My brain is different. It wants to do different things - many of which involve lying prone on sofas and chairs. And that is exactly how it should be.
Update for the dolphin pod. One month after the stroke
If you missed my last post, I’m writing to you after experiencing a mini-stroke. I am so grateful for your emails and messages. Thank you for holding me in your thoughts and prayers. I feel you swimming beside me through the deep.
As with my last email, I only want to speak to you from the heart right now. I want to tell you how last night, when I woke at 3 am, I lay in bed savoring the darkness. I don’t want light right now, I thought. I want inky velvet darkness.
Healers say that all healing happens when we sleep. We know that all germination happens in the dark. That’s the kind of darkness I’m craving. Not the glare of the screen of my cell phone or Kindle. Not the distraction of Games or some compelling romantasy novel. I want silence. I want depth sounding. I want sleep, naps, dreaming.
And that is just what I’m receiving. Permission. Opening. Void space. Patience.
Each day, I check in with my work, asking: Is today the day when I will pull together the next module for the workshop that was bisected by this stroke? Is today the day some other project will spring to life?
I come to the screen. I open the post that I’m working on. I add a few lines. I take a few away.
Then, I close the lid of my laptop and go outside.
My brain is different. It wants to do different things - many of which involve lying prone on various sofas and chairs, and when it’s not too hot, on the outdoor swing, over which my husband built me a little healing house.
He turned my swing around and built a second seat where he or another visitor can sit with me, under the shade of a collection of umbrellas. He placed an enormous green cushion to hide me from the view of neighbors and passers-by, to give me something soft to lean into.
From inside of this cocoon space of cushions and shady spots, I can sort of see my garden (which is doing just fine without much attention from me). And I can do what my body needs: Resting. Napping. Reading. Napping some more.
(In this photo, shot through the screen of the back door, my son is answering all of my doctoring questions - he’s a DPT and works with people my age and older, helping them (and now me) understand the foreign language of meds and tests and hospital reports.)
As I was writing to you right now, I began to think about boundaries and how to support a friend who’s going through a hard thing.
My sister in law sent me the most thoughtful email this morning. She asked if I would welcome a phone call or if it might be an intrusion? Her question was so honest and clear. I think we all wonder if we should call someone who’s sick or recovering from surgery. I am always wondering whether my call will wake them from a nap or deplete the energy stores they are trying to rebuild.
So I really checked in with myself: Do I want a phone call? From anyone?
In the past, I would have certainly responded YES! Call me! without a thought for my own needs or condition. But I’ve been learning these last few years how important it is to pause before responding. To think less about hurting someone else’s feelings and check in with myself. What do I need? What would I prefer?
This is not something I learned in childhood. As an empathic child in a home that was often chaotic and confusing, I felt ALL the feelings (or I believed that I did) of ALL the people around me. This made it hard for me to feel myself as real. To feel myself at all. My needs? What did that even mean?
My sister, Beth, was the first to teach me about boundaries. About 15 years ago, she visited from California, staying overnight for three or four days. “I’m not open to that sort of conversation,” she would say to my husband, when he wanted to talk about politics. Her tone cordial but clear and firm. “I’m going to take a few hours by myself,” she’d tell me when she needed to recharge. Not rejecting my company but accompanying herself. I listened and learned and her example made it easier for me.
My daughter was my next boundaries teacher. She taught me a new language of non-binary thinking, gender fluidity and most important, the truth that my self-care does not take anything away from you.
So this morning, when my sister in law, respecting my boundaries, asked: would you find my call intrusive? I waited a moment. I listened to my body and heart. And I wrote back:
Phone calls do take a lot of energy right now but soon, when most or all of this is behind us, I'd love to talk with you. . .
It is so easy to exchange genuine love inside of clear boundaries. What a revolution this is for all of us. In that email, I updated my sis-in-law on my current situation and condition. I’d like to share some of that with you, as well. Like my family and friends, you are the pod of dolphins swimming with me through all of this. I feel you there each day. Thank you for your emails and messages. Thank you for holding me in your thoughts and prayers.
I am grateful for you, reading this.
Thank you for accompanying me through the deep.
I recommend arnica homeopathy and Brain Gym - Educational Kinesethesiology to anyone with a stroke. There are books Edu K, etc. Based in California.
Hello, it’s Gracie, your daughter’s old roommate. Perhaps this is a hello to you and Katie. I’m sending you so much warmth and love and healing. Thank you for meeting with me, your words and essence and drawing you did are clear as day to me although I can’t even remember what year we spoke. I wish you the stillness and rest you deserve for your beautiful mind and body to recover and heal. Love to you.