We Get But One Life

Today marks an anniversary of sorts for myself.  On October 22, 2013 my life changed forever.  It was one of those life-changing events that you don't plan to have happen, or even want to have happen. It just does.

Sometime after dinner on October 21 when the kids had gone to bed, I had begun putting together lunches for the following day.  Suddenly it was very difficult to move my right wrist.  And when I did try to move it, it was quite painful.  My first thought was that my carpal tunnel was acting up.  I had never been officially diagnosed with carpal tunnel but years of clerical work had taken their toll on my body.  But that would have been odd.  I was currently on a leave from work so I had not been typing or doing any of my usual job duties that would have aggravated things.  My next thought was that perhaps I had broken a small bone in my wrist.  A few days prior I had fallen down the stairs and reached out with my hand to brace my fall.  Had I broken a bone then and hadn't realized it?  My thoughts went to a fellow co-worker describing how she had fallen in the shower and not realized until a few days later that she had indeed broken a small bone in her wrist.  Whatever the case I had things to get done and I did not have time for nursing what I was certain was nothing.

In an attempt to get fit and healthy I had recently begun working out with a personal trainer. Although I was feeling slightly nauseous (which I attributed to the smell of the fish cooking in the oven) I made myself go down into our basement and complete my daily workout.  I had difficulty getting my right workout glove on and during the workout I used my right hand and wrist as little as possible.  Getting my glove off at the end of the workout was even more difficult and I noticed that there was a "bump" on the top of my wrist.  I thought it was a "Bible bump"; a ganglion cyst that used to be treated by striking it with a large, heavy book (i.e. a Bible) so as to rupture the cyst and cause it to drain.  But then again what did I know?  It was another work colleague who had informed me about such bumps.  So given that my wrist was swollen and aching, I did what made the most sense - I iced, took two Advil and went to bed.

Fast forward to approximately 1 o'clock in the morning.  I was sleeping and suddenly there was my young son trying to crawl into bed with me.  Call that Divine Intervention.  I know that it was a Higher Power that sent my son into my room to awake me.  As soon as I awoke I knew that something was very wrong with my wrist.  What happened next and how I ended up at the hospital is neither here nor there.  Suffice to say that within a very short period of time the hospital's ICU Intensivist was at my bedside telling my husband and myself that I was "a very sick girl".  He said that I had necrotizing fasciitis - flesh eating disease - and that surgery would be required.

I'm Going to be Okay!

There are many things that happened from that moment on that will remain with me forever.  And there are several things that I cannot recall.  What matters most, however, is that when I was finally taken off of life-support and could make some sense of where I was and what had happened, I was surrounded by the people who mattered most in my life and my arm and hand were still attached!

Today is October 22, 2015.  Some days it is hard to believe that two years have passed since that most unfortunate incident.  And other times, when I catch an adult staring at my scars, when a child asks, "what happened to your arm?", when the weather turns damp or cool and my hand seizes up, when I catch myself thinking about the skin graft and the numerous operations and procedures, I remember every single one of those 730 days that have comprised the past two years.

The "truth" is that we always have a choice as to how we will respond to, and feel about, what we experience in life.  People tell me that I am "strong"; that they are in awe of the recovery that I have made.  The truth is that I am no stronger than any other person.  I did what I had to in order to survive and be a mother and a wife to the people who needed me most.  That being said, I definitely experienced dark times.  No one stares death in the face and walks away unscathed.  And while I believe that it was natural and necessary to grieve the loss of something I once had - an unmarred arm with a beautiful tattoo of my Nana - there was nothing to be gained from wallowing in self-pity and anger.

Anything Is Possible

My experience made me sit up and take a long, hard look at my life.  I kept asking myself, "If this had been it, how do you feel about, or what do you have to show for, the life that you lived?"  And the truth is that I wasn't very happy with the answers.

We get but one life.  It's such a simple fact and one that I took for granted until now.  I am finally chasing my dream and pursuing my love of writing.  I applied for, and was recently accepted into, a Master's program.  And at the ago of 40 I just completed my first 1/2 marathon.

So today marks my two-year anniversary.  Today I remember what "pain" truly is -  I think that's inevitable.  But I also remember the first time my kids were able to come and visit me in the ICU - it was Hallowe'en night.  I remember the first Tim Horton's coffee that I was allowed to drink and that was brought to me by my dad.  I remember the husband who sat by my side every day while I healed.  And I remember the friends and work colleagues and strangers who sent up a multitude of prayers on my behalf.

Today I remember that I survived!

God bless.  

Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear Lord,

Take my hand and show me the way.
Hear my prayers
And shoulder my burdens.
No matter the struggles I face,
Knowing that you are by my side
Fills me with strength and a renewed determination.
Use me in your service to
Love, accept, and give of myself unconditionally.

To You go the praise and the glory.
Amen.

With Growth Comes Awareness

No matter how you feel about it as a parent, the day is going to come when your young child “discovers” his or her genitals.  I grew up in a home where the understanding was you do not touch yourself, period!  My husband says that there was no “understanding” in his home - they just didn't talk about it, period!  It was surprising then that both my husband and I agreed that it was “natural” for the kids to touch themselves and that we were not going to reprimand them for doing so.  They just needed to follow two simple rules:  1. any touching needed to be done in the privacy of their own bedrooms, and 2. when they were finished they needed to wash their hands!

This sudden awareness of our kids’ gave rise to conversation about the terminology my husband and I would use when speaking to them about their body parts.  We agreed to use the anatomically correct terms.  That being said, both kids knew that boys had penises and girls had vaginas.  Imagine my surprise then when my five year old son, who was cuddling with me on the comfy chair, pointed to his penis and asked, “Is this your junk?”

Your “junk”?  It wasn’t that I was shocked or appalled – I thought it was hilarious.  I was surprised, however, because I had never heard him use that term.  While I admit that on occasion my kids have heard some pretty colorful language in our home, penises and “junk” did not get mentioned in the same sentence.  So I quickly deduced that this was a term he had picked up on the school playground or from the neighborhood kids.

“Some boys might call it their “junk”,” I said, “but that’s not what you call it.  It’s your penis.  And remember that you do not need to be talking about it with, or showing it to, anyone outside of this home!”

Were we getting ready to go somewhere?  I don’t know.  But shortly after that exchange my son was stripping out of his pajamas to change into other clothes.  That would have been fine except that suddenly he was naked, spread eagle on his back on my comfy chair, rolling his “junk” around in his hand!

“That is not appropriate!” I shrieked in my “outside voice”.  “No one in this family wants to see that.  Close your legs and get your clothes on!”

But the fascination of being able to roll his testicles around was just too much for him to ignore.

“Is this hair?” he asked as he craned his neck around his raging erection to see the baby-fine, barely-visible blonde hairs on his scrotum.

“Yes it’s hair,” I answered.  The same baby-fine, barely-visible blonde hair that was atop your precious head when I squeezed it out of my vagina!  Of course I didn’t say that!  But I did finish with, “Now get your clothes on and go wash your hands!”

Why was this so difficult?  We had two simple rules:  1. Touch yourself, play with yourself – whatever!  But do it in the privacy of your own bedroom and 2. Wash your hands when you’re finished!  And why was I the one having this conversation with my son when his father was sitting just feet away at the kitchen table, head buried behind a magazine disguising his laughter as a coughing-fit?  Thankfully it did not take long before my son finally had his clothes on and things were back under control.

But then I heard my five-year-old son say as he walked over to the kitchen table, “Dad, I have hair on my junk.”

Dear Lord, give a mommy strength!  I had to leave the room.  There was nothing that could have stopped the laughter that erupted from my throat once I was safely behind a closed door.  But here’s the “truth”:  Children grow and change and there is no stopping that.  Growth and change begets discovery.  As parents we always have a choice as to how we will respond to, or handle, that new-found awareness.  My husband and I chose to respond in a manner that did not berate, chastise or humiliate our kids, and in a manner that gave them knowledge and understanding. 

So until the next revelation that my son or daughter inevitably comes out with, this mommy will continue to tell it like it is – junk, hair and all!