I sleep like a baby. A newborn. On a good night, I get four hours sleep. On a not-so-good night it could be three, sometimes even two measly hours. I’m like one of those infants who make their parents regret not using birth control.
It’s been this way since I was pregnant with my youngest daughter. She’s now twenty-nine. Add nine months and you’ve got roughly thirty years of interrupted lousy sleep. And I’m really tired of it. Enough already.
I’ve tried all kinds of things in my quest for a solid eight. Everything from booze to baths.
I’ve practiced fastidious sleep hygiene. And nightly rituals. Body parts are always carefully washed and brushed. I’ve tested sundry things to eat. Or not eat. Or when to eat. Or what. I’ve tried exercising before bed. Lightly because the strenuous kind is too stimulating. And we don’t want that. I’ve tried relaxing nighttime yoga. This stresses me out when serenity can be so fleeting and fugacious. Bedtime meditations. These make me want to get out of bed. I’ve practiced mindfulness. I can’t get my mind off the fact that I’m wide awake. I’ve counted sheep. And all the other farm animals. It gets very noisy inside my head.
I’ve experimented with different bedtimes to find the optimum, the most perfect time, to hit the hay. I have considered a mattress made of hay. Is this not the ultimate in au naturel? And hey if it’s good enough for horses. They seem to have no problem sleeping. In the end, I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter when I go to bed. If I go to bed at ten o’clock, I wake up roughly four hours later. Same thing happens at nine or eleven.
Over the years, I’ve explored and re-explored various natural sleep aids and supplements. M&M, for example. Melatonin & Magnesium. I take this combo occasionally with a warm milk chaser. I do like to take a walk on the wild side sometimes. The thing is, Melatonin puts me to sleep in much the same way a shot of Writers Tears does but it fails to keep me in dreamland. I like Magnesium but too much and I’m up in the middle of the night letting loose and not in a fun way. I’ll skip the details and let you use your imagination.
I’ve detoxed the bedroom. All things digital and annoying have been removed. So, no television, iMac, iPad, iPhone, laptop, or anything that snores or cries out in the night. There are, however, a few items that I refuse to remove from the bedroom. Books. Reading in bed is my magnificent obsession, my glorious lifelong habit that I will not surrender, abstain, nor abandon. I admit. I’m a novel junkie. And I surrender all.
And here’s a little paradoxical conundrum. I have absolutely no problem falling asleep. Staying asleep is the issue. When I wake up in the middle of the night, or during the hour of the wolf, the challenge is getting back to sleep. Sometimes I’m successful. Sometimes not. Regardless, reading helps. Typically, a page or two, maybe three, into the current book on the nightstand and it’s lights out. I’m dead to the world. Put me in front of the television set and I’m a goner. On movie nights, I tell my family, “It doesn’t matter to me what we watch. Pick something, anything. You all know I’m going to fall asleep before the opening sequence ends and the movie begins.” That is a fact. Of course, I’m wide awake as soon as the closing credits start to roll. But I did have the magnificent two-hour sleep. Just like a newborn.
I started getting migraines when I was eleven years old. The first one was a horror show, which morphed into a terrifying recurring nightmare. Over and over. Year over year. Decade by decade. Ma used to say, it was my cross to bear. We all have them.
As a kid, I remember asking if I could pick another cross. This one sucked. Big time.
According to Cat Stevens, the first cut is the deepest. He was talking about love, but I think this applies to other “firsts” as well. They are always the most memorable. At least for me. They stand out, well, because of their firstness, their never happened before essence, not been done heretofore novelty, never been seen until now wonder or their brand-new experience amazement.
My migraine experience was kind of like that, only it was the worst first. Ever. It was the beginning of living with migraine dread, fear, and trepidation. A curse. When they first started, existing in this constant state of anxious anticipation and high alert was often worse than the migraine itself.
Picture this. It’s an unusually quiet, peaceful Saturday afternoon in the middle of April, in Nowheresville Northwestern Ontario. On a quiet street, lined with wartime houses and Manitoba Maples is my childhood home, affectionately referred to as 204 in all my stories. At the kitchen table sits my second oldest brother Del, aka Doob, the News Chronicle is spread out in front of him, he’s pouring over the sports section completely unaware that in mere seconds his kid sister is about to interrupt his serene, anxiety-free tranquility with mayhem and chaos. For the next few hours, she would literally turn it into a madhouse. Even crazier than anything either of them had ever experienced during one of The Old Man’s drunken benders.
She bursts into the kitchen screaming, “I’m blind! I’m blind!”
He looks up at her with an expression that is equal parts confusion and disbelief, and says, “What do you mean?”
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” she cries as she stabs at her eyes with her little eleven-year-old fists.
“You can’t see me?” he asks.
“Yes, I can see you. But not see you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have a big black hole where your face is. And there’s really, bright flashing zigzag lines over my eye.”
“That’s crazy,” he says, as he gets up from the table and cautiously approaches her. “Close your eyes.”
“I tried that. It doesn’t help. It’s still there.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I want Ma,” she cries. “I want Ma!”
“She’ll be home soon,” he lied. “Just calm down, for God’s sake.”
“I can’t, I can’t. I’m so scared. Am I dying?” she caterwauls, dropping dramatically to her knees.
At this point, they are both quivering like maple leaves at the onset of an October storm. Foreshadowing. Winter is coming.
“You’re not dying.”
“Now my hand is going numb. I can’t feel my hand. And my arm. I think I’m dying. Help me, help me!”
You’re not dying,” he repeats, attempting to reassure himself more than her. He has no idea if she is dying. She could be. What did he know. He wasn’t a doctor.
“God-oh-God, what is happening to me,” she whimpers pitifully.
“Ma will be home soon. She’ll know what to do,” he says dubiously. He had no idea when their mother would be home, much less what would happen once she got there.
But thankfully, he was right.
Within minutes Ma and The Old Man walked in the door toting bags of groceries. I wrapped my arms around her, sobbing hysterically, pleading with her to help, to make it go away. And within an hour, as if by some medical miracle, the mysterious numbness went away, the blindness and flashing zigzag lights cleared up completely and my sight was restored. And then, the pain started.
Pounding. Pulsating. Putrefying.
The pain was so bad I threw up. Non-stop for hours. I spent the rest of the day and night in bed and woke up the next morning pain-free but feeling “weird.” It would be years before I’d have a term for that weird disorienting feeling. Migraine hang-over.
No one knew what caused this random out-of-the-blue and inexplicable episode.
Ma said I was “bilious.” I was eleven. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Apparently, this was something she experienced from time to time. She didn’t refer to it as a headache, much less a migraine. But from that day forward, I too suffered from this strange and painful affliction called bilious.
I relive that day every single time I get a migraine. Every time. Without exception.
With the first flash of light, I panic. Anxiety builds as my pulse races, my body shakes and my mind goes to all the dark places. I see Doob’s eyes fill with fear, his face turn to ashen snow, the overwhelm and helplessness pushing him to the precipice of passing right out. It was unfortunate timing on my part because, like me, he was highly sensitive, anxious, a worrier and of my two brothers, the least equipped to deal with something like this. We’ve never discussed it, but I often think I may have traumatized him for life.
The good news is I became my own medical researcher, which wasn’t easy back then in the prehistoric days without computers and this thing called Google. Very little was written about Migraines. Ma brought me to the doctor when I was thirteen. He was useless. Said it was my “nerves” and prescribed Valium. Valium. To a kid. It was crazy making.
Throughout high school, I mostly kept quiet about this baffling disorder. Everyone gets headaches. But not like this. I couldn’t explain them in a way that was fully comprehensible or that didn’t sound overly melodramatic, foolish or downright insane. If an “attack” came on while in school, I would struggle through the pain and disorienting symptoms until the day was over and I could find relief and refuge at 204. I battled this thing, this arch enemy that attacked out of the blue, in the middle of gym class, science lab, band practice, lunch break, or giggle fit.
Through it all, I learned a lot about shame, secrets, loneliness, isolation, and bravery. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I had this disturbing thing wrong with me, that nobody else did, so I kept it a secret, just like The Old Man’s alcoholism. But I also learned how to be brave, to feel the fear and face it head-on, walk right through anxiety and challenge it – like the schoolyard bully it was – call its bluff. And I learned that shaking trembling legs would get me there. I did not fall.
That said, I cried a lot. Bargained with God. Tried to make a deal. I’ll take anything but this shit. Please and thank you.
The good news is, I developed coping skills that grew with age. The biggest thing was that I started to talk, to confide in people outside of my family, and most importantly to trust that it would be okay to do so. By sharing my story, my deepest fears, and darkest secrets I discovered that I wasn’t the only person who got these headaches. I wasn’t alone. There were other sufferers out there. It was a relief to unburden myself. For years I felt broken. Like damaged goods. Defective. Factory flawed. Not like anyone else. A freak of nature.
I learned there was a name for these mysterious headaches with their perplexing prodrome. I learned that those zigzag flashing lights I was seeing were an aura, the warning signal that a migraine was headed my way. I learned about triggers. Some the hard way. It took me years to figure out that red wine was one of them. I learned about the things that helped and brought some relief. Like quiet dark rooms and a comfy bed with a bucket close by to throw up in. I learned about nutrition, healthy eating, vitamins, and natural herbal remedies. By seventeen, I found yoga. It was a life changer. I learned poses that I could do at the first onset of the aura that would bring relief from the pain, but more importantly, the anxiety. I found solace in the wise words of spiritual leaders. I learned to meditate and control my breathing. I started running every morning and walking and biking instead of driving. I embraced the theory that movement is medicine and continue to take daily doses, rain or shine. I learned to grow my courage and compassion muscles. I learned to love my little warrior heart and to call upon it in the hour of the wolf or whenever I was overwhelmed by the enormity of life. I learned never to give up. I learned that life isn’t always fair, and that Ma was right.
We all have our cross to bear. Most days, I’ve learned to carry mine with grace. And choose not to be nailed to it.
Last week’s Girl Warrior post was about pain in all of its manifestations – physical, spiritual, emotional. Feeling it. Dealing with it. Surviving it. And ultimately, moving on. Over the past five years of writing and speaking to this remarkable Tribe, I’m more often than not, writing about life lessons that I also need to learn. Richard Bach, author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a small book I read and reread in the seventies said, ‘We teach best what we most need to learn.” He’s right.
Since January of this year I’ve been hurting. Physically. But because human beings aren’t unconnected fragments, bits and pieces, shards and shavings that have nothing to do with each other, the physical pain has also become emotional and psychological suffering as well. There have been times, far too many truthfully, where life has lost its color. Times when everything was murky dimly lit and shrouded in grey hopeless despair. No joy at all. And it hasn’t been pretty.
The kind of pain I’m talking about is fucking ugly actually. And for me, it has literally been a pain in the ass. My sciatic nerve is being pinched or squeezed and the result is chronic relentless pain running from my butt down the right leg to my ankle. Thank God it stops there. But it’s debilitating. During my darkest hour, my worst days and fearful nights, it has taken every ounce of strength, grit, iron will and determination just to stand and walk. Even sitting for any length of time has been exhausting. There has been no relief. No relief for months.
I don’t know with certainty what brought this on, although I have theories, or why it still persists all these months later. I’ve been on a medical odyssey that included numerous visits to our sweet and kind leprechaun-like family doctor, who prescribed two different types of drugs to help manage the pain: one to stop the messages from the pain in my ass to my brain and the other to help curb the inflammation. The pain-brain pill I took once. Not only was it unable to block the chatter between my two body parts, it made me feel like puking. The other medication I took for a few weeks but I grew suspicious when I realized that they were the first thing I reached for when I woke up and the last thing I took before I went to sleep. This dependency was disconcerting to say the least so I did some online research. I quit those suckers cold turkey. They were useless anyway.
I went to my Chiropractor every Thursday night for two months. He did what Chiropractors do best – manipulate, twist, pull, bend and crack. This was a lot of fun. At first it seemed to help, then it didn’t. He recommended I also try deep tissue massage to supplement “the work” he was doing. This actually felt pretty wonderful during the 45-minute session where the Therapist kneaded my ass like it was a lump of bread dough. I thought ‘whoa, I want more of this.’ I left the clinic with this big dopey euphoric grin on my face but by the time I got home I swear to God I was crippled. I couldn’t move for 24 hours. I went back, however, for another session because it felt so damn good while he was doing all that pummeling and rubbing and stroking. Plus the clinic smelled divine. Like lavender and mint tea. But again, by the time I got home I was crying like a snot-nosed baby. It was pathetic and kind of funny if it wasn’t happening to me. That was the end of that treatment.
Two sessions with a Chinatown Acupuncturist did absolutely nothing. Well not exactly nothing. In the middle of the second session, the beautiful Asian doctor paused and said “I think your husband doesn’t love you enough.” Perhaps something was lost in translation, or perhaps it was the side-affects of having my ass used as a human pincushion, but that’s what I heard. I milked this for all it was worth. Afterwards, I told E what she said and this got me several weeks worth of loving kindness, if you know what I mean. It was good while it lasted. But everyone has limits, even E.
I did all kinds of online research on Sciatica, SI joint injury and Piriformis syndrome. All the “experts” agreed that these three were the culprits. The source of my worst nightmare, the cause of my grief and agony, the reason I was down on my knees praying for an end to this fucking misery. So I culled the best of all their wisdom and advice, and tried things. There was a common theme to the exercises promoted online for the type of injury I had. They involved a lot of pulling and stretching of the ass muscles in awkward uncomfortable positions. Kind of like yoga on steroids. While I was doing the exercises I got some relief but as soon as I got off the floor and made any attempt at getting on with my day, much less my life, I was in agonizing hell. More rubber-faced Claire Danes type crying ensued.
I was miserable. I was angry and frustrated by my body’s betrayal. I was depressed. And consequently depressing to be around. I felt alone and isolated. Like no one truly understood the depth of my suffering. During the day, I put on my happy “work face” and soldiered through. On a good night, if I was lucky, I found a position that was comfortable, which was usually sitting with my back completely straight and upright, my feet flat on the floor. I would sit like this for hours and not move, fearful that if I did I would trigger those delightful pain messages. This became the new normal for me.
Sometimes I screamed bloody murder. So loud and hard that the blood vessels in my neck vibrated. I scared the shit out of E and Mel. They did their best to console and comfort me. But it was pointless. Life was pointless. Hopeless. I was an embarrassing useless burden. There were no words that could make this better. No words.
Then at the beginning of June, upon the recommendation of a colleague, I went to see an Osteopath. I had no clue what an Osteopath was but I was willing to give it try. I met with the doctor on a sunny Saturday morning. She was an intense, direct, straight shooter who listened with her ears, eyes and heart. She didn’t just see me as patient, she recognized me as a human being who was suffering. And then she went to work.
For the first time in months I can see a glimmer of light that maybe, just maybe, I might get better. Session by session, I am seeing small steady improvements as Dr. D works her magic. I don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t care. I only know I’m on the journey back. I have faith in her ability to heal. I have hope again. I stopped screaming.
They say everything happens for a reason. I’ve yet to figure out the “why” of it all, and I guess it doesn’t really matter. But if I was to add a silver lining to this, it would be that my heart has been opened wide, wider than I could have ever imagined, to those who suffer. My compassion muscle has expanded and grown exponentially. My empathy is on high alert and fully engaged. For example, in the past I have often been impatient, annoyed and horribly judgmental of people who took their ‘sweet time’ crossing the street, and kept me waiting. I’d mutter irritated “for God’s sake hurry up and get across the road already.” But now I think, “what is your story, Dear One? Are you suffering?”
Girl Warrior. Get enough sleep. Make this a top priority every night. And you will have better days. Guaranteed.
You live a busy 24-7 life. Always on the go. You’re stretched to the max most days. Demands are flying at you from every direction. You put others’ needs before your own. You’re on stress and strain overload. Worry, anxiety and pressure greet you at every turn. Everyone wants a piece of you.
And quite simply, you are running on empty.
When you get to this exhausting place Girl Warrior, it’s time to re-fuel. Truth is, this isn’t really an option. Not when your health and wellbeing are at stake. It’s time to shut it all down and take good care of yourself. And the best place to do this is in the bedroom.
This is your sanctuary, your peaceful retreat, and most importantly, your recovery refuge. Think calm, serene, tranquil and relaxing. So feather your nest in a way that fosters these feelings. Make it comfortable and cozy, safe and snug. Free of all distractions and disturbances. Make this a place for you to rest your weary bones and leave all the cares of the day behind.
Hang a Do Not Disturb sign on the door of your mind.
Begin a ‘get ready for bed’ ritual. Make this a habit you can’t live without. This is personal so it won’t look the same for all Girl Warriors. This matters not. What does matter is that you make it a nightly routine that helps you prepare for sleep. Start by slowing things down. Dim the lights, do some gentle yoga stretches, drink herbal tea, take a warm bath, listen to relaxing music, read a book, meditate, say your prayers and give thanks for all your many blessings and the abundance in your life.
Slip into your divinely inviting bed and allow the healing of your body, mind and spirit to begin. Sweet sweet dreams Girl Warrior.
Girl Warrior. Foster Wisdom. Seek enlightenment, illumination and insight at every turn, every opportunity. Grow your intuition and awareness of the world around you and the one within. Fine-tune your instincts and your vital sixth sense. Follow your hunches and listen closely to your gut feelings. For these are the essential bits in the Sage’s toolkit.
First you will need to take a journey inward. You will also need to open your mind to all the possibilities that abide there. You will be opening the door to the unknown, the unexplored, the unfamiliar, and above all else, the uncertain. You will be knocking on the door of mystery and magic and all things mystical. The prospect of this may frighten you. Don’t let it. Open the door and walk unflinchingly through. This is a big step and a brave move on your part. But it is a prerequisite on the path to true understanding.
It is here that you will begin to know the difference between the accumulation of information and knowledge and that of wisdom, knowing and genuine insight. It is in this pilgrimage to the deepest corner of your soul that you will discover the Universal Truths, your highest self, your eternal being and your infinite connection to the Divine. It is from this vantage point that you will do your best work.
It is both exalting and humbling. And when you get there, Girl Warrior you will know.
At the end of November my beautiful daughter-in-law (DIL) sent an interesting Facebook message to my two daughters and me. This message was actually a challenge. It was something she herself had been challenged to do in her fitness class that week, and one that she found extremely difficult. When I read that, my first thought was that “if this incredible young women finds a “fitness” challenge difficult,” then I’m dead meat. No way Jose. Not going to happen for this Old Broad (OB). Then when I read “the challenge” I was even more convinced that this was something I could not do.
What was so challenging about “the challenge”?
Everything. Why? Because it requires that you take a long hard, uncompromising, honest, candid, truthful and LOVING look at yourself. Both physically and non-physically. And come up with ten things for each that you like about yourself. I’m not even talking love here. Just, like. A little nod to one of your more redeeming attributes, a mere mention of some cute little trait or charming characteristic. You know the thing I’m talking about. That endearing eccentricity that your family mutters under their collective-breath at family gatherings, “There it is.” We all have those, right. But as my DIL said in her note, “It’s amazing how in 2 seconds you can name a million things about family, friends and even people you’ve just met, but to name 20 things about yourself is HARD!”
She’s right. It’s easy-peasy to find 20 things about someone else that are admirable and praiseworthy, both physically and non-physically. But try pointing the lens back at yourself and it is damn near impossible. At least for me.
But this is a new year. And I’ve decided that this is the year that I will challenge myself more. Go out on that fragile limb and do things. Face uncertainty head-on. Take some risks. Do things a little, or a lot, differently than I have in the past. Some of these things I know are going to scare the shit right out of me. And at my age this could seriously happen.
Other things, I’m going to do because they’ll be good for me. Like eating more vegetables and less meat, especially the stuff that causes the unnecessary death of cute animals. This is a dilemma for me because I think all animals, and many plants, are cute. And if you think I’m being facetious, check out Marimos. They are freakin’ adorable. So are Baby Lichens. Then there’s Venus Flytraps. Not all that cute but extremely interesting. Like the dark-haired girl wearing uncool glasses in a roomful of Barbie’s with big boobs. I can relate to the V-Flies.
And then there are those things I’ve been putting off for years, decades even. You know the things, the “I’ll do that someday” stuff. All the stuff you make excuses for, that possibly involve some kind of weird time and space continuum. I have no idea what that is but it sounds like it may apply here, and very likely every aspect of my life to date. But I do plan to make a heroic attempt, and at the very least, confront some of these things that I’ve been putting off and maybe quite conceivably, should all the stars line up just right, get around to it. Perhaps.
As for the 10 physical things and the 10 non-physical things I like about myself? I haven’t a clue. I only know that it will require me to be as kind and loving with myself as I am with others. I will need to be as gentle and gracious, understanding and big-hearted, caring and compassionate, forgiving and magnanimous to me as I am to you and you and you, and the person I’ve just met. For this is all the great big important stuff that is at the very heart of “the challenge.” Maybe, just maybe, that’s why it’s so difficult.
And as my wise, witty and wonderful DIL said, it’s easier to come up with these things about someone else then it is about yourself. So I thought I’d do it for her.
10 Physical things that I LOVE about my DIL (in no particular order and just for starters):
Big beautiful smile
Gorgeous hair
Killer abs
Cute freckles
Dazzling blue eyes
Tiny waist
Artistic hands
Infectious laugh
Melodic voice
Magnificent fit figure
10 Non-Physical things that I LOVE about my DIL (in no particular order and just for starters):
Girl Warrior. Press pause. Give yourself a time out. Take a break. A breather. Remove yourself from the busy-ness of life. Especially when you feel you have no time to do so. For that is when you need it the most.
Step away from the chaos that surrounds you. Separate yourself from all the noise and nonsense. Beat a hasty retreat from the racket and wild rumpus. Clear the incessant commotion inside your head that’s tearing your fragile spirit to shreds. And wreaking havoc with your overloaded senses.
Stop the madness Girl Warrior. Check out of Hotel Crazy. Find your place of refuge. We all have a sacred space, a thinking spot, and a place where peace is waiting. Go there. If you don’t have one, find one or create one. It’s that important. And once there, take the time you need to revive, rejuvenate and refresh. Breathe new life into your weary bones.
Resist the urge to overthink or complicate things. Finding a place to rest and recover can be as easy as drawing a hot bath filled with your favorite fragrance, locking the door to the outside world, lighting a few candles, pouring a beverage that nurtures your spirit, and closing your eyes as you sink into the sweet soothing serenity of silence.
Girl Warrior. Have a grateful heart. Count your blessings. Each and every day. There are so many things to appreciate in your life. Right here and now. Take nothing for granted. Don’t squander your godsend.
Concern yourself with all the things you already have. Not with what’s missing or what you don’t have or wished you had. For if you aren’t grateful for what you already possess then getting more of anything else won’t change your heart or fill your soul. It will never be enough.
Know this Girl Warrior, it is imperative that you are first and foremost grateful for the life you have, the gorgeous gift that it is. Look around at the people who surround you and give thanks for their presence. See the heavenly divineness in all things. Big and small. It’s all so precious.
See your cup half full. Always. Express your thanks at every turn. Seek opportunities to acknowledge the lavishness of your life. Just as it is in this precise moment. Look around at the eternal abundance of the universe. And say thank you. Make this your mantra.
Send out Thank You cards to the world Girl Warrior.
Girl Warrior. Be resilient. Flexible. Pliable. Adaptable. Bend and sway like an elegant Willow tree. Full of grace and economy. Follow the ebb and flow of your wonderful awe-inspiring life. Embrace the wind that moves your sturdy spirit. Take courageous steps into the blinding light and the dark places of your soul. There is nothing to fear.
You are stronger than you think Girl Warrior. You are hard-wearing and tough. Like an indestructible black leather jacket. But you are also supple and nimble. Like a Ninja cat. Both contain the secret to resiliency at its finest.
Study intently the skill of quick recovery. Practice diligently irrepressible comebacks. Master the fine art of give and take. Rise from the ashes like the magnificent Phoenix you are. Rally and return stronger and more resourceful than you could ever imagine.
But remember Girl Warrior, it’s not an all or nothing life that we live. That’s the true wisdom in resilience.
My Thing About God 