—Selah—

Life After Miracle Surgery

Sequel to Snapshots of a Chronic Illness

I am approaching the one-year anniversary of my life-changing surgery. A surgery that miraculously brought back a body that could not easily stand, sit, move, or sleep. I left the hospital with trek poles in hand, ready to push forward. I was not interested in taking it slow. That had been my life for almost two years. And yet, here I am writing about Selah or holy pause. I’ll explain how I got here.

—I lost my bearings on the other side of a major illness —

In the weeks leading up to surgery, I had appointments with my internal medicine physician, chronic fatigue specialist, infectious disease specialist, neurologist in Raleigh, neurologist in New York, neurosurgeon, and plastic surgeon. After surgery, the hodge-podge medical team of experts and surgeons disassembled and moved on. My name was erased from the white board in my hospital room, and I said goodbye to the nurses and techs who had been such a presence in my life in that critical stage. Perhaps with some medical conditions, there are protocols of care that keep you in the system. Not for me. I had traveled ten hours for a risky, pioneer surgery and discharge meant disappearing other than a fifteen-minute phone call with the neurosurgeon six months later. I was on my own.

I also lost my community of people with shared conditions. With my password, I could enter my online community and, even late at night, browse comments or share empathetic moments with others. I gave comfort and received comfort. Some of them have been a part of the online community for years. Some, decades. I no longer qualify to be a member. I miss them.

While I was happy to be relieved of debilitating conditions, I found I could not simply return to my previous life before disability. When life has substantially veered off course, there is no just getting back onto the merry-go-round. That horse jumped off the ride and galloped off to I don’t know where. Just left me holding the reins. OK — I’ll stop the metaphor — no need to beat . . . Sorry. The point is, it is hard to assertively strive forward when it is not clear where you want to go anymore. I don’t know if I want to do the same kind of work as I did before. I don’t know what other skills I might want to develop. I don’t know if I want to be more intentional with hobbies or travel. I don’t know if I want to rekindle friendships that waned during a pandemic and illness. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m not saying this is a bad thing. I’m just saying it is disorienting.

—I am questioning how I use energy to show up—

Before my illness, I was a steady participant in what Tricia Hersey calls the “grind culture” — systems and expectations that constantly call on us to do more. (To put a finer point on it, Hersey attributes the grind culture to a white supremacist, capitalist culture. I don’t disagree but will leave it at that for now.) My version of grind culture was based on the never-ending demands of running a non-profit and seeking sustainability. June of 2020 was a particularly hard time to be worrying about these things with a raging pandemic removing any predictability in programming or resources. I blew through all the cortisol my system could produce. Then my body slammed on the brakes, and I was thrown to the other extreme where I sometimes lacked the energy to rearrange the blankets to keep me warm.

When the surgery released the compression on my brainstem, I had a surge of energy. I danced in the middle of the night (with earbuds) to the Black Pumas and Florence + Machine; took two long walks a day; and pushed through an hour and a half of physical therapy exercises. I began to imagine that I would be this amazingly active human being. I would get into the best shape of my life! I might even become an athlete at the young age of sixty-one. Then the surge stopped surging. I caught a cold that hung on for weeks. And I found myself gravitating to the same couch where I used to sit for hours watching the birds clustered at our bird feeder. Sitting on the couch, I’d have a conversation with myself:

This doesn’t feel right. Surely, it is one thing to find satisfaction with birdwatching when I didn’t have the energy to move. Post-surgery, I can do anything, can’t I?

Is that four or five hummingbirds? And is that male moving in on the other’s mate?

I’ve spent enough time watching birds. It is time to move on!

Here comes the male Cardinal, landing on the tree branch closest to the bird feeder. Having his fill. Now flying back across to the bank of Pine trees until he becomes a small red dot. He returns. Dot to bird, dot to bird.

I really should get up. Maybe.

When I get off the couch (which I eventually do), I am reassessing how to be more authentic with my energy. As an introvert, it has been reflexive to ramp up my vibration to get closer to extroverts. (See the amazing work by Susan Cain.) When I am giving a presentation, I am used to being “on” in order to coax engagement. Being sick gave me a chance to try a different approach. I was invited to give a three-hour workshop. The organization worked to accommodate me by providing a stool and a mic. We even figured out how I could take a nap while they had lunch. I was still worried about whether I could pull it off since I couldn’t dial up my energy. My therapist asked, “what would happen if you just showed up as yourself?” Hmmm. I tried it and it was fine, other than the tree needles clinging to my backside from napping in the minivan on the blanket used to haul a Christmas tree.

Surgery fixed my energy issue and I have had the opportunity to speak again in front of groups. I have been curious what it would be like if I continued to just show up as me. It was fine. Recently, I attended a conference and watched a panel of presenters who all dialed up their energy — just like I used to. It felt over the top. They were personas instead of persons. Who knew. I certainly didn’t. And I am trying to learn.

—I am taking time to address issues that have percolated to the top—

I can best describe this aspect of my year with an example. I decided in this post-surgery recovery period that I would focus on writing. I chose to follow up on my archival research of Jeanes Teachers and write an article about them. In the process, I found myself writing about my mother. To be clear, there is no obvious connection between the two: Jeanes Teachers were African American educators (primarily women) in the early 1900s in the Jim Crow South. My mother was a white woman who was in her early adult years in the 1950s. And yet, there I was, contriving a braided essay in order to interweave these two themes.

I am fairly certain I am the only person in the world to discuss the connection between Jeanes Teachers and her mother in a therapy session. At one point, my therapist asked me if I were on any particular timeframe for completing the article. I apparently had a lot of issues to work out. And indeed, we made space to explore intergenerational patterns, authenticity, and belonging. I’ve submitted the article for publication. I know that I might be told that I need to unbraid it. And that will be OK. I’m just grateful for the chance to explore. Over the year, I have had many opportunities for percolation like this. I am yeast in warm water — frothy with bubbles.

—I need Selah—A holy pause—

You can google Selah or holy pause for background (originally in music or for its use in Hebrew texts or Christianity). I heard of it on the We Can Do Hard Things Podcast. While I didn’t listen to the podcast until 2023, it was recorded in March of 2022, the same month as my surgery. Glennon Doyle described Selah as originally used between texts of scripture to suggest a time to reflect and pause. She was revamping the term to value transition at her midlife birthday. When I heard that, it sounded perfect. That’s what I needed. A holy pause. Instead of this inner battle between action and rest, all the questions of what is ahead, all the deep diving that this space has invited, I just should pause. And not just pause but have a profound sense of the sacredness of this moment.

And wouldn’t a holy pause be a calm, lovely place? Lotus flowers in the pond. Ancestors and guides ever present. It is in recounting this year that I have had an additional thought. I suspect you’ve heard the story of the person sitting on the roof, arguing with God about the raging flood. “Why haven’t you come and saved me?” And God says, “well, didn’t you see the boats go by? The helicopter?” Etc. The point is we can’t always see what is available to us when we are blinded by our expectations. Perhaps Selah doesn’t look like angels sitting by the side of the pond with me. Perhaps with my trek poles in hand, the holy pause is the conflicting tugs that kept me from fully moving forward in one direction. If I can let go of the need to march ahead, perhaps I will settle into a holy pause that seems more peaceful.

In this year, I took a writing workshop. A podcast masterclass. Twenty-one hours of continuing legal education so that I could get my law license reinstated. I thought this would allow me to name myself. I’m a writer. I’m a lawyer. (Podcaster is a stretch since I have only published one so far). It hasn’t worked to describe who I am or what I am doing. I want to embrace Selah as a part of the answer. When I fill out the forms in the doctor’s office and it asks for occupation, I’ll write in Selah. When I go to a conference and fill in requested information for my nametag, I’ll write in my name and Selah. Perhaps some will think it is an organization, others may see it as a title. My brother-in-law Ken (through my husband, Tom) speaks of the Hebrew word, Jubilee, instead of retirement. Same idea. Identify a word that better describes where you are. When people who care ask me what I’m doing, I’ll say I’m in Selah. And I’ll be glad to explain what that means.

Graphic by Turner Cain (biscuitplaster.com). Here’s an explanation from Turner: The lettering was done with an ink brush and some watered down gouache on a thick paper. I like the look of the smooth, slick, heavy strokes to capture the energy.