Today marks 4 years since I fell and broke myself. Yes, that sounds weird when I phrase it that way, but it’s somewhat accurate. I broke both wrists and an elbow, scraped my knees and palms, and started the downward spiral of drama in my life.
Okay, maybe that last bit is overly dramatic. I know it didn’t cause anything, but I feel like that day marks the end of normal. The end of when I was happiest. Up to that point I was working out on a regular basis, working in a job I loved, my family was active and happy.
Then I was knocked completely out of commission. I couldn’t do anything for myself. Not even use the restroom! I had to ask for help just to open doors or turn the page of a book. I couldn’t cook and had to rely on others to bring us food or take the kids to activities when my husband was not home. I couldn’t exercise or drive. I did manage to go back to work after a week, but it wasn’t easy.
When the cast came off, I tried to return to our normal. But my left wrist continued to give me pain, even with physical therapy. I was afraid to go for runs. But I made do and pushed myself to do all the things I’d done before.
Then on January 3rd, my grandmother passed away. Once she was gone, I knew it was unlikely that my mother would ever visit us again. She already disliked travel and only made the trip because her mother could not. Someone said something about my mom coming to visit and I said “I’m pretty sure I’m not a big enough draw now that her mom is gone.” When I told my mother about the conversation she said “Pretty much.”
Ouch. While I’d already known it, it sure did hurt to have it confirmed so bluntly. Now, she did come up for the funeral in February, but that is the last time.
It doesn’t help that a month later the world shut down because of Covid. The kids and I had spent a few days of our Spring Break visiting Mom and my sister and it was over a year before we saw them again. I hadn’t gone more than a couple of months without seeing them in years. If ever.
Of course, Covid caused many of the same problems for us as it did for the rest of the world. I worked twice as hard getting teachers equipped to teach virtually while also keeping my family running. My husband was still working in hospitals, but (thankfully) didn’t take care of Covid patients.
My dad needed a new heart valve, so he lived with us for awhile to visit doctors and have the procedure at my husband’s hospital. I’d convinced him to move into an assisted living facility near us, but the Covid restrictions put that plan on hold and I’ve yet to get him to try again.
Covid meant we had to cancel our plans to take the kids to Harry Potter World for their 11th birthday. And our plans to go to Alaska for my cousin’s wedding. The summer was spent hunting Pokemon and riding our new bikes. On his first ride, my husband managed to catch his handlebar on a chainlink fence and tore up his hand. It was lucky I’d stayed home because my bike had turned out to be too tall for me.
In August I returned to work. Masks were mandatory and the librarians in the district had to come up with a plan for checkout. Students were not allowed in the library. Instead we had to deliver books to classrooms. I was terrified to leave my cave. I ate alone, I visited classes virtually, I delivered books after school. My kids were learning from home.
I tried getting a different job within the district that I thought would feel safer. I did not get the job. Then my aunt offered to pay me to help her with managing her father’s oil and gas investments. I turned in my notice at school, feeling guilty and cowardly.
Around the same time, my husband woke up one morning with extreme vertigo. He had to go on disability while he attended multiple appointment to try and figure out what was going on. I would drive him to appointments, waiting in the car (Covid meant I couldn’t go in with him). After months and months visiting multiple doctors and going to physical therapy, he was told the condition was permanent. While he wasn’t as dizzy as he had been in the beginning and he’d learned to compensate, he didn’t feel safe working as a nurse in the hospital. He didn’t think he could keep a patient from falling. He went onto long term disability and enrolled in school to get his bachelor’s degree and open up doors for other jobs.
Over the next couple of years, we adjusted to both of us being home most of the time. The kids had to return to in person school and the flexibility of my job has been helpful. I’ve tried to stay active, working out in my garage and taking walks (running never did feel safe again). But being at home just isn’t as active as working in a school library. Where I used to get 10,000 steps without trying, I am lucky if I get 3,000 now. Add to that having five surgeries in 13 months and exercise has been severely neglected.
Every time I think things are going to settle down and I can get into an exercise routine something else seems to pop up. Just as I was healing from the hysterectomy, I had complications. When I was finally cleared for activity after the next surgery, I got sick. When I got (mostly) over my illness, Granny went into the hospital. All of these are completely legit reasons for not working out. However, that doesn’t stop me from feeling shame. Especially when my husband and his father and step-mother talk about calorie counting almost every time we are together. My husband has driven me crazy for years because he rarely eats more than one meal a day. And apparently his dad and step-mom are the same. It makes me feel like a failure that I eat 2-3 meals every day and don’t track calories. His dad has a way of talking about it like anyone that doesn’t do things the way he does (in anything, not just eating and exercise) must be an idiot. In his mind, it’s simple. It certainly doesn’t help my mindset.
As I result, I currently weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life. Now, people will try to tell me that I still “look good” but I don’t believe them. I mean, I know I am not obese, but I don’t fit in my clothes. And I really don’t want to buy a whole new wardrobe. I currently have ONE pair of casual pants that fit comfortably. Prior to my hysterectomy I had a few pair of shorts as well, but now they bother the incision sites.
I know I need to work on becoming more active. I think it will help, not just physically, but mentally too. But I fall into a shame spiral. I’ve got to find a routine and accountability to get myself moving. But more importantly, I need to do it to feel better, and not because of shame or to achieve.
I started a new Lauren Sapala course on Intuitive Creativity. Last night was the first session and she talked about how intuitive creative people need feeling based goals rather than results based goals. What she meant was that we shouldn’t have goals like “write 500 words” or “finish my novel by x date.” Instead the goal should be to write what makes you feel good. What brings you pleasure? Even though I know her advice was about creativity, I think I can apply it to exercise too. Does it make me feel good to sit all day and be inactive? Not really. Does it feel good to get my body moving? Maybe not in the moment, but afterwards it does.
So now I need to figure out what kind of movement will bring me the most pleasure. I’ve been thinking I’d like to sign up for some water aerobics classes. I was going to try it over the summer, but first the pool was closed for renovations, then I had surgery. I should look into it again. I think it would be much more pleasurable than walking in this heat.
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