June 2014 – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

Road blocks and rerouting.

As much as I love a spontaneous change of plans, a slip in the mud and a bum shoulder to follow felt too much like a road trip getting canceled while literally sitting in your packed car, backed into the driveway, and ready to go. My first thought while trying to maneuver my way out of the mud, and the thought that seemed to predispose all others for the next several days, was what my summer was NOW going to look like now that I had injured myself, an injury that would likely result in handing over some of my independence in the months ahead. THIS was certainly not what I had planned. This was my first summer of owning a mountain place, and I had visions of staying there most of the summer, with a few trips back to Kansas for some scheduled commitments and a lot of garden watering. What I didn’t count on was a few helpless weeks of mainlining “Breaking Bad,” (which, by the way, I finished and am still having dreams about drug lords and blue ice…), wearing the same shirt day after day after day, and asking anyone close by to please put my hair up in a ponytail. Life happens, and plans change, and it’s not all bad. It can even be a good thing.

One of my friends and blog follower, LaMont Eanes, commented on one of my original “Oh poor me, I fell in the mud and broke my shoulder” posts and said,
“All experiences are good, although they may not feel like it at the time.”
Thank you for that, LaMont. With those words in mind, I suppose you could say I’ve been searching high and low for the silver lining that I was just sure was hiding somewhere under my now fading bruises. I’ve discovered, yet again, if you just let go, of both the search and the expectation, that the little gem of a silver lining will somehow find you but it helps if you’re keeping an eye out for it. Watchful eye or not, I’m not a very patient patient.
Yesterday, while on an urban walk with Thomas and Brooke, that silver lining was so big that I had to exercise caution not to trip over it (I’m much more thoughtful with my gait these days…). I was spending the day with Thomas and Brooke, which was a gift in itself and something I’ve only enjoyed on my visits to Portland the past three years or for the brief and scheduled moments over Christmas. A few months ago, they decided to move back to Kansas after Thomas graduated from law school in Portland. A little over a week ago, the two weary travelers and their travel-tired kitties landed on my doorstep in the middle of the night after 37 hours of traveling. They are staying with me until they find their own space in the city, which, sadly and selfishly for me, has already happened, and moving day is right around the corner. Emery and Miles had made their move out of Kansas a short two weeks ago, and still feeling their absence, I was thrilled with the idea of refilling my now conspicuously large nest.

I knew of these relocation plans before I took my shoulder dip into the mud and had made my own plans around them. I’d return from Colorado after getting Emery and Miles settled in, get Thomas and Brooke settled into my house, and would high-tail it back to Colorado as soon as it felt right, where I’d await their visit to see me in the mountains. That was the plan, and from where I was sitting at the time, it sounded pretty good. But life happens, and plans change, and I’m learning, albeit slowly, that it’s a whole lot easier to roll with it and see what it has to offer rather than wasting time bemoaning the fact that the plans got changed in the first place. One would think I would have mastered this lesson by now, given my many aborted plans that have magically given way to decisions that have given me some of my greatest joys in life . Case in point, my purchasing a mountain home when last summer’s mountain plans fell apart.
For the past week or so, I’ve had the opportunity to spend time with my son and his wife, without the rush that holiday visits always bring. I’ve been able to sit on my porch every morning in my jammies and drink coffee with Brooke, talking or not talking, but I’m always appreciative of the company. I’m blessed. I’ve also been able to, by necessity, let Brooke cook for me, clean for me, and remind me to take it easy, lie down, and can I get you anything? If that isn’t a little piece of heaven, I’m not sure what is. Again, I’m blessed beyond words at the nurturing she’s given me… an ongoing hug with a spoonful of love. What an unplanned joy it has been having them both in my house, and with a duration that’s long enough for us to do all sorts of things or do nothing at all… both good choices.

My broken shoulder has kept me in Kansas as I’m not able to grip a steering wheel with two hands yet, and those I-70 winds around Russell, Kansas, are near impossible to maneuver one-handed. I’m beginning to see the terrible timing of all this as the universe’s impeccable and perfect timing, a gift to me that presented itself in the nontraditional wrappings of a navy blue cloth sling, which currently supports my arm. You are so right, Lamont; it is all good, although it didn’t necessarily feel like it at the time. I’m also convinced that good cooking, a lot of nurturing, and a very full heart are integral to the healing of a broken shoulder, or any other broken thing, for that matter.

Screened in porch time…

Kansas City urban walk about with these two…

These two in my kitchen… it just feels right.

Homemade tortilla soup… good for the soul… and the shoulder…

Wallowing in the mud and complaints.

I fell in the mud two weeks ago and have been wallowing in it ever since. Sometimes you have to step back a few feet to gain perspective, and then again, sometimes it’s simply best not to look. This would be one of those times. I got a glance, and it wasn’t pretty.

When your day starts with two hours of binging on Breaking Bad before the coffee pot’s even emptied, it’s a good indicator of the direction the rest of the day is going to go. I need about four hours of a PBS or maybe a Brady Bunch cleanse to counteract the effects of Breaking Bad. The show truly makes me feel like I need sunshine, some fresh fruit, and perhaps a long bath.
Then there’s the whole shirt thing. Today is day, I’m not sure what, wearing the same shirt that I was wearing when I went shoulder-first into the mud. I’m teetering between being totally disgusted with the rate at which my personal standards have gone south and how easily I’ve adapted to the whole decline. Something about it makes me sad… or is it proud? I may not be physically up to the challenge of a multi-day backpacking trip… yet…but I’ve made a lot of headway in other areas that will come in handy on multiple days on the trail. I’m over the hygiene hump. I crested it about last Friday.

That was my morning, but it got better, even with my wallowing in the mud in an overly worn shirt and with too much Breaking Bad in my system for that early in the day… but I digress…
I spent a big chunk of my day in the KU orthopedic lobby (thanks, Robin) waiting to hear if all of the not moving my shoulder by leaving both my shoulder AND my shirt in tact, fearing still, that one false move and I’m back to square one, has been a fruitful commitment. I’m very happy to say that the doctor told me that things looked very good, no surgery necessary, and I could downgrade to a simple sling and,
“You can change your shirt…”
(That came up in the conversation that the shirt had been worn for a “few” days, or more accurately, longer than the length of most yoghurts’ sell-by dates.)

He (he being the Dr.) asked me quickly, in between his transcribing, two nurses who stood behind rolling computers, how I had broken my shoulder. I was glad to tell him something thatis legitimate.

I fell in the mud while hiking.
Where?
Colorado…Frisco, to be exact.
Oh, nice. At least you had a good view.

I’m so glad I didn’t have to tell him I fell off a small ladder perched on top of a leather ottoman, which gave me the height I needed to hang some artwork. Sadly, I know this from experience, but it was in Frisco, so I did have a nice view out the window. I swear by a smelly black shirt that’s heaped in the corner of my closet, that those days are over. Really.
So, my wallowing in the mud time is over, and I’ve climbed out of my hole, put on a clean shirt, and am on my way to happier days. I’m not quite ready to find gratitude or the silver lining in all of this, as my shoulder still hurts too much to see my resolve there, but I will soon. In the meantime, I have found a new appreciation for shoulders that work in full range and are far more awed by seeing a shoulder in motion these days than I am by lean runner legs, chiseled abs, or cut arms, as a working shoulder is a far more useful goal for me right now. Oh, to do a down dog again….

But for now, just one more Breaking Bad…it’s an open bag of chips and I can’t seem to keep my hand out of the bag… then I’ll do some PBS or Brady Bunch counteracting.
The truth on where I ended up on the black shirt lies somewhere between Emery’s worries of our separation anxiety and Robin thinking I should burn it. It will be washed twice, then hung in the back of my closet for posterity, or something like that.


New shirt, new sling, new attitude… the hair still needs some work though…

Emery doesn’t live here anymore…

The one thing I haven’t done since returning to Kansas a week ago is to see my daughter, Emery, and hang out with her, catching up face-to-face. She doesn’t live here anymore. I should know that. I helped box up belongings and distributed them to Goodwill, my basement, and a moving truck parked in their driveway on what I swear was the hottest, most humid day that Kansas has ever seen in May. The remaining items were then stuffed into my car and driven to Ft Collins, Colorado, where I then helped unload, unpack, and empty the contents into cupboards, shelves, and closets. I know which drawer her orange-handled carrot peeler is in, but I keep forgetting that she and her husband, Miles, have moved.

On the Colorado side of the 657 mile journey…

To understand where I am now, I have to go back several years to when I was first divorced. My son, Grant, was a senior in high school, and my daughter, Emery, was a freshman. My oldest son, Thomas, was already in college. Although Grant was a part of my transition, it was after that first year when I was no longer coasting on the effects of adrenaline and making up my life a day at a time, when the real work began. It was with Emery that I truly cut my teeth with independence and started to figure out exactly who I was and what I was supposed to be doing.

I had already done what I thought was the hard part, but would later learn that it wasn’t the jumping off the proverbial cliff that was the most challenging, but rather, my anticipation of growing the wings I would need for a safe landing. That’s what kept me up at night. Selfishly, I was grateful not to have to be alone when I had to go through the crises that seemed to come with regularity, including an exploding water pump in the basement and the bird’s nest in the porch light that caught fire, ending in a 911 call. Although we were both treading in new waters and had no idea what we were doing, we had each other, and not knowing feels a whole lot better when you have someone sitting next to you. Emery showed me what grace under fire looked like and, unbeknownst to her, I’m sure, became my teacher. She was in good company with Lorelei Gilmore, from The Gilmore Girls.

Emery and I loved The Gilmore Girls and would tune in whenever it was on. It was entertainment for Emery, but far more for me. I watched the show while learning to be a divorced Mom to a teenage girl. Lorelei Gilmore helped me find the confidence I needed to navigate my way in this new role, and she made me feel less alone in the journey.

We (my television mom friend, Lorelei, and I) were on the same schedule, with daughters who would be flying the nest at the same time. I watched with anticipation, excitement, and a deep-seated sadness as we both seemed to be marking days at the same time and with the same speed. I have to think that Emery knew this, as we sat next to each other on the couch every Sunday night with plates of roasted Brussels sprouts in our laps. I am still brought to tears when I hear Carol King’s song, “Where You Lead” (the show’s lead-in song), because of the many memories it conjures up. I knew what was going to happen in the show because it was inevitable, and the same would happen in my life. The daughter goes to college. She leaves the nest.

In the spring of Emery’s junior year, we got to enjoy several weeks of watching the process of “leaving the nest,” when a pair of cardinals nested in a tree outside our kitchen window. Not even the Gilmore girls witnessed the incredible course of events that unfolded in the weeks to come (that we knew of…), although we both agreed it would have been a great storyline for the show. We went from watching mom sitting on the eggs, to seeing the babies peck their way out of the tiny shells, then watched as dad would forage for food and bring it back to the mom, who would then feed her babies. We were awed by the beauty of watching the two birds turn into a family with roles that seemed all too familiar to us. We watched from our own perch on the kitchen floor, hunched down below the windowsill, barely breathing, so as not to frighten them. It became our TV, and for me, another role model to learn from.

We followed them, felt connected to them, and I learned while I watched. It wasn’t long before we watched the papa bird begin to teach the babies how to fly by flying to a nearby branch, then looking back at the nest of baby birds and whistling. We translated the whistle to, “Watch me and then do what I do.” And eventually, they did. Emery and I beamed with maternal joy as we watched what were eggs in a nest a few weeks ago become baby birds who were finding their independence while making their maiden flight to a nearby branch. We witnessed as they practiced the short flight over and over again, always with a safe return to the comforts of the nest and mom.

A few days later, the babies had all flown the nest. We assumed they were filled with the excitement of feeling their independence (our conclusions as two people who do not claim roles as ornithologists). Emery and I had a high school graduation to attend, so we made one last look at the nest before leaving the house. It was empty of its babies. The sequence of events felt particularly poignant given the timing of our departure for high school graduation. I had been witnessing my own reality of a soon-to-be-empty nest in the truest sense of the word. A metaphor had become our real-life reality.

When we got home a few hours later, we were surprised by our discovery. Lo and behold, all the babies had returned home from their various homes on branches in nearby trees. I couldn’t help but smile and felt a massive sense of relief for the mama.I thought about the series of events with the family of cardinals while on the road to Ft. Collins, Colorado, from Leawood, Kansas, in my overly loaded car. Whether it was 657 miles west on I-70 or from one tree to the next in my back yard, it was all the same thing from the viewpoint of a mom….leaving the nest, the town, the state. While I followed Emery’s car for every one of those 657 miles, I thought about the last time I had followed her on the highway, both of us with overloaded cars, when I moved her into her dorm at the University of Kansas. I worried about her and how she’d do with this next big transition. Or so I told myself. I was really worried about myself and how I would handle this next big transition. There was comfort, both times, in being able to take refuge in the comfort of being alone in my car. I could cry.

Again, I followed my daughter down the highway as she tested her wings – this time with Miles

I’m not expecting Emery to return to my nest, but I know I’ve given her an internal compass that will always point her home. I also gave her an actual compass, along with a few other metaphorical gifts for her high school graduation. When I was typing the letter that went into the box, I envisioned her home as always being where I was and where she had come from, because that was the only reference I knew at the time. But in my car, driving west to Colorado, I knew that the compass, although oriented to “home,” was now pointing her to the mountains of Colorado, where she has found her next home with her husband, Miles. Still, she will always carry with her the internal compass that will always point her home, whether to an actual physical location or to a feeling she holds in her heart.

My heart has stretched across the 657-mile stretch of I-70 from Leawood, Kansas, to Ft Collins, Colorado. I feel sad, and sometimes that sadness comes with tears, but I’m with a very full heart that knows that, although as parents we strive to give our children both wings and roots, it is in their flying that they will truly learn about life. As you fly, Emery, I learn from you, and in the process, we both grow.

And to you, Emery, you will not have an easier houseguest. I know where everything in your kitchen is, as I put it there—second drawer to the right of the stove for the orange-handled carrot peeler.

Holding onto my shirt and letting go of my ego.

Today is day seven of my broken shoulder, which, without doing any math, adds up to seven days of wearing the black tee shirt. My daughter, Emery, is worried about separation anxiety when the two of us eventually go our separate ways, and my sister, Robin, insists that I will never want to see, let alone wear, the shirt again and will likely lay it to rest in the garbage can. The truth, I’m guessing, lies somewhere in between. Out of pure exasperation, on day four, I took scissors to my sports bra, which had been along for the ride since day one, and was able to make enough one-handed cuts to pull it out of my right sleeve. If this is too much information, I’m sorry. My life feels like a too much information situation these days. I need to vent.

Before any judgements are made, and I would hardly blame you, I have been washing my shirt right alongside all my other parts, as I’m still wearing it as much as I’m wearing my left arm, which I now wish I could have dropped off at the emergency room and picked up when it was healed. I guess you could say my shirt has become a part of me. Thankfully, it is a quick-dry shirt, and people who backpack, such as those on the Colorado Trail, would wear the same shirt for a whole lot longer. Isn’t that right, Lexi? In truth, my justifications here are much more directed to myself than they are to my audience. I came to that realization while sitting in a bank lobby yesterday morning. It was there, while seated on the other side of a highly polished mahogany desk, that I realized I had mustard on my five-times-bathed shirt, and it’s possible that I did not smell petal fresh. OK, it’s more than likely. An odor that might be similar to day four or five on the trail comes to mind, but I haven’t received confirmation on that. My sister, Robin, leaned in pretty closely, though, and assured me that I didn’t stink, but that was three days ago. She did, however, tell me that the fingernails on my left hand still looked muddy, which sadly is true. Thank goodness for sisters, who will tell you what you need to hear and will wipe your tears afterwards. She must not have noticed the mustard.

How is it that the mustard stain didn’t show up in the mountains of Colorado, which is where the consumption took place, but did show up in the lobby of Commerce Bank two days post consumption? Did the two-storied windows, high ceilings, large commercial art installations, and hushed tones bring an awareness that went unnoticed while in the more rugged, rough, and tumble mountain environment? Of course, once you notice something, then try to ignore it, not look at it, pretend it’s not there, it seems to explode, right before your very eyes. I wanted the neatly, unstained banker to ask about my injury, so I could give some credibility to the contraption that seemed to be wearing me, but he didn’t, and I didn’t want to be that girl who couldn’t wait to share my tale of woe. I was asked by everyone I passed in Colorado, or so it seemed, what had happened to my arm, or more specifically, which sport played a role in the injury? A slinged arm, a braced knee, or a supportive crutch are familiar sights in my neck of the mountains, and the curious asking is as much about gleaning information on trail conditions as it is to offer empathy. Given the bruised visual aide, perhaps the banker was simply being professional and even thoughtful to avoid the subject, which could have just as easily been the result of an angry boyfriend, drunk brother-in-law or any anger-fueled ruckus as far as he was concerned.

I’m feeling vulnerable. I can’t tie my shoes, button or zip my jeans (at least donning yoga pants makes me feel a little post-workout”ish”), and I can’t pull my hair back into a ponytail by myself. My long, curly hair in this current KS post rain humidity is …well, it’s not pretty, or small, and although asking for help is not an easy task for me, it is a necessity now. It’s been a day-at-a-time situation that I’ve lucked out on so far with friends or family who have dropped by (thank you, Rhonda…). But if/when luck doesn’t show up, I’m all in for waiting for my mailman (who is a woman) and will ask her. My pride is waning. So is my ego.


Still…

As for the black T-shirt, frankly, I’m afraid to take it off. My physical therapist friends have given me the instructions on removal, which is bad arm through the sleeve first…or was it good arm first? Whichever way, I’m obviously not ready for the task. Besides, the immobilizing sling would have to come off first, which scares me even more. I’m a good patient to the point of flirting with being a bit neurotic, and if the ER doc told me to keep it immobilized, well then that’s precisely what I’m going to do. He didn’t tell me to shower daily, change out of that black tee, and quit eating stuff with mustard on it, or that’s exactly what I would be doing.

This could have been a lot worse, and I did declare on my last post that I only needed another 24 hours or so of complaining, which was at least four days ago. I think compromised hygiene in the burbs isn’t as acceptable as it is in the mountains, when assumptions of “just off the trail” could be made, and I will therefore blame my current rants on hygiene issues, or lack thereof. A little shirt scrubbing in the shower and a tie back on this unruly hair, and I’ll be as good as new. Well… kind of.

This is probably a creepy addition to my post, but my friend, Rhonda thought the colors were beautiful and snapped this photo. Sadly, the lighting hardly does it justice, An unexpected silver, I mean purplish black, lining.

Resiliency, patience and a broken wing…

I bought a necklace a few summers ago while visiting in Frisco, Colorado. It’s a small silver disc with three tree branches on it. I was drawn to its simplicity. The paperwork inside the box said the charm represented resiliency. It could have stood for a whole lot of other things—love, courage, or hope —but I was glad it was resiliency, as that seemed to resonate with me. It reminded me of the swaying tree branches in the strong Kansas winds and how it’s the winds that develop the tree’s strong lateral root system. The following summer, I found a charm of similar size with a small piece of turquoise in the center, and the words “Protect this Woman” encircling it. I figured, given the amount of time I was spending alone on the trails, the silver talisman couldn’t hurt. For the last year, these two charms have dangled around my neck, offering me both protection and resilience, or so I liked to think.

My resiliency has been challenged after a fall I took while hiking a few days ago. I fell in the mud. Just typing that makes me want to laugh for some reason. I mean, really… I fell in the mud? I broke the fall with my shoulder and am now wishing my wrist had done the breaking, as I’d be in less pain, but I had little say in the matter. A week earlier, a friend had told me that being able to get up without using your arms was a good indicator of overall strength and progression of aging. I thought about that while lying in the mud and contemplating my transition to vertical. Either my core strength, with the possible help of one arm, was going to get the job done, or I was going to be the woman “who had fallen and couldn’t get up.” I didn’t linger long on that decision and dragged myself out of the mud and onto my feet upright via my core, a small, desperately needed, victory.

I also pulled my phone and sunglasses out of the mud and cleaned them off as best as I could with my hands, as my clothes were covered in mud. To my children who make fun of my phone because it has not one but TWO protective coverings on it, this is why. I made myself sit down on a nearby log to collect my wits, survey the damage, and take a few minutes to put my head in my muddy lap and cry before making the two-mile journey home. I’m not sure what concerned me more….What did I do to my shoulder? Or …How quickly my plans for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, and possibly the rest of the summer had changed in one quick slip of the foot. I was a walking mud mess that couldn’t make eye contact out of my mud-smeared sunglasses with the two people who passed me on bikes. Maybe they thought I had just participated in a Tough Mudder Run. Probably not, but it made me feel better.

By the time I got home, I was in a lot of pain, and the only way I could hold my arm was across my chest, with my hand on my heart, as if I was pledging allegiance. And I did. To never hike in mud again.

My fear was as great as my pain…what had I done to my shoulder? Was my summer ruined? How was I going to manage? I thought about a woman whom I was standing behind in line at the Gap a few weeks earlier, who was wearing a heavy-duty sling on her arm and was sharing her horror stories of pain with the man who was ringing her up, who had experienced the same injury and had worn the same sling. I remember more of their shared words of pain than what I purchased that day. Certainly, ice and a couple of Tylenol would put me back together again, wouldn’t it?

Webster’s online dictionary defines resilient as:
“Being able to become strong, healthy, or successful again after something bad happens; being able to return to original form after being pulled, stretched, or compressed.”

I know this because looking up that definition was the second thing I did when I got home. The first thing I did was take a bath, leaving my shirt on, as I had no idea how it was going to come off without scissors, which I was not going to attempt one-handed. Just thinking about maneuvering my arm out of the sleeve was painful. I put soap directly on my shirt and washed it along with my muddy legs and arms, as if it were a part of me. I was thankful for the quick-dry material that was being tested in real time. The sports bra, I figured, I’d wear for the rest of my life or until this, whatever this was, was healed.

To Webster’s definition of pulled, stretched, or compressed, I’m going to take liberties and add “broken,” because that’s what the doctor in the ER later told me. I fell in the mud and broke my humerus, or my funny bone. As soon as this stops hurting, I’m really going to laugh about that. He also told me I might want to change my shirt (that I had been wearing and washing in the shower, for over a week, and gave me tips on how to maneuver my arm out of the shirt with as little pain to the shoulder as possible. The sports bra, by the way, was removed on day four, sacrificed with scissors, in a one handed feat that took the better part of the morning.

This experience has tested my patience, exposed my vulnerability, and pushed me to do things that I’m very uncomfortable with, mainly asking for help. Having only lived part-time in Frisco for a few months, I didn’t have an extensive network of friends, but the two I had came to my aid before I had to ask, and for that, I was extremely grateful.

I’ve also developed an appreciation for the very simplest of tasks that I previously took for granted, such as applying deodorant to both arms, pulling shirts over my head, or being able to slice a watermelon, because if it’s whole, it isn’t going home with me. My hygiene is waning to almost absent, but so is my social life, so I’m giving myself a pass. I miss typing with two hands and am finding that this solo-handed hunt-and-peck method feels like a foot on the brakes to my stream of consciousness, not to mention the two-step capitalization process. I miss being able to tie my hair back…a few more days and I’m going to look like the dark-haired version of my daughter, Emery, and her husband, Miles’ dog, Olive, who is about as close to a dog with dreadlocks as I’ve ever seen. I’m tired of wearing yoga pants because I can’t get my jeans on, and if I could, I wouldn’t be able to zip them. Oh yeah, and I miss yoga.

My necklace with the resilient and protection charms is in my purse, where the nurse put it before my x-rays, no doubt with a new tangle or two, which I wouldn’t be able to untangle anyway, and if I could, I wouldn’t be able to fasten the clasp, so in my bag it will stay. One thing that a broken shoulder doesn’t seem to have affected is my ability to whine. Sorry, but I feel like I’ve got at least another 24 hours of stomping my feet and saying,

“Dammit, I want to climb a mountain, zip up jeans, ride my bike, tie my hair back, and carve out a piece of watermelon to eat.”

I cried this morning when I realized that after deciding clean sheets would make me happy, I took them out of the dryer and discovered I couldn’t make a bed one-handed. I slept under a messy pile of clean sheets instead until my sister arrived. Sometimes you’ve gotta cry.

One of my friends compared me to a bird with a broken wing, which is precisely how I feel while perched in my bed with a blue-skyed mountain vista that seems to be beckoning. Now is my “lay me in a shoebox with a Kleenex blanket to heal my broken wing” time.

Resilient? I’m not sure. I think I’ll have to wait and see what my return to original form after being fractured looks like for my answer.