Broken

I’ve just gotten off the phone with the Member Appeals department at Kaiser. The very nice woman on the other end of the line told me my appeal to get my MRI has been denied; even though I meet all the criteria on the list except one. Even though she tells me it is the best appeal letter she’s ever read.

Denied.
This is after my orthopedist put in the first request for the MRI.

That was denied.
Now my appeal has been denied.
My blood is boiling. I feel rage and desperation welling in me.

The thing is, the sharp shooting pain through my left groin that radiates down my leg is so intense it makes it hard to focus, to get anything done. It has its way with me on a daily basis and has me hobbling around holding on to walls and railings, counter tops, and door handles.

I can barely lift my breastbone to stand up straight in the morning because each time I do searing pain invades my body like a bayonet. For the first hour of the day, I stoop like a 90-year-old and hope that slowly the sensations will subside so I can stand up straight.

I ask her, “well, what can we do now? I am in so much pain and because I don’t check the box of having had physical therapy in the last three months, my appeal has been denied. I understand that Kaiser needs to have policies and rules, but there is an exception to every rule, and I am that exception. Let me tell you why.”

She tells me she can write a second appeal to an outside source that will review my situation and perhaps overturn the appeal.

“Ok,” I say. “Well, I’d like to tell you why I am the exception and why I should get this MRI approved.”

She listens.

I launch into my 24-year journey of healing after the car accident. Hit by a car as a pedestrian. I won’t bore you with all the details, but let me just say, I flush out the big picture and urge her to weave into her report that I think it is inhumane to deny people who are in so much pain access to an MRI because they don’t check one box, but they check all the others.

She’s compassionate. She’s listening. I feel it.

When I get off the phone, I feel confident that the second appeal will overturn the first. If not, I will do a sit in in my doctor’s office until I get that MRI. I am determined. I have no choice but to make this happen.

All week I’ve been fantasizing about having a cane to lean on and I have one. It’s at my mother’s in Oakland. It’s an African cane with a beautifully carved handle. I used it as I healed after my accident in my 30s. Now, I want the cane. I need the support. It will be a relief to lean on it.

A friend of mine does me the favor and packs it up and sends it to me. She sends it UPS and it arrives just after I get off the phone with the Member Appeals lady.

I’m so excited to get it. I open the package and pull it out, and the handle is broken into 5 pieces. I look at it and a tidal wave of grief hits me like a tsunami and the dam bursts, and I am wailing like my mother died. This broken cane tips me over the edge.

“Noooooooooooooooo,” I wail. I sob and heave, wander from room to room. “Noooooooooooo” The sobbing lets the grief go. It floods my body and rushes through like a raging river.

I hobble from room to room crying.
I feel broken.
I feel the loss of not being an able body.
I feel the brokenness of the system, the injustice, the lack of care.

I feel for the people who aren’t good advocates for themselves because they’re in too much pain, too sick, or can’t speak up for themselves.

I feel for the overworked doctors who have no time to advocate for their patients.
I feel for the world, the senseless killing.
I feel for the brokenness of humanity.

I wail for the world. I wail for myself. I wail and let it all run through me like a river of grief.

Once the storm passes, I look at the cane and imagine putting it back together. Healing it. Fixing it. I imagine my own body healed, stitched back together in whatever ways possible so I can live pain free.

I imagine peace in myself and in the world.
May it be so.

Those Little White Pills

When I pull out the small white bottle from the kitchen cupboard that I’m cleaning out, I wonder how old they are and why I have them. My mind flickers back to the mouth surgery I had last year. Oh, yes, I took a few then.

Hmmm, I wonder. Why did I keep these I ponder. Aren’t these the kind of drugs people sell on the street; I mutter to myself.

Yup.
Hydrocodone.
Five-to-twenty-five-dollars street value for one pill.

My counters are filled with things from the cupboard – health supplements ranging from vitamin D to desiccated beef liver, alongside fish oil, reishi mushroom powder, nasya oil and other Ayurvedic remedies.

The opioids seem out of place. But as I go to throw them away, instead, for some reason, I place them back up on the highest shelf in the cupboard.

Now, something you must know about me for this story to make sense is that I hate taking pain meds. After my accident and subsequent surgery 24 years ago, I raced to get off the Vicodin as fast as possible.

I don’t like polluting my body with synthetic chemicals, much less anything that might be addictive. And I abhor the headaches and grogginess of the side effects. So, even to me, it seemed strange to choose to keep this little bottle of white pills.

But, as they say, no one ever knows what lies ahead.

Again, I want to give you a little context before I dive into the rest of this story. Twenty-four years ago, I was hit by a car as a pedestrian, broke my tib and fib, and have a titanium rod in the middle of the fibula from the surgery. I’ve spent the last two and a half decades healing myself through a plethora of modalities including osteopathic treatments, chiropractic, physical therapy, acupuncture, mainstream medicine, energy healing, journaling, meditation, yoga and ayurveda, exercise and diet.

Let’s just say, I have left no rock unturned, or so it seems. In fact, I spent all of 2022 returning to physical therapy to help heal the radiating pain swooshing down my left leg again. I sought out PT because I noticed I could no longer schedule walking dates with girlfriends. You know, the middle-aged ladies’ walking dates? Yeah, even that was too much. I never knew when the searing nerve pain would raise its ugly head and say, “Yeah, no way girlfriend. You’re not going for that walk.”

So, I adapted and began having tea with girlfriends. I did more gentle yoga. I began swimming. But let’s just say, if I were a dog, I’d be a border collie who wants to run and move, so these downgrades of activity level were seriously cramping my fun.

Fast forward to a month ago, early October 2023. I am back to battling intense pain in my body, unable to walk my 14-year-old dog without limping, unable to stand easily on my left leg without pain shooting down the leg. I am at once frustrated, sad, in pain and slightly demoralized by this 24-year journey.

One night, after standing and teaching my ESL class at the community college in town, I come home, and my left hip is on fire. That is when I reach for the small bottle of white pills on the highest shelf in my kitchen cabinet. I don’t care, I want the pain to go away. I want the drugs.

And it works. Within an hour, I feel better. I’m slightly floating in a different realm, relieved of raw nerves on fire in my hip. I sit in front of my TV and watch my nightly Netflix show and enjoy the relief.

For a while.

Suddenly I understand how you can get addicted to opioids. How a simple desire to be pain free can begin the downward spiral and addictive journey.

When I wake in the morning, my head pounds, my mouth is dry, and I realize why I don’t want to take those pills. All of which launches me on another journey to figure out what is going on.

Again.
But that’s the next story.

I surrender!

 I’m a type-A yoga teacher.
I’ve powered through many things over the years and still taught. 

But this time, despite my constant message to my students of “do no harm,” I see how I’m not walking the talk for myself and I have no choice but to capitulate!

You see, CoVID has kicked my ass! A month ago I was diagnosed with the virus. It flattened me for a good 10 days, I lost my smell and taste and all of my energy.

I slammed vitamin C, D, took echinacea, elderberry syrup, hot ginger tea. I ate oranges and lemon honey tea. I did everything I could to get better. 

And I did. 
Get better.

Then I made the fatal mistake after about two and a half weeks and re-entered life full throttle. I got back to teaching, made calls, went for some walks and talks. Oh, and I started a dance/movement practice in the mornings! (go figure!) By the end of the week, my energy had waned, my lungs were irritated, and I could feel the downward spiral coming.

“Ok, ok, I’ll rest this weekend,” I compromised with the virus. I’d already been suffering from FOMO (fear of missing out) by not being able to get together with the few friends I see for walks. My inner child did not want to be stuck at home as the world opened up and we could DO things – together!

I WANTED to be better. 
I wanted to be healed.
I wanted to feel good.

Well, that’s nice. “But you’re not better,” my inner voice reminded me. 
“You NEED to rest. 
CoVID is kicking your ass and it’s time to sit on the sidelines.”

After a tiny rest stint, I pushed through to teach and immediately felt the repercussions. Achy lungs, and even more tired. 

I could see the future. I’d have to cancel more classes. 
I immediately began negotiating with myself.

“Ok, ok, how about you just teach classes and cancel ALL social contact, phone calls, walks. Keep your energy to teach? How about that?”

I tried it for two days.
Bam. 
Slammed. 
Hit my wall.
Lungs began screaming.
I called the doctor to make an appointment.

And then I realized I was losing the battle. No lungs meant no energy. No energy meant no teaching. Much less tending to the tasks of daily life like making breakfast, feeding my dogs, cleaning my house – which at this point is sub-par in cleanliness.

If I flip the perspective, CoVID is giving me time.

To rest. 
Something I never do.
It’s giving me time to ponder, to read, to watch TV and movies.
To take slow walks.
To contemplate my next version of life.

I have no choice. 
I have to surrender.
Let go.

I can see, I am not in charge!

(the image is from my journal and it’s how my lungs feel)

Bam! Life will Never be the Same!

Twenty-two years ago today, I was hit by a car as a pedestrian. My boyfriend and I were in a crosswalk in Oakland, talking about breaking up and then bam!

I’d just returned from India 3 days prior and it happened to be Ash Wednesday.

I would never be the same. As I lay on the ground, thinking I was paralyzed I heard sirens in the distance and the voice in my head said, “Those are for you.” They’re always for someone else when we hear them. Not this time.

As I lay looking up at the cerulean blue sky unable to move, it felt like a blow torch was burning through my left calf. So, when the paramedics arrived and told me what they were going to do might “hurt” all I could do was roll my eyes.

As they loaded me into the ambulance, I immediately began to give instructions, “I have Kaiser insurance. Take me to Kaiser.” 

“Mam, we’re taking you to Highland Hospital. Kaiser has no emergency intake,” the woman informed me in a calm steady voice.

“But, but….” I protested as she put an iv drip in my arm.

When she pulled out the scissors to cut off the favorite brown velvet dress I was wearing I protested, “No, no, this is my favorite dress. Can’t you just take it off over my head?”

“We don’t know what other injuries you’ve sustained, so we have to cut the dress,” she told me.

I began to relax as the pain medication reached my bloodstream and I felt myself letting go. And so it went. My tight control on life immediately began to slip away. Little did I know how much life would change.

I had no choice but to let go. 
I let go of the relationship I was in.
Let go of dancing, working, being the person who could get shit done.
I let go of my identity as an independent person who was capable and vivacious.
I let go of who I thought I was.
I humbly and gratefully moved in with my parents. Not easy at 36.

I had two tasks: to heal my body and my heart. I turned to yoga as a path to heal my body and to art journaling to heal my heart.

I had to face the plethora of feelings that came running through my life like marathoners. Feelings of anger, rage, envy, fear, sadness. I wrestled with grief and worked through those damn five stages. 

I journaled it all. 

The sadness, the joys, the loneliness, the frustrations. The anger, fear, rage. The prayers, the gratitude, the inspiration, the amazement. All of it came to visit, just like Rumi said, to clear me out for something new. Something unexpected.

I practiced yoga to restore my range of motion in the leg and art journaling to dialogue with my inner self and Spirit.  To this day, I practice both.

As I look back, I was graced with so much along the way.

I became a yoga teacher.
I filled countless art journals.
I met incredible people all along the way.
I healed my body and heart through these practices.
And I still have these practices to support life’s continued twists and turns.

My journals became my life’s documents.
They feel like documents of becoming and blooming.

Each journal part of the tapestry of my life, my state of consciousness in relationship with the world at large. 

I share some journal images with you in remembrance of this day that began my major shift of consciousness.

I invite you to join me to journal your life. Wherever you are, whatever you’re living through. It’s a beautiful, healing, creative self-reflective process.

Check out www.journalingheart.comand www.zentopaper.comfor my two online journaling courses.