fear

 a moment of hope and relief, and then anxiety and fear again...

saw Dr. P. today. she listened to my lungs and said they seem good. no presence of pneumonia. she wasn't alarmed by the lab results like I was. Of course, she knows how to read them. Overall, the visit with her seemed fairly straightforward and reassuring. I got a shot in my bum of something for pain relief. She ordered a spinal xray to see what might be going on with my chest and lungs.

I headed over to A. Imaging. pretty straightforward, but a good number of images were collected. I started crying in the middle of it. Nothing hurt. Nothing was outright scary. But, you know... the body keeps the score. All the early medical trauma I've experienced can't help but bubble up. I was scared. I don't like being in medical offices. I don't like being a patient. I don't like being a patient with a mystery to be solved. It fucking scares me.

Mom had picked me up from Dr. P's and taken me to AI since I'm not capable of driving. My arms function very much like a penguin or a T rex these days, which is to say, not much at all. My neck and spine are much different than a scarecrow right now. it's not a pretty sight or a fun ride.

we picked up Chinese food and my prescription for some more pain relief and help with inflammation; prednisone. When I got home, I was ready to eat and to try to get some sleep.

Then, Dr. P. called. 

She's concerned. The xrays came back and my lungs look "funky". Not right. inflamed. infected. hard to tell. so she wants the CT scan done tomorrow morning. She wants me to do more antibiotics. stronger ones this time. I tell her I'm scared. She just supports and listens. I hang up the phone and cry hard.

I text Lisa. give her the update. She calls from the airport and talks with me, listens to me. My doctor, my friend. She asks me if I want to say outloud my greatest fears about this. So I do. I cry. Cancer? Something that might kill me? something I might not recover from? She listens, holds space. But, she, like Dr. P, like me, like everyone right now, doesn't know the answer. Can't give me reassurances. 

I'm so afraid. so when the pharmacist cautions me about combining prednisone with levaquin; that it could rupture tendons....I simply freak. I cannot take either medication. all my history surges in. my fears, my traumas...my fears about taking medications. So I call the after hours nurse and talk with her. Ultimately I decide that tonight I won't take either. I'll call Dr. P in the morning and see what she has to say. or see if there's an alternate antibiotic that won't be so terrifying to take. But, I also want to get well.

I take an epsom salts bath. meditate with Tara Brach. bring presence to my breathing, deepening into the spaciousness of my lungs, even as it makes me cough. I sit in prayer. I take hydrocodone with a prayer. I rest down, even though my arms ache so terribly and my neck and back are in stabbing pain. At least I am not coughing right now. I reach out to FB with a post for prayers. I cry when the well wishes start coming my way. Luna, my ultimate guardian and heart protector, sleeps beside me. one moment at a time. one breath at a time. 

I'm on the walk. There are no guarantees of silver linings. Not every day is good. This is part of the human ride. Can I take it in, stay with it, accept it? Can I allow the fear to just be a part of all the rest of it?

I have to stop writing. My back and neck are hurting to much to continue.

attending sorrow

 

it has been difficult to write. I have been deep in the struggle. I did not realize so much time had passed since I have visited this blog. I have, at least, been doing some small scrap of writing, hand writing, in my journal. but, not much.

This nearly 3 months has swallowed me up. I'm not on the other side of things as I had hoped I might be. I know the grief will never go away. I know it will change; ebb and flow. There is a life before Ursa and there is now a life after Ursa. There is no going back. The surprises of loss, like expecting to see her when I wake up or when I walk into a room, are less jagged. There is not the same bite of shock arising when I think of her. This is the medicine of time passing, I guess.

My days have been preoccupied with physical pain. I have never experienced anything like this. For these past three months, there has been excruciating and unrelenting pain in my shoulders, upper, middle back, neck, and arms. I haven't slept well in days. I am worsening, which is bringing significant alarm to me and to my doctor. I'm going to a doctor today. I'm going for a CT scan. I'm terrified of the possibility of a tumor. 

yet, the pain is stunning and fierce. I took hydromet (which is a liquid form of hydrocodein...used as a cough suppressant and pain reliever). It suppresses the cough. It takes the edge off the pain, but doesn't soothe it entirely. Oh, did I mention I have walking pneumonia?

I can barely tolerate being conscious most of the time. It hurts to sit at a computer and write this. I feel like I have a rusty dagger in the top of my spine. My arms ache with pain. I am good for nothing. It hurts to brush my hair, put on clothes, sit, stand, lay down, walk, talk, connect, relate. I don't drive anymore. I don't leave the house. My life is spiraling into nothingness. 

I have so much empathy for sufferers of chronic pain and debilitating medical conditions. I wait for time to pass. I have 1 and 1/2   hours before I go to the doctor. then hopefully a CT scan. Then, hopefully I come home and take hydromet and it knocks me out and I find a position that doesn't further aggravate my neck or arms and I sleep. But, that never happens. I mostly take the edge off, still can't find a comfortable position, I cat nap for 20-60 minutes at a time, writhe in pain, whine a bit, and feel super sleepy, exhausted, groggy, and mentally opaque. I wait for the next marker of time: morning, the next dose, a scheduled phone call etc etc.

I feel disconnected from myself and even more disconnected from connection. I'm a stranger to everyone. including me. I'm fading away.

I am scared that I am facing something that will further debilitate me or kill me. I can't convince myself otherwise. If I've learned nothing from the past year, it's this: nothing is guaranteed. An easy death or healing process is not promised to anyone. Tragedy, trauma, and life changing events sneak up and surprise you. There doesn't have to be a warning. It doesn't matter how much trauma healing you've done, or how good you are or how diligent you are with good health choices. Shit fucking happens. Your horse chokes on her grain and her esophagus bursts and, without any preparation, you are laying in mud that sucks your boots off, covered in blood, holding her head, stroking her soft ears as the euthanasia carries her from the terror of this moment into a flood of light beyond your reach. Your dog spontaneously develops a mass in her abdomen that ruptures and causes her massive internal bleeding, despite the fact that she had an A+ good bill of health check the day before and good xrays a few weeks prior. You spend the worst 18 hours of your life grappling with this sudden and new reality and try to make choices that are best for her from a place in you that is torn apart with shock and terror, sleeplessness, and mindbending grief. You lay on the floor, holding her in your arms, your head resting on the top of her head, your body spooning her, as you've always done. and you hold her as she loosens from this world and leaves you and this beautiful body of soft fur for a mystery that is so far out of your reach. You don't know if you will ever see her again. You howl and writhe in the agony of this shocking separation, fall to your face on the asphalt parking lot, and within seconds your arms spool themselves tightly into your sides. your wings snap. and all light blinks out.

oh, my grief is still so wide.

my Ursa, my Ursa. my whole body has been broken by this.

I am compelled to write all of this because, one, I always have turned to writing as a strategy for survival. My dozens and dozens of journals I've kept since I was a kid can attest to that. Two, I listened to a chronic pain podcast with Nichole Sachs and resonated with the possibility that this pain is directly related to trauma, and therefore accessed and healed by unwrapping those stories, feelings, and writings to bring them into motion. It makes sense, even as I just had a howling grief after writing that last paragraph, that, as much as I think I am connected to the grief, the pain and pneumonia certainly do act as guardians against really going there. It makes sense to practice writing daily to connect with the underlying emotions so that my body can learn, be reminded, remember that I can feel these feelings and I will not die.

So I start this journey.

Seems like a good sign that this first writing brought me to my guttural grief again. My upper back is spasming, the knife in the back of my heart is hot with pain. It hurts to take a deep breath. My scapulae are a mixture of numbness, tingling, and fiery pain. But, here I am.

Ursa, my forever love, every molecule of this infinite tsunami of sorrow is equally matched to the ocean of celebration and love I carry for you. I will never stop loving you.

2020 hindsight

 to continue my review in this new and bullet biting decade...

2020:

I play Rosannah in Brilliant Traces. I soar. I find my power. I pace backstage at 35below in a muddied wedding dress, listening to James Blunt's MONSTER before I explode into the wildest 90 minute ride I've ever known.

I hold my grandmother's hand and watch her take her last breath, gently. It's Valentine's Day. the pastor has anointed her with oils, prayed over her; we are enveloped in grace.

I get a crown, but not the fun kind. there is no ceremony or feast.

I am cast in a some good theatre. Invited to choreograph some good musicals. My creative life is blooming: Maggie in the Shadowbox (HART), Reggie in The Laramie Project (Parkway Playhouse). Choreograph Into the Woods (Parkway Playhouse), have to turn down Music Man (HART) because of my schedule, & ACT's Mama Mia. All of it goes away...

I lose Sweet Pea and I still have boots and a jacket that are soaked in the mud and blood of that horrible night. I learn how loud my grief can be.

The whole world goes into lockdown. We learn to work via Zoom. We learn to have friend dates via Zoom and Facetime. I learn the Marco Polo and laugh daily. My hands come to life in the dirt. I plant, I grow, I build, I harvest beauty, flowers, and vegetables.

I take ballet from Spenser Theberge and occasionally, Jermaine Spivey, in LA. I take Ballet with Mark Haim in Seattle. I take modern with Gerri Houlihan in Durham. I do an intensive with Eiko Otake in Japan. I study Shakespeare with Hal Ryder in Seattle. I study Shakespeare, Linklater, and Feldenkrais with Gwendolyn Schweinke and Corrinna May at Shakespeare and Company in Massachusetts. I dance Gaga with Ohad Naharin. I take Tap with a master. Yoga with Adriene. I join Obe and dance with Walter Kemp and Peter Tucci. I take Klein technique through movement research. True Acting Institute with Larry Silverberg.

I watch free theatre. National Theatre. Prague Shakespeare. Magnetic Theatre. Andrew Lloyd Weber.

I assist SE via Zoom.

I attend Zoom memorials: my dear friend, Adria Zimmerman. Hal Ryder.

I tell the story about moving to New York and meeting Destiny on the plane in Listen to This's zoom performance.

I canoe and grumble about the people not wearing masks while standing in line.

I wear a mask. I get in heated discussions with people who won't.

I hear about friends' and client's family and friends dying of COVID. I listen to people, who I thought were kind and sane and educated, deny that COVID exists. I unfriend and unfollow people on social media. I get in debates. I learn quickly to set boundaries and let go.

I witness conspiracy theories grow and spread like poison.

George Floyd is murdered. Black Lives Matters gains momentum.

Protests erupt. I watch people become instant activists, fired up and righteous, for good cause, but reeking of appropriating the cause. Months later, there's no sign of the outrage of those same people. They're posting selfies and memes, but no longer in the midst of protest. 

loss-T

 a mirrored image of a woman and wolf rests in the face of the river.

the groundless earth carves its grief into her heart. she falls, alone, to her knees.

the cruelty of eternal love stabs at her finite hands. she grasps the emptiness of loss.

beauty sings around this funeral of hope; birds dance. the sky is persistently blue.

in the hollow well of sorrow, there is a home. she cries to no one at all.

prayers break like dried leaves. wind scatters them in every direction before landing in hidden places.

places where no one goes.

mystery

 do we have a ghost? is our house haunted? are there spirits or faeries inhabiting our home?

a single earbud lost. one worn during the night. the bedroom turned inside out. hours later found under the mattress, in the center of the mattress. 

cleaning out the vacuum canister, a little toy found. nothing we recognize. we replaced the floors and carpets when we moved in. it's no toy we would have. we don't have kids. it's a little plastic warrior looking kind of guy.

my wolf necklace remains at large.

the garage door has opened on it's own, twice in the last couple of days. 

Luna has cried all day long.

things to take notice of.

and, related or not, the pain intensifies and remains intractable. sleep and rest and peace and ease are elusive. grief is great.

twin towers

 there is a remembering today. a memorializing. a giving tribute. Many are retelling their stories of where they were and how it happened for them. I'm adding my voice to the choir.

On September 10, 2001, I was living on Oxford Street in Hartford, Connecticut. By all appearances this was a quiet, residential street, semi-adjacent to Elizabeth Park. That afternoon, I watched the slow motion event and synchrony of a speeding car intersecting and interrupting the perpendicular run across the road of my dog, Scooby. I watched his trajectory take an abrupt turn as his body soared and skidded on the pavement. The car paused, navigated around him, and kept driving. I ran to Scooby as if in a blurred dream, soundless and hollowed. He stood up and, but for a few bloody scratches, shook himself off. I know he was taken to the vet and checked for any signs of internal injury or bleeding, but he appeared to have made it through this horrific collision unscathed. That evening was sleepless; one eye was open keeping close watch on Scooby who, as it all unfolded, was absolutely fine; unharmed but more some bumps and bruises. That's a pit bull for you.

So, on the morning of September 11, I was bleary eyed, worried still and doing my best to rouse myself and make it to my morning rehearsal for the dance company I was working with at the time. On my drive to the rehearsal studios at Trinity College, I listened to the radio and I vaguely registered that a plane had crashed. It wasn't uncommon to hear news bits like that on the radio. Things happened in the world every day and the reporters talked about them. My thoughts were with Scooby.

I walked into the studio and felt the slow dawning that something was wrong. Everyone there was talking about a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. It wasn't quite processing. Once everyone had arrived, we transferred to the cafeteria in order to find a television. Amid the din of clanking silverware and cafeteria chatter, more and more people began to orient to the unfolding events on the screen above our heads. Some people were still in the world where nothing had yet changed, carrying on conversations and laughing. My friend, Alicia, one of the kindest and gentle spirits, exploded in an angry outburst at the people still talking while most everyone, like a terrible game of dominoes grew quiet and hushed as they fell into witnessing the unspeakable horror of one of the towers buckling under itself, diving into it's own center and then ballooning outward with a cough of black smoke and dust before there was nothing but a wispy ash trailing downward against the backdrop of an empty sky. The cafeteria froze in time with shock and silence. In a matter of minutes there was nothing left of the two towers but an all encompassing, billowing cloud that penetrated and absorbed every corner of the city.

The sound returned to the room like someone was slowly turning up the volume on a stereo. It crescendoed into Alicia's voice shouting down a couple of people doing construction in a corner of the cafeteria. Her fiancé worked in the towers or walked through the towers daily or something like that. She was distraught. Her shouts turned into tears. Later, we learned that he was fine. He was lucky. 

The rest of the day blurred for me, as it did for many. I don't know how long we stayed there holding each other, crying, finding community in a college cafeteria of students, teachers, construction workers,  cafeteria workers, and our little dance company. We were all together in our disbelief, pain, and shock.

I remember attending a multi-faith vigil at a nearby church that evening, or the next evening, I don't remember the timeline. I sat shoulder to shoulder with such a conglomeration of people; all colors, sizes, faiths, political affiliations. None of what made us different was stronger than the common heart of grief that we shared. I held a woman's hand through the whole service. I don't remember her name but she had a brother who was a firefighter in New York. At the time of the vigil, she didn't know where he was. I think of her. I don't know what happened to her brother. I just know that I prayed for him, for her, for everyone who was touched by this. She and I embraced each other at one point and cried into each others' backs. The whole church, all the people gathered to the seams of the building, recited prayers from many faiths and in several languages. In all it's sorrow, it remains an indelible and poignant memory of the goodness and possibilities of humanity. It's a good thing to remember today, in 2021, as I write in a world gone mad with division and hatred. It reminds me of what humans are capable of. We can, in fact, love one another and hold each other up through a terrible storm.

mourning morning

 I woke up heavy and sad. The good news is that Luna came and slept with me during the early morning hours. I lay on my side and stretch my arms in front of me, connected at my fingers. I make a circle; a heart. I call her and she comes up the bed ramp (designed for Ursa) and curls into the embrace of my arms. It is the most delightful and heartwarming thing we do together. She also woke Robert up in the early morning by knocking things off his nightstand and batting at the twinkle lights we have stretched across our headboard. This is her morning ritual of energy and food. These are signs of life. I breathe.

It takes me a while to turn in bed. All of my muscles have landed in their place and they pull and grab and grumble when I move. It takes me several minutes to turn to my side, sipping breaths from my armored lungs. It takes me a few more to sit and stand. Every day begins with a mandatory thawing in a hot bath.

I am concerned for my mental health. The day is reaching into my room through the windows; sunshine, cool air,  birdsong, green. I long to be asleep even though I'm not at all tired.

Luna cries and I am pierced in the heart; this heart that feels crushed and wrung out. I often get the image of myself laying limp in the dirt, surrendering with each pass of four heavy tires rolling over me. Back and forth. Forward and back. 

Over and over again.

It is challenging to consider launching into a blue sky of day when my wings have been pinned to my side. The smallest efforts can end up in a face plant.

Get up. Breathe. Muck about the day. Name gratitudes. Breathe. Adapt to this new way of being as best I can. Rinse. Repeat.

I am grateful I don't have substance abuse issues. So grateful. There is no doubt I would have relapsed by now and been in more dire straights. I have no doubt. There are things to be grateful for. The beauty may seem out of reach through this dark night, but there have been hands to hold in the dark, my purring beloved coiled in my arms, hot baths, food made for me, sleep, kind care. I just have to make it through. The moon will guide me.