Welcoming Alan

So I’ve been thinking about having a baby shower.  OK wait- no.  (Not pregnant, kay?) So not exactly a baby shower.  But it sounds better than an “Internal Cardiac Defibrillator (ICD) Shower.”  Anyway.  If you haven’t been following the recent saga of my life, I had a defibrillator implanted into my heart last week- and life has been a little bit topsy-turvy for the past few months as I’ve adjusted (or not adjusted, as the case may be) to life with a bad heart.

Mostly, even though it’s been supremely difficult at times, it’s been tolerable.  I just keep walking through this, walking forward, one step at a time. I think the hardest part about being told I’d need a defibrillator implanted was the fact that I had just passed the year mark of being alone in my own body again- no pregnancies, no being the breastmilk sustenance for a baby’s life, nope.  Just me, myself, and I. And it had been quite magical.  

In fact, I hadn’t been alone in my body for an extended period of time for years.  Many of you know I had 4 babies in 5 years, and then a nice 7 year blissful break, before lo and behold, the entire thing happened all over again: 4 MORE babies in 5 MORE years. I have been doing the pregnant-nursing tango for the greater part of the past 18 years, so it was really nice to have my body back.

If I could describe it to you, it would be like this:  It was like I had been locked in a nice, lovely room filled with joyful things-pregnancy is amazing and unique- but at least in my 30’s, it was stuffy and uncomfortable. (I highly recommend having babies in one’s 20’s if at all possible!  The body handles it all with much ease!) Then after Audrina was born and weaned, it was as if someone came along and handed me a key. When I turned that key in the lock and felt the click of the heavy mechanism move as my wrist turned, my heart and my breath stopped for a moment and the stillness enveloped me like a warm waterfall pouring down my entire body from the crown of my head.  I walked across the threshold, into the light and immediately raised my arms and dropped my jaw-weight melted off of me, and I found my pulse racing, my heart rejoicing, my body almost levitating with an airy lightness.   Fresh air filled my lungs and it smelled absolutely intoxicating.

I lived in that light for a year. And then without warning: a firm grasp on my shoulder pulled me back into the room and a voice whispered “I’m sorry, but your time out here has ended permanently. You will now live the remainder of your days back in the room shared with all those lovely things.”  That was the day I received the news that I have the defibrillator implanted.

It’s not bad. It’s actually a miracle. I get to live. I probably get to see my babies grow up, barring any unforeseen circumstances. It’s truly a wonder: that my heart can be shocked back into a rhythm internally, should it suddenly stop. If I eventually need a transplant, that’s available to me as well. (Gulp.) These are the incredible magics and wonders of science. And I get to be a part of that; Of course I live in gratitude for that. 

But there is a grief that follows me right now- a grief I’m trying to befriend so I can work through it. It’s like wearing a long dress that drags on the floor behind me. A grief that knows my body will  most likely never be fully mine again. A grief that tries to love this stranger (Alan, the defibrillator) who is now a part of me, despite the mild sadness that once again, I find myself not physically alone in my body.  Kind of like that TV show, “Married at First Sight” where two strangers tie the knot.

I create who I am; despite medical devices, despite pregnancies, despite disease in my body- despite any unwelcome guests. I know this. But I don’t deny the element of grief- I can’t. It’s like that old camp chant that became a children’s book where the kids go on a bear hunt and encounter various difficulties along their journey: tall, wavy grass, a rushing river,  a thick slough of mud:

We can’t go over it,

We can’t go under it,

We can’t go around it,

We’ve got to go through it.

I think every once in a while, no matter how much therapy you’ve had, how many tools you know and practice, no matter how many gurus have access to, life throws you a curve ball and you do the best you can to deal with it— until you just crack, break.  I see it all the time on those Netflix Shows, like “Snapped”- where someone just goes ballistic and kills their spouse.  (I’m not saying I quite reached that level, but it was a manic episode of massive proportions.)

Yep.  I did it. I broke. I turned all “Angela-Bassett-in-the-closet-scene-from-‘Waiting-to-Exhale’.”  If you haven’t seen the movie, I’ve provided a clip here, but I will warn you, if you’re sensitive to swearing or have kids in the room, keep the volume off, mmm kay?  You’ve been warned! It’s a scene where she has just discovered her husband has been cheating on her for her entire marriage, and she walks into their closet and she just loses her sh*t.  So it’s a different circumstance, and actually a different emotion, (hers is clearly rage) but oh man- the level of reaction was so similar.

So everything was fine; hunky-dory, actually.  My surgery had gone flawlessly, save for a few thousand extra drugs they had to give me to put me out.  I was away for the weekend with my husband, processing some of the emotional baggage and spending a little time together for his birthday.  All was well.  Then I made the mistake of checking my email, and there was something sitting in that inbox that was simply unbelievable to me.  Nothing bad, just some news that was instantly totally and utterly overwhelming to me.  The emotion that came over me wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t sadness- it was like a total, complete swift kick in the guts.  A feeling of sheer helpless powerlessness- at a whole new level than I had felt before. You’d think I’d be almost used to feeling powerlessness by now. But it was like that one card on the very top of the tower- it just caused the whole deck to come crashing down.  And this was simply because of everything else currently going on in my life, it had nothing to do with the content of the email- it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Like Angela, I lost my sh*t, too.  I just went nuts.  I didn’t set anything on fire.  But my meltdown looked like this: Crying uncontrollably, shaking, and blubbering the words “I just can’t take any more” over and over again.  Red-faced and blotchy, I buried my face in Andrew’s sweater and just tried my best to get ahold of myself and not hyperventilate. 

But you know what? Eventually, it passed.  It just did.  I didn’t feel like it, but I did what I’ve been taught to do in a moment of extreme emotion- I reached out to a couple solution-based friends, and even started the conversations with breathless statements like “this is going to sound like the lamest thing you’ve ever heard!” But no one shamed me; no one said, “yeah, that’s lame!  Why are we even talking about this?” They just listened and let me rant, without trying to fix something that was out of all of our control.  In fact, they modeled back to me the type of listening that I hope I do for others, or at least that’s my goal.  They knew that I knew it wasn’t about the email- the deeper root was another reminder that I’m in control of so little in my life.  I know, I say this all the time- but it bears repeating: the only thing I can control is my actions and attitudes. But sometimes, even those actions and attitudes just have to lose their sh*t too.

I also of course, talked it through with my husband, even though I didn’t have the strength to reframe the entire situation so I could try to see it differently. I just let it out and cried.  I think I used up about 76 tissue boxes.  And guess how I felt in the morning?  Better.  Maybe not 100% better, but I’ll give it a good solid 50%. And that’s preferable to nothing, for sure, can I get a fist pump?  Letting it all out in a safe place, with safe people got me through so I could get to a place where I *could* reframe it.

So I snapped- so what.  I think maybe it was healthy for me.  I think maybe I needed to release all those toxins.

And in the end, it’s nothing personal against Alan. It’s just that I’m adjusting to his presence in my life, are you feeling me?  I get to have those memories of being alone in my body for a huge chunk of my life. I was the picture of perfect health for a LONG ass time! And now instead of the lightness of my body, I am learning to reframe it to the lightness of my spirit. 

My spirit knows freedom- my spirit is the eternal essence of me. Only to be cared for, grown, molded, shaped and protected by yours truly. And nothing will ever take it away because it’s ethereal, and intangible. What a gift.

Thank you, Alan, for being the catalyst to provide what my physical body needed so that my days in this lovely room can continue, as my spirit dances forever freely in the fresh, outdoor light. 

So now.  It’s time. I can move on with my life…. after all, I have an ICD Shower to plan.  

Welcome, Alan. I’m glad you’re here.