...cauterizing the wound...

 The irony is not lost on me that I went into January with a focus on healing...as first my youngest~then my eldest~and now myself (and my partner) all succumbed to the viral Winter '23 virus surge.  Presently, I'm curled up in the recliner, blankets wound about me in perplexing tangles, with a veritable pharmacy on hand beside me.  I'm medicated, and then some, and slightly hazy around the edges.

Yesterday was, among other things, the perfect counterpoint to my word for the year.  It was a bitter reminder of how far I'd allowed myself to fall.  And a lesson, by deed/not word, of what not to do, for my children.  In fact, later in the evening I very intentionally said to my eldest " Don't EVER let one bad thing that happens to you jostle you so off-course that you wind up here." 

Talk about shame...and self-loathing...and...
...terror.

And the self-feeding cycle of all those emotions as I struggled to come to terms with what I already knew...

My focus this year was going to be on healing.

On my terms.

At my pace

In safe, gentle ways.

Was.

But here and now...my hand was being forced without time to process.  I was...sick.

My youngest came down with cold symptoms and eye-discharge first.  Then my eldest spiked a fever, chills, congestion...and pinkeye.  A week later, I woke up with a burning throat and a steadily rising temperature.  Excruciating throat pain with every breath...post-nasal drip...pressure in the sinuses...etc..
But I "soldiered" on...tending to my children and my partner, easing their discomfort, convinced I could power through mine. 

Just pop the Aleve and keep the citrus coming.  I can fight this off myself.

Mind you...we all just got over RSV which paid a visit in November and over-stayed its welcome.  I'm nursing, still, and I'm quite convinced that my body is putting more effort into making milk then it is into healing itself. 

But I digress...

I was sick.  I needed real medicine...not just fever-reducers and clear liquids.

But the very idea of stepping through the doors of a medical office made me want to cry.

I'm not a crier.  I'm a blink it back...swallow it...never let them see you hurt...

Perhaps learning how to cry is part of healing?

So, something happened.  Once. One bad thing.  Horrific, really. 

You don't need to know, and I don't need to write it out.  Not here. Not now.

It was a bad thing.

One bad thing that I have, in my post-traumatic avoidance, allowed to fester and grow into an all-encompassing terror that stops me in my tracks.  It defies reason and logic, and the pursuit of health. 

One bad thing happened.  To me.

And I have spent all these years, trying to protect myself the only way I knew how...but in reality, just continuing to be a victim.

Because I just stopped.

I have tried.  Please know that.  I have made the appointments, and from time to time, I have managed to force myself to go.  But eventually the fear overrides my earnest attempts, and the years go by.

This is trauma. And it has always been stronger than my will.

So I have gone years without a check-up...without dental interventions...without primary and continuing care.  Because I am weaker than my fears.

Yesterday, I was so sick...so weak...that my fear-response weakened, too.

I made it in the door.  I made it to the counter.  I asked if there was someone on-call for sick visits.

And I was turned away.

Because, you see, my fear...my fear had kept me out of that office for more than three years...the outside window of time that my practitioner has for considering someone an established patient.

There I was.  Inner monologue firing off warning bells as I held myself rigid so as not shake.  Having fought a battle just to cross that doorstep.  And...no...   No, I couldn't be seen.  No, I couldn't get help.  No.

I said "thank you" and walked out.  I got to the car and collapsed inside and broke into a million little pieces of self-loathing and shame.  This.  This was what I had done to myself.  Here and now, unable to get the medical help I needed because I hadn't been braver...sooner.  Why was I so weak...so pitiful?  Oh, how I hated myself then.

(In hindsight, with a cocktail of pharmaceuticals in me as I type this...it's the man that I hate...the one who did the thing...the one who made a victim of me.  But yesterday, I could only see my own shame.)

Home again.  In defeat. In shame.  Sick.  Exhausted from illness and from the fight to get past the fear.  Feverish and dizzy and weak after weeks of caring for everyone else while ignoring myself.

Aiming for stoic on the outside, but hysterical beyond the point of return on the inside.

Thankfully, my youngest was still napping.  My eldest helped me into the house...settling me down and wrapping me up like a burrito...tending to me as I've tended to him.  I hid my face as I cautioned him to not let fear ever disrupt him.  I hid as hot tears spilled out of my burning eyes.

I hid my shame. My fear.  My weakness.

I was an embarrassment.  A broken, useless thing not fit to be his parent.

And he tended to me.  Cool water and warm blankets and soft hands on my forehead.  Lights out and silence and whispered reassurances.

(He's a miracle, this one.)

Some time later, my partner returned, having found an urgent care that would accept my insurance. (Most don't, and we don't have the financial security blanket to cover medical emergencies.)

Back into the car...inner dialogue of tough-love resumed...and off we went.

I made it in the door...over that threshold.  I filled out the tablet-intake screen.

Followed the texted prompts and typed in the necessary fields.

Sat in the chair, waiting, repeating over and over...stand up, walk in, don't cry.

Finally, my name was called.

I stood up.

Walked in.

Gasped in a breath of face mask and cold, sterile hallway as my temperature was taken, and found myself in triage...counting the black dots on the wall in front of me as some part of my brain answered the assistant's questions.

Temperature, again.

Step on the scale. Ouch...my brain registering a number higher than I used to be.

Sitting down...blood pressure cuff.  I froze in panic as it tightened...feeling invisible fingers clenching my arm.  Black dots. One...two...twenty-seven...  Done.

"Follow me."

Back in the hallways with bright lights buzzing and astringent smell.

Then the gaping silence of a small room.  My adrenaline firing at every crinkle of the paper beneath me.  My breathing suddenly so loud that I didn't hear the footsteps or knock or door opening.

"I'm Doctor ____.  What brings you in here today?"

Rote answers.  Rehearsed in my head in advance.  Hands clenched around each other to no one could see the claw marks my fingers were leaving.  Pain to override freezing panic.

Checking me over.  Checking my chart.

Lights.  Swabs.

Gagging and tearing up.

Apologizing, over and over, and asking for a moment.

The doctor...older...stepping back, confused but waiting for me to gather hold of myself.

A second try at swabbing my throat.  I stayed rigid this time and didn't break.

He said "good job" and I felt a flush of...embarrassment...pride...something...

The assistant vanished to run tests while the doctor checked my ears and nose and throat again...palpating glands sore to the touch.  Asking again about my children and their symptoms.

He stepped out and I yanked my mask down, gasping for unhindered air.

Then chastised myself for that weakness and hoisted it back up.

The door opened again.  Rapid results all negative.

Caution to quarantine until the next set.

Diagnoses as he checked my sinuses again.  Directions.  Pressing in on those swollen glands and cautioning me to take everything as directed.  A moment's pause as he stopped to look me directly in the eye.  Then a hand-pat of reassurance..."It's all in my notes.  You don't have to remember it all."

Still nursing, so only one kind of antibiotic allowed and only at a lower dose...so...

Antibiotics.  Eye drops. Rinses.  Fever reducers.  OTCs for the post-nasal drip and cough and sore throat.  Homeopathy for increased comfort and symptom reduction.

"I'll put it all in my notes."

Referrals to specialists in case I need them.

Another hand pat.  "I don't expect you to need them."

Then out the door to discharge.

Features arranged and held on pause....blank...waiting for paperwork.

Back to the car.

Safe.

Collapse.

I did it.

I did that.

I made it through.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm sick.  Medicated.  Fuzzy and feverish.

I liken it...yesterday...to cauterizing the wound.  A painful, but necessary sealing.  Burning to stop the ongoing bleeding...just long enough to store up energy for the next step.

(In my limited, layman's understanding of that process.)

A beginning to healing.

There will be more.

They may hurt more...or less.

But now I know what it feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This year I chose heal as my word.

Apparently, it chose me back...and upped the stakes...forcing my hand, maybe before I thought I was ready...but in its own perfect time.

Yesterday I was full of shame.  Full of self-loathing.

Today, I'm full of meds and a little bit of pride.

Just enough of each to write it out of me.

Just enough to take note of the triumph.

...leftovers...

 Yes, yes, we all get it...
We carry the past along with us into the present.
But...
really...
2022?

Here I am, making plans and setting intentions, and the door I closed firmly behind me swings wide open...creaking, shrieking hinges and all...

"Settle"...it intones.
"Settle down and simmer. Settle in....you're not done yet."

That healing?  Welp...

My eldest has pinkeye...and a viral congestion "thing" and we've had to hit pause again. 

Small space living means any illness requires some form of self-sequestering...and halving our living space.  Which, with a rambunctious and ever-curious toddler, is...definitely settling for less.

Ugh!

Thankfully, today...day one...the weather is GLORIOUS!  So, Henri and I are taking full advantage of open windows and open spaces (outside) while Johannes huddles up in his blanket of misery, confined to his room and blissfully excused from any technology-limits.  He's settled in comfortably, with all the comforts of computer~3d printers~Keurig...perfectly prepped for the long haul.  Now he just has to settle down enough to get those eye drops in!

And I?

I'm settling down...down...down...and setting aside my to-do list for today.

Settling in for what's likely to spread like wildfire.  

I'm settling for acceptance that there will always be things that come along to trip us up but healing as an active process means moving through them without falling.

So here I am... 

2023 ...

with last year's lesson on settling learned...no matter how many tests you decide to send my way!

 Progress.

There's a loaded word.

There's progress in achievement, right?  Where every step forward is counted as forward motion.

There's progress in action.  Literally one step (or movement) toward the conclusion.

There's progress along paths and journeys and travels and trajectories.

There's progress in pregnancies, and education, and careers.

And then there's progress...the loaded version...the word used when achievement is not in reach...when the development is stalled or so slow it might as well be frozen. 

That progress is the word that makes the reading of its reports an exercise in grief:
Progress Reports.
Namely, those associated with special education.
Reports where progress is noted and tallied and far too often...halted.

Where that bold black "P" just stares up defiantly from the page...day to day...month to month...sometimes year to year...never, ever turning into an "A" for achieved.

That progress is like a spill of black ink...gradually staining the page till everything is soaked in the lack of movement...the lack of development...the lack of achievement.

Sometimes that "P" is a lie.  A statement of progress that was happening at one point and has stopped since.

Sometimes it's a white lie...true in its basic definition but not accounting for the understood nuance of progress as defined by change.  Incapable of accounting for, or of, change that is so minimal...so gradual...as to be indistinguishable in the days or weeks or months or years.

"How's he progressing with that?", is a question that's been posed to me far too many times of late.  A well-intentioned expression of interest and care...I know...but one that's a literal pain in the neck.

(I carry my stress in my neck and shoulders)

"Any progress yet?", is another.

Both make my eye tic a bit, as I struggle to find the perfect, neutral expression with which to respond "No change" without those words imparting something negative to the solicitor or stirring up some feeling of defeat in me. 

The checkbox next to the goal reads "P", as it has for months now.

I expect it still will, months from now.

Perhaps that "P" isn't meant for me.  Perhaps it only exists as a clinical observation...a way to box into the structure of typical development a boy...this boy: brilliant and neurodivergent and expanding exponentially in ways that don't tick boxes or fulfill milestone expectations. 

Perhaps the progress report is just a piece of paper with ink on it.  Not a complete picture...not an accurate reflection...not even a realistic observation.  One hour a week...a clinical hour at that of 45 functional minutes or so...hardly equates to a full understanding of a child's skills~behaviours~intellect...of a child's progress. A snapshot that's been altered for size and contrast and saturation...but comes up pale and blurry against the real thing.

Perhaps progress is a misnomer, after all.  A word used in place of ones with more negative connotations...such as average or basic or ordinary as applied to development.  Perhaps progress is simply what's expected, and when it comes up against something different, it stops...like a computer program when it encounters functions beyond its coded parameters.

Perhaps the best answer is the easiest:

"At his own pace."

...January : The List...

You've only to look around my home to know I am a girl who loves a good list.

My "workspace"...a traveling stack of planners and papers and scraps...has lists for every purpose.

Actually, now that I write it out...
it's not the lists I love...
it's the checking off of items that brings me joy.

✔✔✔

This season of parenting...of a gap-year young adult + a rambunctious, frustrated toddler + my stepchildren (long distance though they may be) has made the need for lists far greater than before.
I need the lists.
I need them to keep track

 ❒ of tasks

❒ of details

❒ of dates

❒ of all the things I've fallen so far behind on.

I need the lists to remind me of the things I can do...should do...will do...and, yes, have done.

I need the lists to remind me that whatever it was that I couldn't get to today, by want of time or money or energy or silence or space, I might be able to tackle tomorrow...and that's okay.

Those lists are the ones that allow me to feel like my feet are on solid ground in the midst of the maelstrom of life.

But those are not this.

Oh, no.

This list...this is my January list.

My first list in what I intend to make 12 of...a "bucket list" for every month this year, for our family:

❒ hike the South Mountain Fairy Trail and make a fairy home from natural findings

❒ gather pinecones and make birdseed/nut butter pinecone feeders

❒ go on a rock hunt for round white rocks and build snowmen with them

❒ cocoa and marshmallows around the firepit

❒ "spraypaint" pictures in the snow with spraybottles of water/food coloring

❒ sledding

❒ fill the freezer with chilis and soups

❒ make snow-eis

❒ make spaghetti-eis with vegan ice cream

❒ explore one of NJ's waterfalls in the winter...look for ice flows

❒ walk the beach and gather shells, rocks, seaglass...bundle up!

❒ meet a friend for coffee...or sushi

❒ visit a museum and make a meal of appetizers at a new restaurant

❒ teach Henri 3 new signs

❒ try a new recipe

❒ play sous-chef to Johannes for one dinner prep

❒ go on a low-spend thrift-jaunt daytrip: pack sandwiches, snacks and beverages and only spend money on thrifted treasures

❒ have a "dessert for breakfast" day

❒ set up the Christmas tree outside and hang it with edible ornaments for our wildlife neighbors

❒ work on scissor skills with Henri and cut out paper snowflakes for the windows

❒ go out to dinner with just Johannes

❒ go out to lunch with just Henri

❒ sleep in one morning, and eat breakfast while watching cartoons

❒ drive to a desolate spot and stargaze at night, with hot cocoa of course!

❒ attend a library program

❒ read a book with Johannes...engage in book club discussion about it

❒ have breakfast for dinner

❒ plan a future overnight trip

❒ make "care packages" for each other

❒ explore a 'new to us' NJ town

❒ install a new shelf in Johannes' room

~~~

Let's check back in on the 31st and see how many boxes we ✔ off!

...a fresh coat of paint...

Blank slate, right?
The first Monday of the new week...new month...New Year.

Blank slate?

Hmm...not really.  After all, I'm still me...mess and all...

Perhaps a better visual is "fresh coat of white paint".
Everything that's gone before is still there, after all...just under the surface.  But in layering this New Year on top...with all of it possibility and promise..it's a chance to create something more...something different...something beyond what last year's picture of life became.
That fresh coat is a way of acknowledging that there's history.  It relies on what's gone before to build up the layers on which it lies. There's...topography...under the surface.  Hills and valleys, shadow and light...there's history, and it's forever altered the shape and weight and texture of the canvas.

The fresh coat glides smoothly over it all...rising and falling where I have done the same.  But it's very existence...all that empty white space...means the art is changing... 

 So here I am, first Monday of the New Year, with a white expanse before me on which to start something...not new...but beyond.  To create a piece of art of this life of mine that takes my history into account and finds beauty in every brushstroke.

~~~

Honoring who I am and what I've endured is important in this process of creation...of healing.  Rather than diving in and risking immediate overwhelm~burnout~panic, I'm taking it slowly.  I'm resolved to be gentler with myself this year.  To treat my breaks and bruises with the same tenderness I would anyone else's.  To, instead of working through them, allow them the time and space and attention to heal.

So today, between the hustle and bustle of daily life, I'm taking one very small, very cautious step forward by finding the time to organize all the papers and cards and phone numbers that I'll need in order to schedule health-appointments.  I'm hoping...pausing as I type, to cross fingers on both hands and whisper "please"...that this forced abandonment of my previous hit-the-ground-running will mean that I can take in the associated fears individually, in manageably smaller doses...rather than forcing the issue and risking breakdown.  The goal, for today, is to unemotionally approach the logistics side of my health...by organizing what I'll need on the future day when I have the right support by my side to make the calls and schedule the appointments.  

And in doing so, mindfully, I've already begun my journey of healing.  Recognizing that my previous pattern was harmful to me, and only giving myself one actionable task at a time, while recognizing that in order for me to heal in this area, I need to break it down into smaller chunks and make sure that I have someone there to "hold my hand" when the fear sets in.

~~~

This year ahead has 363 more days left. I don't need to do it all at once.

~~~

Healing means taking things as slowly as needed to stay within my boundaries...my comfort zone.
Healing means setting my foot on solid ground with each step forward.
Healing means acceptance of my limitations...addressing the core of my fears...and allowing my loved ones to support me.
Healing means praising my efforts, even when the pace is slow.

~~~

Today, healing means:

sitting down to write it out

stopping the lesson to laugh

playing instead of tidying up

a phone call with my former m.i.l./good friend

listening to the pain and readjusting my grip

organizing the necessary paperwork

~~~

Today, 2nd January, first Monday of the first week of the first month of the New Year...I've put color to canvas and begun to create what comes next.

...january plans...