My misplaced karma
She referred to my continuing “recovery” as my “journey.”
I never really thought of it that way. I’ve thought of it as the result of misplaced karma. Wherever karma is meted out, I just assumed that there was a mix-up in the files because I can’t recall having enough time in my busy life to do something so outrageous that I deserved this fate.
I’ve also thought about it as an example of what happens when medicine can’t accommodate all of the variables that are involved in a procedure. I’ve never blamed the surgeon. He is one of the best. I did have some question about the accuracy of the imaging department at the hospital.
Was that post-surgical x-ray accurate? I did rail and storm (cleaned up words…the ones that are more appropriate can’t be printed) against all of the professionals who ignored my complaints about pain and such, but none of this is really relevant now, nor is it very helpful.
What I did and do need are two things: 1. To find a way to accept my limitations and resurrect some way to continue with the activities that I love the most 2. Get some sleep.
Sleep has been elusive. Even with opioids to which I no longer have access, I haven’t been able to sleep more than three or four hours a night.
What is the best way to say this? Pick and adjective: awful, lousy, dreadful, defeating, miserable (description of myself).
No one, except Martha Stewart can survive as a normal person on that little sleep. And I am not sure about Martha either.
So, yesterday, I travelled to Chittenango to chat with my doctor about a pain that might mean another blood clot (which it wasn’t) and my desperate need for sleep.
My sleep problems revolve around the lingering pain from the two surgeries and the arthritis that affects most of my joints including the ones that are now operating with metal assistance.
We selected one of the two nostrums and let me tell you, I couldn’t wait until 10 p.m. last night to try this baby out.
I took one pill. I slept all night. All night. Oh my! What a gift!
What will I do with a day when I don’t start to doze off at 10 a.m.; when I am not so crabby that I can’t stand to be in the same room as myself; when the world is not colored with despair and cobwebs.?
That is part of my journey, my karma.
If I continue with this idea, another is are warm and tender communications with me or on my behalf. Take letters, yes letters, the kind written with a pen or typed on paper and put in the mail.
I’ve had three that bear note. The first was written to my surgeon asking that he find out why someone like myself who has had three joint replacements, including one hip, was ignored when complaining about pain and weakness. Wow. That took some guts.
The surgeon did respond appropriately and although the “journey” continued without much change, the idea that I was worth that letter is so wonderful that I am at a loss to describe how it made me feel at a time when I was at a very low ebb.
The second was from an old acquaintance who belonged to the Jayncees with me a million years ago.
A long, thoughtful letter it shared her similar journeys in the world of joint replacement and unforeseen problems. It was a tonic for a weary and still sad soul.
The last was from a “fan.”
Written on a note card in lovely handwriting, this 94 year old gal shared her appreciation of my columns and in particular my strategy for feeding my spouse when I just didn’t want to cook. Loved it. When most of those things that are the center of your active life are no longer available, knowing that you still have worth is beyond value.
Also along this expedition into joint replacement and its adverse consequences are a collection of glass vases in which lovely flowers came.
From Lourdes Camp, from my sister, from friends, I was showered with flowers that I could only wish I could grow. Lovely. Now, what do I do with all of these vases? That should keep my mind busy.
I have books that I was given to read to divert my attention from the dodgy thoughts that come to your mind when you are hurting.
I have a garden that is less crowded with weeds and maple saplings because of my neighbor Marie.
I have a garden at our cottage that is starting to look like a garden because of hours and hours of work done by my loving daughter, Emily. Emily spent most of a week working in a very overgrown garden to help her mother.
I have a second computer and an almost new cell phone to keep up communications from the first floor of our house, because of my son, Ben, travels from Rochester far more often than he should so that he can visit with me. Makes me think I did a good job raising my kids.
And early on when I was plagued with other medical problems, my doctor made a house call rather that have me travel all the way to his office in Chittenango. Now how often does that happen?
On Easter Sunday, when I was too sick to go to church, Father Dan came to the house to give me communion. I am blessed.
Yes, this has not been one of the worst and the finest five months of my life and it has some ways to go before I can, if that is possible, return to the state I was in on Feb. 22 when I had the first surgery, but thinking about the sweetness of support that has come my way, I can find so much good in something that is so bad.
Will I ever be able to work in the Emergency Department at St. Joe’s or climb the stairs to the choir loft at St. Francis? Will I ever be able to function at least at the pre surgery level?
I don’t know. I hope so. In the intervening time and time is the master of this all, I will savor that gifts I have been given.
So, if it is a journey, I’ve found many, many things along the way that were unexpected, some not so good, and some so very good that they smooth out the difficulties of the bad. If it is misplaced karma, then someone is getting off easy but then I am too.
Messages come in different packages. What I’ve learned is to separate one from the other or, if possible, understand that sometimes you have to hurt to learn lessons that you need.
To all that had made this possible. Thank you. May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
