bit more hard work is needed before you reach your goal.  

What steps do you need to take to reach your goals?  Don’t forget to celebrate where you are today before looking to the future.

You’ve got this!  We’ve got this! 

Run your race well.

Ang xx

One step at a time

I met a guy today  who had an ankle reconstruction 3 or 4 months ago.  He was walking and seemed to be doing well.  He spoke of the struggles of being in the boot and how it was difficult to get started walking again,  particularly with the rearranging of the tendons.

I’m happy for him. He’s been through his journey and come through the other side. It gives me a glimpse of hope that it is possible.  Although the surgery was different to mine,  it presented similar struggles.

But then,  there’s a part of me that grieves.  It’s now been over 16 weeks since I last walked and I’m struggling to keep my head together. I want to be better.  I want to “move on”. I want my independence back!

I think the biggest battle is in my head,  not in my foot.  The foot hurts, for sure,  but the head can take me much farther than my feet ever will. It has the power to make or break each moment.

I took a walk with crutches around 10 days ago and it set me back.  I was crippled in bed for 4 days.  Too much, too soon.  It seems I can’t just “get back into it”: not that I was completely naive.

Facing rehab is hard, especially with little guidance.  The “go at your own pace” usually works for me,  but this time finds me anguishing for more.  The pain in the foot is piercing; the tendons and muscles ache and cramp as though I’ve hiked for hours.  All this for just standing up.

Baby steps, I tell myself.  Get stronger every day.  One day at a time.  One attempt at a time.  It’s slow.  So very slow.

It will get easier.  It will get better.  I will walk again. I know that. But for now,  I’m keeping it real and letting you know that it’s bloody hard. My patience is only a strength to a point! My “bad” day has stretched into a few … and these four walls are driving me nuts.

Ever felt that way?

I’ll try to keep dancing in my head.  We’ll have a “walk again” party soon enough. Until next time … walk on!

 

Ang xx

Six years

It’s been almost six years since we last spoke.
Six years to grieve the loss of a relationship
Six years to grieve events that created a chasm between us
Six years to consider infinite numbers of ‘what ifs’ that could have changed history

It’s been almost six years since I sat motionless, sinking into a deep abyss
Six years since I called you to try to tell you what happened but lacked the words
Six years since I shook to my core and didn’t sleep for weeks
Six years since I was torn apart from the inside

It’s been almost 6 years since I last opened your door
Six years since we had a cuppa and talked of life and everything in it
Six years since home took on a different meaning
Six years since human failure shone brighter than the sun

It’s been almost six years and sometimes it still hurts like it was today
Six years of longing for restoration
Six years of hoping for healing
Six years of yearning to be at peace with it all

It’s been almost six years and I have become more
Six years of pain means six years of growth
Six years of change from within
Six years of struggle and fight for freedom

It’s been almost six years but I hold onto hope
Six years of second guesses
Six years of second chances
Six years to understanding that all can be well again

Six years here.

 

The monster within

Danger lurks around every corner
Peering through the doors
Cracks appear in broad daylight
And night offers no hope

Drenched in sweat as fears creep in
Flesh crawls from head to toe
The inescapable monster rears its head
Parades around and settles in

Good morning to you!
Good day and Goodnight!

If only you knew the fear that is my plight

From deep to deep the waters rush
Though murky they may be
The monster lurks and stomps around
Deep in the heart … of me

Why now do you come?
Why now rear your head?
Why set foot in this place?
You are not welcome here, you know?

But alas, I gave you space
Space to sit, space to grow
I gave you food, and you gained strength
This monster is my own

Each hurt brings fear
Each fear brings pain
Each pain nestles … deep in there

It grows and grows
It does not relent
‘Til at last it takes control
Of heart, mind, body and soul

Rebel my friend!
Rebel and repent!
Scream from within –
Do not let this pain take hold without consent

Withdraw consent and shout with me
Freedom we will proclaim
Healing, hope and forgiveness
Is found in Jesus’ name

No heights, no depths
No sin, no man
Can take you from his care

Rise up and face the monster
Show it that you do care

Be gone from here
Be gone right now
This space is not your own
It was bought for me so long ago
and I’ve decided to come home

 

 

Peace to you in all seasons,
Ang xx
Romans 8:37-39

Behind closed doors … what no one sees

Flares come and go. This one is etched eternally in my heart.

Living on my own, barely able to move; I lay on the bed. The pain, excruciating and debilitating, breathed heavily through my bones and joints. Stiffness draped over me like a blanket of lead, far too heavy to lift.

My hands, elbows, neck and shoulders all simultaneously locked and weakened as though they’d spent days on end in tight bonds, rendering them weak, swollen and useless.

Every movement needed to be measured. Getting up was beyond a chore and getting dressed became an option far too difficult to manage. Each step an awkward shuffle and stumble as pain pierced each step. Calculated risk, measured only by necessity.

You need to eat. 

I dragged myself off the bed with every ounce of my will power and shuffled to the kitchen. I paused: thankful that I’d made it this far, but internally hurt by how much effort it took to get there.

You can do this.

I took a deep breath and grimaced as I opened the cupboard door. The cereal was around head height. Visible. Within reach, yet may as well have been on mars. I tried so hard to reach. I grimaced, I breathed deeply. I tried swinging my arms to gain momentum.

I’ve been here before. It’s ok. It will pass. 

Yet each moment that passed brought a new level of frustration.
How is it that something as simple as making breakfast became the undoing of me?

I stood there and caved. Something deep inside me cracked and I cried out:
“How could anyone ever love this? Who would want to see this? And, why would they?” 

I was unable to get changed, unable to wash my hair, unable to move freely … and now I couldn’t even get myself a bowl of cereal. The words changed from courage to despair:

No one could ever love this.
No one could put up with this.
You can’t even …
It’s too much …
You’re too much … 

I stood and stared blankly at the cupboard. Overwhelmed with the heaviness of it all, I cried. I let out tears of pain and frustration that my body was yet again letting me down, and that I was seemingly on my own in this.

The weight of struggle rested behind the closed doors of my little house, hidden from the world: the world who couldn’t handle me at that point. The world only my parents knew of. The world I felt alone in.

Returning to my bed, the reality of my thoughts grieved me. It sat heavy on my heart and I poured out my soul on my pillow.

No one knows exactly what goes on behind closed doors. People think I’m strong, but that’s far from the truth. If they knew how hard it gets, how crippled these moments are … what then? How quickly would they run? Who would dare enter these walls?

The reality is hard to live with. Pain is ugly, messy and complicated.

No one sees this.
What is the point of it?
How can this ever be used for good?

I died a little that day. I died to the idea that I could be loved by someone. I was left with a renewed understanding that I alone live in this body. And that means everything it does or doesn’t do: I have to live with that. I couldn’t expect someone to come into my world. Why would they choose to be a part of that?

Thank God for resurrection.

You see, I know that I am more than the pain in my body. I am more than flesh and bone. This heart, this life, this being is simply more. It has more to give, more to offer and more to love. Confined by a body is different to being defined by it. Should someone enter this world, may it be a blessing both ways.

Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it sucks.
No, you’re not alone.
Yes, you’re worth it.
And … you can … you really, really can! 

Who would enter my world?  Your world?   Perhaps those who seek after truth and beauty, who look beyond the external and see what lie beneath.

We all have our pains, and there is hope in it.  In it, alongside it and all over it. There is always hope. There is a place of grace, rest and mercy.

Dear heart, stand up. If not physically, then metaphorically. Take heart and know that you really are loved and lovable.

And for those who come near, may you find the courage to sit and stay.
Stay with me. Stay with us. Together we are stronger.

May we all never be alone again.

Peace and rest to you,
Ang xx

Psalm 116:1 “I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy”

 

 

 

 

 

12 weeks on… still going…

Just a quick one to say that it’s now been 12 weeks since I had a triple foot fusion of my right hindfoot. 

12 weeks of no weight bearing. 2 more to go,  then rehab.  No weight bearing is hard.  Very hard. 

The first 6 weeks were made more difficult by a restriction on normal arthritis meds.  Prevent clots, but increase pain and stiffness.  Fun times… 

Mobility has been difficult,  but a knee walker has been a saving grace.  

The wounds are healing well and I’m scared but looking forward to learning to walk and regaining strength.  It too will take a lot of time and effort. It’ll be “good” pain!  I trust it will be worth it.

When fear comes I remind myself that we’ve been through so much before and always found a way to manage. 

We cope and fine ways to cope.  Sometimes in the solitude,  sometimes through others.  

May there be blessings in the journey.  

His grace is sufficient for me… and you! 

Talk soon xx

Life is a canvas

As darkness settles in for the night, a torrent of emotions flood.

Sleep, now elusive as a canvas spread across my mind is painted stroke by stroke with each thought.  Each feeling. 

Years of suppressed emotions come out to play. They dance upon the canvas as though it were some production on stage. 

They tease and torment as colour splashes across my face in violent outbursts. 

Until all at once they disappear.  

No movement. No noise. 

I sit in the silence of the night left only with the vision of the canvas laid out before me.

 It and my thoughts. 

As a toothache is worse at midnight, so too are the deep pangs of the soul. Trickery is mastered at night.  

The heart aches for a different time,  a different place, a different way.  

Yet as I gaze upon the explosion of colour before me I am struck by its beauty.  

Stillness strikes. Raging thoughts cease momentarily as light shines upon the canvas. 

Each stroke, each splash representative of each emotion, each hurt,  frustration,  anger and sorrow. Brought to life before my eyes. 

A living picture.  Messy and raw.  Alive and magnificent.  

No colour without emotion. No paint without experience.     

The canvas fades and sleep comes, bringing balm for the soul.

Arise my daughter,  your new day has come. 

 The canvas is your life and your story,  my song. 

These small hands …

“These hands are beautiful and precious. With them you will do much good. You will do many great things that honour God.  God will use them to bring healing.” 

 – a dear friend xx

As my friend spoke these words I was simultaneously brought to tears and gripped with scorn. Yeah, right. Have you seen them. They’re pretty useless.

I hated them. I hated everything about them. I’d do anything to hide them.

My hands are a source of great pain and a visual reminder of a crippling disease. Small. Deformed. Crippled. Weak. Gumby…. you name it. Though surgical intervention has reduced the pain and allowed some function, they still remind me that not all is well in my body.

I look back at photos of myself at the age of 7 or 8 and tears roll down my face. I’m drawn to the small, swollen hands, on the brink of falling apart. Joints weakened by arthritis and bones so small they almost disappear. I see the beginning of the deformities. The memories are perhaps worse than the reality was at the time. I knew no different then. I didn’t know what was coming, nor the impact it would have.

I remember the joints dislocating (subluxing) and each time it becoming more crippling. They crippled quickly as a child and attempts were made to save the joints through ongoing splinting, occupational and physio therapy. But dislocations took time; most of the finger joints dislocating completely while I was in high school.

Sometimes I would sit on the bus in silent tears rubbing my joints, begging them to stay in alignment, knowing that they were mere days away from ‘falling off’. The synovial fluid would cause swelling, the tendons would slip and the bones would slip past the joint. Occasionally I could pull them back into alignment, but never for long. Splints were useless at this point. All I could do was wait to come of age for surgical intervention, and watch the rest of the joints ‘go’, one by one over the following decade until there was hardly a bone in its ‘rightful’ place.

The wrists did the same thing – the left one was particularly spectacular. The meta carpal bones essentially disintegrated and my hand all but fell off my wrist – the ulna was on top of my hand. The result is 2 fused wrists: one at 19 and the other at 23 (because in my pride I chose pain because I refused to be a 21  year old with 2 fused wrists).

After all the operations – Palm down, 2014

Palm up, 2014

My hands held me back. Grip failed frequently, resulting in embarrassments as drinks fell into my lap without any recognition from my brain as to what had happened. Piano keys now tapped one at a time, fingers mashing keyboards and clapping something representative of a monkey wearing mittens.

My 7 year old has bigger hands than me. My 4 year old is catching up!

My friend held my hands and spoke: “These hands are beautiful and precious. With them you will do much good. You will do many great things that honour God.  God will use them to bring healing.”   As she drew attention to my hands there were tears of doubt and pain. Deep hurts reflective of years of splinting, stiffness, stretching,  physical therapy, torture … Could they really be useful or of value. Could I be useful or of value? Ouch!

Interesting, isn’t it?! Somehow these words unlocked a world of pain that revealed something that was holding me back. Something I never thought to be ‘true’. I try not to let my body dictate who I am – I have known for a long time that I am far more than this vessel. I rebel against the system and make every effort to prove people wrong (more on that later). But perhaps there’s more; something so deep it went undetected…  perhaps there’s a sense of shame?

Could there be healing from these hands?  Could they hold the keys to freedom? What if these hands can reflect the heart – the heart that screams for grace and mercy. The heart that screams for peace and healing in this broken world.

On reflection, these are hands that:

• rub my children’s backs to connect and comfort
• holds their hands across the street to keep them safe
• prepares food to nourish
• bakes to bless
• gently rest on a friend’s shoulder to comfort
• write to bring hope

Somehow  these hands continue to function despite the pain, smallness, stiffness and deformity.

Will I ever be unashamed of the hands that have not seen healing? I don’t know, but perhaps in realising that though broken they are of value, there is hope.

My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
– Jewel, “Hands”