How I Crawled Out of the Abyss…Again
12 Ways to Help Illuminate Your Path
We all suffer from brokenness in our lives. The ebb and flow of the ups and downs of life — mentally, physically, relationships, job loss, human loss, war, climate change, pandemics. The list seems endless, especially now. Your darkness has a name — it may be loneliness, depression, a disability, or an illness. Perhaps you are suffering the profound loss of a loved one whose absence has you riding waves of grief that seem endless. The undertow can pull you down without warning, and from my experience, riding with it instead of fighting against it helps you surface faster. Whatever your "it" is, I'm calling you from the other side to help you find your light. Even if you are thinking, "I can't," I'm urging you to manifest, "yes, I can."
My most recent bout with the abyss is nearly behind me as I just reached the six weeks post-op mark. Reflecting now before I forget where I was and what "it" felt like to be at the bottom of the pit is timely. Perhaps the bottom is where you are right now. If so, I'm here to be a witness and say, "I see you, I've been you," and also to help coach you up to find your legs. It seems that when we are in the abyss, it is hard for the light to penetrate to the depths of our despair. That's where illumination comes in, and unless we attempt to navigate a path upwards to find it, we wallow and get stuck. Everyone's recovery path is different, and there is no map, infographic, or shortcut for you to right-click (sorry). For me, the way out of the abyss consists of hard work and support.
This article has two sections: my story and pathways forward (tactics). First, I'll share a story of my most recent personal health challenge. If you are a story person, start here. But, if this article's subhead grabbed you, scroll past the story to find what you need in the 12 Ways to Help Illuminate Your Path tactics section. If you want both, then I've got you covered, so grab your favorite beverage and read on.
My Most Recent Abyssmal Story
Elective surgery during a pandemic was my choice to relieve chronic daily pain from osteoarthritis and bone spurs. I had hip replacement surgery late in the afternoon of 12/30/21. The plan was one night in the hospital, then home for New Year's Eve and a smooth recovery under my husband, Steven's care. News shared with us the day before surgery that "no visitors would be allowed in the hospital due to the surging virus variant" meant my husband would drop me off at the front door and pick me back up the next day. Steve not being physically present for me at the hospital was out of my control. Summoning my inner strength, I kissed him goodbye and checked in the hospital solo. Pre-op prep went according to my expectations. I didn't expect to wake up after surgery in great pain and unable to move my right leg.
If you've ever been in a state of deep, relentless pain, it is all-consuming. Perhaps you've seen a dog coming out of anesthesia after surgery howling inconsolably; well, that was me. The waves of pain washed over me and snatched my breath away. I felt embarrassed that I couldn't stop my spin, which made me feel even more alone and sent me up to the top of the anxiety elevator. Totally off my plan, I couldn't seem to cope during that one hour. Adding to this, it was the end of the day with too few, pandemic-overworked nursing staff and no husband at my side. I was wallowing in an unknown abyss. Nobody seemed to hear me until a nurse stopped by to check on me, then said, "Calm down. We can't give you additional pain meds until your low blood pressure comes up."
Calm down?
The clock ticked ever so slowly that hour as I tried unsuccessfully over and over to catch my breath. Finally, after repeatedly talking aloud to myself, "Calm down, Britta," to no avail, I tried meditation and controlled breathing, landing on a happy memory as my lifeline. Fifteen minutes later, my blood pressure was up to 90–50, so I could get some badly needed pain meds. The pain cycle is a horrid demon, especially once you get behind, and I had been WAY behind. As things started to stabilize, I shifted around in my bed to get more comfortable, only to realize I couldn't move my right leg. Panic started creeping in to add to the pain problem.
Deep breath.
As the general anesthetic haze started to lift, my brain signaled both legs to bend my knees into a more comfortable position. Left leg bends, right leg…no response. I was beginning to realize my predicament, and the abyss seemed to pull me in yet deeper. I noticed an orderly hovering nearby, pacing and eager to finish his last patient of the day (me). Once vitals stabilized, my chauffeur eagerly rolled me through hospital corridors and up the elevator to my quarters. Parked and alone, I felt stranded on an island with no boat and limited capability to swim. Just after the orderly left and before the nurse came in for rounds, the pause of time found me swimming in a private pity pool.
I soon learned more details — I had a nerve palsy in my right leg, caused by an overstretched nerve due to retractor stress. My athletic leg muscles and tight ligaments had to be held back with the retractor during surgery and were in a state of temporary paralysis. "How long?" I asked. The doctor explained it could be a few weeks and a few months in a worst-case scenario.
My overnight stay turned into a multi-day quest to leave the hospital.
The escape hatch home appeared to be a sequence of stabilizing my blood pressure first, then clearing hurdles with the hospitalist and physical therapist. Progress is painfully slow when you have a high volume of blood loss during surgery, a nerve palsy, a new hip, and your blood pressure drop every time you sit or stand. Side note: phone calls and Facetime are helpful but do not replace human physical contact with your spouse, friends, and family's visits to the hospital to be "present." Or in my case, to bring me the call button that the staff stowed on the wall behind me on three occasions, leaving me isolated.
You may be wondering, Did she finally get out?
Sure, but I had to pivot and create new plans along the way. My desire to get home intensified after overhearing staff whispers in the hallway that the hospital's 5th floor — my floor — was being turned into a COVID ward. Yup, that sure expedited my exit timetable, so I grabbed my phone and got right to work. I knew a wheelchair would be needed at home but couldn't find a local medical supply store open over the holiday weekend. As I am a Plan B person (always), I turned to crowdsourcing my need on Facebook, posting "Help, I need to borrow a wheelchair." Sure enough, a couple of hours later, I had an offer from friends who lived near the hospital, and arrangements were made via text to deliver my chariot to my husband in the hospital parking. Check that box!
Next up was getting orders to be released. My BP was now stable thanks to IV fluid boosts and longer stints of staying vertical. I engineered a way to transport myself creatively with a walker, leveraging my upper body strength and flinging my useless right leg around with body momentum. Now all I needed to do was pass my physical therapy test. The holiday weekend meant only one PT worked the entire hospital, so I worked quickly, convincing her to see me twice that Sunday. While wheeling to the therapy room, I quizzed my PT about what I needed to do to get my ticket home punched. Her reply was daunting, "Climb the stairs."
Stairs, really?
I knew I couldn't climb stairs forwards, so I inquired if backward was ok. She said that would pass, so I practiced (successfully) twice that day and got the final box checked to satisfy the discharge police. With my departure orders underway, I packed my few "overnight" items and waited impatiently for an orderly ride. After texting updates to my waiting husband for two hours, the parking lot lights came on, illuminating my escape path. I didn't feel the chill of the snow and ice of the early January Chicago landscape because I had reached the safety of my guy and the familiarity of our car, now headed home.
Yes, January was a total blur, culminating with a bout of heat rash blisters covering my back and a case of stomach flu to slow my ascent. The long days and weeks after surgery involved a lot of care. The cast of characters and props included: my loving husband (thanks, Steven!), in-home nursing and physical therapy care, visits, calls, and texts from concerned family and friends, borrowing of walkers, a wheelchair, bed rail, cane, an in-home hair appointment, books and gifts from friends, and some tasty home-made soup shared by neighbors.
But who likes January in Chicago anyway?
Now that I've reached mid-February and can visit my favorite coffee haunt, create Valentine's surprises for family and friends, take walks, and cook meals again, life feels pretty normal.
And normal feels freakishly good right now.
I share this story to illustrate that sh*t happens. It seems we only appreciate the ability to mow the lawn when we are lying flat recovering from a back injury. We crave (or covet) what we can't have or do, but once we regain the ability, we tend to take it for granted again. Yes, the grateful cycle is more apparent when you are in the abyss and want something you can't have.
My surgeon just lifted all restrictions as I reached the six-week post-op goal line this week. Even though I'm a bit delayed on my right leg strength due to the temporary nerve palsy, I'm nearly back where I was pre-surgery, minus the chronic pain. My PT orders now include a few bonus rounds, but I'm thankful that I can once again do "normal," whatever that is these pandemic days. And now that normal is back, I don't want to forget what it feels like being in the abyss. Because inevitably, someone I (or you) know is there right now and needs our empathy.
12 Ways to Help Illuminate Your Path
1. Ask for help.
Yes, I put the hardest one first! Check your pride and line up help — professional or personal by leveraging your network. Asking for help is nothing to be ashamed of, and people will respond if you are clear in your ask (I need to borrow a wheelchair). Wallowing in the abyss alone is a dark place, and if nobody knows you are there alone, they can't help. I lined up friends before surgery to visit me at home, providing company and scheduling "something to look forward to" (#10 below) while recovering.
2. Advocate.
Sometimes circumstances call for you to find an advocate, and some you can navigate yourself. Ask questions, write things down, and ask for another set of ears and eyes to help you. Besides, it just feels nice to have someone with you who cares about you to provide added support.
3. Meditate.
Get quiet with your thoughts. Consider prayer, yoga, meditation, or whatever helps you be centered. I am a big fan of the free app "Insight Timer," which helps me get centered and fall asleep each night.
4. Do your Physical Therapy (PT).
This pathway is not just PT, but any "homework" given to you by someone trying to help. Now is the time to adopt the student mindset; let others teach, coach, and care for you as you do the hard work towards recovery.
5. Eat healthily, stay hydrated, and take your pain meds on schedule.
Part of recovering is taking care of yourself and being mindful of what goes in your mouth. Good food = good medicine. Here is the Rx that raised my hemoglobin and red blood cell count: I followed a telenurse's coaching advice; pumped up the greens; ate more protein; rested, and popped a daily multivitamin to help rebuild my energy.
6. Focus on somebody other than yourself.
Taking your mind off your problems can be therapeutic. I have a few friends right now that are in pain — physical, emotional, and social (You do too if you are listening and asking). I became a texting buddy to them. Text support can help you to escape your plight while lifting up others at the same time.
7. Find purpose.
Find a group of people who are also searching for meaning and a way out of the abyss. It could be a project, volunteering, or reconnecting with old friends. I texted two high school girlfriends, Paula (who just had a double knee replacement) and Maggie (who was homebound recovering from an accident), to share my frustrations and to cheer them on.
8. Read and expand your mind.
It took me a few weeks to feel up to reading. I started with mindless magazines and worked my way up to a novel, enjoying "The Sentence" by Louise Erdrich as my latest literary conquest. Your rare gift of time while stuck in the abyss is ideal for more reading; remember to pack a flashlight because it is dark at the bottom.
9. Learn something new.
The blessing of recovery time (and being isolated during a pandemic) is the vast array of knowledge and media that technology enables. Whether it's learning a new skill, signing up for a webinar, or listening to podcasts, the overwhelming potential of time+technology is at your fingertips as a choice. Fuel your reserves with new knowledge (and some self-indulgent binge-watching) to help propel you forward.
10. Make plans for something to look forward to.
Winter in Chicago gives us plenty of time to dream about warm weather. The long winter in the windy city had me crossing my fingers on a possible late February escape to Palm Springs, CA, to accompany Steve on his business trip. As the variant started waning, plans to spend a week in sunny California became a reality. Once the trip materialized, an internal switch flipped on my motivation meter. The plans now shifted to #11, setting goals.
11. Set goals.
Setting attainable goals helps you work in incremental steps towards them. Once airplane reservations were made for Palm Springs, a flood of anticipation fueled my trip planning. Research on annual temperatures (high in the '70s!), sights to see, and an Airbnb reservation inspired a review of my wardrobe, and the mental packing began. More online suggestions hit my sweet spot: a scenic drive, hike, and photo safari through Joshua Tree National Park. My goal is to hike in Joshua Tree; daily walks to push my step count will help me be ready for the upcoming desert adventure.
12. Rest up.
Life (and recovery) is not a race. Though I was a sprinter in the pool decades ago, I strive to be a good patient who follows directions. I did say "strive" as some days are better than others…I started with two naps a day and slept nine hours each night. Then I dropped my morning nap (like a toddler) and now just lay down for a 30-minute rest in the afternoons to get off my feet. My hemoglobin and RBC counts are up, energy is returning, and the rest period is nearly over. Yes, it's been six weeks post-op, and I've got the green light to resume "normal" activities.
But who wants to be "normal" anyway?
The answer is me. Back from the abyss and basking in the sunlight, I'm posting this article and hoping you'll find light in your abyss or help illuminate the path for someone else who is there right now.
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Below are links to three earlier blogs I've written about overcoming struggles you may find helpful. Feel free to pass the links along.
"3 Tips to Shorten Your Stay in Struggle City".
"How to be a Point of Light for Someone Who is Critically Ill"
"Rookie Year Insights from the Differently-Abled Adventure League"
