Making Choices

When you have health, you have choice.

You can choose to get your life in order, or not.  You can choose to clean your house, or not.  You can choose to visit friends and loved ones, or not.  You can choose to exercise, or not.  You can do that project, or write that book, or take that trip.  Or not.

As soon as your health slips, your choices start slipping away, too, like water running through your fingers, or going down the drain.

I remember one Saturday several years ago when I put off cleaning my house until late afternoon.  When I finally got around to mopping the kitchen floor, after 4:00, and reached up with the damp rag to get something that had dripped onto the refrigerator, ninety-five percent of my choice options for the next three months popped right out of my life.

My shoulder had popped out of its socket.

I have had seven babies.  I have had a root canal.  I have had spinal taps.  I have had scarlet fever and burns and horrible tension headaches.  But I have never had worse pain than that of a dislocated shoulder.

It's not just the pain, either.  When your right arm is suddenly useless, you feel like a disembodied spirit.  You can't do anything.  Walk, lie down, pick something up off the counter, make a phone call.  It feels like parts of your body are behind your back, where you can't reach them. 

I made my way into the bedroom where my husband was trying to catch up on sleep after his night job (which followed his Monday-Friday day job) and woke him up to my nightmare.  Disoriented and exhausted, he did his best to cope with what I was throwing at him.

We had to get to the hospital, fast.  We had to leave four small children at home in someone's care and get to the hospital, fast.  He called a kind neighbor, who dropped everything to come.  He drove me, shuddering with pain and frustration, to the ER.

Once there, we waited.  I had dislocated my shoulder once before, when a patch of carpet had slipped out from under my feet while descending the stairs, and my right arm clutching the banister had been torn from my flying body.  I knew from this that, once my shoulder was restored to its socket, this horrific pain would lessen to the point where I could cope with it.

After what seemed like an hour, a hospital staff member pulled up a stool to ask me miniscule questions from a tri-page questionnaire.  What did I think was the trouble?  I had dislocated my shoulder.  How long had I had this trouble?  Since right before we left for the hospital.  Had I been ill lately?  Had I taken any aspirin in the last ten days? When was my last period? 

"I was mopping the floor and I raised my arm to wipe the fridge and my shoulder popped out.  I just need it reset, please."  I had said this before.  I had been saying it since I had arrived.  It was clear and plain to me what the problem was.  And it didn't have anything to do with my period or the line-up of the planets.

"We have to complete this questionnaire before we can treat you," I was told.

"I'll be happy to answer all of your questions after my shoulder is reset," I countered.

That isn't the way they do it on TV.  On TV, when someone gets hurt and is rushed to the emergency room, all the hospital staff step up urgently trying to help the person.  I gritted my teeth harder and tried to endure as the list of questions went on and on.

"Have you had any diarrhea in the past week?"

Really?!  I stared at this balding, ordinary man who was sitting there with his clipboard between me and the rest of my life, and my eyes filled with tears.  I looked at my husband, to show him the tears in my eyes, and gave up.  I could not answer these inane questions anymore.  I was in too much pain.  I had told them what was wrong, and if they wouldn't help me, they wouldn't help me. 

I felt like a maimed person from ancient days, groveling for mercy at the foot of a Roman soldier.

"Can't somebody reset her shoulder?" my husband asked.

"We need to take X-rays first."

"Then take them."

I don't remember what happened next.  I had shut down.  I wasn't going to answer any more questions.  Eventually, I was bumpily transferred to a stretcher and wheeled down to X-ray.  Finally, someone came in and reset my arm.  The relief was instant and enormous.  Sure, my shoulder still hurt, but I didn't feel like a broken insect anymore.

Because the dislocation had recurred, I was in for surgery to make sure it wouldn't happen again.  And again.  That sounded good to me.

I came home, thanked the neighbor, and looked at my house.  The mopping, dusting, scrubbing, vacuuming, and clothes-folding I had put off were still there, waiting for me.  For me and my unusable right arm.

My four very small children still needed their Mama.

Why?  I thought.  Not why me?  Why had I made choices so badly?  Why had I put off what needed to be done until I could no longer do it?  Why had I put my children--and myself--in this situation?  That was the first time that I gave this topic a great deal of consideration.  At any time that day, I could have made better choices.  I had counted on having time later.  I had risked failure by wasting time.  I had gambled, and I had lost.

Now, I had to live with the consequences of my choices.  Sure, my husband did what he could to help out--he cooked the meals and helped with the children. The oldest of these was six, so none of them could push a vacuum or mop a floor.  Sure, a neighbor vacuumed my living room for me, once.  My visiting teacher offered to cook but not clean.  I politely informed her I already had that kind of help, thank you.

I remember staring at my stove top in utter frustration at times during the next few weeks, just aching to scrub it.  Or crumbs on my floor, just aching to sweep them.  Once I'd had the surgery, I couldn't move that arm at all.  I couldn't even put on my own deodorant.

 My "why" thoughts reached beyond that one afternoon.  Why had I chosen to be a person who did things at the last minute?  Why hadn't I developed the skills of keeping on top of things?  Sure, if my house had been clean at the time of my injury, I would have still needed help, but I would have needed less help.  I would have been less embarrassed to need help. I would have been less frustrated with myself.   I would have had a lot less thinking and changing to do.

So, over the past few years, I've worked to change these things.  I've tried to learn from this lesson.  I haven't mastered every inch of my life yet, but I've made great strides.  Now, if something unexpected happens, I am much more ready for it.  I have back-up plans to throw into place.  I'm living a life of structure and organization instead of living on the edge of disaster.

I found out I'm not alone.  When I was having some pre-op tests run at the hospital, a nurse discussed this principle with me.  She had tried to get her middle-aged husband to exercise, to no avail.  Well, he had hurt his back shoveling snow, and now he was no help to her at all.  In fact, her workload had doubled, and he would have a slow recovery back to health.  She wished he'd prevented the injury by being in shape. She hoped he'd learn his lesson from this.

Although my own personal lesson has never wandered far from my thoughts since that one Saturday at 4:00 and my goals have always been running along beside me since then, I have been forced to revisit this issue this week as I have sunk deeper and deeper into an illness that has taken days and choices away from me.

I have been forced to make accommodations for it, and I don't like that.

I like my life to run smoothly.  I like to stay on top of things. I like the same things to get done in a pattern each day and each week.

I took today off for a specific reason, and it wasn't to spend it sick.

I don't like my head to be so full of germs that there is no room for coherent thought.  I don't like shutting myself up away from my children, who don't see enough of me as it is, to try to prevent inflicting this misery onto them.

I'm frustrated to be too fuzzy-headed to study for my upcoming exam.

Still goal-oriented, I have been trying to fit into some short-sleeved dresses I wore years ago before it is too cold outside for short sleeves.  I have a lovely jade dress that I am itching to wear, in particular.  When I was young, I turned heads in that jade dress.  I'm not expecting any heads to be turning now, but I am looking forward to how I will feel when I can zip it all the way up without having to hold my breath.  I did get it fastened a couple of weeks ago, so I'm close.

So, this was not a good week, in my mind, to have to slow down--and eventually stop--my efforts at the gym.  I've been compensating by hardly eating.  My body is used to burning 900 calories a day; trying to cut those out of my diet is a challenge.

I've learned to treat my weight as someone might a chronic illness--or difficult relative--they have to manage.  I know what I need to do--and it's a lot--to keep it in check.  Whenever I slip into denial and abandon my program, I pay.  So I try not to do that.

At first, this week, I tried burning about half as many calories as usual, but still keeping up my ab work so my middle would stay firm.  But, as I got more ill each day, and each thing I tried to do, however gently, exhausted me more, I had to eventually stop altogether.

My priority is to be well.  First, wellness.  Then, whatever else.

I still have a couple of children in that stage of childhood where they subconsciously punish their mother for being sick.  I have learned over the past two-and-a-half decades of being a mother that the worst thing you can say to a child in that stage is, "Hey, I really don't feel well tonight--can you give me a break?"  They'll break your eardrums and your heart, attack your sanity, and hurl your patience right through the window.  And leave you cleaning up the glass.

They can't help it.

It takes a certain amount of maturity for a person to think, "Oh, Mother's not feeling well--I wonder what I can do to help her?"  A three-year-old cannot do it.  A five-year-old cannot do it.  And, as it turns out through my scientific experiment this week, an eight-year-old cannot do it.

What you have to say is, "You miss Mama being well, don't you?"  Eye contact is essential here, and as much sympathy for them as you can muster.  You may even need to apologize.  "I'm sorry you have a mama who isn't feeling her best."

They need reassurance.  Think about it.  Children are like animals in cages.  They are totally at our mercy.  If their caretakers can't take care of them anymore, well--the ramifications are frightening.

You have to say, "I'm sure I will feel better soon--do you want to help me get better?"  Give them something specific they can do so they feel some control over the situation.  "I'm sure I'll feel much better if you will watch this show quietly."  I'm serious.  Wouldn't you?

Just know that you are bound to fail to live up to their expectations.  They will watch five minutes of Curious George and expect you to be ready to take them to the park.

It's going to take patience on both of your parts.

I'm on the mend now, obviously, or I wouldn't be able to write this.  I'm actually looking forward to the slow climb back up to normalcy.  I'm glad for the things that are in place in my life to keep it from slipping dangerously out of whack when something goes wrong.  I bet when I can look around again as my true self, it won't be too hard to get it right back on track.  I've got to count on that, to keep away thoughts of despair.

And I'll keep trying to think about making the best choices, when things are good, to keep things good, while I can.  Because I never want to be staring at a mess--figuratively or literally--with no right arm again.