{Today is the 3rd anniversary of my open heart surgery. It is a very emotional day for me, and as a result, this post is quite personal. I wrote this post over a month ago in preparation for my surgiversary because deciding to run a 5k was such a huge deal for me. Not too long after finishing this post, I had an atrial fibrillation cardiac event which occurred on September 18th and landed me an overnight stay in the hospital. Because we aren't exactly sure why it happened, or what, if anything, contributed to the event, I chose to give up caffeine and, to my great dismay, running. However, I still feel like this is a relevant and powerful post for me and I still very much want to share it. It speaks to my current mind-set, where I want to be emotionally, and what I want my focus to be on: the positives. Last year, I would have seen this cardiac event and the subsequent choice to stop running as a failure: my body once again letting me down. What happened last month did indeed unnerve me a great deal and I am working on processing those feelings and emotions accordingly, but this isn't a failure. Instead, I like to see it as a change of plans. There are plenty of other ways I can show myself that I'm strong and healthy. I hope to one day resume my goal of running a 5k, but for now, thank you for reading but most especially and importantly, for being in my life.}
Three years ago today, October 29th, 2009, I had my chest sliced open, my sternum broken, and my heart operated on. I have always struggled with anxiety but following that day, anxiety became an every day reality for me. It's very common for open heart surgery patients to develop anxiety issues, depression, insomnia (which I also experienced but thankfully, that didn't hang on all that long), etc but for me, anxiety and fear-fueled emotions skyrocketed. Instead of fighting against the negativity, I started allowing my fears to control my life. I found myself starting too many sentences with "What if..." and started retreating in to myself. I was afraid to try new things because I didn't want to fail but in the process, what I really did was fail to LIVE. Successes and failures are a part of life and I ceased to have either, because I wasn't really living. I was treading water.
I swore to myself, bargained with God even, that if I survived the surgery I would really appreciate my life. I would learn to count my blessings, and notice the small things because in the end, the small things are indeed the big things. I promised to be better, live better, stop being afraid all the time. My recovery was hard. It kicked me down a lot and I kept getting back up again but I was tired. I was angry. I didn't want to be an inspiration, I didn't want to have to be strong anymore, I just wanted to be ME again. Wanted to go back to feeling normal, feeling like I did before September 2009 when the heart palpitations started. So I got bitter. And my bitterness only made the fears speak louder to me. They became all I heard. I was the Queen of Worry. Who wants that title? I didn't want it, but I had it, and in time, it defined me.
Over the past three years, there have been other challenges. Things have happened that we didn't have any control over, because guess what? Control is an illusion. To think we have it makes us feel better, it's comforting, but in truth, all we can truly control is how we think and react. And even then, it takes a LOT of practice. Over the past three years, I let the challenges become who I was. Instead of learning from the past, instead of taking those challenges and rising above them, using them to be stronger, better, I let them punch me down. Yes, some of what I felt, what I still feel, is warranted because it has been a hard few years but it became bigger than I wanted it to, than it should have. The fears became too much and it was time to shut them up.
Moving to Indiana presented me with an opportunity. I was given the chance to begin again, be the person I knew I could be, knew I was, really be the person I projected to the world but had suppressed for far too long. Jason was/is incredibly busy with school and until I found work, I had a lot of time on my hands. At first, it was scary. I didn't have any idea what to do with my time. Most things cost money and we just didn't have it. We still don't and probably won't for a long time. But then it came to me. Running. I had talked about doing a 5k around this same time last year but one thing lead to another and it just didn't happen. But now I could, and this time, there wouldn't be any excuses. I'll be honest: when the idea popped into my head, the old "But what if I can't" whispered loud enough for me to hear it. But I wouldn't listen this time. This time, I would do it, prove to myself that I could. I would do something I never thought I could or would do. I would tell those old insecurities to take a hike.
In high school, I tried to start running a few times. It seemed glamorous in a way. Everyone I knew who ran looked so great, seemed to glow, the picture of health. They said running was calming, that the pounding rhythm of their sneakers on the pavement was like therapy. I went to the gym but the gym was pricey and I could run for free. I had sneakers, and I had legs. How hard could it be? I remember one morning I set out for a brisk morning jog. I started out fine, breathing deeply and all that. But soon it became apparent that I was winded, really winded, and kind of faint. I remember sitting on the curb, head between my knees, willing myself not to pass out. I turned right around, defeated, and headed home. I supposed I just wasn't cut out for running. I didn't enjoy it, it wasn't in my blood. Over the years when I'd try to go for a jog, similar episodes would unfold. Each time, I'd arrive at the same conclusions: it just wasn't the exercise for me; I hadn't eaten enough beforehand; it was too hot out; I wasn't properly hydrated. I had no idea it was because of my heart murmur. I went to the cardiologist religiously every two years for my EKG and nothing ever changed. It was fine. I was healthy. Then came October 1, 2009.
~ ~
So now I want to run. I want to run because I can. I want to run because I need to prove to myself that the little voice inside of my head telling me I can't do things is a damn dirty liar. I want to run because there was a time that I thought I'd never get better, never recover from my surgeries. There was a time that I thought I'd never feel like me again, that I'd always feel "less than". When I had my pacemaker implanted because my heart could no longer regulate itself, I felt imprisoned by my presumed limitations. I felt less than who I was because I was dependent upon a tiny implanted device to keep my heart beating properly. I failed to see the reality: the tiny implanted device allowed me to keep being me. It enables me to wake up every day and have a life. It is a medical marvel, and I am so grateful.
I am running a 5k on December 16 in Indianapolis because I am here. I am a survivor. I made a promise three years ago and it's high time I made good on it. I am fortunate. I am blessed. Thank you for being in my life and for loving me. Happy 3rd Surgiversary to me :)
Monday, October 29, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tribute to my Angel Sister, Amanda Lauren
Dear Amanda,
Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.
This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. They have people that do that now for parents of babies born still. I’m glad for that. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between the pages of her family Bible? When I was growing up, she often wore purple, and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth. I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but unlike me, I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think your nose would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do?
As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie, ribbing each other for this or that. And I understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best.
So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.
Much love to you today and everyday,
Me
Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.
This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. They have people that do that now for parents of babies born still. I’m glad for that. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between the pages of her family Bible? When I was growing up, she often wore purple, and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth. I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but unlike me, I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think your nose would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do?
As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie, ribbing each other for this or that. And I understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best.
So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.
Much love to you today and everyday,
Me
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