Progress not perfection

I am just back from the climbing gym. Once again, I am suddenly climbing significantly harder than I have been: harder grades, more climbs in a session and a longer session. It is so exciting to move this fluidly and freely. Not just because I am progressing and progress is awesome (I am definitely a part of the “Aim for progress not perfection” camp!) but because, for so long, I couldn’t progress. For years, I never got beyond beginner level at anything: I could not learn anything new and I had forgotten much of what I had once known. This is your brain (and body) on Lyme. No forward progress. Having to learn the same things over and over and over. And the body, too. It doesn’t heal well, recover well and doesn’t build muscle memory. Lyme, besides the obvious reasons, is an incredibly frustrating disease to have. Everything I wanted to do, I plateaued at, but at the very initial stages of learning it. I don’t know how many beginning salsa, Spanish and guitar classes I took in the time that I was really sick.

Over the past year, I’ve been steadily getting better, in leaps and bounds, rather than in the meager and bitter steps forward I had been used to before. And climbing progress is a huge way of knowing just how much better I am. I have a few climbing trips coming up and I can not wait to see how I can do on the rock.

Advertisements

Running in the rain

Running in the rain used to be one of my favorite things to do. I start out and it’s cold and the drops are like cold spikes against your skin but as I go, I warm up, and the drops are soft and cooling against my skin. There is something to be said, too, for being out in the rain without layers of clothes against getting cold or wet, with my legs bare and shoes soaking wet and to still be running in it.

I say it running in the rain used to be one of my favorite things to do but then I got Lyme and couldn’t withstand getting cold, much less wet. My doctors ordered me to stop running because the blood-brain barrier becomes permeable to the Lyme spirochete with cardio. I didn’t run for eight years. I wrapped myself up in 700 fill down vest in 90 degree weather. I lived small and tight and cautious.

I started running again, a year or two ago, but I’ve been running as sporadically as I’ve been writing this blog. Then the rains came. The first storms had me running to buy rainbows, umbrella, rain gear to bike in. Clothes that would make me impermeable to the wet and cold. The next storms came rolling through and I went out walking in it, hesitantly. Would I get sick? Would my body collapse under the strain of cold layered over illness? Would this be the one thing too much that would knock me by the wayside? Nope. I’ve apparently tip the scale back from collapse to resiliency.

Then storms came through again this week and I went out running in them, without layers of ranger. Just me, shorts and the rain. Rain soaked my hair and ran down my back, my legs were spattered with mud and my shoes go so wet that I didn’t hesitate to run through puddles. I heated up and the rain was a welcome cooling.

My shoes are still drying in the hallway from yesterdays run and my tulips are blossoming in my window box.

Catching the Heart Up with the Body

When I was 24, first diagnosed with Lyme, suddenly living in suburbia with my parents and swallowing down more pills each day than I had taken my entire life, I couldn’t let myself fully know how sick I was. If I did, I wouldn’t have been able to keep putting one foot in front of the other. So I told myself, daily, that I would be back to life on my terms in a few months, six at the most.

Nine months later, I had a P.I.C.C. line in and was on I.V. antibiotics. I ate breakfast and dinner with my drip going. Still, I told myself that I would be able to pick up where I had left off from my life in NYC. Ok, I had told myself a year in to living back in suburbia, I’ll be back to life in six more months, in another year, tops.

But it takes time to get as sick as I did and it would take another decade to get fully better. Over the years, I spent most of my time and money and energy trying to get better. Over the years, I slowly stripped away symptoms as I unraveled the layers of illnesses. I lived a half-life out of necessity. My health, or my approximation of it, was in delicate balance. If I pushed too hard in any aspect of my life, my health would collapse. I felt like a house of cards and the slightest thing outside of my routine—a missed meal, a forgotten hat and scarf on a cold day, a too late night, relationship strife—would knock me down.

I spent a lot of time in bed, waiting. I held myself back from living as hard as I wanted to, telling myself that once I was healthy, I’d have everything.

During that decade of living small and contained, I told myself that I would have everything once I had my health. I told myself that it wouldn’t matter how little I had done over the years; once I had my health I could approach everything in life with the vigor I wanted to. Now I am where I once only dreamed of being and feeling. And though life without illness is so much better and easier and thought I am doing everything that I want to be doing, I am surprised to find that the underlying emotions for me are a dull sadness and defeat. It is because, only now, in being healthy, do I understand just how very sick I was and can I know just how much I missed out on.

I am surprised to find that I am not just living in a state of elated joy, which is what I thought that I’d be doing once I got better. I’d have everything, remember? Of course I have to work through the dull sadness of loss. I fill the time that used to be filled with taking care of myself with meditation and long walks and fostering friendships. I am taking it easy and gently this winter and making sure to cook up soups and stews and ciders that are rich in color, scent and taste.

Gratitude

There was a time that, when I thought of myself, the image that came to mind was of an old clay pot, dropped and shattered and badly put back together again. At that time, I was in so much pain, I hobbled when I walked and was so tired that I became anxious at the thought of leaving my apartment. I was 22.

These days, I write posts on healing, on compassion for the body—your body and how to train when dealing with a chronic illness. As I write, I always return to the time that I was sick for understanding, for a way in, for compassion on what my clients and readers are dealing with in their bodies.

Yesterday, I wrote on pain and when I did, I remembered when the pain and the fatigue were hardly indecipherable from each other. I was so tired that it hurt to be awake; I was in so much pain that it exhausted me. I remembered, as I wrote, how weak I used to be, as if a strong breeze could take me down. As I wrote, I recognized how strong and resilient I’ve become and how the sick person I used to be is no longer true.

When I think of myself now, I have an image of a giant trampoline, of its ability to bend deeply to the blows of people landing and regaining its shape so rapidly that it throws them in the air again.

I remember how it used to be, when there was no end in sight of Lyme Disease for me, just an endless slog of days marred by illness. The end of Lyme finally came but it seems that I was so busy living my life that I hardly noticed it until it had passed.

Pain is your body in conversation with you

Pain can be scary. It’s uncomfortable and also indicative of something not right in the body but when it has no obvious source—not a burn nor a fall nor an accident, but just shows up, seemingly out of nowhere, and lingers, it can trigger fear and anxiety, interrupt sleep and make it harder to cope with let alone heal. Especially if you don’t know what to do to fix it.

 PJ-BB600_HEALTH_G_20110704185119I am no stranger to the downward spiral of pain creating fear and anxiety and disrupting my sleep. It begins with pain, becomes more pain and then fear that my body is disintegrating shows up followed by anxiety: am I injuring my body more? The fear and anxiety, I’ve noticed, usually cause the pain to intensify and spread. Lyme is a really painful disease. There were weeks when I couldn’t even walk for the pain in my knees and days when I couldn’t do anything but lay on my back for the spinal pain. At the time, I never knew what set the pain off and, until I was diagnosed with Lyme, no doc or PT I saw could figure out its cause either. The joint pain was so rough that it felt like, just by using my joints, I was contributing to their deterioration. For a dancer and athlete, this was a heartbreaking thought. I gave up so many activities I loved by the time I was twenty and just hoped that I would still be able to walk when I was thirty.

These days, my joints are stable, move fluidly and never even ache but I fully understand what so many of my clients are going through when they come to me because of pain and fear or with anxiety about “What is happening to my body?!”

When pain comes from a straight forward injury, it’s easy to understand and, as tough as it is to deal with it, you have a pretty good sense that the body will heal and the pain will pass. When pain comes from layers of muscular imbalance, skeletal misalignment, compensatory patterns, and inflammation, it can be hard to get to understand the root of it and hard to see an end in sight.

I try to disarm people first. By which I mean, to get them to unload the emotions around pain. We immediately jump to evaluating whatever state we are in: if we’re happy, that’s good. If we’re sad, that’s bad. If we’re in pain, that’s bad. What if, I ask my clients, you could just experience the pain? It is simply a sensation and assigning a negative judgment to it makes it worse. Uncomfortable, yes. Scary, possibly. But bad? No.

In fact, pain is an incredibly useful tool. It is your body in conversation with you. This hurts, it is saying, stop what you are doing because it’s not good for your health and survival. Pain if you touch your hand to a fire–you can see the immediate need to pull your hand away so you don’t burn it off, but pain in the low back from a lifetime of sitting isn’t necessarily as clear a direction. Pain will get you to stop and take a look around and see what isn’t working in your life, where you’re forcing yourself through situations that are hurting your body and make changes. The real trick is, do you stop and listen when your body speaks up? Are you learning how to listen to your body? It is yours, and you’ll be with it your whole life. If you listen now, you’ll be in better shape in the long run.