My physical therapist sent me home with two sheets of exercises I’m supposed to do three to five times a day. I hate that it’s come to this. But it’s my new reality for awhile. (They say 1-3 years.) I’ve thought about my frozen shoulder and how gradually it came on. Looking back I suppose I should’ve known what to look for. I should’ve been researching side effects of node removal or mastectomy on the internet. Or asked my doctors if I should be aware of anything post-surgery. Or read the little words on all the papers they sent home with me. But that’s all so not like me. I just shoved all that stuff in my cancer file and figured if I noticed anything weird then I’d deal with it later. No sense looking for trouble. And so as my arm started bothering me I guessed I’d just slept on it funny. That I’d tweaked it somehow. So I babied it and took it out of commission as much as possible for several weeks. But it got worse and shooting pain would paralyze me for a minute or two and tears would leap to my eyes out of nowhere. As it became more difficult to ignore, I surrendered and went in. X-rays, physical therapy, massage ensued. A little exercise routine that makes me feel like an old lady. It’s been months already. Acupuncture starts next month.
But as I’ve been tending to my arm, it occurred to me that I’ve experienced this all before. Not physically, but in my marriage. And it seems that if we think about it enough, maybe we’ve all been there. Maybe not in your marriage, but maybe another relationship or some other part of life. You never saw it coming, you have no idea how you got here, but out of nowhere you’re in some deserted land that wasn’t even on the map. And you’re not really sure how to get back.
Most of our friends took a similar path as us as we pursued post-graduate work. It was awesome, loved it. The midwest enthralled me. The people were warm, we made sweet friends, we hiked and camped and visited every small town we could. We loved the antiques, the covered bridges, the fall festivals, the Amish, the state parks. It was a great, great four years. But also hard. Because, you know how it is, you rarely see each other. We worked. We had church commitments. We were just learning to be parents. We had no family around for hundreds of miles. He was at school all day and most evenings. The last year he had rotations and I felt like I never saw him. (I loved how he got the equine rotation right at foaling time.) We had dinner together and spent Saturday and Sunday together when we could, but it was still tough. And that’s life. But I wasn’t used to it, I didn’t realize how hard it would be on me. And our marriage.
I remember arriving at the point but not knowing how I’d gotten there. But one dark night I admitted to myself that I felt completely apathetic about our marriage. I felt alone. I didn’t have any fight left in me. I didn’t really care any more if he was home or gone. It didn’t seem to matter any way because there was nothing I felt I could do. I simply let go.
Nothing in my life has scared me as much.
Kind of the wake-up call you get when you’re driving along the highway late at night and catch yourself falling asleep at the wheel. This was mine. I realized I had a choice, I was at a junction. I could continue to coast. Or wake up and make some changes.
Just like with my arm, I finally acknowledged things wouldn’t just get better without some intervention. It’s been forever, so I don’t remember the details. I just remember deciding. Sometimes that’s all it takes. At least that’s where it always starts. Because of this experience, I’m forever looking at the fork in the road now. The pivotal moments when a decision will take you one way or another. And I’m always looking ahead to see where I’ll end up if I take one path versus another. Some things don’t matter much to me. But I’m all in when it’s the big stuff. I’m not willing to let my kids or my husband or convictions get away from me. Way too much at stake. I think this was the first time when I could see that our little fishing boat had become untied from the dock and that it was slowly inching its way out. Even though the waves were minimal, you know how water is and how, before you know it, you’re out of touch with your vessel.
Just because I noticed we were drifting doesn’t mean things got better right away. But I remember we made the effort. I remember reading and learning about marriage. I tried to be more supportive as he carried such a heavy load. Slowly it came together and we pulled it off. And I’m forever grateful for this wake-up call. As scary as it was, it’s stuck with me. I realized then—and am constantly reminded—how precious our marriage is. And our relationship with our kids. And with God. I’m reminded of how gradually these can all slip away from us if we aren’t tethered together.
This lesson poignantly came to mind as I realized my shoulder wasn’t healing on its own. I had to stop ignoring the pain. I needed to acknowledge that things needed to change. Just like before. I’ve been looking into it, learning about it. I’ve been diligent—but not perfect—with my exercises. I forget to do some of the parts. I don’t even know if it’s working. This all sounds so familiar. But I know eventually it will make a difference. Because I’ve seen it all before. Small investments of time doing my stretches and massages, hanging out at night together before turning in, making time for each other. Consistently putting in the effort. Even when we’re too tired for it all. Kissing good night. Long hugs. Giving the benefit of the doubt. Pushing myself even when it hurts and makes me tear up. Love is like that. It’s not always easy to be honest. Or to apologize. But we work through the painful parts because we’re committed. We know it will all make us stronger.
I look forward to the day when I’ll realize I have my shoulder back. When I can use all my weights the way I always have instead of sitting out some of the sets. When I don’t feel pain when I turn a certain way by accident or shift in my sleep. When I can tie my aprons and dresses behind my back. And tuck in my shirts. When I can move my arm in all directions again. The pain and immobility will leave as it came. So slowly I’ll hardly notice. But I know the small, consistent efforts, the attention I’m giving it, will eventually pay off. Because I’ve been here before. The investment I’m making will be worth it, no matter how long it takes. If it’s anything like my marriage, I won’t be able to pinpoint the day it healed; it will be so gradual. I’ll just know it feels right. But if it’s anything like my marriage, I’ll never take it for granted again.
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