It wasn’t a swoosh. Even with several inches of freshly fallen snow, I could hear the fight between metal and ice. The ice was winning. I could tell because of the sharp piercing slide. A warning, DANGER AHEAD or in my case, behind.
Like everyone else, 2020 was a challenging year. Assisting my sisters in caring for our terminally ill mother was difficult but strangely nurturing. It required extensive traveling, patience, and understanding. It demanded sacrifice. And the “I have a feeling,” sixth sense honed by my mother was useful. It was mandatory to anticipate and meet her now unspeakable needs. We walked together the unchartered care-giving path to the one who had taken care of us always.
I didn’t mind the traveling. The twelve hour drive gave me time to myself to think and imagine whatever came to mind. A lot came to mind. Still does.
I did not appreciate catching Covid19 somewhere along this highway. The long-term effects are still with me. Covid19-brain fog. Not really clear how to define it. For example, I was sharing with my Dad a movie I had seen. He asked who was in it. Hmmm. I can see the actor… but his name? I went down a rabbit hole. I began to try to remember. It was kind of like six degrees of separation. “I know you know him. The one who was in that movie with….what was his name…you know the one who was in that other movie we saw last year….with that other actor who married the actor from the movie with the guy who died but didn’t pass and wanted to protect his wife from the bad guy who was his best friend.”
That was the mental side affect of Covid19. The physical side affect was and is, I am unable to get a really deep breath ie, my lungs. I practice deep breathing. I think it helps. I fatigue easy. And oh yea, I aged.
We won’t discuss the emotional toll or the house flood. Don’t want to drown today.
Then, of course, the inevitable funeral weekend in late October. Watching a parent pass, for me, was life altering. As our immediate family of five became a family of four, the puzzle piece that made sense of our picture was lost. It’s empty gray space remains a constant reminder of what once was, the good, the bad and the ugly. Had to Google just now who was in that movie. For you fellow Covid survivors, Clint Eastwood. I digress.
With Covid19’s contagion, our once large supportive Italian family was mostly absent from the funeral. However, all nine grandchildren came. And we had moments, sacred moments, tearful, reflective and tender. And there was laughter and singing. I think she would have liked that.
However, my own immediate family was in crisis. Imagined or justified grievances, even in the wake of death did not resuscitate our family bonds. This shattered my normal functioning family illusions. It has shattered me, more than everything else combined, and still does. I discovered there are no “normal” functioning families. None. Zilch. My mother’s funeral weekend highlighted how fragile life, family and unconditional love really is. Just one more special 2020 hindsight lesson. The list is long.
The holidays came. I worried about my newly widowed father, but he stepped up big time. Our Christmas box with hand picked gifts arrived, san homemade short bread cookies. I cried as we ate our See’s Candy.
My only Christmas wish was, well it doesn’t really matter. Santa did not come.
Which brings up my crisis of faith. Microphone drop and walk away from the bomb. And on with the show.
As the New Year began, I made a decision. 2021 was going to be different. I was going to be different. I was going to make this year great! And to start it off, for my 63rd birthday, I was going skiing. I invited all of my kids and grandkids to join me. We rented a BNB in Flagstaff, and I began jogging to get into shape.
Skiing has been my passion growing up. Sometimes I skied with my mom. It was always …entertaining. And if there was a fond memory I cherish of her, it is her laughter and boredom busting activity. She was always up for an adventure. She was in her forties when she and my dad gave skiing a try. She learned, but it was sometimes difficult for her to stand up once she fell. She would take her skies off, stand up, put her skies back on, and then ski down the mountain. No matter how much I tried to coax her to use her poles to stand, she couldn’t. And this invariable would get us giggling and then that would often escalate. So skiing for my birthday was what I wanted, and I made it happen.
We sledded behind the BnB with the little’s. Snow angels, hot chocolate, runny noses and snow ball fights. Not all of my family members came at the same time. I kept reminding myself that the gray spots in my puzzle were still here, somewhere. Each had chosen to hide their piece. And I guess that helped with the peace. My decision was to make this year a happy year. And for me, happiness equates to good will and forgiveness of self and others. Perspective might be an age thing. Now where was I? Oh yeah.
The previous week the higher elevations had had a snowstorm. Today the sun was out, and the powder was fresh. It was a perfect ski day! My two sons and I went up the mountain. I wore my mother’s down filled ski jacket and one of her sweaters. We rented my gear, got our tickets, and headed up the lift. My legs remembered how to cut and curve. My knees cooperated, and it was great fun. There was a slight problem. Older women and men need to use the facilities frequently. None were strategically located on the mountain. And who wants to stop skiing and go back to the lodge? Not me.
I needed to stay on the mountain because we were only skiing half day, the morning half. As we headed to the lift for the last run, I thought to myself, I haven’t fallen once today. That must mean I am not trying very hard. I came around a gentle bend, and there before me was nature’s birthday gift. A hill with small baby moguls! I began to cut in-between them when my edge caught. I gently fell in the soft powder. I giggled. “Well, at least I’m trying!” My son stopped and saw me laughing while sitting on my bottom. “Mom! Are you ok?” “Yes, but I can’t get up!” “Use your poles!” He shouted. Seriously? I started to laugh out loud because well, you know. I swung my skies around and made every effort to stand, but to no avail. “I am so fat!” I yelled. He yelled back, “You are not fat!”
Then I heard it, the ice under the powder behind me. I didn’t even have time to look back. Or if I did, I don’t remember. I felt and heard the hard impact and the break. My son grabbed my skies so I wouldn’t slide down the mountain. Then he gently removed my boots from my skies. I lay sprawled out, unable to move. The man had lost control and could not stop. He plowed right into my back. That stopped him. He profusely apologized as we waited for the ski patrol and the toboggan to arrive. My son, ever attentive, informed me that the guy had a GoPro. I looked up. I wanted to know if I could have the footage. I didn’t ask.
One toboggan ride, one ambulance ride, one shot of painkiller before my hospital arrival. One female catheter that acts like a vacuum if you placed it correctly. I did not. Limited mobility and no prior experience, well clearly it was memorable. I blabbered to the EMT’s as if we were old friends. I wonder if that is a symptom of shock.
Once in the emergency room, The EMT’s and the nurse lifted me onto the bed where they cut my mother’s ski jacket and sweater off. Down feathers floated thickly around, even escaping under the cubicle curtains. Kind of dreamy, but it wasn’t. The feathers tickled my nose, and the janitor struggled to sweep them up. Have you ever tried to sweep up down feathers? It doesn’t work. She said she would deal with it later. She left.
The EMT’s left. The nurse left. He failed to provide me with a buzzer that requests assistance. I laid there for an hour, hoping someone might pop in for a visit or to ask if I needed something. “Hello? Can anyone hear me? Help?” No response.
No family was allowed in because of Covid19. Finally, a pleasant hospital worker came in with my phone and a change of clothes. “Here’s your phone and some clothes. Please call your husband. He is worried about you.” I asked if she could get me some painkillers. She said she would talk to my nurse. She left and I began making phone calls. My husband and kids were relieved to hear my voice. My sisters laughed out loud at the thought of me riding the toboggan down the mountain. I stopped making calls.
I was swimming in melted yellow snow. A nurse popped in. “How’s your pain level?” Seriously? “Why didn’t you buzz me?” He asked incredulously. “How?” Shocked, he looked around and located the buzzer. He reached behind the bed and on the wall, too far for me to see or reach. He placed it in my hand. “Sorry about that. I’ll be back soon with some meds.” I guess soon is relative. I made more phone calls. I slept and swam some more.
After three hours, I was finally queued up and wheeled into the c-scan room. They carefully lifted me off my bed and placed me into the machine. Rather chilly. The techs were shocked to find the pool I had been laying in. Embarrassed for me, they called the emergency room nurses and insisted that I receive a change of bedding and clothing. Techs have power, at least more than me under my circumstances.
An hour later, changed and dry, a Dr. entered through my curtains and waded through down feathers to confirm that, yes, indeed, my sacrum was fractured. He assured me that I would not need surgery. It would heal, eventually, but it was going to be painful for a while. His plan was to give me some heavy-duty meds so my husband could drive me two hours down the mountain.
A physical therapist came in to teach me how to stand up and use a walker. I tried, but the pain. I could feel my face drain as something unfamiliar began to rise. The PT ran for a wastebasket. She found one just in time. “I am so sorry. I don’t know why I threw up.” She said, “I think you could use some more pain meds. Now lie back down, rest a bit, and we will try again after I get you some meds.” Drugs can be a wonderful thing.
It was now eight at night. I finally received the heavy-duty meds. I don’t really remember the wheelchair ride out to the car until the cold air slapped my face. My husband had reclined the passenger seat and layered it with pillows and blankets. You know, I think it is harder on family members to weather trying times then for the person who is actually going through the trauma. Victims don’t have an option, witnesses just feel helpless.
I remember, sort of, stopping at the pharmacy. Then I floated down the mountain on the pillows and blankets. I faded in and out. The highway was eerily empty and spooky. However, when I was awake, I really appreciated the lack of blinding headlights and the clear sky full of stars. Yea, I was high.
We arrived home. We slowly circumvented the four stairs to the downstairs bathroom and then the guest room. I sank into the deep memory foam mattress.
We won’t discuss the next days, or weeks, as I worked to recover. Within eight weeks I was in physical therapy. Then I began to swim everyday at the local gym. It was hard and painful. Winter turned to spring. Spring brings hope and renewal, right?
Summer came. Still on the mend, I traveled to help my father and sisters spring clean the cabin. I went again and helped him move to a retirement facility. I went again to help with his estate sale and then again for the final sale. In September we celebrated his 93rd birthday. I fatigued easily and my sacrum would throb with too much activity. That is normal, right?
In October, after a two-year hiatus, I agreed to go on our annual girlfriend’s Newport Beach trip. The weather was chilly and the oil spill limited our activities, but it felt nice to laugh, be silly, and sit out on the deck watching the sunset and the stars show up. So much had happened over the last two years, the isolation, the illnesses, and the injuries. I tried to be present. I wanted to belong and fit again. But I didn’t. It felt different because I was different.
The last afternoon, I left the chilly beach and headed back alone to the beach house. I was standing at a crosswalk next to the pole where you push the button and wait for the green walk sign. I felt something brush up against me. Alarmed I turned, and a girl and her bike were lying on the ground. She had lost control and crashed. She looked up at me and said, “I’m alright. It’s ok. Don’t worry, I’m going to be fine.”
Trigger. I wanted to yell at her. “You’re going to be fine? You brushed against me. You almost collided into me.” But I didn’t say that. I think my eyes said that. Yea, I’m pretty sure they did. Fortunately, the stoplight turned green, and shaking, I walked cautiously across the street. The girl got back on her bike and she rode away. Lucky girl.
That afternoon I found myself to be weepy, sad and angry. I didn’t want to leave the beach house or go see the sunset. I was short tempered and snarky. The next day we drove home. It was not fun. I was not fun.
As the days went by I rarely left my house. When I did, it was during the day. My hands clutched the steering wheel until they were white. And if someone else drove, I was constantly looking to see how close the cars were. My inclination to hit the imaginary passenger brakes intensified. I often returned home in a cold sweat. My husband told our kids that he thought I was fearful someone else was going to collide into me. Well, yeah.
On Halloween, I sat on my front porch and handed out candy. Didn’t have to stand up and answer the door repeatedly. They had to come to me. No collisions tonight.
The next night our daughter wanted to take our pumpkins to the desert for her traditional pumpkin squash. She handed me a black marker and instructed me to write all the things that I wanted to smash away this past year. The list was long. Then she drove me, late at night, into the desert. My fingers clenched the armrests as we moved into the moonless night. Now for those who know me, you know this is an adventure I typically would promote. Not any more. She took a right turn on a dark remote road and stopped.
“Ok, take your pumpkin and hike up and smash it.”
“Can I just throw it out the window?”
“Mom! What is wrong with you?”
I got out, quickly said a few words to my unsuspecting batman carved pumpkin, and threw the masked beast to the ground.
“Doesn’t that feel good?” she asked.
We got in the car and began our drive home. Thank goodness! Then she turned into a QT. She wanted hot chocolate. I know how to make hot chocolate…at home.
“I’ll stay here,” I tell her. She doesn’t argue, but I sense she is a little annoyed. She gets back in the car and hands me my hot chocolate. She pulls out, crosses against traffic, what the… and heads home. I think it’s time to come clean before I hyperventilate.
“Hey, you know how Dad told you that I’m having some issues? Kind of fearful about being hit again?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a little more serious than that.” I began to tell her how I have been feeling since Newport; the darkness, the sadness, the weepiness, the fear, and the apathy. I tell her that I feel vulnerable and exposed. I share that I can’t find a purpose or reason for anything. I do feel something, an emptiness of everything. I am overwhelmed, paralyzed, and edgy.
“Mom, you need therapy, you need to let yourself cry, and you need to find your peeps. There are people, women, who feel exactly like you. Not about collisions, but about life. Find them. And stop fighting the tears. Let them fall. You will feel better.”
Even though she isn’t a therapist, just sharing my truth helped. The next day I found myself on my couch ugly crying. It released something in me. Finding my peeps, well, that might take some time. So, don’t be calling me up wanting to chat. So not there yet.
It is November again. I don’t have any ideas on how to make 2022 a better year. Clearly, that didn’t work out so well last time. But, I do intend to end 2021 awkward, brave and kind. And I hope Santa Clause comes this year.
As I venture forth and face the fight between the cold hard icy world verses my soft underbelly, well the ice often still wins. But every day, it also melts just a little with every effort of personal truth.
I notice I feel a little braver. I have shared how I feel with some people, ok, three people and you. As if I know who you are, cause I don’t. It’s a beginning. I told a person in my life, “I am afraid that I will lose what little respect people have for me if I share how vulnerable I feel. And you know how disrespect is a trigger for me.”
She responded, “I don’t think anyone will lose respect for you. I think they will gain understanding.”
Understanding. I can feel the fight between my invisible metal icy armor and my underbelly. There is a sharp inner screech of terror in my head, but my heart, my heart, is looking for that gentle soft powder to fall into, and then, I will giggle until I am laughing out loud again.
That’s not a plan for 2022. It is an intent that I will more than survive, I will thrive.
