If I am what I have,

 And I lose what I have,

 Who am I then?

–Eric Fromm

                When I was small, what did I dream of becoming? I only remember standard aspirations, like becoming some kind of teacher, but it wasn’t what I dreamed of. My only real wish, and this wasn’t politically correct for a hippie feminist, was to be a mother. This I did. And it, they, are my finest “work.” My masterpieces. I remember thinking that I would be home for a year with my baby and then look for work, of some unknown sort, or just maybe, stay home until I made a second baby, and be at home while she was little. It became abundantly clear to me, though a bone of contention in my marriage, that I would become a full-time mom throughout their childhoods. After Juliana entered toddler-hood, my then husband felt that one baby was enough, that it was too much of a strain on our marriage. I was just talking to my niece about this today, how for many women, there is this powerful inner voice, one of surprising passion and clarity, as to how many babies our bodies are meant to make. Though we certainly know women who are thwarted from fulfilling this need.  I wasn’t done making babies. We went into therapy over this, and I realized that this inner drive was stronger than my marriage. I would have left Ed then and there, but he finally heard me, and we made Alice. And her blessing in our lives has never been questioned. My two beloved daughters were born and thrived. There was time for working part time for a friend and for volunteer work, but At Home Mom is what went on my resume. As a friend once wrote in a poem that she based on me, I had merely “a resume of air.”  And what when the nest is empty?

My other childhood memory is of qualities that I imagined for myself. I always knew I wanted to be of service, to be a help to people, to be loving and giving, even if that didn’t lead to a named occupation. This much I knew was true. My essence is of a giver, a caretaker, and that follows me through my life, with gladness. As my therapist says, I am ever the mama.

I did not, however, plan to grow up to assume the job description of “Chronic Pain Manager.” My own pain.  This was not in my life plan. Unwanted, go away, not me, I am strong and healthy and will dance my way into old age. So I thought.

Shit happens.  May 9 1998, in a moment of inattention, turning the wrong way in dance class, heel planted where it should not have been, torquing my knee, hearing a pop in said knee and all is changed. One of those moments.  Not in the life plan. Taking me down a path that no one invites into their lives, that of chronic pain. Five knee surgeries, one back surgery, 14 years of exploring the land of pain.

Life out of whack.  If life is to be in balance, what gains are there to offset these losses, oh so many losses? The day my dear friend and doctor, Henry, said, “You know, you won’t be able to do modern dance anymore,” how could that get into my psyche? It took years but I got it and knew it was so.  A loss.  Having my children see me as less than able-bodied, an at-home mom who couldn’t even take care of her own house. My children watching me go through surgeries, through therapies, opening the door to hope and then experiencing another setback.  My Alice always berating me for having hope. Hope is a wonderful place to reside but she has seen me hurt too many times, wanting to protect me from yet another crash. Is watching their mom living a roller coaster of pain how I want my children to experience their strong and able mother? A terrible loss.  For me and for my beloveds.  Not working for pay much, too physically limited, too much pain, too easily fatigued;  is this what I grew up to do? Work and play and love, all compromised?  Losses.

In this sea of losses, are there gains? Have I learned anything valuable as a Manager of Chronic Pain? Oddly, I have. Not in overnight insights but in understanding and acceptance that has seeped in over the years. There is a careful balancing act of hope and grounding in no-hope. I “work” at being as functional as I can be. I “work” at being as active and healthy as I can manage. I “work” at being as vibrant and calm and loving and giving as I can be. I don’t have the hectic lifestyle of many of my peers. My days are measured carefully to account for the fatigue, timing meals with pain med schedules, being sure to be with friends every day, to  get exercise daily. As in my childhood dreams, I find ways to be of service at every opportunity for friends or anyone I might encounter. Wonderfully, oddly, this journey does open one’s heart, or it can, if you allow it to happen.  I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Except when I do.  Self-pity weasels its way in from time to time and I don’t beat myself up about that.

I no longer look for the nightmare to end. I no longer expect to be free of pain and have full mobility. I get it. I have stopped fighting this sad truth. However, I am alive and living as well as I can, seeking ways to be more active, have less pain, but it isn’t going to end. I have stopped fighting with myself and this truth. It is, in some ways, a relief. Acceptance.

Did you notice the overflowing flower pots downtown today? Did you breathe in the beautiful air, not too hot, not too cold, gentle breezes and bright sunshine? Did you see that the lawn near the high school was mowed today, looking like a neat crew cut, smelling wonderfully of cut grass? Did you taste the heirloom cherry tomatoes at the farm today, popping one in your mouth so that it burst with flavor, nearly to the point of making your eyes water? Have you tried one of my blueberry peach scones? I have. I am busy living. Do I get frustrated? Did I want to grow up to manage pain? Hell no. But here we are. And it is a beauteous summer day. Have you noticed?

When I was leaving acupuncture today, I did feel a sudden shift. For those of you who know me, you know this has been a particularly dark time. That moment, in this moment, I feel life force pushing its way through again, like a perennial sprout in the spring, bursting through the winter’s soggy mulch. It’s always there, the potential for new life. The sprouts don’t forget. I needed to remember the light. Out of darkness, whether grieving a lost love or lost mobility, there is life. I can feel it.

It is not the load that breaks you down, it is the way you carry it.   

Lena Horne

Surrender—deciding to lay down the weapon and walk away from the fight—

was a way to get back all your power.

Gail Caldwell