Salad Days

I have returned from my big adventure and wanted to share a few tidbits.

First off -- I made some discoveries. Shambala Mountain Center serves a version of coffee. Once I found that out, I could breathe.

I discovered the joys of high altitude. When we first arrived, they talked about what might happen with altitude sickness. Listing off a string of high-altitude effects was like planting seeds in finely-tilled soil. I worried at first that my brain my hemorrhage or that my heart would burst, and when nothing happened, I mostly worried about whether or not they'd have coffee at breakfast.

Another discovery -- This retreat was perfect for a person with a food addiction (me). Or at least from my perspective of my addictive behaviors. The food was bland and predictable. Salad, every meal. At first, salad was good though moving into the third day of salad and seeing salad again at dinner, the idea of salad was getting old. My first few meals were plates loaded with salad. I would take enormous amounts of salad (aka salad). Then by the time we were eating our last salad (on Sunday), I was down to a small bowl of salad with a side of salad. Don't get me wrong. Each meal was completely nourishing as long as you put the right things on your plate. There was nothing fancy -- nothing at all that tasty -- nothing to eat that might make a person want to go back for seconds (or even firsts unless you really love salad and in the past, I did!) We were fueling our bodies. Imagine that!? In fairness, we occasionally got to choose from fish and red quinoa. One day the kitchen offered vege-burgers, and another day corn on the cob (and salad). One day there were some potatoes. And if we wanted or needed extra protein, there were always hard-boiled eggs. And bread to toast but I skipped the bread. For dessert -- fruit, apples, bananas. Nutritionally, we were fine. But no cravings to speak of. No OMG, rush to the food tent for...salad. And the whole food addiction thing felt tame.

Each morning at 7:00 am, we had yoga or should I say *they* had yoga? I never attended yoga though I did some yoga - is yoga that stuff where you lay down on the bed and snore? (Dear Linda, I'm so sorry. I was really tired. I was taking care of myself.)

My lymphedema-ed legs were swollen at 7800 ft elevation above sea level. I was once below sea level, (see above photo) and my legs were not less swollen there though it stands to reason that if my legs swell at high altitude, they should swell less below sea level. And insurance should pay for these medically necessary, below sea level vacations cures. (When the photo was taken, my legs were too swollen to fit in the same picture.) Combine airplane altitude with 7800 foot elevation for 5 days, lymphedema, (and a lot of salad) and my knees won't bend. They'll will bend just enough to get me to, and through the coffee line.

Yet still another discovery. We won't live for ever. (duh). (I actually knew that already.) I'm considering studying Buddhism. The idea of accepting my impermanence (along with yours), acceptance of the constant change that occurs, makes tremendous sense especially considering that NO ONE WILL DO AS I SAY and everyone keeps screwing me over and I'm tired of paying for rugs just so they can be pulled out from underneath me.

The biggest impediment to the study could be that I cannot sit lotus style with swollen knees. And I'm not sure that lotus-style meditation is mandatory (unlike salad). I will do my medication meditation in a chair. Perhaps my meditating in a chair is a change that the Buddhists will just have to accept.

Start Where You Are

If it's Wednesday, August something or other (okay, okay, the 26th), and you're reading this post (and it's early in the day), I'm on a plane flying to the Shambala Mountain Center somewhere near Ft. Collins, CO.

Traveling alone feels new to me though when I worked in Silicon Valley, I'd travel alone to conferences, (went to NYC twice and didn't die from that). Those days seem like a life time ago. Many life events have transpired.

I am more fearless than scared today. I went to a retreat years ago and remembered coming home feeling high from attending. What a let down reality seemed afterward. I met a woman at that retreat who became a friend and then, around the time of Greg's death, she told me she did not want to be friends any longer. That was my first recollection of being dumped. I was too busy with Greg dying to be concerned at the time but I never forgot that experience. I believe she had been traumatized or was still grieving someone else's death. She couldn't handle the heat. Either that or I smelled bad.

At this retreat they're going to have us meditate. Oh, and yoga. Cliche but...I'm going to go with the flow. I have been resistant to meditation in the past -- yet I don't feel that resistance any longer. I feel like doing anything and everything to get going - start another part of my journey. I've read the suggested books, (I highly recommend the book When Things Fall Apart -hello are you there, God, it's me, POD?) listened to CDs, and meditated a few times. From visiting the website, I understand that upon seeing the Great Stupa, I will be liberated. Too much captivity goin on! I hope this liberation comes true though I've also read that it is good practice to abandon hope. To be hopeful robs us of the present moment. And there are so few truly present moments. Or maybe it's that we are truly present only a few moments.

I'm going to keep my mind open, my heart open, my mouth shut (during crucial times) and my laptop open occasionally so I can write though we will have no online access and no access to phones. I can't even call my mommy.

I will be limited only to the food they serve. How does a food addict prepare for something like that? I'll tell you how. We bring chocolate in our suitcase. But only as much as I might eat during a week at home. I thought briefly about bringing some of those 100 calorie bags of cookies or something (this is the mind of an addict, okay?) and I realized I don't even eat that crap at home. Why would I take them on a plane to Colorado? If I bring cookies, I'll have to pack Tums because cookies always make me sick to my stomach. (See what I mean about captivity?)

I am attempting to take this journey as it comes. What a concept.

And even though I mentioned abandoning hope, I cannot abandon writing that I hope they serve coffee.

Weekend Whined-Up

Sunday afternoon I went out with J. We visited a restaurant bar in Capitola where we enjoyed drinks and appetizers along with a fantastic view of tourists, sunbathers and ocean. The drinks were good. Music was nice. Sun was glorious and no smokey air for the first time in about 8 days. The fires are finally out.

After a couple hours of talking, drinking and food critiquing, we sauntered further into the tiny town of Capitola. In our stupor, we got this idea to ask people what they thought of my hair style? J. and I had been talking about long hair vs short hair. At first she was embarrassed at the idea of random-stranger-chat though she warmed up quickly. Whereas I can be out in public and ask just about anyone anything. I *do* have boundaries though I have been known to engage total strangers in conversation when necessary.

While on our walk to the bar, I stopped one man and asked him what he thought of my hair? He said, "You look hot...your hair is fantastic. Don't grow it long." Slightly inebriated, I thanked him, asking him his age? He was (only) 42 years old - cute, looked like he was twelve. My son Danny was on speaker on my cell, screaming "get his number!"

We ended this glorious afternoon with a walk to the Fogbank, a dive bar with outdoor seating right on the water. Loud music was playing when we first walked in. Two women were dancing to some early 90s music. The music was great. The sun on the back deck was revitalizing (providing tons of vitamin D and cancer causing rays). Most of the action was on that sun deck, people laughing, talking, singing, reading and smoking. We both felt at home. J. said her husband wouldn't want her there. (Too seedy.) I am the only one who might object for me. And who am I to object to seed?

We'd asked a few people on our walk what they thought of the hairstyle, and then once inside the bar, we asked everyone on the sun deck -- all those drunk women and drinking men. Each person we spoke with was outgoing, positive and willingly gave an opinion. (imagine that!?) I don't know about when you are drunk but these drunks were really considerate and friendly. I felt like I instantly gained more support. The overwhelming consensus was that I not grow my hair out, with a few "f*ck Us" thrown in for good measure.

I was pretty sure based on conversation with him in the past, that Chris had wanted me to grow my hair back after chemo. J. kept saying "guys are so visual." My argument is if a guy is attracted to me because of my hair, isn't that like the height of shallow? (is that really even an argument?) Do I need a man in my life that bad? What if I only like bald men? Should I ask a man to shave his head?) Since chemo, I'm really comfortable with short hair. Most men seem to like long hair (living in a fantasy world) or do they? Do all men like long hair or just the man I felt I loved? And does long hair on a 53 year old woman really look all that good? I'm still wrinkling and chubby. There's nothing pretty about a skeleton with long hair (I'm not quite skeletal). With dieting, the flesh that seems to be evaporating from my face sits comfortably inside my bra now. Soon that flesh will be melting into my pants, and then, take up final residence in my shoes (sandals?). I swear when I die, they're gonna need a bucket, (is that why they call it a bucket list?) not a coffin. Is having long hair going to make up for the flaws gifts of aging?

Earlier that same morning I attended Weight Watchers "church" and dropped another 2 lbs. That makes my weight-loss 29.2 pounds since the end of chemo March 17, 2008. (I believe in losing weight slowly, ya think?) It's funny still that the weight has come off effortlessly since Chris left. When my husband died, I weighed a ton (!) and started losing weight pretty soon afterward. It's some sort of subconscious thing -- when there is no one to help, to pick me up if I fall, to support me, I move into my survivor mode. I gear up by losing weight, exercising, eating (even) better, and taking really good care of myself. Maybe it's to show me that I can do this life thing all by myself. (I can have any kind of hair I want!) Ultimately, when you're ready for your bucket, you'll have to go it alone even if you've been in a lifelong partnership. Better to be maximumly prepared. And who better to take the credit?

Ordinary Lives

"The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new."

Pema Chodron

After a person dies, that first year for the survivor(s) is filled with little anniversaries. Each day is an anniversary of something you'll never do again with the person who's suddenly gone. You can't watch them shave, brush their hair or teeth. You'll never decorate the tree together again or plant a garden. No more arguing, no more dinners, no more celebrations.

In that first year past my husband's death in 2001, some days would go by without any consciousness around holding a particular memory of a day, though many days contained bittersweet memories of events we had attended, things we had done together, birthdays or holidays. That first year is a real bitch to get through.

Last night I went to a support group that I haven't gone to in a few months. On my way home, I wanted to drive to Chris's house. I used to go to his house and spend the night after this meeting so it seemed natch to drive in that direction. I thought of calling him and asking him to meet me for a drink. (I would have had Pellegrino. I swear.)

I really dislike the feeling of sadness that comes with rejection so I didn't make that call. I didn't want to hear him say "no." Last night was my first anniversary of going to that particular support group and not being allowed to snuggle with Chris afterward. (He is a most excellent snuggler!) This probably doesn't even seem all that important or serious to anyone reading though I felt despondent. I wanted a to stuff my feelings but there was nothing to stuff them with. "One order of stuffed feelings to go, please!" -- to go, of course, because I was driving -- home, by myself in the opposite direction of Chris's house. I stopped at one store for an ingredient for my morning smoothie and purchased a (teeny) packet of chocolate covered cocoa nibs - they're sort of like chocolate-covered dirt. I hadn't eaten any dinner so I didn't chastise myself for eating them. (I suppose I could have chastised myself for not eating dinner.) I continued the drive home.

Near the end of my husband's life, I wrote a short story. I felt so much pain for him and for myself that I had to get the words out of me. Like an exorcism -- similar to the reasons I began writing about cancer, and then, finally digging through to humor while dealing with a cancer diagnosis and life in general. Part of the story I wrote explains some of our last opportunities together. We took one of his final days to drive down to the ocean. I wrote:

I knew it was the last time Greg and I would sit on that bench, the last time we’d see the ocean together, the last time we’d see Monterey off in the distance or watch tourists riding bicycles.

The sun was incredibly bright bouncing off the water. I was wearing dark sunglasses and weeping though I didn't let on to him -- the revelation that every. single. event. taking place on that day, at that moment in time, would be his last experience, was almost too much to bear. Behind the dark glasses I imagined for him that everything was fine -- I was sunning, calm, and peaceful.

I am utterly stunned to witness his dying. It's like being pregnant and not being allowed to tell anyone. With cancer there is so much isolation. The world has the nerve to continue on as if nothing were happening while we move through this test tube of suffering together.

We are so ordinary in this space.

How many people pass their days, swimming in a pool of similar suffering, cast adrift with a secret they cannot share because other people are simply preoccupied with their ordinary lives?

Sometimes these little "anniversaries" bring up feelings I'd rather not feel, and then, I don't want to go into reverse. When the feelings come, I gotta dig deep to keep myself from making a U-turn. In recovery I've heard the saying "act as if" so that's what I did. I acted as if I were driving. I acted as if I didn't need to stuff my feelings. I acted as if I were a sane person driving home from a support group meeting. I made it home, not making phone calls, drinking, or stuffing my feelings with buckets of chocolate-covered, dirt-tasting cocoa nibs, and there is nothing ordinary about that.

My Life on the L List

There's been a ton of buzz about lymphedema in the news lately. Lymphedema and weight lifting - nothing hot and sexy. I always figured that if I could lift my butt, that *is* lifting weight (and that should be good enough!). I had also heard that because overweight people have so much extra mass to lift and support, they are extra strong (but then odor isn't everything.)

Because after yesterday's post, our aim is to eventually to get a screen play written for a movie that includes a famous movie star playing the part of me with lymphedema, we need to understand how weight lifting assists those with lymphedema. Though I have no plans to have my movie star lifting weights during the movie unless she's lifting multitudes of men off of her.

In the past, when cancer surgery was performed on breast cancer patients (of which I am not), doctors would advise patients not to lift more than 15 pounds. This limiting of activity was thought to help prevent lymphedema in patients who've had lymph nodes removed during surgery or radiated post surgery. This limiting of activity does not apply to the kind of lymphedema I have (was born with) known as primary lymphedema which means my lymph nodes were either damaged or I simply don't have enough of them, and instead of a functional lymph system, I was born with a really good sense of humor.

Now it seems that more exercise is needed to help prevent lymphedema post surgery. Post study, Kathryn H. Schmitz, associate professor at the Univ. Of Pennsylvania School of Medicine said, “It’s the same principle as back rehab and cardiac rehab,” she said. “You’re slowly and progressively increasing the stress that your system can handle. We’re applying that to lymphedema.”

All I know is that my system has had enough stress in the past few months.

Read the article here. And then, would you please tell me what it says?

Julie, Julia and POD

Over the weekend I attended an art and healing workshop for people with, or who have had cancer. I had to force myself to attend. I was looking for something outside of my comfort zone (prone, horizontal). All the folks in attendance (except for me) brought food to share -- the event seemed like a food workshop. I found myself hovering over the food table like the angel that I am...Why do you suppose one needs frosting covered bagel balls in order to create art?

We went through a guided medication meditation and then we were set free to use the arty items available. We were supposed to stay in our medicated meditative state and create art (for healing). I meditated on a piece of pumpkin bread.

Post frosted-bagel-ball cancer art

Afterward, we looked at our "art" with the group, not judging (of course), using words and phrases one usually reserves for groups like this -- statements such as "Do you suppose the blackish area is your future?" (Yes indeedy -- if I eat any more of those frosted bagel balls.)

After being totally healed through art, under the guise of self-care, I went for a manicure where the manicurist gave me a mini-massage that included rapid, repeated neck and arm-pinching. She told me "you wook werry bootiful" many times over. Then she asked if I were married? I told her no, that I had recently been "set free" (I decided to stop calling it "dumped") She giggled, and said, "Me too!" And proceeded to show me her new engagement ring and pinch me a bunch more. I gave her a huge tip so she'd leave me alone. This morning my almost-healed broken arm has experienced a bit of a set-back. My neck makes me look as if I spent most of the weekend at a spin-the-bottle party with a group of 8th graders.

I saw the movie Julie and Julia yesterday. It was very good - love Meryl in anything (except Mama Mia!). Also love food, and of course who doesn't love Julia Child? I almost teared up a few times. At one point Julie's husband walks out because he's tired of the madness (OMG!). (How much madness can come out of cooking? Plus he ate like a starving refugee in all of the eating scenes.) All in all, cute, cute movie, and I am not typically a cute, cute movie type. The idea of a book coming out of a blog, and someone buying the rights to make a movie doesn't sound bad. Don't you agree?

Think you'd want to read a book about someone with lymphedema, cancer, a broken arm, a broken heart with a food addiction issues, a fabulous sense of humor, where this morning the Facebook Jesus told me, he thinks I'm a "sanctimonious pr*ck"? I wonder if the Facebook Jesus (whatever, whoever that is?) thinks my blog has some interesting content for a book and possible movie? Also wondered how they'd do lymphedema in a movie? I can't imagine the line for tickets would be all that long outside the theater. 

Leaving only Smoke and Ashes, Baby

The dinner with my three guests turned out great. The food was superb. I am an excellent cook. We had scallops, roasted asparagus, and a mixture of red potatoes cooked with bell pepper, mushrooms, zucchini, and caramelized onion, lightly sprinkled with asiago cheese. The lemon tart for dessert was purchased. I gave the remains of it away early the next morning after Steve ate two pieces for breakfast before leaving for the day. Dinner was a success. I am still in good standing with the ladies club.

When they first arrived, they were all joking about "since Chris wasn't there" etc., they'd make it a "diss Chris" night. I didn't want to talk about my situation though Jeri asked me a few questions.

Jeri, Steve and I briefly reminisced my first meeting them at a dinner for the Abarth club years ago. I recalled meeting many wonderful people that evening, but Thomas had made a comment that "most of those folks were dead now."

I did not remember the incident that Steve brought up. Apparently some woman at the Abarth dinner was annoyed about something and was making some unkind comments. Steve said that *I* (Moi??) finally told her if she didn't like it, she should leave. And that is how Steve and Jeri remember first meeting me. I don't remember saying that to anyone! (Gee, get me back into those NonViolent Communication classes in a hurry!) I must have been in rare, outspoken form. *wink*

I was hospitable and observant during Wednesday's dinner. I spent many nights in the past six years with them, listening to various discussions on Fiats, cars, Chris, Thomas, various customers, employees, Steve, car parts, bumper over-riders, racing, Fiat parts and the pending car event schedule, whichever car event was taking place that particular day. I listened to the discussion enjoying the company and camaraderie.

Wednesday night we never veered off the subject of cars except briefly to mention that dinner was fantastic (which was true) and to discuss Christian Audigier, the French fashion designer who owns Ed Hardy. Suffice it to say, I was afforded a clear picture on why Chris mentioned that he was bored. I rarely talked about Fiats, cars, car events, car parts and event schedules. And I never once mentioned Christian Audigier (except possibly to my gynecological oncologist). I was, almost always an avid listener. I listened out of love and compassion. Should I have interrupted those car discussions to talk about lymphedema, weight gain or the latest Oprah?

The past few weeks of uncertainty have felt like swamp water, the thickness of molasses; moss, soda cans, broken bottles, bugs, fish guts and bacteria moving like sludge under the remains of a burned bridge -- bits of cinders, smoke and ash, smoldering.

And speaking of burning bridges, the Santa Cruz fires are not near me. This map shows the area under siege. The photo, I took on the way home from work yesterday from a high spot on my road. From the looks of things, smoke must be pretty nasty in town and appears to wrap around the bay south toward Watsonville. I could see smoke out my bedroom window way to the south though until the fires are all out, we won't know how many bridges have been burned.

Put that in Your Mouth and Chew it!

"Freedom is about not being dominated by our own bullshit."

Ray Blanton

Tonight I have the distinct pleasure of hosting three friends for dinner that I met through my relationship with Chris. Chris won't be there.

I am a bit apprehensive about the meal though not because these are friends of Chris's as much as simply serving a fantastic meal while maintaining my widely acclaimed hostess of the year status in our local ladies club.

Last night I drove to town to catch up on a bit of retail therapy (yeah, yeah -- I am well aware that I wrote that I "wasn't using" -- (quoth the addict). After spending a bit of money, I sat in the car with what felt like a big steaming pile of anxiety. I felt this sudden need for a pie, a whole cake, a dozen donuts or a pound of See's. Something I could snack on for a brief moment to ease that moment in time. My perception of my aloneness, separateness, anxiety, my slough of despond moment. My weight loss has been so present these past weeks, I am wont to do anything to discourage it. I sat in my car analyzing the why of *why* I felt this urge to eat, to stuff something, anything on top of my feelings so I couldn't feel them.

But I gotta tell ya, I was on to me. I knew I was feeling this anxiety, this nervousness and I knew why, and I knew it was not a reason to eat. I had a bit of a rough day earlier because for the past so many years, before Chris would leave town, he'd call to say goodbye, we'd see each other right before he left or I might even take him to the airport. This time I knew nothing would happen. No goodbyes. Nothing.

I had to sit with nothing. I had to be with nothing. I got nothin.

And I ate nothin.

Days of Whining, Roses and Me

If my arm were raised the photographer would have had to use the flash setting.

Friday night, Chris came over and we exchanged the last of our belongings. I made dinner because that's what I do most especially when I am instructed that there is nothing else left to do. Our evening felt bittersweet. He still has my house key. I'd hate to have him walk in some day on some kinky, alternative party I have planned. Alas, I was cleaning my bedroom yesterday and found one of his socks. (I wonder how long I can drag this exchange out!? I guess I can mail a sock.) He and I are both off on new adventures as single people. Actually I have no idea what Chris is off to except Pennsylvania for several days to focus on frequent Fiat frivolity with friends at the Fiat Freakout.

I went out with friends both Saturday and Sunday. Weekends seem to be the most interesting time for me as far as experiencing feelings of loneliness. I make some plans ahead of time so if you've got any ideas or you want to hang out, send me a note. I am open to suggestions.

I am deliberately working on NOT avoiding my feelings. I'm not using anything. Distraction, food, TV, booze, drugs, sex, wine, women, song. I am feeling a connection with loneliness, the separateness, the despair. I'm still listening to Pema Chodron, gathering wisdom and applying where possible. I know from experience (and my own earned wisdom) that one cannot tinker (or tweet) grief away. Essentially, you're supposed to sit with the feelings, honor them (light a candle??), cry, gnash your teeth (learn to pronounce a 'gn' together), and whatever else allows you to feel. Then you can go on about your day, hour or split second. Making lists of things to do, distractions to aide in temporary escape, chores, frittering the day away -- will only prolong agony. You can run but you cannot hide.

A flight of beer and thou.

We went to the Rock Bottom Brewery on Saturday night. I'm not much of a beer drinker so I ordered a cosmo, asking that it be brought in a normal glass (without any syrup, pink sugar, umbrellas or dancing girls). I ordered my usual Pelligrino chaser. I was not an angry drunk. Did not even get drunk, felt no anger. hmmm.

Two friends ordered flights of beer. I don't know why they call it a flight except that maybe the beer glasses spread out across the table like wings. The food ordered was mostly grease-based except we ate edamame (which could have been deep-fried) that tasted really good. I took small offerings of everything. It was great to see my peeps. I avoided these people the entire time I was having chemo and much of the time I was in my relationship. (Was I the only common denominator?)

Fred and Ethel Mertz

Sunday morning, down 3.8 pounds at Weight Watchers despite the booze and added grease. One more pound lost this morning. I am wondering about assorted attempts to lose weight for the past year, moving up and down the scale a few pounds in each direction. Once Chris leaves, the weight goes with?? What's up with that?

Sunday afternoon, other friends and I played tourist. We sat overlooking the ocean, this time a margarita, more Pelligrino, a bit of calamari, salad and seagulls. Discussion included bicycling, kayaking, relaxation and ex-lovers. We have future plans for three of these - I'm putting one foot in front of the other and in the case of the kayaking, my ass in the seat.

Gratitude - the Antidote

Dana Jennings writes his own blog about prostate cancer in the New York Times. In this post, he writes about the gratitude of simple pleasures.

He writes "Gratitude is an antidote to the dark voice of illness that whispers to us, that insists that all we have become is our disease."

With cancer, the last thing you want is to become your disease. Some people actually get a choice out of their disease with a real cure. Or at least they find their way out of the muck and mire of disease, if only temporary, where they do not allow disease to define them.

I don't recall ever feeling as grateful pre-cancer as I feel post-cancer. Maybe it's because I can recall each day now where as in the past, they were just days blended. I am grateful every day, sometimes each moment. Mr. Jennings explains it better than I can. He writes "the small moments of gratitude are the most poignant to me because they indicate that I'm still paying close attention to the life I'm living, that I haven't succumbed to the numbing obliviousness."

Image credit: CharityFocus

Read the rest of Dana Jenning's gratitude post here.

Language of Life

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there."

Rumi

I attended a class on nonviolent communication (or compassionate communication) all week. There is not enough compassion in the world, most certainly not coming from me. I have known this for some time.

The instructor talks about jackals and giraffes though animals are not the primary teaching. The idea is that we were raised to judge ourselves and others, to make assumptions, to blame, demand, evaluate and have huge expectations from other people (and ourselves). The jackal is a nasty-mouthed beast from Africa, and in NVC, the jackal is the one making all the judgements and demands; the negative self-talk. The giraffe has a long neck thus a huge heart (because it's difficult to pump blood from the giraffe's heart to his brain (it's so far away). The idea of giraffe speak is that a giraffe speaks from a compassionate (big) heart using facts, feelings and needs as a guide to speech.

While taking the class I realize I've been coming from a pretty jackal-y space, however, if I condemn my own self for speaking from the jackal space, I would be judging myself (which is a jackal tactic) for jackaling. So no condemning allowed. I seriously dislike how judging other people actually makes my body feel. I became aware of this feeling during the morning commute after I'd condemn a half dozen or so drivers and pedestrians, and furry critters that get in my way, and then condemn myself for condemning them. What a nifty idea! By the time I arrived at work, I was about ready to puke. Jackaling is mostly unconscious. We jackal all day long -- all our lives long. It is a very hard habit to break. While learning how to speak from a big heart takes a lot of training.

The primary goal of NVC is to create human connections that empower compassionate giving and receiving. This is done primarily through dialogue -- at least I've not seen anyone applying the same principle to giving or receiving actual gifts though in many relationships, I'd wager that if the people spoke compassionately to each other, the conversations would seem like a gift! The communication taught in these classes emphasizes compassion as the motivation for action, rather than fear, shame or blame or freaking out or any of the other things I might do.

Behind every feeling is a need. Needs are considered universal as in we really don't want to live without them. (If you check out the list, you'll see what I mean.) One useful thing to remember is all actions by all people are attempts to meet needs.

One thing the instructor taught us straight away was that the idea of rejection, abandonment, or someone 'feeling' disrespected are perceptions (non-feelings) we have, not real feelings. For instance, if I feel rejected (and I thought I did) or abandoned (who doesn't?), what I am really feeling is sad and/or lonely etc. Now, those are feelings. But when I tell myself that I feel rejected, that is my own perception of the situation. I could be telling myself, "I'm sad. I feel sad as a result of what just happened." These responses and actions all require tremendous thinking which is one of the reasons I'm going to keep studying this work.

One of the most important things to realize is that it's important to identify the other person's needs, to listen with empathy and identify with them, and use compassion to come to resolution or solution, rather than making judgements and condemnations. This all may sound boring to you but I am thrilled by the idea of it. (Plus I really don't care what you think.)

There are many groups that teach the idea of compassionate communication was originally started by Marshall Rosenberg (who is not a cult leader) who wrote the book Nonviolent Communication: The language of life. I'm going to be taking a book study starting in September. In addition I may sign up for an 9 month immersion program. By that time no one will be reading my blog.

Introducing Child Prodigy - Hannah Leibovitz

"Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,

Counting this row and that row of moccasins

Waiting on the silent shelf."

— Anne Sexton

When I see photos of myself, sometimes I think OMG! But this is me. I cannot change who I have become with time, the wrinkled skin, the sagging chins, the Grandpa Bill ears, not without spending a heap of cash, and then, would I change, really? My skin might be smoother though if I am to be cremated at the end of my life, do I need smooth skin? It's just going to get crispy in the fire.

Hannah took the photos. She just celebrated her 4th birthday.

Post-Traumatic Growth

"It is in our nature to transcend our limitations, but too often we get distracted by everyday life. If life is always smooth, we're never challenged." "Suffering is probably necessary to make us grow."

William Breitbart, MSK, Chief of Psychiatry

There is a good article in Psychology Today, August 2009, entitled "The New Survivors."

Read it.

Magic Carpet Ride

I feel as though I will be groundless for the duration of my life because it seems (and maybe it seems this way in your life too) that whenever I touch down for very long, the ground gives way or the rug is pulled out from underneath. It felt that way when Greg died. It sure as hell felt that way with a cancer diagnosis. It felt that way when my son was diagnosed with HIV. It felt that way momentarily with the recent broken arm (only I sort of looked at the broken arm as a blip on my illness radar). (I highly recommend you purchase an illness radar. When you reach my age, you'll hear constant bleeps.) Maybe that is why Chris left -- he is looking for someone less ill, maybe my illness radar alarm sounding made sleep damn near impossible.

I don't believe that I suffer in this groundless way any more than the next person. It's not an exclusive club. It's more of an awareness that one cannot count on things like one may have suspected one could count on when one was young. Hum, maybe that's called growing up!? I wonder?

Another huge life lesson -- the only thing certain is uncertainty.

I have worked to move away from fear, the despair and sadness I felt. Yesterday I decided to think of Chris as dead, more out of self-preservation than reality. I mean, a dead person, well, you can't (really) contact them unless you believe in that stuff. And I don't believe in it though after my dad died years (and years) ago, I used to walk in the park and talk to him though I knew in reality that I was talking to the air. Under normal circumstances with a dead person, there's no contact, no reality of the physical form. I nearly had an anxiety attack late last week which was so similar to one I had after my husband died. I would wake from a dead (pun!) sleep, feeling this anxiety creep from my toes to my head, as if my body were changing color with the creeping. This attack came on because I realized I'd never see Greg again. It's like you know this person one minute and the next, they're gone. Dead. It definitely takes some getting used to, not something that happens overnight.

I spent a brief moment considering the risk and courage it must have taken to leave the relationship, how courageous I perceived that risk. Definitely not a decision to take lightly! Yet still a very daring decision in midlife. I admire risk-taking. And then I considered how much more courage it would have taken to stay, to work things out (things of which I am still so uncertain).

In my story, I am my own hero. I choose to take care of myself. I am the risk-taker, the courageous one. I didn't choose to take a journey outside of myself to search for happiness and excitement -- knowing full well that happiness cannot be found outside of me anymore than excitement can be found in a bottle of booze or a bowl of ice cream. Excitement and happiness are elusive. I know wherein true happiness lies and it's never out there. Ever.

Friday night was fun -- out of the ordinary. It was a date with an old friend. I don't mean OLD because he is several years younger than I. He brought me flowers, bright yellow chrysanthemums, Queen Anne's lace and white gerbera daisies. He also brought along all the makings for mojitos, rum, fresh limes and mint. I had a drink and I did not get angry or drunk. Drink #2 tasted kind of gross. We didn't have a muddler so we used spoons to muddle the mint. I made a spicy tortilla dish though the food was secondary to our conversation as always. We enjoy each other's company and have for years. He told me I was "an extremely desirable woman." He believes I am, as he says, "extremely bright." His words like salve to my open wounds. The next morning he phoned to say what a great time he'd had. We only spoke for a few minutes because I was out the door.

I spent most of Saturday with good friends. Saturday night, went out for drinks with a friend. I was designated driver. We had some good food, good conversation and I drove her home, late for me. (after 11 pm). She was almost slurring her words. We got emotional at times, a bit teary-eyed, had a lot of laughs. Then back home.

Sunday I went to church, aka Weight Watchers, where I'd gained two pounds from hanging out with boozers all weekend. (That's going to stop!) Sunday afternoon, another old (and I do mean OLD) friend came by. His illness radar was bleeping and blipping all over the place. (I could hardly hear myself think.) He had given up drinking due to a diagnosis of fatty liver but had gained 30 pounds, diagnosed pre-diabetic with high blood pressure. I asked him "What's your blood pressure?" He said, "I don't know. 180 over 100." I said, "Well, you gotta die from something!" (to quote my psychiatrist). I don't understand receiving the "you gotta quit drinking" message, ceasing the booze, and then eating your way into oblivion, walking around with an enlarged heart.

Then Sunday night I was off to a class from on Non Violent Communication. I loved it. I want to be nonviolent. We had to say in a very brief intro why we had come to the class. I said (now that I had been dumped/duped) I want to better understand how to take care of myself, and *when* I see Chris again, I want to be kind to him. The class was the perfect ending to a beautiful weekend of refreshing new ways to view what remains of my life -- through the eyes of uncertainty -- though at least I finally realize that now.