I'm baaaaack... and thinking thoughts of thanks

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted… I have had to be selective about where to invest my energies. Part of the reason I declined opportunities to post here is the onerous legal battle I’m involved in. Many times when I take up pen or place fingers to keyboard, all that pours out of me is grief and rage and bewilderment. It’s either that or complex legal statements.

I’m still not done with the custody battle, in fact, the trial will take place in 14 days. I am by no means done with composition of legal documents as I prepare my defense. I think that when the trial is over, I may describe the incredibly convoluted process I’ve been dragged through for the last seven months. As the case is pending, I must proceed with caution.

In addition to the child custody fiasco, I’ve been occupied with material survival. I have to make difficult decisions to sustain myself while I am unable to work. It’s difficult to cope with extended disability when the trauma occurs for a relative young, self-employed person. There aren’t any “programs” or plans for relief.

To all of you who are employed, I must recommend that you examine your company’s short- and long-term disability plans and ask yourself some hard questions about your circumstances. I had a pretty solid rainy-day fund, but the costs of a year-long contested divorce, eight surgeries, complicated diagnostic procedures and rehabilitation efforts ate it up quickly. Who knew my rainy day would last over three years?

“I can carry snakes when their legs are broken or they're so stressed out…” Big One just said as he proudly displayed his Lego mobile jungle, complete with trees for sick pythons to hang out in. The boys are visiting for the long weekend and they play near me as I lie down to rest after an active morning. [This was composed a couple of days ago but I couldn't get into the blog until I switched from IE to Mozilla.]

I often wonder what effect this vicious battle between their parents, compounded by my long, slow recovery, has on my little boys. I watch them carefully for signs of distress and do what I can to comfort them, but sometimes they ask hard questions. They frequently toss off comments or create artwork that demonstrate real disruption of their childhood. Their memories are clearly not foggy—I hope that I’m successfully creating some happy memories for them to crowd out or mediate the bad ones.

I am reading a book called, My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist’s Personal Journey, by Jill Bolte Taylor, Ph.D. At age 37, this neuroanatomist suffered a severe stroke. It took her eight years to recover, and she wrote about her experiences. I keep my pencil handy to write conversational responses and highlight particular insights, descriptions or recommendations. I am struck by some significant similarities to my own experience. The fact that she was the same age as I was when her trauma began helps me identify with her. Her descriptions of the hospital environments and the medical personnel ring all too true—or too close for my comfort, at any rate. Best of all is the articulation of her absolute conviction that she would recover and her gratitude for the love and support she received to make that recovery possible. Reading about those things inspired me to come back to the Blog.

In the beginning, cards and flowers poured in from all over the world to offer condolences for my difficulties. Then came myriad performances of assistance: grocery runs, rides to doctors’ offices or therapy, and in at least two cases, emergency transportation to the hospital when I was in the greatest pain of my life.

My friends and colleagues brought homemade food and encouraged me to eat when I had to combat my uncooperative appetite. My compost was stirred. My garden was watered. CJL came from Cincinnati with her son and did EVERYTHING to take care of me and my household for several days. The K family and the S family sent money to help with the costs of childcare assistance.

My sister and her boyfriend came to offer some wonderful celebration during the boys’ birthday season, and left the house better than they found it with all of their fix-it projects. My parents came and as well as all the sweet and practical assistance they offered, they set up our childhood playhouse for the boys to use as a clubhouse in the back yard. I learned how to play Dominoes on one lovely Christmas season evening right before I reentered the hospital for what would turn out to be my last two surgeries.

People who I once faced in the context of job interviews assisted me from bed to toilet. I NEVER could have imagined such a scenario while I handed over my CV and did my earnest best to convince them of my qualifications.

It would take several paragraphs to describe what SK has done to help me.

I received literally hundreds of email messages, cards, letters and phone calls with good wishes. I was put on prayer lists in churches of different denominations. I know without question that I was (and still am) buoyed up by an invisible but invincible web of good wishes, blessings, prayers, intentions and “good vibes,” or whatever labels we might apply to that sort of thing.

I have been remiss in communicating my thanks to all of these people. I once loved writing thank you cards… beyond polite social practice, they were a tangible expression of gratitude and opportunity to experience the associated emotions again in a focused way. I think I might have managed to send a few in the very beginning. But I stopped writing them. One day I picked up a box of cards that had actually collected dust, and put it back in the closet because it was haunting me with an onerous sense of obligation that I was incapable of meeting.

When my oldest boy was born, JKO from New York City sent a welcome gift. In the card she wrote, “Don’t send a thank you card. Go take a NAP!” I sent one anyway, but the sentiment has stayed with me all this time. She sent TWO gifts in that little baby blue package. I am making a big assumption each time I choose the nap and put off the task of writing and sending a card, but in many instances, the nap was what saved me or at least made it possible to go on for another day. The assumption is that anyone who loves me will forgive me for shirking duties of etiquette.

That said, I think it’s time to take a nap. I’m going to doze while my kids watch The Muppet Show.