Through your eyes.

Mom,

Are you OK?  You're crying into a pillow.  I placed my paw on you three times with only a gentle rub in return.  Are you OK?  I want you to know I love you with all of my heart.  I hope you're OK.  I see you struggling.  I see you hit the snooze for the 5th time as me and brother get up off the bed to stretch.  I see you rise slowly as you gently stretch your arms in silence.  I just want you to know I'm here.

I tilt my head as you close your eyelids so tight, not wanting to be here, now, in this moment; because of all the pain you're enduring.  I see you.  I feel you as you gently stroke my back, knowing you didn't even want to lift your arm.  I lick your tears as you thank me for being there.  I'm always here Mom, and I always will be. 

I can feel your pace slow as you take us for our nightly walk.  I know you're exhausted but Mom... We're almost home!  We're so close, so you can rest!  I enjoyed sniffing every street light and lawn that we passed.  Thank you for that.  

I side eye you as you tell me you love me for the 15th time in one minute.  I slowly look up to you and give you a kiss on the cheek, hoping it would help.  It did.  You smiled.  And you sighed with relief.  That's all I want Mom.....  I want you to be happy.

I heard you on the phone with your Mom the other day.  I could tell you were upset.  Your voice wasn't the same.  You were pacing.  You were hurt.  You had sadness in your voice.  Why Mom?  Me and brother can give you happiness!  We're right here running around the house trying to get your attention!  We're here.  I just want you to know that.

I love sleeping by your feet.  It gives me purpose.  It gives me a sense of protection for you.  I can protect you from anything!  I just wish I could protect you from your own body.  But I can't so I'll do my heckin' best to protect your feet while you sleep.

Why do you smell funny Mom?  You smell like me when I go to the vet.  Sterile.  Did you go to the vet?  Why are your steps staggered?  Why is your Mom helping you up the stairs and into bed?  Can I help you Mom?  Can I comfort you?  I know I can!  I can kiss those tears away. 

Mom, we had such a great day at the park!  I fetched the ball every time for you so wonderfully.  I hope that brought you joy.  I'm so sorry my paws bled and you were scared.  I know it has happened a lot and you are worried.  I don't want you to worry.  Trust me, I had a blast!  Mom, this too shall pass and everything will be OK.  

Mom, you're smiling as you cover yourself up with the comforter.  You kiss me and brother and tell us you love us.  Your eyes are tired.  I know you're battling pain.  But I also know you can handle so much more.  I know that in this moment, everything is right in the world and you can sleep peacefully tonight with us by your side.  Goodnight Mom.  I love you with all my heart.

Equanimity,

Timber (through Kelsey)

Strength

I have strength.
I have strength when I am curled up in a ball in bed after the 5th day of my flare up, not ready to give up.
I have strength when my pain medicine is making me spin and nauseous, but I'm not going home from work.
I have strength when the nurse prods me with a needle for the 4th time because my veins are acting like twizzlers in my arm.
I have strength during an EMG when the doctor tells me he doesn't really 'think' I have Thoracic Outlet Syndrome, even though I've been diagnosed for the better part of 9 years.
I have strength when I go in for another upper scope with the fear that it has something to do with my TOS surgeries.
I have strength after the Doctor tells me that my paralysis that I already have in my esophagus could have gone further into my digestive tract.
I have strength when the Doctor tries to prescribe me anti-depressants for 'stomach cramps,' because I need one more medication and problem in my life.
I have strength as I take my digestive issues into my own hands because there's no way I'm touching that crap.
I have strength as my fatigue cloud kicks into high gear during the third meeting at work.
I have strength as I have my third cup of coffee and nod off while writing another email.
I have strength staring at the piled up dirty laundry I let lay in baskets another day because I need to rest.
I have strength when I push through the second half of my walk with the dogs because they need the exercise..... and so do I.
I have strength as I push the cart through Walmart, anxiety through the roof, just so I can put food on the table tonight.
I have strength after hours of yard work I know will put me into a flare up but it's so damn pretty when it's finished.
I have strength when I bail on friends the third time in a row because I'm just too tired and depressed to put on a smile.
I have strength as I finally shower after the fourth day of contemplating how much energy it's going to take me.
I have strength when I think about the difficult road that was placed in front of me, only to be stronger and smarter for the next portion of the journey.
I have strength when I stare into the mirror, still trying to understand myself completely and be OK with me the way I am.
I have strength as my fingers trace all of my scars that were placed on me by the devil himself, trying to pull me all the way under but failing.
I have strength.
I have strength because I am still here today, fully alive and breathing and conscious.
I have strength because I haven't given up.
I have strength because I am a warrior.
I have strength, and so do you.


Equanimity,

Kelsey

2018

Reflecting back at the last few weeks, I can honestly sit here at my desk absolutely appalled at the events that have taken place.  I'm all about good karma and positive energy, but a series of unfortunate events has left me pondering, why?

I started out the year with fire.  And by fire I mean the red hot searing pain of a flare up in my neck and shoulder.  My physical therapist who has been dry needling my shoulder finally told me I might be better off getting Botox Injections again for longer lasting pain-relief.  Thanks to my fellow TOSers, I was able to quickly find a doctor within the area that can take on the challenge.  After playing the waiting game with insurance-needs-to-approve-then-wait-18-years-for-an-appointment, my doctor promised me he would squeeze me in to get the injections the second it was approved.

Before I received the injections, I went to hell and back with Strep-A.  I've never experienced a fever like I did with this nasty virus.  In the high 103s, I couldn't think straight.  Of course you (my lovely reader) know that sickness heightens chronic pain by ten-fold.  Many hours of work were lost, I fell behind on laundry, dishes and cleaning and I wasn't giving enough attention to my pups.  Trying to catch up, the stress alone created even a bigger flare.  Thankfully the antibiotics finally kicked in and wiped out most of the virus. Most.

I was able to schedule the injections just as my virus was slowing down.  I wasn't nervous for them, I was anxious for the side effects and the what-ifs.  As I sat on my side with a medical gown draped over half of my shoulder, my mind trailed off.  In 2014 I received Botox Injections at Froedtert.  I couldn't remember it hurting this bad.  I felt like I was getting a ton of flu shots in my shoulder, neck and head.  I was afraid take a breath, fearful that my lung will rise up past my collar bone and that the doctor would poke it with a needle.  I had confidence in this Doctor, but worries are always lingering.  Dry needling definitely has taken away my pain and fear of needles, so it helped me remain calm during the injections.  However, on the car ride home it was as if 100 bees were in the car, repeatedly stinging my neck.  I couldn't focus, construct sentences, or even keep my head up.  I didn't remember it hurting this bad after the first round.

A day after receiving my injections, I flew out for a business trip.  I had planned to take tramadol the entire trip so I wouldn't become rundown from pain.  Within the 4 days I was gone, fatigue started consuming me.  It was hard to wake up to the annoying ringtone my phone blared in the early hours of the morning.  It was hard to concentrate after a 2-hour meeting just to go into another one.

While on my trip, my beloved 5-year-old cat Ellington became deathly ill and passed away the night before I came home.  I was absolutely torn.  I am torn.  My house isn't the same.  The energy flow is halted and it feels stale.  He no longer greets me on the bathroom counter.  He doesn't paw at the shower curtain while I shower, trying to get it and feel the mist on his fur.  He isn't there to jump up on my shoulders when I least expect it.  He's gone, and the guilt consumes me daily.  There were so many signs given to me pointing that I should stay home from the trip.  The universe was trying to tell me something, and while I can't predict the death of a cat or anything for that matter, I still feel like I could have been there to catch the signs earlier.

Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I'm going to figure out exactly what I need to do to make me happy. Winter is a tough season for me.  I cannot just go take a walk without the cold going directly to my bones, chilling my entire body and revealing my Raynaud's.  I can't go to the lake and take a deep breath of air as I search for sea glass.  I can't sit in my hammock and feel the wind gently rock me to sleep.  So for now, I'll plan how I'm going to make the most of my summer and how I can be thankful for every single day and cherish it; pain or no pain. Summer, I'm coming for you.  I'll fight for every ounce of your goodness and won't give up until I've done just that.  This summer is going to be different.  This summer is going to be about me.

Equanimity,

Kelsey Lynne

.Today.01/08/2018.

On this day 2 years ago, Mom and I traveled to St. Louis to patiently wait for my name in the waiting room of the O.R. What seemed like a normal day to most, was not to me. Nerves tingled inside every cell of my body as I was waiting for some kind of miracle. I was living in pain for years, without a single course of action to completely cure it or curve the pain. Countless tears, bouts of anger and frustration, and days of acceptance and clarity led up to this.  I never really knew how to document this part of my journey or how to put it into words until today.  In the past 2 years, I have picked up my pen, tablet, or phone multiple times only to look at the blank slate with doubt.  I never knew how to start.  It has always been a blurry time for me, and lots of pain and heartache come back when I tried to recall certain details and it got to be too much to handle.  The months that followed my stay in the hospital were fuzzy, but finally today I can recall my stay with crisp and clean clarity.  I can remember every detail, big or small, to an exact replication.  I can remember it as if it were today.

I remember the smell of the hospital, the curve of the bed against my back, the feeling of horror as I woke up not being able to move my arm or feel it as the nurse moved it around while fixing my blanket. I remember my morning nurse taking out the catheter and feeling pain and relief throughout my entire body sent down from the gods and goddesses themselves.  I hear my voice beg for food, only to realize I wouldn't be eating for a full 72 hours (plus the 30 hours before surgery itself.) I feel my first few wobbly, drowsy steps out of bed to the hallway, with my IV stand casting my shadow. I sense my mom's arm gently wrapped around my right arm, with the other gently resting on my stomach as we slowly walked on.  I remember gazing at my left arm, as the pins and needles started, a wonderful sign that my nerves are starting to wake up and heal. 

I see myself holding back tears at 3 in the morning while the nurses prod and poke at my arms several times trying to find a vein, unsuccessful more than 6 times after my IV had slipped out (one of my many nightmares that disrupts sleep to this day.) I can hear the patient on the other side of the room scream and whimper as she waited for nurses to run to her bedside more than a dozen times per night. I can taste the sugar from the Popsicles and jello I was only allowed to eat for days and puking my soul out at 5 in the morning from gut rot and crying to the nurses "I'm sorry" because I would never be able to clean it up myself. I remember the day I was discharged, weak and exhausted.  I can taste the first few Cheerios my nurse smuggled in for me because just like us, she thought it was ridiculous that my doctor didn't clear me to eat bright and early on the 3rd morning.

 I can see my nurses faces while saying 'thank you' and 'goodbye' as mom wheeled me to the elevator.  I remember feeling so trapped , like the journey should feel over but really it only just had begun.  I feel the embarrassment sitting in a swimsuit tipped to one side as my mom washed my hair in the hotel tub while I tried to fade away into Wild Child that was playing in the background. I remember pure happiness from Skyping Julie, another TOS Warrior whom I 'met' on a group a few weeks prior and not feeling so alone in that moment. I remember the sinking feeling in my chest as mom had to empty my drainage tube twice a day and make sure my bandages were clean.

I see my dad's face with a fresh smile as he entered the hotel room with a new body pillow and stuffed elephant, hiding how exhausted he was from his 8 hour trip to scoop me up and take me home.  I remember the feeling when I was finally handed what was left of my rib after getting cleared to go home from my surgeon.  I can feel the light wave-like motion while laying down across the backseat on top of a pillow bed of my parent's SUV.  I remember opening my eyes and looking up out of the window to see my apartment right in front of me, waiting.  I feel the heaviness in my legs as I climbed those stairs with my parents trailing behind, all of my belongings in their hands.  I remember hugging my cats and telling them how much I missed them and how my apartment was arranged and the ugly color of my periwinkle kitchen.  I remember all of that.

And just like that, I don't remember anything after.  For days. For weeks. For Months.  Days dropped by without me noticing like petals gracefully falling off wilted flowers sitting on the dining room table.  I can't remember what I did.  I can't remember who I saw.  I don't recognize certain dates and events that happened.  I don't remember going back to work.  I don't remember eating ice cream or going to a movie or taking a walk or any of it. It was a blur.

But out of all the darkness and fog, what I do remember is this:

I remember fighting my body to wean off pain medication, nausea pills, muscle relaxers, and anything else that was shoved into the brown paper bag I received from the Barnes & Jewish pharmacy.  I remember my foggy mind as I returned to St. Louis for my check ups and when my surgeon commented that my shoulder was healing well.  I remember the stern confidence in his voice, when my voice quivered as I answered questions about the future.  I remember all of my dry-needling appointments with my physical therapist.  I remember every flare-up and migraine after he hit the wrong trigger point.  I can feel the anger swallow my insides as I got results of a partial paralyzed esophagus from surgery after months and months and thousands of dollars spent on testing.  I can feel the burn from all my tears, as if they were imprinted as tiny little scratches on my face.  I can taste the words of defeat when my flare-ups were more frequent, and pain was more constant but I still moved forward.  I can taste, hear, feel, and clench the anger that has been within me over the years.  But today, I let it go.

Today I let go of all of the 'can't' 'won't' and 'shouldn't' moments in the last few years.  Today I grasp what I 'can' 'will' and 'should' do in the present and future.  Today marks two years since that awful, dreadful, painful, delicate, vital, beautiful part of my life.  Today marks the day that I have officially paid off both of my surgeries, multiple tests and medical equipment.  Today I no longer feel like a science experiment, like some animal in a containment cell exhausted from test after test.  Today,  I feel a little more human and back to normal.  Today, I feel incredibly free.


Equanimity,

Kelsey

On the flight to STL with Mom

Pre-Op, getting hooked up and waiting for the OR to be cleared

Post-op from a 4 hour surgery and was first told I couldn't eat because they were concerned with my lymphatic system

1/11/16 my first taste of real food in over 92 hours

Mom and I rooting on the Packers (along with some awesome nurses)

Getting Discharged

BUSTING OUT!

My top scar is from 1st rib resection and removing scalenes.  The bottom scar is from a pec-minor release. 

(Super gross I know)  My drainage tube

Happy as a clam

Getting nervous for the tube removal.  Holding on tightly to "stripes"

Deep breaths!

The undeniably frustrated face after removal. It was like getting kicked in the chest

Mom joked around a little while I scheduled my checkups

Speaking with Dr. Thompson before leaving STL

My rib, in hand, finally out of my body

Orange Bottles

The computer monitors on the desk become blurry.  Words are no longer legible.  The bright white light from the screen is nothing but a blur.  As I shake my head, a hand from the invisible forces grips tighter on my shoulder, tightening all the muscles in my neck and arm.  It hurts to lift my coffee cup up to take another swig and in doing so I gently wince at the pain.  I stand up, stretch, walk around the office, gently bend over and touch my toes.  This is the same routine I've done dozens of times already this morning. 

The hot searing pain is progressing intensely. No, no, please no.  I already missed a day and a half this week of work. Please.  I need to stay.  What can I do?  I grab an ice pack from the freezer and quickly apply it to the SCM.  I rub an essential oil pain mix all over my neck and temples.  The pain is getting worse by the seconds.  My hand is growing heavy.  Lightning bolts of pain stab my chest and halting my once even breaths.  I take deep, long breaths of all the air I can gather up.  Stomach pains swell over me as I think about all the ibuproferen I've taken this week and how much it burns my stomach lining.  Tears are at bay as I think of my only option.  I have to do it.  I have no other choice.  I need money.  I need to get my work done.  I am so far behind I'm already drowning in work.  So many people are already disappointed.  

My purse is hanging on the coat rack above my dog gently snoring on his bed.  I reach in and find a familiar plastic cylinder object.  I pause, gather myself, and slowly pull it from the bag.  The label reads: Tramadol:  Take 1 tablet by mouth every six hours as needed for pain.  I set the bottle on my desk and stare at it.  Guilt, anger, and sadness wash over me but those feelings are quickly drowned out by the waves of pain that are getting stronger.  I open up the bottle, split a pill in half and pop it into my mouth as quickly as I can so maybe I can pretend like it never happened.  But it did.  And it will happen again and again.

Days home from work aren't entertaining.  I normally can't leave the couch or the bedroom.  Doctor appointments aren't a good excuse to get out of anything.  The worst guilt is from trying to explain to people why I can't participate in certain activities.  But this is our biggest battle... Pain killers.  They aren't our only option, they're usually our last as we try to lastly vanquish our symptoms that do not leave us.  Chronic pain sure isn't for the weak.

                 Equanimity,

                              Kelsey

The Mirror.

I often find myself down the rabbit hole of continuous lucid nightmares.  These nightmares aren't like they were when I was a young girl.  Clowns aren't sitting in rocking chairs next to my bed.  Goblins aren't coming out of my closet doors.  Aliens aren't taking over the world.  No, these are much deeper, much more intimate.  As I close my eyes listening to the hum of my box fan on the shelf, my brain dives into the deepest, darkest corners of my brain and nit picks any anxiety I have.  

I walk down a valley on a worn out black top trail.  Everything I see is in black and white.  I am alone.  I am not afraid, but I do not know what I am exactly searching for.  Along the path are aged trees with pieces of bark dangling from their limbs and bodies.  There is no sound except for my calm footsteps.  I see no one and no one sees me.  I come to a fork in the road and at the crest is a vanity with a faded mirror.  Just as I always have, I stare into it, trying to find answers.  Trying to find meaning.  Trying to find purpose.  I stare into my own eyes and beg myself to figure out what is wrong.  I scream and shout and pound my fist against the glass but like always, it's unbreakable.  I get no answer and I scream harder and I pound my fists harder and suddenly

I'm awake.

Sometimes I wake up drowning in a pool of sweat.
Sometimes I wake up out of breath clutching my chest.
Sometimes I wake up, open my eyes, stare at the dark shadows on the wall until I fall asleep, zombified by the fact that I can't escape this nightmare.

I've been finding myself staring off into space more and more during the day, during mid conversations with a friend, in a meeting at work or watching a movie at home with my animals curled up next to me.  I think about that nightmare often.  I try to make excuses for what it means; but I already know what it means.

I'm lost. I am so incredibly lost.  

I am the inbetween.  I am post-chronic-pain, pre-healed.  I am floating in a life that I'm struggling to find peace with.  I have been known for the last many years as having pain and not knowing what to do.  I strived to find answers, solutions, prescriptions that would have no side effects, doctors that didn't think I was crazy.  I pushed the boundaries of my own human form when I didn't even want to take another step.  I finally had THEE SURGERY to fix everything.  

That was a year and a half ago.  Today as I'm writing this, my neck is flared up, my brain is irritated (side effect of lovely Tramadol), and my body has had enough.  Days like these are hard to explain to someone.  I want to be happy and I see happy things around me.  I have always been known to make the best out of every situation, but lately my mind has forgotten how to exactly do that.  

I do not know exactly who I am right now.  I want to be the person that takes up areial acrobatics on a Saturday afternoon, but instead can't even find energy to clean the house.  I want to be a person that can work 60+ hours a week to save up for a house but I'm mentally struggling with the load I already have.  I want to be the best I can be for my relationships with others, especially for my significant other.  

I fear daily I will go downhill exactly to where I was.  I am afraid I will lose friendships again because I cannot commit to plans.  I am afraid I will lash out at my parents for things they cannot control.  I am afraid I will lose the person I love the most because right now I cannot give them my all, even though I am trying.  The anxiety of these fears alone has been consuming my brain.  

There isn't a day where I don't feel guilt.  If my boyfriend helps me with the dishes or brings in the groceries or helps me with the animals, I feel like I'm weak.  If my neighbor cuts my lawn I have to thank him at least 2-3 times so I don't have a breakdown.  If someone helps me lift something at work, I curse myself for not being able to be strong enough to lift it. 

I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself.  I thought I would be healed by now and ready to take on the world again.  I didn't think I needed naps anymore to give my fatigued mind a break during race weekend at the track.  I thought I could go to work, get home and clean the house, make dinner, shower and still have time for a movie or reading when in reality it's a shocker if I make dinner and shower. 

My body is fighting me.  It's screaming at me to stop and slow down.  I'm afraid if I slow down I'll be swept back into the ocean of pain and fatigue and medications and this time I won't be able to swim ashore.  I waited too long to slow down.  I want to live and breathe and experience new things and not be chained to my bed or couch every day.  

I want to feel happiness when I stare into that mirror.

I thought I could curve my brain's overanalyzing flaw by staring at myself in the mirror every day.  I'm not talking look  when I'm putting on makeup or brushing my teeth.  I close the door, turn my music off and stare deeply into my eyes, waiting for an answer or a sign.  

It's not at the same time every day.  I will look into a mirror at work, at a bar, in my car, a reflection of a window on the street or even my phone.  Any time I'm feeling the urge get answers, I stare at my reflection.  I never get a straight reply from my brain.  

But I am starting to understand certain aspects of my struggles and how they are wearing on me.  While looking into my own hazel eyes, I see sadness.  I look around my face and see bags under my eyes, new frown lines, dry worn out skin.  I see hair that is up in a pony tail after I struggled to make it look nice to fit my face shape.  I see my scar peaking out from a v-neck, and I pry the collar over to see my second scar, much less noticeable and pale.    I see my shoulders slouching and heavy.  I feel pains in my legs from standing too long.  

I am exhausted.  I need time.  I need a break from myself.  I need to get out of my own mind and detach from what I've gone through and from all the mental pain.  If I can't achieve this, I fear everything will fall apart.

Gripping onto my equanimity,

Kelsey.   

Motivation.

I am 24 years old, about to turn 25.  My journey with Thoracic Outlet Syndrome started around age 19, with vague symptoms beforehand leading up to it.  At that age, you wouldn't see me on the couch or in bed.  I was driven, hard-working and motivated with every activity.

Since surgery, I have envisioned the next couple of months.  I picture myself healed.  I picture myself kayaking for hours, only leaving the water as the sun sets.  I picture myself up at 6 a.m. ready for my workout routine, going to work, coming home and doing laundry while making my dinner and even have time to clean the turtle tank.  I picture myself active once again.

The reality is that there is no timeline for healing with my body.  I'm not sure when that 'feel-good' moment will happen and it's beginning weigh down my happiness.  I'm scared that once I start physical therapy, it will take a very long time for me to get back to where I used to be.  I was already stir-crazy before my second surgery, and completely fed up after my first surgery in 2014.  The searing pain starting in my ear and running down the back of my head and neck finally ending in my shoulder blade is enough to make me want to rip my hair out.  My inability to lift over 5 pounds makes me feel weak.  Asking my boyfriend to do my dishes is demeaning and having energy to do them one moment and then not the next is confusing.

I've woken up during the night after dreaming of doing yoga.  I dream of climbing mountains and swimming vast open waters and taking a midnight jog.  My smile is content, hungry, eager for more.  I look strong and motivated.  I look healthy.  I usually wake up in a pool of sweat and pain as I roll over to get comfy.  My mind races as I try to venture back into dreamland.

Today, I would like to go back to work.  I talked with my mom about it many times.  My fear is that I will get there and it will be too much.  I'm scared I will over-work myself and cause too much pain or even worse: not work hard enough and look lazy.  With chronic pain, it's one end of the spectrum or the other.  So I've decided I'm not quite there yet.  I want to feel confident going back that no matter what the outcome, it won't affect me mentally.

However, staying home all day with little human contact is strange.  I'm so stir crazy that I want to move to the other side of the world thinking that I can run away from TOS and go back to my normal life.  I know it's silly; thinking I can run away from my pain and problems.  Normal people want to run away from job stress, money problems, relationship struggles.  I just want to be pain-free so I can join society once again as an independent, strong working woman.  I want to feel confident about the work I put into each and every day.  I want to count my blessings as I head to the gym after a 10 hour work day.  I want my parents to be proud of the strong young woman I've become.  And I'm not at that point as I am nearing 25.  I don't like it, and I can't wait to change it.  Although my body isn't the strongest, my motivation is.  It's the fire that fuels me.  It's the fire that makes me get up still every single day, with pain or without, challenging me to become a better person.  It's the fire that is going to get me back to good, but even better.


Equanimity,

Kelsey

Winter Recovery

I've always hated the cold.
I've always despised shivers. Numb feet and hands.  Raw nose.
But I've always loved the crunch of fresh-fallen snow under my boots.
The outlines of every branch highlighted by a light dusting in the morning.
Building snowmen.

I try to find the good in everything.  The colder Wisconsin months out of the year usually wind up giving me pneumonia or bronchitis.  It's not Winter's fault!  At least that's what I try to tell myself.  It's my suppressed immune system from the depressing thoughts in my mind that translate to a weakened and fragile state.  But it's not Winter's fault.  It's just a coincidence I get sick every year.

This year I was hoping to not catch the bug.  Three weeks post-op and here I sit sniffling, wrapped tight in a fuzzy suede-colored blanket, reaching for a roll of toilet paper on top of the coffee table.  I blow my nose hoping to get whatever mucus is left glued tight in my sinus cavity.  I angrily throw the crumpled up tissue into the trash bin while trying to decide if it's time for more cough medicine.  I can't remember.  I can't even remember the dosage my doctor told me while I sat on the exam table trying with all my mite not to sneeze or cough in his face.  My eyes were watering; that's all I remember.  A respiratory infection.  Swollen Lymph Nodes.  Whatever.  My body can't focus on two things at once, what did I expect?  My immune system is trying to figure out why the fuck it's down a rib and then this bug strolls in undercover, looking all cool with dark shades and a trench coat so my mind doesn't think otherwise.  I wouldn't have alerted the authorities either with a cool demeanor like that.

Today, I am writing out of sheer anger, bored-ness, and loneliness.  There's a void I have that can only be filling with writing.  To you.  My chronic darlings.  Are you out there?

Recovery is such a silly thing.  I went into it thinking it was going to be a breeze.  I've been sitting on my butt already for the last couple years wishing and waiting.  What's a few more weeks?  But I was wrong. I should have prepared myself mentally.  The pain I can handle.  It's the constant sadness that gets to me. Is this what postpartum depression feels like?  The event of surgery was so great and big and everything that led up to it was emotional, spiritual, complicated.  And then all of the sudden nothing.  I knew I wasn't going to be healed instantly; but did my mind fully understand that?

It took having my mother wash my 24-year old self in the bath tub while wearing a swimming suit to hit the rock bottom of emotions.  I was sick to my stomach.  My pride was hurt.  Everything that happened within the last few years from all the doctors, tests and diagnosing to a failed surgery and failed relationships and one failed friendship just instantly came back and slugged me in the stomach.  It hurt to breathe knowing what I've all gone through.  What I've lost.  What I can't get back no matter how fixed I became.  While my body is repairing itself and recovering, my mind is still lost at sea.

I hate feeling helpless.  I've already hurt myself a dozen times lifting things I shouldn't and this and that.  The doctors give you restrictions to abide by, and a list of things to avoid.  What they don't tell you is if you're alone all day and most nights like me, you're screwed.

I had to start scheduling my showers when my boyfriend was over so I wouldn't fall, or he could help scrub my hair.  I tried not to use a lot of dishes because they would sit for a week until someone would hand-wash them.  Whether snowed in or not, the first couple weeks I was trapped, unable to drive myself anywhere or blow off steam.  These things were hard to adjust to but alas, I handled it.

The hardest part of my recovery is the hours and hours alone without human contact.  I've gotten cards and get-well packages and they made my days a lot easier.  But being a social person, nothing is fully grasping my needs.  Netflix is boring, books are tasteless.  There is an allotted amount of time you should be talking to your animals, and I've exceeded it by plenty.

If I could go back before my surgery to change anything, it would be to devise a plan post-surgery.  I know I can fix it still (which I have been) but it's still difficult with a foggy mind and less energy.  Here are a few tips to make your post-surgery better:

1.  Seek out a 911 buddy.
Not as in 'I need to go to the hospital 911,' but instead the 'I'm feeling the blues and I need to talk.'  Even someone to check in on you from time to time.  Yes, I have my boyfriend and some closer friends, but I didn't establish that I needed help before my surgery so now it's weird to admit.  I'm a stubborn person, so it will take an army for me to admit that I need help.

2.  Plan light trips.
Have an idea for that empty space on the wall in your dining room?  Look for ideas on Pinterest, grab a friend and go to Hobby Lobby.  Although you may not be able to complete it for a few weeks (without the help of your significant other, relative etc.) it's something to get your mind running and looking toward the future positively.  Another idea is science museums, art museums, matinee movies; anything that will satisfy your mind.

3.  Buy a self-help book.
Whether it's for depression, healing, moving on, or a book about weight-loss, prepare yourself for post-surgery blues.  This is one thing that has been helping me tremendously.  I focused in on two people that I look up to:  Toni Bernhard and Chelsea Handler.  Yes, two completely different people, but both on healing-ish paths.  Toni Bernhard has two books, "How to be sick" and "How to heal" that gives her own examples on self healing as well as things she has learned from the spiritual Buddhism route.  Anything I find helpful to me at the time, I highlight or underline.  Chelsea Handler has inspired me because she is just as stubborn as I am.  She has a few books documenting her screwed-up childhood and her rise to fame.  She also has a netflix series called, "Chelsea Does" that talks about certain subjects that interest her.  Her life along with her humor and passions fascinate me and it makes for good down-time if I'm ever feeling depressed.

4.  Start writing.
You don't need to be Shel Silverstein or Dr. Seuss or even Ghandi to write.  And it doesn't have to be a book.  Hell, it doesn't even need to be a paragraph.  When you're mad, write down that you're mad.  Express why you're mad.  Express your exact feelings.  Then crumple it up and toss it in the trash.  When you're happy, write down exactly what is making you feel this incredible mood.  No one ever needs to read these, or if you want to share with your loved one, you may.  This is more of an emotional release for your mind.  Sometimes when I am angry, I can't think straight.  I go on bouts of not being able to write because of the anger.  It scrambles the words and thoughts in my head and creates a foggy haze over my creativity.  Writing down my emotions (like I am today) releases my creativity back into the clouds that eventually drops it into your hands.

5.  Tell yourself about gratefulness.
Express every single day why you're grateful to be alive.  Express why you're happy to wake up in the morning.  Even on the toughest days, try to shed light.  I'll give you an example.  Today, I woke up extremely sick, more sick than I was when this cold first barged in.  I realized I needed to see the doctor which is twenty minutes away.  I am still in pain so I avoid driving more than a couple minute trips.  My parents or boyfriend couldn't take me so I went alone.  Upon leaving the doctor's office with the diagnosis mentioned above, I noticed winter storm "Bucky" had already arrived, complicating my travel a bit.  After sliding on the roads, not being able to get my medications from the pharmacy for an hour because my insurance number switched, I pulled into my garage in tears.  I was so sick and exhausted from a 4 hour out-of-the-house stint.  I got inside and took a deep breath and thought, "I am grateful because I got home safely from the doctor's office, and now I can take my medication to stop coughing, heat up some homemade soup from my dad and relax."  Thinking about this as I sat down with my hot soup instantly changed my perception of the day.  I shouldn't be cranky that all those unfortunate things happened, I need to be grateful for the medication and that I'm fortunate enough to be able to have medication at all.

Remember, there are plenty of free websites and hotlines for depression.  Never be afraid to reach out for help. Here are a few:

http://www.yourlifeyourvoice.org/Pages/ways-to-get-help.aspx
http://samaritansnyc.org/24-hour-crisis-hotline/
http://www.dbsalliance.org/site/PageServer?pagename=urgent_crisis_hotline

It's not giving in to your dark side, it's letting a little light back in.

Equanimity,

Kelsey

Day & Night

Day

Drifting through a luscious night of sleep, I hear the ting ting ting of my alarm in the distance.  Opening my eyes, I reach for the alarm clock, throw a sweatshirt on and start making my coffee.  Dimitri and Ellington beg for food as I connect Pandora Radio Station to my sound bar.  The heavenly aroma of Italian Roast swirls into my nostrils.  My apartment is clean, but I must make it better.  After I eat my bowl of cereal, I work on my dishes, sweep the kitchen floor, organize laundry and dust.  A light breeze dances through my apartment as I finish my chores and get ready for work.  I make a mental note to scrub the bathroom sink and vacuum when I return.  After giving the cats a big hug and kiss, I turn my key to my door and I'm off to enter the world. Organized.  Energized.  Efficient.  Optimistic. Happy.

Night

I've slammed my alarm 3 times, still not able to fully open my eyes.  A heavy fog has sunk into my brain as I yawn my way to the kitchen, tripping over two extremely hungry cats.  Angry, I prolong feeding them out of annoyance.  I attempt to start my dishes but the throbbing pain in my collarbone stops me in my tracks.  I consider pain killers, aleve, ibuproferen, heat or ice, bio-freeze or essential oils.  Something to suck out the hell that has sanctioned itself within the depths of my brachial plexus.  I decide on an ice pack and my deep relief oil.  Staring at the TV and sipping my coffee, I think of my to-do list for the day.  I look around my apartment; cat hair on the coffee table, mounds of unsorted clothes in my bedroom, dishes piled up.  It's not so bad, I guess.  Could be worse.  Nearing the bottom of my coffee, I have a choice.  I look to the right into my kitchen, picturing myself putting shoes on and heading to work knowing very well it will bring non-empathetic stares and annoyed feelings of laziness.  I look straight ahead to my bedroom where comfort, depression, guilt and irritation awaits.  Neither are good choices.  Neither will make me happy.  Can I face it?  Can I face the world today?  Can I overcome the stares and judgement and brain fog and pain?  Slipping under the sheets,  I can't help but feel overwhelmed.  Pain.  Anger.  Frustration.  Guilt.  Fog.

This process is what I like to call Day & Night.  I'm sure I'm not alone when I say I have it often and if I don't, I think about it.  It's the thought process between a good day (Day) and a bad day (Night).  I noticed the difference after I received botox injections.  I was in pain, exhausted and my apartment was a mess.  But no matter how messy it got, I've always accepted it as It's not that bad.  After dealing with chronic pain, I had to realize the fact that I will never be able to fully accomplish all my tasks in a single day.  Once the botox started kicking in and a few good days frequented, I went nuts if my sink was full, if my coffee table was dusty or if my pets weren't fed.  I became a control freak once again.  Everything needed to be tediously placed and put away.  I'd ween off my pain medications and start to feel good again; but there's never an ending to chronic pain.

The botox would wear off and I would be left with exhaustion from pain, stress and work.  The chores would to pile up as did the mail on my dining room table.  Checklists had to be made to keep my mind in check for the tasks at hand.  My mind was foggy and simple things started to slip through the cracks.  I would start to feel belittled and useless.  Days and days of laying in bed fighting fatigue and sadness and anxiety would add up even more pressure.  The constant nagging thought of what my family thinks of me hangs low over my head.  The cycle would never end.


On top of everything else in my life, why do I have to go through this too?  Why do I have to have chronic pain, and be tickled with the thought of amazing days when I have the most horrendous days along with them?  I sat in bed this morning, with Dimitri and Ellington at my sides, but I couldn't lay still.  I kept kicking my legs and clenching my fists.  My mind wouldn't stop teasing my anxiety.  I felt so fatigued and drained and depressed that I didn't want to go to work.  I couldn't decide what to clean in my more-than-cluttered apartment.  I turned the TV on and couldn't even decide what to watch.  Then I repeatedly became angry with myself for my choices of the day.  If I would have went to work like I did yesterday, I would have snapped or felt more pain and then I would be two days down on energy.  On the other hand, the good days I feel way too good and wear myself out from doing too much.  Then I think I'm crazy for thinking I have bad days at all.  What gives?

The reason why I decided to finally share this is to ask for help.  Not just for me, but others feeling this way too.  How do you get out of it?  How do you overcome the sickening feeling of not wanting to be in that exact moment but unable to unfreeze yourself?  How are you able to be content and coast through every day, whether good or bad?  Please comment and share some advice on this subject.  And know, that you are never alone.



Equanimity,

Kelsey

Lesson Learned In Traveling With Chronic Pain

Traveling with chronic pain was the greatest challenge I've faced this year.  It was a constant reminder every second that I was indeed a different person.  I had to manipulate my days to fit into the little energy I had, more than what I already do at home.  I had to feel the guilt pouring into my heart because I turned down activities only to feel the frustration from others around me.  I felt the lowest, because I didn't feel like myself, and I don't know if I ever will again.

It all started when I found out I was taking a trip up north with my boyfriend for a friend's wedding outside of Boulder Junction, Wisconsin.  He planned to go early and make the trip extra special with fishing and swimming.  Early on, I was wary considering my health and energy was sliding downhill in the weeks leading up to it.  The reason?  I had just started Gabapentin and Dry Needling. The emotional side effects alone from Gabapentin were enough to cause suicidal thoughts that lingered while I was awake as well as off into dream land.  I would daze off, picturing my hands around my own fragile neck under water, legs kicking, bubbles fluttering up to the surface.  I would easily snap myself out of it, but the thoughts always crept in the shadows.  Consciously I knew it was the medication; normally I would and could NEVER have a thought such as this.  Medication usually plays a huge role in my mental state and emotions.  Knowing that while trying new medicines always reassures me I'm not losing my mind (for now).

While combating the awful side effects of Gabapentin, I was dealing with countless flare ups from dry needling.  I am not complaining, considering that't the point of the procedure: to piss the muscles off enough and make them repair themselves.  However, I happened to develop the worst nerve pain of my life in my neck, collarbone, ear, face and head leading up to the trip.

This is what I was supposed to be doing the day prior to leaving:
Go to doctor appointment, run into work to fill out order, laundry, dishes, pack, clean litter boxes, fold blankets, sweep kitchen, change cat's water and blanket, pay medical bill, fix window screen, set up box fan in window.

This is what ended up happening:
Wake up with screaming headache, take Excedrin with breakfast.  No one to drive 30 minutes to doctor so I take myself.  Doctor appointment at the pain management clinic.  Tell her I'm in pain so politely say make it quick and speak softly.  Goes against wishes.  Drive home and stop twice from eye balls ready to burst.  Call boyfriend in tears.  Make it home 50 minutes later. Strip clothes off.  Ice on the face, Tramadol.  Ice on the neck, peppermint oil on temples, pain cream on collarbone, Tizanidine.  Heat on neck with tiger balm, re-arrange pillows, curl into ball.  Crawl to bathroom from pain ready to puke.  Lay on tiny bathmat holding legs and massaging temples while trying not to cry.  Crawl back to bed.  Question why I am doing all of this and if it's worth it.  Tizanidine. Figuring out who will miss me the most, my cats or my parents.  Snapping out of it and telling myself I'm strong.  Laughing at the pain.  Find comfortable spot.  Pain relief for 7 minutes.  Start packing.  Lightning and thunder return and so do the tears.  Tramadol. Considering going to the ER. Repeat.

Defeated, I was incredibly concerned that this is how the entire trip was going to be like and expressed my concerns to my boyfriend.  If you're anything like me, or experienced any pain like this, you know the 'oh shit' feeling when you have plans and don't know if you should cancel and want to be good to your body but not let your significant other down but not feel guilty for putting your body through hell but not resenting your significant other for the choice you make.  My brain already hurt like hell and I know he wanted to leave early in the morning; it was a 4 hour drive, we were hauling the boat and he planned to bass fish in the morning.  I couldn't handle making up my mind and through much deliverance I finally said I would give him an answer in the morning if I made it through the night without having to go in.  Although frustrated about plans changing, he understood and went to sleep.  Tossing and turning most of the night, I cried, crossed my fingers, had nightmares and night sweats until I heard the birds chirp while finally passing out.

I woke up to a blaring alarm and immediately started running around.  All the while I was thinking I couldn't believe I was putting myself through this.  I couldn't believe I was stressing myself out to the brink of lunacy.  On the other end of the spectrum I knew it was going to be an amazing trip and how much it meant to my boyfriend.  Still with a pounding nerve-pain headache, I packed, showered, did all the chores and within 2 hours we were on the road.  I packed pillows under both arms and on top of my stomach, wrapped myself in my minion blanket, took a Tizanidine, and barely opened my eyes until we arrived.

Let me give you a brief description of how I was BCP (Before Chronic Pain):  I was adventurous.  I loved road trips and staring out the window the entire trip.  I didn't sleep in the car because I didn't want to miss anything.  Car games were my favorite.  I would be packed and ready to go days before the trip, and not be able to sleep the night before.  I would want to do everything and anything on our agenda and then some.  I was never a crabby person unless someone disrespected me.  It was alright if something didn't go the right way.  I was always described as bubbly, energetic and happy.

Re-reading that paragraph is extremely difficult.  It's hard giving up the old me.  The new me barely makes a 30 minute drive without wanting a nap.  I have to pick and choose what I can do.  If I have a long exhausting day of fun, I'll usually go through with it but be down and out for days to come.  I dread trips because I can't return to my bed at night or my cats or the smell of my diffuser.  I'm accepting the change little by little, but it's going to take awhile.

The guilt I felt on the trip was chest-gripping.  I could barely help with anything.  My boyfriend did this and that for me, and I'd want to cry.  Thinking about it now makes me upset, guilty and grateful all at the same time.  We couldn't go fishing early in the morning like he had hoped because I couldn't get up early enough.  And when he finally did wake me up I was a tornado of bitchiness.  I couldn't control it, it was like word vomit.  In my head I kept thinking, why am I saying this?  He is only trying to help.  He is being so good, quit being such an ass!  And yet another negative comment would come out of my mouth.  Finally when I wasn't so achy and crabby, we would get the boat ready and drive to our destination.  I would be rather quiet, considering I felt like a jerk for what just happened even though he never holds it against me.  Then he asks if something is wrong, I say no, he knows I'm lying, and he thinks he did something else to hurt me.  You see why I hate chronic pain?!

When the pain wore off and my energy level was back up, even for an hour or two, it was like nothing ever happened and we were a totally normal couple again.  I felt normal again.  We would joke and laugh and I could be myself.  I felt total bliss in those moments, like maybe everything will be alright.  Sadly, those moments didn't last long, and I was swallowed whole by fatigue or pain and the mute button would be pressed.  Even then, he always made sure I was comfortable and happy; he made jokes and asked if I needed anything.  He really is a trooper with this whole pain thing, and for that I am thankful.

We went to the wedding  On Saturday and I was instantly exhausted.  I'm sure it had something to do with getting ready and the stress of the 20 minute drive there.  I was silent with my complaint because I was extremely grateful to be a part of our friend's wedding.  I glanced around the aisles of people, wondering if anyone else had an invisible illness.  Wondering if anyone else has been going through hell.  Wondering if I wasn't alone at the wedding.  Sometimes even when I'm with the closest people around me, I feel the most alone, and that's how I felt at that moment.  Just as I wanted to cry, my boyfriend gently placed his hand over mine, gave it a little squeeze and flashed me a little smile.  For the time being, it made me concentrate on my beautiful surroundings rather than feeling surrounded by foreign people.

While we were on the lake, I decided to take the time to thoroughly reflect and enjoy myself.  The water was crystal clear, the waves lightly sweeping the shore.  Eagles and seagulls and loons circled the waters searching for food.  It was a breezy 80 degrees with a few clouds.  The days were perfect.  We fished, searched for sea glass, took pictures of our feathery friends and shared some beers.  Those moments made me forget everything back home.  It made having chronic pain so minuscule.  

Every trip I take is going to be tough.  Every trip is going to be different, both the destination and how I'm feeling.  I think that's why I get so frustrated; I can't plan something because I don't know if I'm going to be in pain then.  I get nervous thinking about the future and how I will be able to handle it.  But I can't beat myself up for it.  I'm going to have to accept that I will eventually have to say no, and let someone down, and feel guilty, and be upset; but that too shall pass, just like everything else.


Equanimity,

Kelsey

Being 24.

Sometimes I wish I were still completely naive; sometimes I wish I were off adventuring the skyscrapers of Chicago or the mountains and valleys out west or even sitting at a cafe in Germany typing a new travel blog post, book or even a letter to my family.  But I am here in Wisconsin dealing with the fear of leaving this area.  The fear of developing Thoracic Outlet Syndrome on my right side. The fear of running down a country road solo and getting a blood clot with no one around to save me. The fear of running out of money with endless medical bills. The fear of not letting anyone take my heart because they will have to deal with my TOS.  The fear of guilt when I look in the mirror and my reflection is once again a child, lollipop in mouth, covered in dirt.  The fear of my freedom fully taken away. The fear of giving up being me.

The last year has been quite challenging.  I've been tested in several different ways.  I've lost lots of loved ones, and gained a few new ones.  I've felt true defeat, both mentally and physically.  I've felt hatred for my body, but also undying love.  I've built up my patience and positive mentality.  I have been knocked down, only to pick myself back up.  I've felt lost in a sea of fog, unknowing of the next storm and unsure if I will make it to shore in one piece. Will I battle through the waves endlessly on driftwood, unable to grasp the life I once always held onto?  Or will I sail to safety?

I ponder this quite often, all my trials and tribulations.  I often question most experiences.  I wonder if other people my age learn life lessons such as the ones I'm about to share with you or if they learn them years down the road, sometimes too late.  There are days I feel so alone, even knowing damn well that countless people have been burdened with the same condition I have.  I am a part of the groups and I have become friends with some and talk to others when they seek advice.  I look up statistics.  I always try to be positive for other people's benefit.  I write this blog and share it to comfort others with chronic pain.  Sometimes I think it's what I was meant to do during my time on this planet.

I would like to share with you a reflection.  This entails secrets in life that I've learned already at the ripe age of 24.  Secrets we all as human beings should learn through the course of life.  However, I've learned them the incredibly hard way, and all at once.



Find the silver lining.

One of the most important things I've learned in this year is: There's always a silver lining.  I imagined my last year of life.  I remember positive experiences like kisses, nights out with friends, sitting by a toasty bonfire, unwrapping Christmas presents.  They stick out in my mind and make me feel 'warm and fuzzy' inside I guess you could say.  However, I am scarred by the negative experiences.  Days and days and days of pain, fatigue and questioning happiness.  Those days turned into blurs of leaves and dust sweeping away into the wispy wind.  They emptied and faded my skin, my mind, my soul.  Left me deteriorating into little grains of sand floating in the breeze.  Before I started developing symptoms of TOS and being diagnosed, I would be completely distraught if my plans went awry.  I would fake happy and say everything was fine and boil inside, or the pot would boil over onto the floor.  I have learned to flip that upside down.  Having a bad day Kelsey?  Nothing going your way?  Battery dead on your car, pain from your nose to belly button, no food in the fridge for your

stomach that doesn't even want it?  Guess what:  Your cats know you're upset.  They sympathize by laying on your lap, comforting you.  You just created a beautiful piece of art that will shine for the rest of your life, even if you're the only one proud.  You made a lady's day at Walmart by complimenting her lovely locks after seeing her almost cry.  You only have three dishes to wash.  Hell, that's a lot better than a sink full.  Nothing beats a silver lining, whether it be a chocolate, a small accomplishment, a kiss; it's all relevant in maintaining a sane, happy mind.

Empathy.

Not everyone in life is going through a chronic pain condition.  Not everyone in life has to completely plan out a day to make sure there will be enough energy.  Not everyone has to make sacrifices and give up things they love.  But everyone is going through their own battles, whether big or small.  I went to the doctor for a routine medication check up and my nurse wasn't the daisy of all daisies.  In fact, she was incredibly short with me, barely looked me in the eye and kept cutting me off.  Instead of looking at it as complete and utter disrespect, I took it as an initiative to continue being polite.  As I was driving home, I realized that I have no idea what happens before she arrives to work, gets into the examination room and what happens when she goes home from work.  She may have had one of the worst mornings of her life and couldn't separate work life from home life.  As my condition continues and days get what seems more complicated, I find myself understanding a lot more about people's situations and lives.  We all may be battling wars big or small and in separate ways, but it doesn't hurt to send a smile or a 'hello' someone's way.


Patience.
The waiting game, as I like to call it, is the time frame between doctor appointments.  I make a doctor appointment, wait for insurance to accept while getting updates back and forth from them to the doctor office.  I meet with the doctor and he or she tells me there is only so much one doctor can do before handing me off to another without fully knowing what my body is up to.  I say, thank you for your help, I appreciate the referral to the next doctor, and leave completely distraught.  Then I make a phone call to my primary doctor to put in the referral for the next doctor.  Time ticks away, sometimes weeks, as my insurance company reviews the next doctor.  They finally accept and upon calling the new doctor's office, I find out the next doctor appointment is weeks or months out.  Upon that appointment, I get a new medication or new injection and wait to see if it works while waiting out the side effects before seeing another doctor.  This is a meticulously exhausting routine.  You'd think I would give up hope and melt to a puddle on the exam floor, but I always remind myself that my newly found patience will carry me through.  I remind myself that the world doesn't revolve around me and sometimes life isn't going to go my way.  Patience will carry through and whatever happens, happens.

Let yourself feel.

One of the biggest hardships I have is bottling my emotions.  Sometimes I'm so overwhelmed trying to figure everything out that I don't take time to feel the raw emotions running through my body.  If I find a beautiful scene outside while walking, I take time to completely appreciate and feel bliss before moving on.  If I need to cry because I feel sorry for my body, I let the tears run.  If I'm angry with someone for interrupting me, I speak my mind.  It's time to cut the crap; I'm 24 and I'm never going to get any younger.  Why go through life walking on egg shells around your own mind?  Let yourself feel, and your body will thank you.

Dance.

Sometimes, life never seems to be going in the right direction.  Sometimes, everything seems to be causing pain, negativity, stress and hardship.  And sometimes, you need to dance.  I've found myself scanning the Pandora on my iPod, unaware of how I became utterly miserable.  I shake my head as if I'm ridding the thought and turn on an upbeat station.  I grab Ellington in my arms and start the cha cha with his furry little paws.  For a few minutes, all my worries flow into the melody that is dancing around my small Wisconsin apartment.  I slide my feet on the linoleum floor as all the stress escapes from my waving limbs.  For a few minutes, my mind is at ease and I escape the pain.  Once the music stops, and I am again faced with the reality of my body pain.  But I am overwhelmingly happier.  Music has always been an outlet for my emotions, and I am never going to take it for granted.  Every person going through something difficult should try to find their 'cha-cha.' I promise you:  In the end, it helps.

Enjoy and respect the body.

I remind myself every day to listen to my body.  If I'm tired, I need to rest.  If my collarbone hurts, I need to ice it.  If I'm stressed, I need to take a deep breath and do something that makes me happy.  Of all the things I'm going through, stress is the last thing I want to affect my body and mind.  I love my body, even if it's a little broken.   Here's what happened when I developed Thoracic Outlet Syndrome:  I was trapped with myself every day, pain free or not.  My mind wanted to be a free spirit but my body was plastered onto my bed, aching for pain meds and relief.  I'm anxious because I can't escape my own skin.  But then I looked at the big picture and started accepting my body for what it is:  Beautiful.  Why lay in pain hating the body, when it's only trying to support me and heal as fast as it can?  When my mind wonders from optimism, I ground myself by reciting what I love most about myself:  My soft skin mixed from both of my parent's beautiful genes, my ability to tickle my own feet, my curly unruly hair, my ears and especially my heart.  In my mind, one truly cannot be happy until one loves every ounce, vessel, pore and fingernail on the body.  I respect my body, even the mangled first rib that was causing the perfect storm to rip through my entire being.

And finally, equanimity
If you notice on my posts, I usually sign off with "Equanimity."  The definition is:

noun

1.

mental or emotional stability or composure, especially under tension or strain; 

calmness; equilibrium.

I practice equanimity every day.  It's my 'bliss' word to calm me down in difficult situations.  Saying it out loud or writing it in cursive instantly relaxes me and reminds me that life is unpredictable and I need to let fate take the wheel.  I cannot simply control all aspects of my life; I cannot control my pain, fatigue, and dizziness just like I cannot control which way the wind blows.  But I can control how I battle each and every gust.  And I handle that with equanimity.




Equanimity,

Kelsey