The massage table

I was enduring another massage.  Oddly enough, I look forward to these appointments; previous times are awash to my mind.  Sort of like with getting pregnant again.  It all starts out serenely enough.  Lights dimmed, table heated and cozy, blankets a comforting caress to my exposed body.  Nature and instrumental sounds waft soft and low in the background.  Thankfully the ambience is soothing because nothing from this point on is.  She sometimes starts with my neck, just to get things warmed up.  But today she goes right to my shoulder.  I compare myself to a prisoner-of-war.  Guards trying to get me to talk.  As if she’s been mulling over how she can stretch and contort my body in unusual and bizarre ways.  And yet I trust her implicitly.

As she instructs me to crane my neck, to sit up, lie back down, hold up my arm, move it side to side or up and down, I’m compliant. I feel as if she’s digging her sharp talons into my soft arm, yet we talk as we work.  I ask her about all of it.  Why, what’s happening, what will this do.  She holds the muscles tight in place in her firm grip as I maneuver my arm through various positions.  She presses on the most tender spots—she knows just where to find them.  I feel like crying.

The first time we worked together I did.  She talked to me about it, thinking I was letting go of all my stress; massages have that effect on people, it’s normal she told me.  But it wasn’t anything like that.  I don’t need a massage to let things go, I feel like I’m pretty open about things, I’m not afraid to cry or be vulnerable.  No, I felt my hot tears spring up when I asked her if there was any hope or was I too far gone to be healed.  She assured me that even in my case, where my shoulder has deteriorated over the past year, we could work through this.  I was hesitantly ecstatic, overcome with emotion.  I relayed how sore it had been for so many months, nothing else had worked, was she sure.  She assured me again, yes.  We can fix this.  I cried and cried.  So grateful for a glimmer of hope, that she believed I could get back my normal range of motion, that my pain would subside.  That I could really be whole again.

But normally I don’t cry when we’re working. I laugh as I tell her how sore it is.  I squirm.  I pull away.  I compensate by lifting my shoulder.  I’m not afraid to tell her it hurts, that I’m not sure this is working.  She talks me through it.  “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have your arm.”  She says some people never come back.  It’s too hard, too painful.  I was incredulous because I couldn’t think of where else they would go.  I’ve tried other remedies.  I’ve tried working it out on my own.  They’ll just flounder, it will get worse.  Until they realize they should never have left.  I told her how much I trust her.  That I know the pain is an investment.  That, as distressing as our sessions are, I can see the incremental improvements.

I asked about the clients she has, if everyone has some kind of pain.  I wondered if all this work was taking a toll on her own body.  But her physical pain is nothing compared to what her soul is going through, she confessed.  We talked about her advice to me and others, “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have it.”  She admitted how difficult it was to look in the mirror.

As she jostled and pressed on me, I started to appreciate the parallels in our lives.  I knew, even as I asked, that of course we all have pain we’re living with, that we mask or ignore, that we hope will go away on its own.

I think about what it took to even consider going in for a massage for my shoulder the first time.  I figured I could handle it on my own, it would eventually get better, would anything really work after all I’d tried?  I imagine others feel the same as they deliberate about returning to church and to God.  She talked about the regrets she has, all that she needs to ask forgiveness for.  I understand, Why didn’t I pay attention?  Why have I waited so long?  I feel so embarrassed, so much guilt for my indiscretions, regret that I didn’t make it a priority sooner, wistful about lost time.  Arms and souls, we can all relate.

I consider how tranquil both her massage room and church are.  Environs conducive to change.  Music soft, words encouraging, being tended to.  I feel warm and cocooned, safe in expressing myself, admitting how hard it is.  But knowing I’m in just the right place to get the help I need.  Where else would I go?  I’ve tried it on my own.

I contemplate the exercises I’m doing at home.  At first it was all such an inconvenience, I wasn’t as compliant as I needed to be, it was kind of shaky, I didn’t see much improvement.  And so my motivation was low.  But I’ve stuck with it.  Though so imperfectly and inconsistently.  Over time however, along with my massage sessions, I’m noticing that I’m slowly making progress.  I think how uncomfortable it is for some to go back to church, how hard it is to remember to pray and read.  But like my wand maneuvers and nightly rice bag, these habits also become second-nature the more we do them, even if we’re rocky and haphazard at first.  Little by little we come to value them and rely on them to strengthen and restore us.  We’ve seen the difference small and simple things make.

I think about how painful these sessions are.  Pocked with moments of sheer gratitude and optimism.  I think we’ve all been there.  Quiet times with ourselves, candidly evaluating where we are, admitting we’ve got some work.  But at the same time, we can’t deny that we feel a ray of hope.  That maybe we can become whole again.

I think of the massage table as an altar.  Where we finally let go. Soften. Take a deep breath.  And let God take it.  Where we finally and humbly acquiesce and release all we’ve been holding on to.  Trusting that it’s all for our good.

“The submission of one’s will is really the only uniquely personal thing we have to place on God’s altar. The many other things we “give,” brothers and sisters, are actually the things He has already given or loaned to us. However, when you and I finally submit ourselves, by letting our individual wills be swallowed up in God’s will, then we are really giving something to Him! It is the only possession which is truly ours to give!  Consecration thus constitutes the only unconditional surrender which is also a total victory!” (Neal A. Maxwell)

And so as both I and my massage therapist friend figuratively lay our troubles on the altar, I’m confident that we will both sigh with relief and celebration as we feel more and more like ourselves, unimpeded by the pains we’ve carried for so many months, victorious.  Whether we are restricted by tight muscles or a hard heart, the healing is the same.  Believe you can change.  Do your part.  Let it go.  Soften.  Take deep breaths.  Have faith that all the pain, the discomfort, the stretching will be worth it.  Trust the Healer’s hands.

The secret to writing

I’ve told you a million times, I’m no expert.  At anything.  Least of all, writing.  But I love it.  I’ve heard it all before, it takes at least 10,000 hours to become an expert in something.  So maybe in twenty years I’ll have figured out some tricks.  All I know is I love writing.  I’ve got a picture of me when I was maybe two with a little pencil crouched over a small pad of paper.  The longing to write is embedded in me, writing is the most natural thing I thing I do.  I long to share all the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, I want other people to see all the beautiful things that have crossed my path, I crave deep exchanges—even if they’re just on paper.  I have this innate desire to write and share all of this, but I’m not sure how to go about it.  Like I’ve said, I’ve never even taken a real writing class except the generic ones in college about how to write a research paper.  But even in all my ignorance, I have stumbled upon one tidbit that never fails to help me out.

When I have an idea, I just let myself write and write and write.  All the details I want, long paragraphs, not to worry about how it all sounds.  I just want ideas.  Lots to work with.  And so I sat down to evaluate a blog I’d been writing.  I knew it was simply too verbose. I figuratively tossed and turned.  I loved the minutia, the tiniest details, unfortunately so much of which was unnecessary.

I’ve learned to trust myself.  And that unsettled feeling when I just know it’s not right.  Not morally not right.  Just that it’s not ready.  And so I reminded myself of what I know.  Because I’ve not only felt it intuitively but I’ve also read it.  The best way to write better isn’t always about adding more facts, finding longer words, or beefing up the paragraphs.  Most of the time it’s about eliminating.  Which sounds counterintuitive, but I think it’s spot on.

So I started editing.  But what I really ended up doing was cutting.  Sad.  I hated erasing so many words.  I hated that I wouldn’t be spelling it out, but I clung to the hope that someone would be able to read between the lines.  It forced me to think about what words I wanted to keep, which would convey most accurately what I was getting at.  I started small, just a paragraph at a time.  One by one, I slowly modified my essay.  Made it more succinct.  Till I recognized the feeling, an exhale, a calmness that tells me it’s done.  Not perfect.  I already told you I don’t know how it’s supposed to look, what the guidelines are, what good writing entails.  All I know is that feeling of peace, that I’ve been able to convey what I set out to share.  I can hear my voice in what’s left; it feels authentic.

As I revisited this lesson just the other day, you know I couldn’t help but wonder how this principle might apply in other facets of life.  And I realized that it’s a postulate I’ve subscribed to in other arenas.  Eliminate the superfluous.  Simplify.  Get rid of what’s encumbering you, what isn’t working.  I think this sentiment rings true, “Today’s complexity demands greater simplicity” (Elder L. Tom Perry).  With so much we’re juggling, why do we insist on keeping so many balls in the air?

I think about my house when it’s cluttered with projects or relics from the day’s activities.  Or even with charming decorations. The best relief for my psyche is to clear some space.  I love tackling the kitchen, seeing the clear counters stretching, coming to life.  I love that my pottery canisters stand out now.  That my basket of fruit makes its own statement.  I love re-working an area of adornments when I feel that something is amiss.  I’ll move items around and around until it finally dawns on me that what I need is an empty spot for my eyes to land, a little bit of blank.  Sure enough, that usually does the trick; de-cluttering—even the pieces I’ve loved at some point—helps me enjoy those I’ve left for display.  I don’t get rid of the other; I just have a box on a shelf labeled “decorations.”  And every now and then I’ll find a little keepsake I’d like to use again.  Not gone forever—although some have been relegated to the donation bag—but eliminated for now, just to allow me some time to assess and live with my new design and decision.

I’ve known this principle to work when I’ve applied it to activities and commitments, books and entertainment, hobbies and items on my to-do list.  The less is more mentality.  Sounds trite now that I think about it.  But it just seemed to pop up everywhere once I started looking.

But it’s more than simply making cuts.  We need vision to know what cuts will make a difference.  Like the snowflakes we’d make in school.  You can’t be so haphazard and inattentive when you’re down-sizing the paper that you snip the whole thing apart.  It takes some foresight.

The point of eliminating is discovery.  Like the paper snowflake and my writing.  When I look at the shards of paper scraps or words that drop as I cut, I no longer mourn their departure.  I appreciate what I can now see.  Even amusements and enjoyable commitments from last year might not be as fulfilling any more.  When I’ve decided to finally make the cut with ones that aren’t working, I’m able to focus on and enjoy those that are truly fulfilling without that nagging feeling in the the back of my head.  When we rid our lives, even temporarily, of whatever’s cluttering our minds, space, time, energy, and pages in our books of life, we’re left with what really brings us joy and satisfaction:  seeing the wood grain of the table once I sweep away the newspapers and breakfast dishes, remembering the clothes I’d forgotten about now that I’ve untangled them from their cramped quarters, dismissing ones I never really liked, free evenings to spend reading, playing games with the kids, watching the new mini-series on Masterpiece, discovering new friendships when others are no longer thriving.  When I rid myself of things that aren’t making me happy, I have room for things that do.  “There is a beauty and clarity that comes from simplicity that we sometimes do not appreciate” (President Uchdorf).  Kind of like clearing away the underbrush and noticing the tiny trees that had been sprouting all along.

I can tell I’ve made appropriate cuts when I hear my voice, when my life feels authentic and veritable.  When I’m not trying so hard to write a page in my book, hopeful it will be acceptable to others.  When I feel that familiar peace, the exhale, I know that I’ve carved out just the space I needed to feel aligned.

There’s a popular book among my friends, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, that keys in on this principle; she encourages clients to keep only items that “spark joy.”  I love simplicity, simplifying, because it unearths the clutter in our lives, leaving room for items, people, enterprises, and even the remaining words, that truly bring us joy.  Once I’ve re-worked a piece of writing using this principle, I find myself face-to-face with what’s left, what I wanted to say in the first place. Once I decide to let go of something, no matter how much I wanted to hang on at first—my words, a relationship, a habit, a fun but not-so-good book—I admit I’m relieved.  I sometimes look back, like Lot’s wife, and wonder if I made the right choice to move on.  But I love knowing in my heart I did.  Because whether we’re writing or making a life for ourselves, what really matters is not so much about what we let go, it’s all about what we let stay.

One year out

I was in my friend’s kitchen just the other day when she mentioned to all of us it’d been a year since she moved in.  No way, I thought.  And then I looked around, remembering standing in that spot with her exactly one year ago.

I’ll always remember it was a Tuesday because I’d been waiting since Thursday for the results of my biopsy.  I’m pretty calm, I don’t really get too riled up about things.  But I could focus on little else as I brought her closet’s contents to their new alcove.  As I put away bowls.  As we discovered the cool spice rack behind pillars by her oven.  As we made our way up and down all her stairs.  As she gave me the tour of her gorgeous new house.  I know we talked.  But my mind was a million miles away as I wondered what the year would look like for our family.

Of all the days of the past year, these were some of the most difficult.  Just waiting to find out.  Not knowing the outcome, how long you’ll have to deal with it, what it will entail.  And the scariest of all the questions I had to ask, am I up to the task?

I remember similar feelings many, many years ago as I was waiting to see if we might really be pregnant.  Once we decided to transition to parenthood, we found ourselves waiting for months with no luck; we had no idea if this was simply going to be one of our trials in life or if it was just going to take some time.  And so, as I’ve approached my one-year mile-marker, I was thinking how similar it was in many ways to what I experienced my first year with a new pregnancy and baby.

I remember the relief in both cases.  Odd to say.  But it’s only because knowing is easier than not knowing for me.  In the case of a pregnancy, we were elated.  But I was scared to death.  Would I have a miscarriage? Would I be able to manage a healthy, term pregnancy? I’ve never felt that great around kids.  How would I be as a mother?  Were we ready? I remember finding Todd the next day at school and crying to him.  We were so poor.  And young.  And naive.  And unprepared.  I felt nearly the same as I cried to him one night in the bathroom after we’d found out I had cancer.  He just loaned me his shoulder and I let myself be sad for a minute.  Would this ruin us financially?  We’re so young to be dealing with something so serious.  We have no idea what we’re doing.  We’re not ready for a trial like this.  I know what you’re thinking.  Babies are good, cancer is bad.  But in my mind, scared as I was, cancer seemed more straight-forward; nothing about parenting is clear-cut.  

We had decisions to make.  In both cases I read a bit.  Way more about pregnancy than cancer.  To this day I still don’t know what kind of cancer I had.  You’d have to ask Todd or my sister.  But I had faith in the experts.  I listened to their advice.  And then we trusted ourselves to decide, both with cancer and each birth.  No, I’d like to have an epidural.  This time we’ll go with a midwife.  And a bilateral mastectomy.  I’d like to leave my baby in the nursery for as long as possible.  We’ll bottle feed along with nursing.  And use cloth diapers.  Node removal first.  I know that will mean two surgeries.  And yes, I’d like immediate reconstruction please.  I felt good with all of it.  I feel like we listened to what experts had to share and then moved forward, making decisions that felt right to us in both cases.

Both scenarios—a little baby and a little 1 cm ball of cancer—required loads of medical visits.  I felt like I was always running to the doctor the first year or so.  Check ups, blood work, prodding, touching, disrobing, being vulnerable—showing so many people my body, exposing my ideas and myself as a mom.  I have to admit, I’ve kind of loved most of it.  I love engaging with a variety of people, great nurses, advocates, doctors, caregivers.  I love being touched, even if it’s just getting my blood pressure taken. I think we all love having our babies admired.  You know I love questions. Confirmation that my baby was healthy.  That my gross scars were healing appropriately.  It fascinated me to no end.

Nothing was as soothing as having Todd with me at all these key appointments, in the hospital, holding the baby and my hand, helping me eat, sleeping on the little sofa next to me, checking in on me every morning and night.

I don’t how I was so unprepared for the pain I’d encounter with childbirth and surgery, but how could I have known?  I just felt so disheartened and discouraged.  I felt battered by both, like I’d never feel normal again.  But I trusted other women who’d endured the same, and I trusted my body to be able to heal itself.

As expected, sleep eluded me for a long, long time in both cases. It hurt to lie on my back incisions.  I couldn’t sleep soundly with a baby in the room.  I wanted sleep to be my escape, and yet it was really just another hard part.  Both giving birth and undergoing surgery wore me out.  Grumpy.  Irritable?  Resentful, even though I knew better.  

Getting ready took forever.  I’d gear up with special baby soap and lotion, tiny washcloths and diapers.  I’d brace myself for my own shower every day.  My breasts were so sore in both cases.  The water, even the air, was painful. But after my surgery, my back was wounded too. I cried in the shower.  My secret place where tears would coalesce with warm water and no one would know how really weak I felt.  I felt discouraged as I’d see my misshapen and sore body in the mirror.  A year later it’s still hard.  Not to shower.  To look.

Even dressing after both hospital stays required a new skill set. Comfort was my top priority.  Along with what would work.  Most of us don’t come home from giving birth to putting on our jeans, and all I wanted to wear after my mastectomy was zip-up sweatshirts since my arms didn’t work and so I’d have pockets for my drains.  Just as I had to learn about unsticking my baby from his messy undershirts, I still spend a lot of time trying to unstick myself from the tops I’ve pulled over my head.

As we all know, the initial sharp pains eventually subside.  Every few days I realized I felt a little less damaged.  I’m used to the tight feeling around my rib cage.  I got used to nursing.  My body was mine but different.  Week after week though, I would feel more and more like myself.   I learned first-hand that healing simply takes time.  Millions of women have been through both birth and cancer.  I’m certainly not the first to have blazed these trails.

In both cases, I knew it would take a year.  I hated thinking about it in those terms.  So long to be dealing with the ramifications of a tiny lump, to think of sleepless nights with a crying baby.  But we all know the difference a year makes.  People still ask me all the time how I’m doing, and it’s easy to talk in terms of procedures.  But I want to ask new moms all the time how they’re doing, what they’ve learned, how it’s really been.  But no one wants to admit how hard it is.

I constantly see women who are in the middle of both—mothering infants and dealing with the effects of cancer.  I know it sounds trite, but I honestly want to hug them.  I know first-hand what it’s like to be tired, worried, discouraged, excited, hopeful, helpless, relieved.  I know the miracle our bodies are, that they can come back.  I know what it’s like to need help.  To hate the weak feeling of not being able to do it on my own.  To want to heal quickly so that I can help someone else.

Just the other day we were walking into Target behind a youngish woman and a small girl.  The woman was completely bald.  I felt it all over again.  The guilt.  I wouldn’t in a million years admit to her that I’d had cancer at one time.  I barely scratched the surface of what she’s been through.  I admired her from afar, her strength, her courage, her obvious hope in the face of trial.   My sister has a new friend, a sweet little boy; his mom has stage 4 breast cancer.  I can’t even pretend to know what that feels like, the pain and sadness and heartache she and her family are going through.  That’s tough cancer.  The real kind, in my mind.

I feel the same when I see moms who are dealing with children with autism, severe physical disabilities, learning challenges, children who test a mom’s every awake minute, moms who get hardly any respite.  Mothers who have adopted children, who have willingly taken on the conflicts that come with some of these children.  Mothers who are doing it all on their own.  I had it so easy with my babies.  Easy, non-eventful pregnancies for the most part.  Easy, non-colicky babies who eventually learned to sleep through the night.  I had a supportive and useful husband, all the resources I needed, friends, church members, a grandma next door with subsequent babies.  We had the easiest case scenario by any stretch.

Women like this one with no hair, as well as these heroine mothers, impress me to no end.  They are the ones who have been in the trenches.  They know what it’s like to really hurt, to be exhausted and tested to their limits, to long for reprieve, to wonder if it will be worth it, to ask over and over why.  And how.

It’s humbling, so humbling.

I have no way of knowing what her details are—or what any of the women I see are really dealing with—but she reminded me that in every single way I took the easy way out.  That this past year really wasn’t harder than any of the others.  I’m not down-playing that each of these first years had their challenges compared to what I’d been used to, but in both cases it was just different set of months, a chance to see life from a new angle.  By all accounts, an exquisite, unexpected blessing of a year.  Both of them.