Letting Go

Happy Mother's Day!

I've been focusing on some heavy stuff during the last five months: depression, anger, fear, misdiagnosis, illness, a near-death experience, and loss.

You know what I learned from sharing my deep dark fears and my private journey in a public space where anyone in the world can read it? Letting go has made me free.

I let go of my fear that you will judge me.

I let go of my sadness, my anger and my shame.

I let go of my need to help karma find Dr. H.C.

I let go of my fear that I will get sick again.

I may very well get sick again; I may even lose myself. But I know what to do, I've rallied support and I know that it's possible to come out on the other side standing tall and pretty much back together again.

Thank you for reading my story and for sharing your stories and advice. It has helped me let go.

I love blogging so much I don't want to let that go, so in the next week or so I will transition to an entirely new blog.

After examining my illness and depression, I want to keep it light for a while. (Though, if you know me, you'll know there will be an element of seriousness in everything I do.)

Consumerism has always been fascinating to me. I've thought about it a lot.

Take today for example, a holiday I think is one of the least commercial. Moms want to take a day off and be appreciated. Kids make a special breakfast or clean the house or write a poem in a card.

It's not about diamond rings or dozens of blood red roses.

Or is it different for you?

You're Special: ICU

This is the third part in a series. You can read the first part here, and the second here.

They wheeled me right to the ICU from the recovery room after our baby was born.

My experience in ICU is actually the beginning of a very traumatic time. I’ll get to that soon, but first I want to write about seeing a specialist while you’re in a hospital bed.

When you’re conscious and alert, it’s reasonable to shoot for goals like reading cues and writing lists. When you’re wheeled into a room on a stretcher, it’s not.

There isn’t much you can do to control the situation when you don’t know where you are. My situation, being in the ICU, was extreme. Sometimes people don’t ‘know where they are’ even when they literally know where they are.

If you’re so tired/confused/fucked up that you can’t contribute in any meaningful way to your exchanges with your specialists, I have one piece of advice:

Trust them.

For the most part, doctors are competent, caring people. They know the ramifications of their mistakes. They stuck it out in torturous med school because they want help people. They would rather shove their egos into a donkey’s ass, strap that donkey on a rocket and launch it into space on a crash course with the sun, than kill you.

They work long hours trying to figure out what is wrong. They give up time with their families to keep us alive.

Most people are good people; this includes specialists. Unless something in your gut says NO!, trust is a good thing. And good or bad, trust may be your only play when you aren’t conscious.

Just because I had a really bad experience with one of the seven specialists I saw doesn’t mean it’s something everyone should be on the lookout for. It won’t necessarily happen to you.

I learned a lot about the relationship between relaxation and getting healthy in the ICU. Trust starts with letting go, relaxing your fears and erasing those negative mind-tapes. Sometimes it’s easier when you don’t have any other choice.

Of course, I always had an advocate by my side. I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Confidence

The longer I was sick, the harder it was to imagine being well. Remembering healthy Jenn was more imagination than memory because I was so far from it, in both time and space.

As I began to resign to a life of understanding simple ideas only after a replay, I pulled away from my family and friends. Only one person believed that my brain symptoms were caused by my heart: my family doctor. Dr. Heart thought it had more to do with Fibro than anything.

So I thought that even if my heart was fixable, I would still be stupid.

I couldn’t write when I couldn’t connect one simple idea to another. The skill I had was gone; and my dream was out of reach. I was heartbroken.

At a certain point, after being lost in a story for a long time and finding no way to get my thoughts across, I realised that it was out of my control. I couldn’t write well enough to fake it with good editing. My brain just didn’t work the way it had before I was sick.

Unintentional-existential-crisis-mode kicked in. Who is a writer who can’t write? Useless.

Okay, if a wordless writer is useless, I reasoned, then I have to become someone else. My parents always told me that I could be whatever I want to be. Who did I want to be?

I didn’t want to be sick, but my world was defined by cardiomyopathy and Fibro. They were part of the new Jenn. I wasn’t sure if I could be more. And as I was trying to figure out my new life and my new mind, I couldn’t connect with the world.

Never mind the fact that I felt like I was living under water while my friends and family were living on land; change is hard for relationships. Ambiguity is worse. When there is nothing to confide in people, it’s hard to connect.

Phoebe: Want to go to a rock concert tonight?

Jenn: I don’t know.

Phoebe: Are you interested in rock climbing?

Jenn: I don’t know.

I was so focused on making a new life for myself, I never imagined that I would wake up in the hospital one day pretty much back to normal. My mind couldn’t dream up a story with an ending like that.

You Must Have Been High

The first person outside my family to call me a hippie was my high school History teacher. He was referring to my spirit.

Some hear hippie and think pothead. Co-workers who didn’t know me well may have gotten that impression, though they never said it to my face. I was a laid-back, peace-loving girl. All that was missing was a perma-smile. They decorated my pigeonhole when I started wearing sunglasses to work and forgetting my words.

Little did they know, the sunglasses were shielding my eyes from the burning white computer screen that I stared at for eight hours a day, five days a week. My eyes were super-sensitive to the light.

I’ve always been peace-loving, but the laid-back Jenn was born from necessity. It was a combination of drugs and systematic shut down. My body couldn’t handle too much stress, so I started ignoring it. Yup, just like that. With the help of my dad and my husband.

My dad told me to asses a situation by asking if it was going to matter in five years. Wow. That helped me big time.

My husband has always been an easy-going guy. Some days it takes mountains to move him. A bit of his mindset has rubbed off. He’s also the funniest guy I know, and laughing until pee almost comes out is a great way to forget stress.

The off-label pain meds messed with my chemistry just enough to keep me on an even keel until I was diagnosed by Dr. Heart. Unfortunately, I had to switch it up a bit at that point, and I got stuck taking another, not-so-good off-label pill that altered my brain function a little too much for my liking.

When I started taking beta-blockers to fix my heart, I would have stayed calm if a rhino charged me. Oddly enough to those who don’t believe cardiomyopathy causes shoulder pain, my muscles have never been more relaxed than when I was on those meds.

I was a hippie-at-heart even as my heart was only flesh and blood, pumping with the tenacity required to keep me alive; because my brain was lead by my heart into a calm existence.

Because my cardiomyopathy diagnosis didn’t automatically rule out Fibromyalgia, I was on pain meds and heart meds at the same time. And being over-medicated didn’t help me find my words.

Sometimes in the vein of doing no harm, harm is prolonged.

Karma Crusader

After talking with friends and thinking seriously about my anger, I think I know why I haven’t fully let it go.

True, it doesn’t affect me like it used to, meaning I don’t physically feel the anger even when I spend so much time reliving the memories that I can taste the blood in my mouth as though I was biting my cheek hard enough to stifle an urge to lash out.

But as Helen pointed out, the lack of a physiological reaction to the anger doesn’t mean I’ve let it go. Somewhere in my cells, I'm housing anger toward Dr. HC and Dr. Second Opinion because , at the very least, their negligible diagnosis made it incredibly difficult for me to get the proper diagnosis, which put my life at risk.

This week, I was listening to a radio interview with Dan Ariely, the author of Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions. Ariely talked about an experiment in which one guy overpaid for an item with two different groups of people: one control group, and one group of people that were purposely annoyed by the guy right before he overpaid. (The guy took a call in the middle of the interaction and rudely made the people wait without acknowledging it). The first group gave him back the extra money most of the time; the second group kept the money most of the time.

Ariely said that people didn’t keep the money because they were dishonest, but because they were trying to restore some kind of karma. In other words, the guy who treated them badly didn’t deserve the break they would have given him by fixing his mistake (paying too much).

What he said resonated with me. Big time.

I’ll admit it here and now: I am a karma crusader. If I see a wrong, I think it’s my job to right it – especially if I feel someone is being treated unfairly. My style is a bit different than that of the people in the experiment. I wouldn’t have kept his money, because I don’t think that’s right and I consciously make decisions on an hourly basis to stay in line with my morals; but after he hung up the phone I would have made him wait a bit longer than he made me wait.

So yes, I spend too much time trying to restore balance and justice into the most insignificant events. Why? If I don’t, I hold on to the anger of being unfairly treated.

Before I heard this interview, I had just realised that I’m worried letting go of my anger will give the two specialists who messed up a free pass, and they will never have to answer for their actions. My first thought to resolve it, then, was to find a way to file a formal complaint against them. Maybe it would stop it from happening to others.

Thanks to Ariely, I think there is another solution. In most cases, I will fold up my cape and let karma figure things out without my help.

(Because Dr. HC may misdiagnose more people, I think I have to do more, but Dr. Second Opinion was just a jerk, as far as I'm concerned, so he will fall into the 'most cases' category)

Folding the cape means giving people a break for no reason at all, and especially when they don’t seem to deserve it. If I can dole out at least one break a day, I think I can change my life. And if you do it with me, we might be able to change the world.