The View from the Couch

The View from the Couch

Day 18 of a projected 56 before my left sole can again greet the floor. Shoulder and neck—also left side—still quite cranky and challenging my intention to be positive and strong.

I’ve been thinking about the pandemic, finding small personal parallels between then and now.  Both sets of circumstances caused a sudden cessa

tion of daily structure and a markedly less productive use of the hours. Both shifted the focus from out there and go-go-go to in he

re and slow downand stay. Both felt (feel) kind of traumatic and extreme. Daughter is having a really hard time with the way my current disability has changed the flow of her days. She had a really really hard time back in 2020 as well.

There were silver linings in the midst of the Covid lockdown. During those months of 2020 when Superguy, Bink and I lost access to our regular daily activities, we began to hike. Nearly every day and in all kinds of weather we’d make a plan, pack a picnic, go someplace different to walk and sit and breathe new air. We explored areas we’d never been, taking time to appreciate trees and stones and watery bodies small and large. It was good for us, individually and as a family. When things began to open up again, S-guy and I vowed to keep our hikes part of our weekends. We haven’t been faithful to that, but we still remember the special delight those forays gave us in a time of worry and uncertainty.

My post-surgery inactivity and the additional restriction caused by the pain in my neck and shoulder are like flashing red lights hanging just above my eyes. They are just  a bit too high for me to comfortably tilt my head back  and take them in. Still, their incessant pulse is like a heartbeat radiating into my body, sometimes hot and urgent, other times low and slow. The message is clear: this will not change by wishing it away.  Lean into patience and faith, even when they are not visible or audible. Everything passes, after all. This, too.

Bink is out and about to her day program and her volunteer jobs and on walks and outings with as many caregivers as I can find. That’s what she wants and needs. S-guy has had to be here for me A LOT. Now that I am finding my way from couch to bed to bathroom to occasional chair on my knee scooter and am a bit more stable, he’s able to go out for a few hours to do what he needs to do. There is a lot of quiet time to be with the flashing lights. On good days I imagine picking up a brush and dipping into a rainbow, painting bridges between the pulse of pain and limitation and the inherent peace of silence. Other times I allow myself to slip into angst and wallow there a while. To—no pretty way to say it—feel sorry for myself.

The most interesting thing about this is the way both occupations ultimately lead to the same place. It’s like a maze with multiple entry points and zig zag paths that all funnel eventually into the one possible exit. There are signs at the other end, too. Some flash and some are perennially bright. Some are more muted, almost faded. They spell out things in a shorthand I can instantly recognize, that translate to something like this:

–Consider the multitudes of creatures, human and non, who live their entire lives with chronic, crippling pain. Who will never know what it is to walk freely.

–This, for you, is temporary.

–There is grace in surrender.

–There is opportunity here, time to learn to weave the bits of insight and discomfort into something useful. Beautiful, even.

–Reach out, tell someone you admire their tenacity, their bottomless love for their children. You appreciate their listening ear, their shoulder on which you’ve leaned when you feel weak and unsteady.  You are blown away that they read all your stuff, even when it goes on and on and your words stumble over themselves and still fall short. Tell them you remember every kindness.

–Notice the relief that comes from shifting your attention outwards, the opportunity to marshal all your energies and become the things you always wish for more of.  Love/loving.  Listener. Grateful witness to the ordinary moments holding multiple lessons in how to be a better human.

It’s all a symphony, really, the light and dark, the pain and relief, the internal sparring with self.  When you, (meaning, in this instance, I) have the time and space and desire to press it together and toss it gently out into the next moment. To hear it shatter against a wall or a tree and split into a million glistening notes, a song  so exquisite that all you can do is open wider than you dreamed you could and take it in. Take it all in.

Thanks for
reading!

Melinda