Hibernation

I don’t do well with winter. I’m not allergic to winter. And I don’t remember ever disliking winter. As a child we would play outside after a snowstorm; sledding, building snowmen, engaging in a snowball fight. But I do remember as a teenager and young adult not liking how cold my hands and feet could get. It must have been during this time that I fell in love with turtleneck sweaters, flannel shirts, and wool socks.

As the decades have passed I have become more aware of my seasonal discomfort. I think everyone who lives in northern New England or similar climates would agree that the short daylight hours are depressing. We all perk up a bit when we start to notice that there is still light in the sky at 5 p.m.

I hate being cold, so I’ve done things to counteract the frigid temperatures. I bought a down coat. I selected “warmest” when choosing my down weight. I tell my husband that it’s like wearing a down comforter. I tell my friends and colleagues it was the best financial investment I have ever made. I have not been cold.

This winter I am more in tune with my mood. I feel as if I lack motivation. There are mornings that I don’t want to get out of bed. It is more than just the usual sleepy, need to wake up. I dread the day. When I stop and mentally review my calendar I find that there is nothing to fear on my “to do” list. Everything is routine and normal. And I feel guilty for not jumping out of bed and starting my day.

One Saturday recently, when I woke feeling like I couldn’t face the day, I asked myself what was wrong with staying in bed. I had nothing on my calendar. Is it that I am afraid that giving in to these feelings will lead down a path to mental illness? (Yes, that is one of my thoughts). Rather than force the issue I gave myself permission to lay there in the quietness of the morning. I did not fall back to sleep. Instead, I engaged in what I would now consider quiet meditation and silent prayer. It worked. Within a half hour I felt energized and motivated to meet the day.

My husband likes to take me to the Caribbean for a week or two in the winter. We didn’t get to go this winter, but I have found that regular exercise helps with the mid-winter blues. My parents sending us outside to play on a sunny winter day was in fact good therapy. And while I don’t participate in outdoor winter activities, my yoga mat and treadmill are good friends during these long winter days.

We were lucky this winter. It wasn’t as harsh as last winter. We are now getting intermittent warm days, and the sun is shining brighter. I think the groundhog was right when he predicted an early spring. As for me, I feel as if I’m coming out of hibernation.

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

Words With Friends

Words with Friends is a fun Internet game. I played it once with a friend. Until he quit. I’m not sure why. I’m pretty sure he was winning. My mother-in-law plays it with her brother. They have always had a friendly rivalry so this is a great way for them to compete with each other while keeping in touch.

Beyond a game, words are a powerful tool. I struggle in my professional writing to make sure I convey my meaning while not making personalized comments. In my personal writing, like here, I strive to make my thoughts and feelings known through essays or poetry. Words that inspire or provide information. My hope is that you will understand my emotions, whether I am angry or feeling silly, through the words I use.

But words can also hurt. Over the past several months I have been aware of how words are used to do damage. I have listened to words destroy another’s reputation. I have heard words that try to make the speaker look better by speaking ill of another. I have witnessed words being used to exclude someone from the group. In one instance I believe the speaker did not understand what they had done. (I like to believe the best of anyone until proven otherwise).

In other settings the words were intentional. They were delivered for the specific purpose of hurting another person. In some cases, I spoke up and asked that the “issue” be discussed at another time. In other cases I stayed silent, because to speak up or speak out would only hurt someone else.

While I don’t have a New Year’s resolution, or goals for 2016, I am trying to commit to small changes. I read somewhere that it is easier to make one small change at a time rather than have a huge goal that seems impossible. One small change is to be mindful of my words.

Because words matter.

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

 

Growing up Christmas was never just one day. There was the season of Christmas; Advent in our Church. On Christmas Eve we would have dinner with our neighbor and then we would all go to Church for the service of Lessons and Carols. Back at home after the service there was hot chocolate while we hung up our stockings.

But Christmas did not end the next morning. My parents made it a day-long event. We could unpack our stockings before breakfast. However, presents weren’t opened until after we were dressed and had consumed a hearty breakfast that would last us until dinner later that afternoon.

And then there was Boxing Day. The day after Christmas, (or at least sometime during the holiday break from school), we would get together with friends that were part of the family. My sister’s Godparents were another “aunt and uncle” to us, and they had two kids our age. We would go to their house for the day. We children would play together. There would be a shared meal. Family gifts were exchanged. Christmas went on all week.

My husband and I have no children of our own and I tend to think that we have no Christmas traditions. Upon reflection, that is not entirely true. When we were first married my niece and nephew were quite small; 18 months and three, respectively. My nephew’s birthday is New Year’s Eve. So with various in-laws among my siblings, and a birthday we wanted to celebrate, we would spend Christmas with my husband’s family and New Year’s with mine.

The children are grown now. My niece is married with children of her own. My father passed away almost 20 years ago. My sister and her husband are like us, no children, but plenty of family and friends with whom to celebrate. We now alternate between families. One year we are with my mother, the next with my in-laws. It works well. Whoever we don’t see on Christmas we visit later in the week; sometimes for New Year depending on how the calendar falls and schedules work out.

In addition to family, there are get-togethers with various friends. We celebrate our own Christmas together after the rush of travel and the many different gatherings of family and friends. Christmas is a week-long event for us.

My mother reminds us annually that there are twelve days to Christmas. That Christmas is not over until January 6. In our tradition, mine and my husband’s, this seems to be very, very true.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!



If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

I Heard the Bells

My personal Facebook newsfeed is filled with reflective posts, the year in pictures, and memories that my friends are sharing. They remind me that 2015 is coming to a close, and my own thoughts are mixed with pain as well as joy. A year ago I was spending time with my friend Linda, reading her the Christmas story from Matthew and Luke. We knew it would be her last Christmas.

In March God took her to be with Him. It was heart-wrenching. Yet I would gladly do it again. What she gave me in those few short years that we knew each other will always be with me. Her love. The way she accepted me into her home and family. She let me be with her. When we were together we were simply together. No agenda. No ulterior motivations. No mandated reason to show up. We laughed (a lot). Sometimes we cried. We cuddled. Our relationship was like no other that I’ve had. And I will always thank her for letting me in.

At the end of August we lost my cousin’s husband. As heartbroken as I was, I watched in sadness and helplessness my mother’s devastation, and my cousin’s heartache. My cousin is my older sister in many ways. Losing her husband was more than losing a cousin by marriage. He had been in our lives since we were teenagers. The hole he left behind is enormous.

I ran the “year in pictures” that Facebook offered and was struck by the number of pictures of flowers that the app generated. Each bouquet was bright and cheery. Each one celebrated a moment of joy.

This year was filled with “firsts.” The first of many holidays and events without Linda or David. But also memories of joy and love were created. We had a “girl’s weekend” of me, my sister, our cousin-sister, and my mother. Just the four of us making a casserole for dinner out of items from my mother’s pantry. Laughing. Trying to take selfies.

Going to church once a month with my mother at the church where I grew up. Opportunities of growth and learning at work. Meeting up with friends when we were in the same area. And travel. Lots and lots of travel.

I was faced with much darkness and pain this year. The heartache and brokenness of so many. Death. Disease that threatens to take friends away too soon. But there was also joy. Babies were born. Friends advanced in their careers. There were flowers in my home. I spent time with those I love most. And I have added to my collection of dear ones; friends that I cannot imagine my life without.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s civil war poem is reflective of the deep despair he felt at Christmastime, but it ends with “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: God is not dead, nor doth He sleep: The wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.” My wish for you is to know the depth of Peace, and the joy of Love that you found in 2015.

 

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

Ten Years Later

I recently had my third colonoscopy; my first one was ten years ago and I am on the every-five-years plan. The quick explanation is that I have a family history of polyps, I have a history of cancer, and the doctor always finds polyps when I have one done. If you know anything about colon polyps, it is not a question of “if” they will turn into cancer, it is a matter of “when.” Since it seems that I am predisposed to cancer I do not mind this procedure.

Ok. I’m lying. If you’ve ever had a colonoscopy you will understand when I say the prep sucks.

But let’s do a reality check. If you were told that you could prevent cancer by having a scan every five years wouldn’t you take it? I would. And that was my perspective this time around. As a result, it didn’t seem so bad. I knew what to expect, and I knew that I’d need a day to recover after the procedure. So I took care of myself and took a couple of sick days from work.

The thing that struck me was how things have changed in ten years. Ten years ago you could not take aspirin or anything that would thin your blood for the week prior to the procedure. So of course that would be the one week I’d get a headache. Also, ten years ago you had to go on a “low residue diet” for a whole week in advance. Basically that means no nuts, seeds, whole grains or fresh fruits and vegetables. A difficult task for someone who eats a lot of fresh produce every day. Prep day was “clear liquids” which meant no coffee or tea.

This time was different. I could take aspirin if I wanted. I’m happy to report I had no headaches or joint pain this week. The low residue diet was only three days before the procedure; i.e. the two days before I what I call “purge day.” And the “clear liquid” list included black coffee and cranberry juice. Since I drink my coffee black I was ecstatic.

Purge Day consists of lots of clear liquids: water, ginger ale, apple juice, etc. Of course I had my morning coffee.

Breakfast



Lunch Options

“Food” consists of Jello®, broth or bullion, and popsicles. But nothing “red.”






And then, of course, there is the “purge” itself. What you have to drink is the worst part of the procedure. I call it “drain-o.” I’ll leave it at that.



Over ice & thru a straw is recommended

For me, it really is the worst part of the procedure. Even though I buy the lemon flavored I find it hard to get down.

As for the rest of it, I knew I’d be hungry on “purge day” so I wasn’t as hungry as I remember. The procedure itself is straightforward and the drugs you are given are great; a combination of Morphine and Fentanyl. It’s no wonder the doctor tells you not to drive or make any major decisions that day.

The good news is that my polyps continue to be benign.

P.S. If you have a family history of polyps or colorectal cancer, please get yourself screened.

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

I Am (Not) Flexible

I am not flexible. I try. I really do. But it’s just not in my DNA. Yesterday morning I found myself sitting at the dining room table with my head laying on that same table with my arms as an uncomfortable pillow moaning, “I’m not flexible. I just can’t do this. I try, but I’m not flexible.” My husband comforted me with the sweetest words. “I know honey, but you are so much more flexible than when we were first married.”

I need a schedule. I need to know what time I should be doing what activity. I make lists. I am a creature of habit and thrive in my routine. For his sake I try to “go with the flow” on weekends. We eat breakfast and lunch when we are hungry, but dinner is always (around) 7 p.m. I know my husband appreciates that I try.

This morning I look at my house and am overwhelmed by the mess. There are dishes left behind from last night’s flexibility in not cleaning up after dinner. The laundry basket if full of clean clothes to fold and put away. My “to do” list doesn’t seem to have as many things crossed off from yesterday. I was sure the list was three-quarters of the way complete. Why are only half the items crossed off?

These are the things that bring me anxiety. And I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like my brain shuts down and multitasking is out of the question. So what do I do? I screw up my courage and tell myself to take one thing at a time. Okay. I can do that.

Step 1: take a shower and get dressed. (Ignore the laundry basket sitting on the chair in the bedroom).

Step 2: eat breakfast. (The dirty dishes can be put in the dishwasher with the cereal bowl).

Step 3: pick a room, any room, and start there. Do not attempt to multitask. Do not leave that room until it is picked up; finished.

Oh, and play Christmas music. That is sure to put a smile on my face.

 

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.

A Broken and Fallen World

Our world is filled with ugly. All you have to do is read the headline news to know this. But you cannot know the depth of pain and suffering until you look into the face of a hurting soul.

At work I recently became more involved with Student Life. Last year I was asked to help out and I gladly said “yes.” It was an opportunity to support the department and to learn something new. My role was similar to that of a Principal. Students were sent to me for such infractions as smoking in the girls’ room or swearing in class. This semester is different.

This semester I am deep into student issues. Issues that require a team to investigate complaints. Issues that need support systems put into place to help a student get through the day, not just the semester. These are the issues that break my heart and drain my soul. And it turns out I’m pretty good at it.

But at the end of the day I am weary. Every morning I find myself asking God to help me get out of bed and face the day. Not because I cannot physically get out of bed. Rather, I ask Him to help me face the challenges of the day; that I will know what to do and say.

Daily I am faced with broken souls. Not just students who have been “bad” and need discipline, but students whose lives have been shattered. They don’t know what to do or where to go. The hurt they feel is so deep they lash out at others or turn inward and hurt themselves. I often don’t know what to say, but somehow I get through a student meeting saying and doing the right thing. It often feels like instinct.

Ours is a broken and fallen world. But if at the end of the day I paid attention, if I listened well, and if I did what was best for the student while doing what was right for my college I know it was a good day.

If you enjoy my blog and would like to follow me on Facebook, I can be found at The Reluctant Survivor. And on Twitter @relucsurvivor.