Enduring

It has been a rough year for me. Around this time last year, we learned that my Dad's brain tumor was not responding to chemo and radiation therapy. Shortly thereafter he entered hospice and finally, on August 9th, 2010, Dad was released from the agony of being trapped in a body that could not heal. As most of you know, who read me faithfully at that time, we had a little less than 4 months from the time of his diagnosis to the time of his death. That's just not enough time.

But life goes on and we still have responsibilities that must be addressed, needs which must be taken care of. A little less than a week after I returned from my Dad's funeral we were whisked off to sunny San Diego to celebrate my in-laws 50th wedding anniversary. Certainly not an appropriate place to mourn, but better to celebrate life and love and try to move on. Upon returning, Ian had football and school starting and we had lives in the real world to begin living again. Certainly not enough time to properly mourn, but better to keep putting one foot in front of the other and keeping going forward.

I think it bears mentioning here that I have had a "policy" in regards to sadness, mourning, depression, etc. since my first real heartbreak and bitter disappointment in my early 20's. I call it "One Minute of Woe". Whenever I felt something trying to pull me into a dark place I didn't want to go, I would allow myself exactly one minute to cry, weep, lament, despair, whatever I needed to do. However, when the one minute clock chimed, I had to be done and it was time to "move on". Most of the time, I got bored with my "woe" long before the full minute was up and would pull on that happier face, shove the despair as deep down inside as I could and forget about it. Or try to.

Most of the time, this policy worked very well for me. I became very adept at wiping my face clean of sadness and tear tracks and getting on with my life. The problem is, there has been a pile of hurt building up inside of me for 20 years and when it came time to stack the loss of my father on top of it, I found the well no longer had room and I simply could not close that door.

(Picture, as I do, a "man-hole" cover for the city sewage system.)

For twenty years I have been piling the crap down that hole, then locking the cover on tight. Last summer I learned that my sewage system had reached its maximum capacity and, try as I might, that lid simply would not seal. I would get it closed and start to walk away, only to get a whiff of that tell-tale smell and turn to find it loosened again and leaking all over. All of my "crap" was leaking out all over the place for everyone and anyone to see. I found that I could only be around people for a very short amount of time before my system would start to leak again and then I needed to get back in hiding. Heaven forbid anyone should see all my pain and misery, heartbreak and despair, leaking all over and stinking up the place. It was easier to hide.

Not dealing with my heartbreak started to leak into other areas of my life as well. I figured out early on that I "blamed" my husband for not going to the funeral with me. I also realized that I had told him not to come, it was better if he took care of our son (who we felt was not ready to attend a funeral) while I tried to help take care of my Mom. I had no right to blame him for not being there. But somewhere deep inside I had wished he had recognized that I really needed him to be there, and to ignore my words. Several fights later, when I realized what was stirring in the "crap" we were able to shovel that bit out and loosen a bit of the pressure.

In July of last year, sometime after the 4th, before I went out to MI to spend as much time with my Dad as possible, my trainer told me she thought I should find someone new to work with me, that she had taken me as far as she thought she could. She said that she felt I would benefit more from having someone nearby, who could get eyeballs on me and get me over the hump to the next level. That's what she SAID. What I heard was "you've been stuck at the same place for so long that I don't think you can do any better and I would rather work with people who have the ability to finish successfully, not those that stall and fail halfway through." That's what I HEARD. Unreasonable, right? But that's the truth of it. So I cried for a little while, we decided she would keep working with me until I found someone, and then I stuffed that hurt into my sewage system and covered it up. Every failure in my fitness plan from that point on just re-emphasized to me my inability to succeed at anything. And, I think it jeopardized every possibility of success I might have. There has been no success in my weight loss efforts since that point. Whether it is because I am mentally sabotaging myself, or because I am physically unable to deal with the emotional healing I need along with the physical, I don't know. In early June of this year I opted to quit training with her until I could find a way to be happy and successful.

NWB (non-weight-bearing) in a full leg brace and on crutches until at least August 24th. It seems, now, I having nothing but time to deal with all of the crap I have been hiding for the past 20 years.

Well, nothing but time for that and reading and playing games on the computer. I watch much of the world go by from my recliner in the family room.

Oddly enough, the one thing I can not wait to do when I get free from George, my friendly torture device (a.k.a. my leg brace) is RUN. I hate running, it is absolutely my least preferred cardio method. Now, I can't wait until I can run again. Funny, it took breaking my leg to appreciate what a gift it is to have freedom of movement.

I know that my family probably thinks I did not mourn my Dad properly. Heck, if I had seen myself at that funeral I probably would have thought I was a truly odd duck. The fact of the matter is, I DIDN'T mourn him properly. I didn't even know how to begin to mourn him. I remember a few things from that day. I remember lots of people I haven't seen in ages. I remember moving from room to room, outside to inside, person to person, trying not to stay with anyone too long because I couldn't let anyone see me too long, lest the crap started to leak. I remember feeling like I was going to jump out of my skin. I remember feeling like I didn't belong, that I was completely alone. I remember my Aunt Becky, who was my saving grace, whose wit and humor were the strength and fuel I needed to keep it together. I remember my niece, Brianna, crying softly behind me during the service, and how that almost did me in. I remember thinking the minister did NOT know my Dad. I remember my niece, Brittany, finding me silently screaming on the hidden side of a wall, where I was trying to pull it together within the "one-minute" allotment of time I could allow myself. I remember her arm around my shoulder was the most comforting thing I felt the whole week. I remember the body of my father, looking nothing like my Dad and not wanting to look at it, because that is not how I wanted to remember him. Sadly, that sight is the memory that still haunts me.

It's been nearly a year and it has taken a broken leg to make me stop moving in every direction around this heartbreak and force me to face it. I am starting to realize that I need to face more of these things I have been shoving down the man-hole. I am hoping that at the end of my 8-week forced rest I will be able to return to a life better than the one I was enduring before. I want to do more than endure. I want to thrive.