Life, death and Gilligan's Island

I'm getting to the point where I'm getting bored by TV and actually beginning to feel guilty for watching so much. I suppose this is progress. I have all these books on tape downloaded, and stack of novels and great works of non-fiction by the side of my bed. And all have stayed virtually (or in actuality) shut. And the thing is, I just love books. But the idea of absorbing anything deeper than Judge Judy (did you know that there are like ten of these judge shows by the way?) seems daunting. Now, however, I'm feeling like my brain will really begin to rot. Like there's a brown spot on it that began in childhood with Leave it to Beaver and Gilligan's Island and I Dream of Jeanie marathons that would happen every time I was home sick (which wasn't often, as my mom required actual proof of illness to stay home, such as actual real throw up -- impossible to fake -- or a temperature of 100 above -- as in 99 meant, go to school, Jack) or just came home after school and turned on the so-called electronic baby sitter. Don't be acting all holier than thou. I know that you folks raised in the 70s remember those times. Love American Style. Fantasy Island. Mary Tyler Moore. Bewitched. OMG, I'm having a boomer nostalgia moment. Man, did I ever love those shows. But now, it's like the previous post mentioned, crap like Maury Povich. I mean, I was turning on the TV for some white noise and there's this whole program on men who love to beat their wives and the wives who get beaten. It started with a series of shiny-faced guys (do bad guys always have shiny faces on TV?) yelling at the camera things like: My wife is mine. If she don't draw a hot bath for me when I get home, I kick her. I throw ice on her and lock her in the closet, etc. Then it shows the woman in studio being interviewed. But I love my man, crying, teary-eyed. Pan to audience. Exasperated gasps, sympathetic tears, hands to mouths. Shock. Fear. Disgust. The ol' emotional gut-punch to viewer between commercials from Geico and whatever other crap I've been watching. . Yep. I was getting sucked in. Then I had a moment. Man, am I really sitting here watching this? Is this what it has come to? But TV is strangely comforting. Having another voice in the room. I am not alone. I am distracted from my thoughts. Very Buddhist, no? Kidding. Click. It's off. Easy, right? Click.

So then the doorbell rings (now I'm talking about Friday) and it's Susan, my acupuncturist. Two minutes later, it's Doris, my wonderful neighbor. She's on her way to New York for the weekend and is dropping off her key so I have a copy in case she locks herself out or something. She makes me show her where I put the key. Smart woman. (Imagine the call at 3 a.m. one night. Doris: Hi. this is Doris. Locked myself out. Can you get out my keys? Me. Sure. Um, if I can find them.... three hours later... you get the point.) So I'm kind of frantic, limping to the door (because a few PTs said I should walk so I'm weight-baring (OK, here I need a copy editor. Is baring the right spelling here?) which will help my bones to heal into my muscle or something. (Because I actually do need reminders that my bones were sawed off and that's why it hurts so damn much).

Susan catches my energy. We go to my room (Doris leaves, embarking on what I hope will be an incredible journey -- Chinese New Year in New York. I expect to feel envious, but I don't. Doris has been so supportive and wonderful and she is such a great person, I'm just hoping she has a blast.)

So, anyhow, Susan and I spend a lot of time talking. Mostly it's me talking. Blathering. Kind of like I'm doing now. But she listens well. And that is a gift. She talks me down. Calms me. She reminds me: breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Find your breath. Ahhhhhh. Sigh. . Ahhh. I'm doing it . I breathe and then I begin to cry. The pain fills me. It is not emotional pain and that is somehow comforting.This is just raw pain. Gnawing, raw sandpaper on skin pain. Susan reminds me that this is completely normal. This is how it feels. This is how it feels for everyone. And in fact, she has a friend who was in much MORE pain. Whose knee swelled at least three times larger than mine. Who suffered. But how now takes hikes. Who is better. This is the kind of story I need now. I need to know I will get through this. I have so many stories about people who were running on their fifth day post op. These are discouraging. I was bleeding my fifth day post-op and crying to the nurses, begging for my meds. I was not a hero. I was not a miracle. I was slow and in pain and not noble in the least bit. But knowing now that I'm OK -- that I'm on track makes me breathe relief. Phew. . The tears roll down and then she has the needles in me and I am relaxing and falling asleep. The pain has for the moment passed through me. I have let it go. Amazing.

It's 2:50 a.m. Look at this post. Another frantic stream of consciousness, fueled by pain and anxiety and pills. But now, at this very moment, I am breathing. Reminding myself. Breathe. Am calming. Yes. This is the way to do it. And it reminds me that I not only want to come out of this with a good, strong, healthy knee; I also want to come out of this with a good, strong, healthy.. disposition. OK. Disposition is the wrong word. Not sure right now what is the right one? But basically, this is the beginning of a change.

For me, the whole decision to do this surgery was life changing. Yes, even just making the decision. It felt like I was making the decision to plunge into my fears. To go off the high dive. To do it. As a kid, I used to go to the end of the board and think, flip, Janet, damn it, flip. (Have I written about this already? If so, well, skip it but it just works for me as a real-life analogy). Just DO IT (although this was before Nike's slogan infected popular culture). . I'd walk to the edge of the board and then freeze. DO IT. I'd say it in my brain. If there were people watching, they might have yelled a bit in encouragement. Or more likely, they rolled their eyes and thought, damn, girl, it's just a flip into a pool. It ain't a walk into the pits of hell. But it felt that way. Like I was plunging into a new life, a new death. Finally, I would just do it. I'd tell myself, this is it. This is it. No turning back and then I'd go, certain I was facing my own death. Certain I would never reappear. And also knowing as I spun in the air that man, this is just a little flip. Why did I make such a big deal about it? I do bigger things than flips every day. I just don't think about it.

Anyhow, surgery was maybe like that. Except it really was a big fiery vat of fear and pain and everything else that I jumped into. And right now, I'm still in mid air. I'm in the flip. And I still don't know what it will be like when I land. So I'm filled with fear. But I'm also filled with resolve and sometimes, in moments when I can remember to breathe, peace. There is no turning back. I've done this thing. And I'm scared shitless. But I'm also proud. And excited. And worried. And hopeful. Terribly hopeful. Filled with all this optimism. All this fear. All this joy. Because I did it. I did it. And somehow I think it will help me in my life to take other leaps. Other jumps. To face big fears. To do things in spite of danger. That was my new year's resolution -- to face my fears. I'm not talking about bungee jumping or sky diving. For me, it means following my dreams. You know? Like when I want something so bad that it turns my stomach into jello acid. So much I want to change the subject and run screaming from the room. I have those thing. The things that make me scared. Those at the things I know I need/want to do. That is what life is about. Yeah, another cliche, but I don't want to reach the end of my life (if I have that privilege of knowing when I am to die) and think, I just wish I had done x or Y.. . And my X's and Ys are big. I won't go into them now. And now I'm getting sleepy for real.

But back to the acupuncture. Susan helps to remind me that this is part of something bigger. Much bigger. It is my life. This is my ticket to freedom. To a small gate of freedom. For the last ten, fifteen years, my knee has been this thing. This big thing that follows me wherever I go. Like an unwelcome house guest, It demands attention. It limits me. Um, no, sorry, can't go skiing in Tahoe. I got this house guest who won't leave. Yeah. My knee . . No, don't think I can go dancing. Um, can't go to that convention. Too much walking. Disneyland? Sure but you're going to have to push me around in a wheelchair.. . yeah, I know you don't mind. But I hate it. Pushed around like a three-year-old or ninety year old. I'm not ready for that yet. It's not ageist. I just ... well, you get the picture. So, I breathe.

OK. So I'm getting tired and losing my stream of consciousness here so forgive me. But I'm still going to post this. After all, aren't blogs about the here and now?

Anyhow, I was going to artfully weave in this thing that Susan said, but I'm too tired to want to be artful. so I will just share this brilliant piece of wisdom. Things like this constantly come out of her mouth in this sort of Jewish New Yorker-cum-California healer way that I sometimes have to pause and reflect on her brilliance and wisdom. I stopped to write this one down:

"If you're holding your breath, you're holding your experience back. "

Seems silly. Small. But read that again because it's profound. And right. I've been saying that to myself. and Breathing. And then breathing again. Slow. slow. slow. There is always time to hurry. This is a moment that will never come again. Don't be cynical, I have to tell myself. This really is important.

That's what I'm going to do right now.

Congrats to anyone who made it this far. Call me up and I'll send chocolate. (PS -- Rachel, if you got this far, the title was for you)