Yes, so well put Ann! I'm caring for my 86 year old mom who told me as I washed her back that she never dreamed when I was younger that I'd be one day caring for her.
We are all on the same road, for better or for worse.
Amber Naslund
· 11 months ago
First of all: I'm so glad you're okay enough to spoil the rest of us with your writing.
It sounds so trite to say I know what you're feeling, but I do. Late in high school and early in college, I went through a series of annoying operations on my ear. I remember well the tumultuous tummy seas and the feeling of needing everyone else far more than you ever wanted to need anything. I couldn't walk straight even, so double the embarrassment when you had to ask someone to hold you upright so you didn't topple off the frelling toilet when you peed. Yeah, so much for modesty.
I'm so thankful that, thus far, my ears are the only thing that have really let me down. My chubby little body has taken good care of me, even when I've willed it to cart around an extra 50 pounds, and I'm grateful.
As for the pink pills, well, suffice it to say that you might wish for them - even if just once in a while - on those days when the pincushion is long healed and the world at large is after more than your nose.
Be well, friend. :)
rickey gold
· 11 months ago
Amazing that you can write like this when you're feeling so crappy. But write you can! Next time you'll know to tell the surgeon to give you the anesthesia that doesn't make you sick (SO been there -- worst part of surgery!)
"Family members came in from work or school, and I marveled that their worlds were still continuing..." Have always been amazed by this when faced with a tragedy. The world goes on even when we don't.
Feel better, Ann!
Tim Jackson
· 11 months ago
Ann... (damn you, Handley)...
I can relate to much of that, all too vividly. As I laid in my various hospital beds, neck in a brace, many bones fractured, Morphine pumping through my veins, I spent a lot of time fading in and out of awareness of my world. In that world of awake, asleep, doped-out-of-my-mind-wooziness I had a lot of time to reflect on shit I hope I never do again. When I was back in the hospital waiting to be allowed to go home without fear of the clots breaking free and finishing the job the multiple broken bones and broken neck couldn't, I worried that I'd never race my bicycles again- or possibly even be allowed to ever ride again. It was selfish and petty to spend so much time fretting about me and my personal freedom, but when I got home and spent the next 4 weeks at home with friends, family and my girlfriend visiting from Taiwan taking care of me night and day, I realized that my life really IS a network of other closely interlaced lives. We all live in these little constellations of connections. None of us live "alone" and what happens to us, happens to the others too. I was unable to se my daughter for 3 weeks and when I finally did see her for an afternoon, it was all I could do to keep from crying every time I saw her. The thing is, we never know when that freedom can go and we become refugees without a camp to go to. I worried for awhile that I would have to live with my family and I began to resent them for being able to take care of me in my time of need- because they had the strength and freedom I no longer did. Love is weird that way sometimes.
Just know that you're not alone in the refugee camp and you have your own constellation of support. I promise you do. Hell, you might even be able to get me to help where I can... maybe...
Leigh Duncan-Durst
· 11 months ago
Annie,
Agree with Amber's comment about being glad that you are now feeling well enough to spoil us with your writing. Glad you are on the mend!
I'm resistant to pain meds and anesthesia makes me nauseated, too... so I literally feel your pain!
Not sure if I told you about the time that I had total jaw reconstructive surgery (after a bike accident) years ago. I was hospitalized for seven days, and had my whole face on ice...titanium pins hodling it together. I was all wired shut and my head was swollen up like a basketball -- and on a LOT of pain and anti-nausea medication (nothing quite like feeling like you are going to puke with your jaw wired shut!)
My helpful mom thought it'd cheer me up to bring me a Gary Larson Far Side book in the hospital. Sufficed to say, the IV pain medication made me loopy and prone to hallucinating... and one of the cartoons struck my funny bone so hard, I ended up splitting my stitches....
If I remember correctly, the cartoon was one of the "banned" ones -- It showed an operating room -- patient on the table -- surrounded by masked doctors/surgeons. At the end of the table there was a dog sitting on the floor, looking up and BEGGING. The surgeon on the end was motioning like he was getting ready to feed the dog something from the table. Bleah.
Sick, I know, but it just made me laugh - so hard I began to HURT - alot...ended up having to spend another day in the hospital due to bleeding from my stitches. The book was confiscated for several weeks.
Anyway, I hope your laughter has again returned and glad you got yet another entertaining post at your expense. Although by the sound of this one, you'd trade the post back for not having to go through this experience!
Hope you're healing fine and back to your beautiful inside and out self again soon. XO
Leigh
Vickie
· 11 months ago
Your account of your recent experiences helps to make me even more grateful for my health and wellness. I'm so glad you are recovering. Hope you are 100% soon!
Connie Reece
· 11 months ago
So sorry you've been through the proverbial wringer, Annie. Good to have you back, writing eloquently about your refugee status.
We take so much for granted--until the indignities of age or infirmity tug at us like the tides and threaten to sweep us out to the sea of depression. Back in October (five days before I left for Marketing Profs conference in Arizona) my sister fell and shattered the elbow on her "good" arm. Two surgeries and three months of therapy and she's recovered 20+ degrees range of motion, yet still cannot do some things she could before...like blow her own nose.
Simple things we take for granted. And then they're gone.
Sending you a big ol' Texas-sized hug and wishing you a speedy recovery now that you're past the Pink Pill Days.
Sonny Gill
· 11 months ago
Ann - first off, good to hear you're doing well and away from those pretty but anything but, pink pills.
Your thoughts hit home with me, unfortunately, as I immediately thought of my 17 y o cousin. He was recently diagnosed with a children's brain cancer that's in its advanced stages. As big a shock as it has been for our family, I can't imagine what he's going through and the thought of him losing his youth as he starts this battle. It's easy to wish to put myself in his place but the best I can do is offer my support to keep him strong and my ears to listen to him when he needs. We have a huge family that is always going to be there for him and cousins that can always relate to him as we're all within relative age and can relate to those things adults may not understand.
I'm confident he's going to fight through this and not lose out on his youth and those things that we all take for granted. It definitely puts things into perspective, for everyone in our family, that those things can easily be taken away from us - but more so, tests us to support each other and my cousin as he fights for his youth.
Diane Hessan
· 11 months ago
Ann, that was incredibly poignant. And, just think -- I'd never have known about your blog were it not for the gift of Twitter. I am glad you are on the mend, and I've sent your link to 2 friends who are going through a rough period right now.
Thanks!
Katie Morse
· 11 months ago
Ann - I'm happy to hear you're recovering, and though I've never been through something as scary as skin cancer (all cancers scare me - petrify even) , I can empathize with the physical and emotional process of recovering.
I think Tim says it best above: "We all live in these little constellations of connections. None of us live “alone” and what happens to us, happens to the others too."
We understand that our family connections and friendships affect our lives, but it's so rare that we see excactly how our lives ripple to affect others.
That insight, though rare, is valuable, and it always serves to put my perpective back in place.
Best wishes for a speedy recovery!
-Katie
Phil Johnson
· 11 months ago
Yield to the pink pill! I'm telling you girl, you can write, although you may need a bigger canvas. A recommendation to all my writer friends: Robert Stone's memoir: Prime Green - Remembering the Sixties. You'd like it.
Elizabeth Sosnow
· 11 months ago
That may be the most powerful post I've read in a year. Thank you for the inspiration, courage and thoughtfulness. I can't wait to share it with friends. Please take good care of yourself.
Joel Libava
· 11 months ago
Hi Ann, Ok. I won't try to crack any jokes. Really. I was going to reach out to you a couple of times last week, but said to myself, "Self, if everything was hunky-dory, Ann would be on Twitter a lot more than the one time she was on it this week. Leave her the hell alone"
Glad I did. Talking to an unhappily stoned, post surgery woman, who was feeling quite weirded out, would not have added any value to my week. {Or Ann's}
Missed your Tweets.
Just happy that the pink-pilled insanity is slowly leaving your head. Now, hurry the hell up, get better, and start singing a happier T.P. song. Okay? The Franchise King {Re-Branding taking place. In case you hadn't noticed!}
Ann Handley
· 11 months ago
For the record, because a few of you have kindly voiced alarm, I am feeling about a jillion times better than I was... and I will totally fine. Totally. Once my reputty-ing takes hold, I just might go out again, too.
And I dunno -- the pink pills had their value. I'll never watch sitcoms with the same nonchallance, nor listen to the Top 40 in quite the same way. Who knew?
p.s. Wear sunscreen. This means you.
Tim Berry
· 11 months ago
And with it all, great writing. All the way to the end. Glad I caught, it sorry you felt that way, glad you wrote it, and glad you're feeling better.
Re your last paragraph, like turning 60. My dad gets that too ... he's 89.
Keep writing, Tim
Farayi Kambarami
· 11 months ago
Extremely expressive and insightful writing. Thanks very much for allowing us to glance into your world and to ponder these things with you. You, ma'am, are a writer. I really love reading your posts and thank God that we will still have you for a while yet. Keep getting better..., and I will wear sunscreen...( recently found out that my skin can also get sunburnt, as black as it is...)
Claudia
· 11 months ago
Welcome back to your inner home, the world you're not a refugee in: your writing!
gianandrea facchini
· 11 months ago
Ann, as I passed through this 10 years ago for a skin cancer on my left leg, I get and subscribe every word of yours. The feeling is not being immortal any longer. Not that I thinking of being immortal, but, you know, until this event you believe that life is own your side. These thoughts should remain in our mind even to look at people or events in a different way, with a new life value ranking.
Kirk Phillips
· 11 months ago
We seem to be born with this belief that we are immortal, that suffering and death are for others. And despite mounting evidence to the contrary, we cling to it as we age. My parents were in denial. I'm in denial. My kids are in denial. Must be "baked in" to the human spirit for the purpose of keeping us moving forward. Like hope.
Beautiful writing. Welcome back.
Paul Chaney
· 11 months ago
Whew! Considering the tone of your email the other day I was thinking something much worse, much more foreboding like... melanoma!
Since, Ann, your honesty brings out the most deep-seated of my emotions, let me say I know what it's like to live as a refugee, a stranger to myself.
Though I won't bear my soul in front of the entire world, often I feel that I carry scars (the emotional kind) which must be kept hidden, and all the while this haunting refrain plays in my head, "If you really knew me, you wouldn't love me." Nuff said about that.
Ann, I love (LOVE) your writing. It is a treat to read. But, why so dark at the end? Brrrr!!!!
Steve Woodruff
· 11 months ago
An SPF 50 hug from NJ for a swift recovery, Ann. Glad you're feeling better already...
Julie Roads
· 11 months ago
I've gotta say...that one laid me flat. Between the fact that my imagination is hyperactive and you are a phenomenal writer...I was right/write there with you. Did you ever read Lucy Grealy's 'Autobiography of a Face'??? That's right where this post took me. I do hope you're feeling better - and that the good lessons stay...and the angst and torture fade away (like the shit of a having a baby does).
Samer Forzley
· 11 months ago
Welcome back, get well.
I tore my achilles tendon in Oct, and camped out at home for more than a month. I have to say it was difficult, but taught me one thing. Patience is a virtue. Almost lost in today's go go go world. For all its worth, It was a lesson well worth learning even thought the hard way.
Bdot
· 11 months ago
Glad to hear you're doing better.....
Karen
· 11 months ago
First, so glad you came through everything and are feeling better and on the mend.
I can relate as much as anyone who has shared his/her ailments (after a certain age, who can't relate?) Blessed mostly with good health and no serious issues but still having been waylaid by minor surgeries over the years (wisdom teeth and such), or recovering from childbirth or high fevers, I've realized how much the body is a shell, a vehicle for what's inside. And through that shell we can just as much experience heaven as hell, be in paradise as prison.
The physical extremes of life drive this point home for us - pleasure, and illness. Function, and dysfunction. You're millimeters away from saying as much in this post: that the body is our portal for, as spiritual beings, having the human experience. It's a limitation, necessary for the limitless divine, the infinite consciousness to experience itself in all its possibilities. And we don't get to pick and chose which part of the experience we want - we get it all. Like any coin, there are two sides.
When we're young we're barely aware the outer shell is there - it's light, it's effortless, it's not a well formed or accepted idea yet. As time passes it densifies, it gets out of alignment, it takes more maintenance and sometimes it goes out of commission to remind us who we really are.
From my own experience I'll just say being over 40 has a strange way of putting you in touch with your own mortality while simultaneously teaching you to treasure every remaining healthy, free, effortless day you have left. I hope there are many for both of us, but when they run low or run out, I also know what liberating bliss from the outer shell death will be, and I fear it not.
Jeff Shattuck
· 11 months ago
You are a GREAT writer.
Wow, what a post.
And a Petty reference, heaven.
More important, your writing brought out a lot of memories I have of being in the hospital after my head injury and of the the early days of recovery. Actually, even now, I find myself slipping into "refugee" mode every once in a while.
I really just love your writing and I'm glad you're on the mend. I can relate to a lot of the feelings you describe here but for different reasons. I like to think that life retracts like this for us so we can remember who we are again. I know I forget who I am sometimes and it always feels good to be back when I get back to remembering.
I'm glad you're back.
Trish Lambert
· 11 months ago
My happiness at seeing your latest post in my inbox this morning turned to pensiveness as I read on. I am SO glad to know you are well on the way to a total mend, only sorry to know it was a rocky road there for a while.
I went through a huge existential crisis about a year and a half ago, when my 85-year-old mother died. She had been slowly dwindling for some time, and I think my crisis had been slowly increasing in pace, until it finally hit between the eyes once she was gone.
Part of my mental journey at the time dealt with exactly what you have written about. And over time, I have come to a sort of equilbrium of acceptance. My life is well more than half over, the body and mind are showing signs of wear, and I work at being mindful about enjoying every minute of today.
Was it Mark Twain who said that youth is wasted on the young? I never gave mortality or senescence a second thought when I was flexible and ache-free!!!
Thanks for another thought-provoking foray into the life of Ann. I appreciate your willingness to share!
Trish
Meryl Steinberg
· 11 months ago
So sorry to hear about your ordeal with the narcotic pain killer. For your--and loved ones--future reference, please note: When I fell off my bike, I lost 3 teeth , cut my lip entirely through, and banged up my face. The swelling made the docs shudder so they prescribed a special strong pain killer. Thankfully, I had a packet of 1000c Arnica homeopathic tabs in my wallet (got it for someone else's getting surgery). By evening, swelling & pain down so much, a regular ol aspirin was working fine. Friends w/ broken legs & other surgeries have had similar effect.
Claire
· 11 months ago
Lots of reactions - but the one that inspired me to comment is on the drugs. I throw up everytime I get some type of morphine/ pain killer. (Two C-sections, cute baby, where's the bowl...). My son has the same reaction (worst was when tonsils were out, throw up where they just operated).He has had anesthesia for MRI, tonsils out, teeth pulled...I always explain that he has a bad reaction, but seem to get the answer that these are the only drugs (maybe they are?). Your column inspired me to get the records from all these spots and see if I can at least try and advocate for something different for the future...
Shama Hyder
· 11 months ago
Ann, dear Ann!
I hope you are feeling better. I have never been in the hospital for an extended time nor suffered the wrath of drugs. Although Zithromicin (another pink pill! What is it with pink pills?) makes me pretty ill.
Have you ever considered writing fiction? I'd buy!
Donna Tocci
· 11 months ago
Ann - your writing is, as usual, beyond compare. I'm just so sorry you had to go through this experience. But, I'm glad you have a great support system. Don't forget, I'm not too far from you either should you need something. Take the time to really heal, my friend.
Scott Schablow
· 11 months ago
Ann, only you could take an such an unpleasant experience and turn it into a treat to read. I can relate to what you went through. A few years ago I had cervical fusion performed on my neck. They literally slit my throat to gain access to my spine. If you ask me there is no such thing as 'minor' surgery if it's be done to you. Glad you're on the mend. I know that I'll have skin cancer issues of my own someday. I spent a lot of time sizzling in the Southern sun before sunscreen was invented.
B.L. Ochman
· 11 months ago
I agree with everyone who is amazed that you can write like this in the midst of all this!!
So sorry you've had such a nasty time.
I know it seems far away right now, but it'll pass and you'll be feeling sassy again - eventually.
We are, in the end effect, pretty fragile creatures, for all the bluster. There's a body lottery, and nobody escapes it. And that's why we help each other through.
Sending you a great big hug and really really hoping you'll take the time to rest before you run back to everything you do.
Christian Gulliksen
· 11 months ago
You go through an uncomfortable, drug-addled recovery and your mind produces a philosophical treatise on the fragile union of body and soul.
I, on the other hand, would have gotten no further than sulking, demanding a better drug and, perhaps, having a "pretentious conversation" (do I owe you a royalty for using this phrase?) about their various pros and cons :)
With each essay I'm reminded that the pool has a deep end, too. Way to go, Handley.
Mary Anne Shew
· 11 months ago
I didn't even know you were under the knife until the email arrived with this post. I'm so glad to hear you are on the mend and getting past the meds.
You are one hell of a writer. Your essays remind me of Ellen Goodman, Judith Viorst, and even Erma Bombeck. Seriously, pack up these essays and hie thee to an agent. That you have terrific insight is one thing; to be able to write like this about what you discover is a whole 'nother thing.
As with the others who commented, this entry stirred up a great deal for me. In the last 4 years I've lost 8 people close to me, including my mom, whose death occurred only 28 days after her lung cancer diagnosis, which came out of the blue. (Her doctor was treating her for bursitis until they finally did an xray to find the source for pain in her upper right arm.)
The confluence of all those losses put me into a panic about my own mortality. It wasn't so much that I'm afraid to go on to the next adventure, but I worried about any messes I might leave behind for others to clean up. I've spent the last year or so cleaning out my house, keeping mostly just what we use or love, letting the rest of it go. I'm writing down what my husband needs to know to shut down my business, how to move my clients to others I trust if I'm gone or incapable.
The other thought you bring to mind is how long the body takes to truly heal. A few years ago I had to have emergency gallbladder surgery, my first time ever in the hospital as a patient. (And I could go on about that experience, but I won't.) I entered the hospital about 7am on St Patrick's Day and was released 36 hours later, anesthesia barely worn off, still in shock that it happened at all. It took 36 months for my system to fully recover to the point where I no longer feel my health will collapse after the slightest brush with a sneezing person.
So allow me offer you unasked-for advice: Truly take care of yourself, and take it easy. Your body and mind have been through a lot, even if the affected part is no larger than your nose.
However, do NOT stop writing these posts :-) We need you out here waking us up to ourselves.
Lori Magno
· 11 months ago
Oh Miss Ann! Feel better honey! I go in for Mohs surgery (on my "mandible" as the docs refer to my jaw) on March 4th - I'll be feeling your pain then.
Maybe we can get a price on a truckload of 45SPF!
Alan Wolk
· 11 months ago
A little late to this party, but it's easy to see why you'll be alright: rather than deciding the sky was falling, you managed to bring a bit of humor and levity to the whole thing. And that ability to see the humor in the absurdity of our condition is far from universal.
Glad to hear you are on the mend though and able to get off the couch. As unpleasant as it may be overall, there's something to be said for the mind-clearing effects of an enforced vacation.
Jaculynn Peterson
· 11 months ago
Ann,
I'm so sorry you had to endure this. I'm familiar with the sickness, thoughts, fears, and despair you described. Had a few repairs myself in 06. Talk about feeling helpless and dependent! Yes, I took it all for granted, too!
Life is full of cruel ironies: That you should generate one of your best pieces of writing (IMHO) during one of your worst moments...
That you should require any cutting of any sort on such a perfectly pleasant and perky nose (a true gift of Nature - or your mom or dad? :-) is yet another cruel irony. [People PAY big $$ to create your type of nose! heh]
That you should change my mind in 10 minutes about not wearing sunscreen after my husband unsuccessfully spent 10+ years pleading with me to wear it.
That's right. I - the one who never, ever wears sunscreen - will now wear sunscreen. Nope, I'm not a masochist or a moron. I just never wore sunscreen. Now I will. And now I'm thinking this piece should appear in many other pubs and on other sites...to scare the hell out of everyone else into wearing it too.
Thank you Ann. THANK YOU. (my husband will probably thank you too)
I am so very happy that you are feeling better.
Best wishes, Jaculynn
Katybeth
· 11 months ago
Oh my! Sounds just really awful--Usually the best thing about pain is the great legal drugs--I think you should get a full refund and be allowed to keep your nose!
One consolation (I think) your children are to young to be able to insult you with Bozo the clown jokes?
Hope you are back at your WII best soon!!
Judy Mitchell
· 11 months ago
Split a case of SPF 70 with you? I was there 2 years ago and have the 3" scar on my leg to remind me to reapply. Sorry you got so sick. Glad you turned to sitcoms in times of trouble -- it keeps me high end sunblock - just when I thought I had a meaningless job! Great post -thanks for sharing the story.
Marta
· 11 months ago
Ann, I have only recently learned about you and started reading you. Never left a comment, don't know why. I want to say thank you, I want to say your descriptions move me just "like a blind man learning the face of a friend," and most of all I want to say, long enough, Ann, long enough! Love, Marta.
mom3girls
· 11 months ago
Welcome back, I missed your writing and (especially) your tweets!
Paulette
· 11 months ago
Again, what can I say but wow! I've been laid up 2x, once because of eye surgery (a cornea transplant) and once after near-fatal pneumonia. You capture perfectly that sense of being trapped by the body that has inexplicably betrayed you, and the way that betrayal somehow alters the movement of time. I hope you're well and recovering.
Rohit
· 11 months ago
You know you're a writer when some of your best writing comes from a moment of personal crisis like this. I'm glad you shared the experience with all of us and gave us all the gift of this wonderful post to think about and share. But as a fellow writer, the thing that makes me happiest is knowing the therapeutic satisfaction that probably came from writing this for you. Sometimes there's nothing like writing about an experience and reading it back in our own words to help us deal with a difficult moment. Looking forward to seeing you and your resurrected nose at an event soon. :-)
Adam Needles
· 11 months ago
Hi, Ann. Thanks for sharing this with all of us.
My wife flagged this piece, and I knew you were undergoing some surgery, but I had not fully internalized the experience you were going through. And your words are so poignant in that regard.
I sincerely hope you're feeling better and that this surgery has 'taken care of' what ails you. I'm sure this is something you would not like to make a regular thing.
Best wishes for a continued recovery!!
John Munsell
· 11 months ago
Ann, Wow! I could read your writing all day long. So sorry to hear of the whole ordeal, but what a gift you've been given. Perhaps the debate at the end should not be about how long we have before we become permanent exiles or refugees from the bodies of our youth, but rather how long do we have to bring smiles to the faces of others through the talents God has given us. You are unbelievably talented and you bring smiles to the faces of so many through your writing every day. In about 4 months I will undergo my 3rd surgery, only this time it's a biggie. What started out as a simple hernia repair has now grown into a major complication. Apparently, it comes with a lot of risks and a two-month recovery period. While I certainly have my concerns, there’s a part of me that welcomes the down time. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of my own pink pills, but I hope that it gives me a similar time of reflection. I hope that it gives me the time to pen something as poignant and compelling as the things you put out every day. And I hope that through my writings I can put a smile on someone’s face like you do each and every day through your own written word. You’re the best, Ann. Your body doesn’t define you. Read the words of all those who care about you and who responded to your post. You educate people. You motivate people. You move people. You make people laugh. And in this particular post, you did it all while living in temporary exile. What a gift indeed!
Susan @pinkolivefamily
· 11 months ago
Dear Ann,
What an eloquent writer you are ~ so glad to read & know that you are doing well and recovering. Wish you all the best sincerely ~ and look forward to reading more of your updates via ur blog site as well via twitter. PS - yes! SPF50 all the way for myself and for my family.
Best!
Susan
Rency
· 11 months ago
I understand how it would be to face all this but am glad out of this you keep your calm and are moving in forward positively. My mother is suffering a similar experience but my Hope lies in my God. Only thing i would like to share with you is trust in God. He made us. Jesus Christ died for us and rose again that we would be free from all this pain. By his stripes we were healed and am sure if we trust and have faith in God, in prayer if we ask for healing God will heal us right now. I must say you are a prolific writer and really brave at heart. By reading your blog i felt more closer to God. He's giving me more reason to Praise Him. From today on Ann u will be in my prayers..you can send your prayer requests to me at rencym10@gmail.com
All Comments
We are all on the same road, for better or for worse.
It sounds so trite to say I know what you're feeling, but I do. Late in high school and early in college, I went through a series of annoying operations on my ear. I remember well the tumultuous tummy seas and the feeling of needing everyone else far more than you ever wanted to need anything. I couldn't walk straight even, so double the embarrassment when you had to ask someone to hold you upright so you didn't topple off the frelling toilet when you peed. Yeah, so much for modesty.
I'm so thankful that, thus far, my ears are the only thing that have really let me down. My chubby little body has taken good care of me, even when I've willed it to cart around an extra 50 pounds, and I'm grateful.
As for the pink pills, well, suffice it to say that you might wish for them - even if just once in a while - on those days when the pincushion is long healed and the world at large is after more than your nose.
Be well, friend. :)
"Family members came in from work or school, and I marveled that their worlds were still continuing..." Have always been amazed by this when faced with a tragedy. The world goes on even when we don't.
Feel better, Ann!
I can relate to much of that, all too vividly. As I laid in my various hospital beds, neck in a brace, many bones fractured, Morphine pumping through my veins, I spent a lot of time fading in and out of awareness of my world. In that world of awake, asleep, doped-out-of-my-mind-wooziness I had a lot of time to reflect on shit I hope I never do again. When I was back in the hospital waiting to be allowed to go home without fear of the clots breaking free and finishing the job the multiple broken bones and broken neck couldn't, I worried that I'd never race my bicycles again- or possibly even be allowed to ever ride again. It was selfish and petty to spend so much time fretting about me and my personal freedom, but when I got home and spent the next 4 weeks at home with friends, family and my girlfriend visiting from Taiwan taking care of me night and day, I realized that my life really IS a network of other closely interlaced lives. We all live in these little constellations of connections. None of us live "alone" and what happens to us, happens to the others too. I was unable to se my daughter for 3 weeks and when I finally did see her for an afternoon, it was all I could do to keep from crying every time I saw her. The thing is, we never know when that freedom can go and we become refugees without a camp to go to. I worried for awhile that I would have to live with my family and I began to resent them for being able to take care of me in my time of need- because they had the strength and freedom I no longer did. Love is weird that way sometimes.
Just know that you're not alone in the refugee camp and you have your own constellation of support. I promise you do. Hell, you might even be able to get me to help where I can... maybe...
Agree with Amber's comment about being glad that you are now feeling well enough to spoil us with your writing. Glad you are on the mend!
I'm resistant to pain meds and anesthesia makes me nauseated, too... so I literally feel your pain!
Not sure if I told you about the time that I had total jaw reconstructive surgery (after a bike accident) years ago. I was hospitalized for seven days, and had my whole face on ice...titanium pins hodling it together. I was all wired shut and my head was swollen up like a basketball -- and on a LOT of pain and anti-nausea medication (nothing quite like feeling like you are going to puke with your jaw wired shut!)
My helpful mom thought it'd cheer me up to bring me a Gary Larson Far Side book in the hospital. Sufficed to say, the IV pain medication made me loopy and prone to hallucinating... and one of the cartoons struck my funny bone so hard, I ended up splitting my stitches....
If I remember correctly, the cartoon was one of the "banned" ones -- It showed an operating room -- patient on the table -- surrounded by masked doctors/surgeons. At the end of the table there was a dog sitting on the floor, looking up and BEGGING. The surgeon on the end was motioning like he was getting ready to feed the dog something from the table. Bleah.
Sick, I know, but it just made me laugh - so hard I began to HURT - alot...ended up having to spend another day in the hospital due to bleeding from my stitches. The book was confiscated for several weeks.
Anyway, I hope your laughter has again returned and glad you got yet another entertaining post at your expense. Although by the sound of this one, you'd trade the post back for not having to go through this experience!
Hope you're healing fine and back to your beautiful inside and out self again soon. XO
Leigh
We take so much for granted--until the indignities of age or infirmity tug at us like the tides and threaten to sweep us out to the sea of depression. Back in October (five days before I left for Marketing Profs conference in Arizona) my sister fell and shattered the elbow on her "good" arm. Two surgeries and three months of therapy and she's recovered 20+ degrees range of motion, yet still cannot do some things she could before...like blow her own nose.
Simple things we take for granted. And then they're gone.
Sending you a big ol' Texas-sized hug and wishing you a speedy recovery now that you're past the Pink Pill Days.
Your thoughts hit home with me, unfortunately, as I immediately thought of my 17 y o cousin. He was recently diagnosed with a children's brain cancer that's in its advanced stages. As big a shock as it has been for our family, I can't imagine what he's going through and the thought of him losing his youth as he starts this battle. It's easy to wish to put myself in his place but the best I can do is offer my support to keep him strong and my ears to listen to him when he needs. We have a huge family that is always going to be there for him and cousins that can always relate to him as we're all within relative age and can relate to those things adults may not understand.
I'm confident he's going to fight through this and not lose out on his youth and those things that we all take for granted. It definitely puts things into perspective, for everyone in our family, that those things can easily be taken away from us - but more so, tests us to support each other and my cousin as he fights for his youth.
Thanks!
I think Tim says it best above: "We all live in these little constellations of connections. None of us live “alone” and what happens to us, happens to the others too."
We understand that our family connections and friendships affect our lives, but it's so rare that we see excactly how our lives ripple to affect others.
That insight, though rare, is valuable, and it always serves to put my perpective back in place.
Best wishes for a speedy recovery!
-Katie
Ok.
I won't try to crack any jokes.
Really.
I was going to reach out to you a couple of times last week, but said to myself, "Self, if everything was hunky-dory, Ann would be on Twitter a lot more than the one time she was on it this week. Leave her the hell alone"
Glad I did. Talking to an unhappily stoned, post surgery woman, who was feeling quite weirded out, would not have added any value to my week.
{Or Ann's}
Missed your Tweets.
Just happy that the pink-pilled insanity is slowly leaving your head.
Now, hurry the hell up, get better, and start singing a happier T.P. song.
Okay?
The Franchise King
{Re-Branding taking place. In case you hadn't noticed!}
And I dunno -- the pink pills had their value. I'll never watch sitcoms with the same nonchallance, nor listen to the Top 40 in quite the same way. Who knew?
p.s. Wear sunscreen. This means you.
Re your last paragraph, like turning 60. My dad gets that too ... he's 89.
Keep writing,
Tim
The feeling is not being immortal any longer. Not that I thinking of being immortal, but, you know, until this event you believe that life is own your side.
These thoughts should remain in our mind even to look at people or events in a different way, with a new life value ranking.
Beautiful writing. Welcome back.
Since, Ann, your honesty brings out the most deep-seated of my emotions, let me say I know what it's like to live as a refugee, a stranger to myself.
Though I won't bear my soul in front of the entire world, often I feel that I carry scars (the emotional kind) which must be kept hidden, and all the while this haunting refrain plays in my head, "If you really knew me, you wouldn't love me." Nuff said about that.
Ann, I love (LOVE) your writing. It is a treat to read. But, why so dark at the end? Brrrr!!!!
Did you ever read Lucy Grealy's 'Autobiography of a Face'??? That's right where this post took me.
I do hope you're feeling better - and that the good lessons stay...and the angst and torture fade away (like the shit of a having a baby does).
I tore my achilles tendon in Oct, and camped out at home for more than a month. I have to say it was difficult, but taught me one thing. Patience is a virtue. Almost lost in today's go go go world. For all its worth, It was a lesson well worth learning even thought the hard way.
I can relate as much as anyone who has shared his/her ailments (after a certain age, who can't relate?) Blessed mostly with good health and no serious issues but still having been waylaid by minor surgeries over the years (wisdom teeth and such), or recovering from childbirth or high fevers, I've realized how much the body is a shell, a vehicle for what's inside. And through that shell we can just as much experience heaven as hell, be in paradise as prison.
The physical extremes of life drive this point home for us - pleasure, and illness. Function, and dysfunction. You're millimeters away from saying as much in this post: that the body is our portal for, as spiritual beings, having the human experience. It's a limitation, necessary for the limitless divine, the infinite consciousness to experience itself in all its possibilities. And we don't get to pick and chose which part of the experience we want - we get it all. Like any coin, there are two sides.
When we're young we're barely aware the outer shell is there - it's light, it's effortless, it's not a well formed or accepted idea yet. As time passes it densifies, it gets out of alignment, it takes more maintenance and sometimes it goes out of commission to remind us who we really are.
From my own experience I'll just say being over 40 has a strange way of putting you in touch with your own mortality while simultaneously teaching you to treasure every remaining healthy, free, effortless day you have left. I hope there are many for both of us, but when they run low or run out, I also know what liberating bliss from the outer shell death will be, and I fear it not.
Wow, what a post.
And a Petty reference, heaven.
More important, your writing brought out a lot of memories I have of being in the hospital after my head injury and of the the early days of recovery. Actually, even now, I find myself slipping into "refugee" mode every once in a while.
Thank you for the words!
Jeff
www.cerebellumblues
I'm glad you're back.
I went through a huge existential crisis about a year and a half ago, when my 85-year-old mother died. She had been slowly dwindling for some time, and I think my crisis had been slowly increasing in pace, until it finally hit between the eyes once she was gone.
Part of my mental journey at the time dealt with exactly what you have written about. And over time, I have come to a sort of equilbrium of acceptance. My life is well more than half over, the body and mind are showing signs of wear, and I work at being mindful about enjoying every minute of today.
Was it Mark Twain who said that youth is wasted on the young? I never gave mortality or senescence a second thought when I was flexible and ache-free!!!
Thanks for another thought-provoking foray into the life of Ann. I appreciate your willingness to share!
Trish
I hope you are feeling better. I have never been in the hospital for an extended time nor suffered the wrath of drugs. Although Zithromicin (another pink pill! What is it with pink pills?) makes me pretty ill.
Have you ever considered writing fiction? I'd buy!
Take the time to really heal, my friend.
So sorry you've had such a nasty time.
I know it seems far away right now, but it'll pass and you'll be feeling sassy again - eventually.
We are, in the end effect, pretty fragile creatures, for all the bluster. There's a body lottery, and nobody escapes it. And that's why we help each other through.
Sending you a great big hug and really really hoping you'll take the time to rest before you run back to everything you do.
I, on the other hand, would have gotten no further than sulking, demanding a better drug and, perhaps, having a "pretentious conversation" (do I owe you a royalty for using this phrase?) about their various pros and cons :)
With each essay I'm reminded that the pool has a deep end, too. Way to go, Handley.
You are one hell of a writer. Your essays remind me of Ellen Goodman, Judith Viorst, and even Erma Bombeck. Seriously, pack up these essays and hie thee to an agent. That you have terrific insight is one thing; to be able to write like this about what you discover is a whole 'nother thing.
As with the others who commented, this entry stirred up a great deal for me. In the last 4 years I've lost 8 people close to me, including my mom, whose death occurred only 28 days after her lung cancer diagnosis, which came out of the blue. (Her doctor was treating her for bursitis until they finally did an xray to find the source for pain in her upper right arm.)
The confluence of all those losses put me into a panic about my own mortality. It wasn't so much that I'm afraid to go on to the next adventure, but I worried about any messes I might leave behind for others to clean up. I've spent the last year or so cleaning out my house, keeping mostly just what we use or love, letting the rest of it go. I'm writing down what my husband needs to know to shut down my business, how to move my clients to others I trust if I'm gone or incapable.
The other thought you bring to mind is how long the body takes to truly heal. A few years ago I had to have emergency gallbladder surgery, my first time ever in the hospital as a patient. (And I could go on about that experience, but I won't.) I entered the hospital about 7am on St Patrick's Day and was released 36 hours later, anesthesia barely worn off, still in shock that it happened at all. It took 36 months for my system to fully recover to the point where I no longer feel my health will collapse after the slightest brush with a sneezing person.
So allow me offer you unasked-for advice: Truly take care of yourself, and take it easy. Your body and mind have been through a lot, even if the affected part is no larger than your nose.
However, do NOT stop writing these posts :-) We need you out here waking us up to ourselves.
Maybe we can get a price on a truckload of 45SPF!
Glad to hear you are on the mend though and able to get off the couch. As unpleasant as it may be overall, there's something to be said for the mind-clearing effects of an enforced vacation.
I'm so sorry you had to endure this. I'm familiar with the sickness, thoughts, fears, and despair you described. Had a few repairs myself in 06.
Talk about feeling helpless and dependent! Yes, I took it all for granted, too!
Life is full of cruel ironies: That you should generate one of your best pieces of writing (IMHO) during one of your worst moments...
That you should require any cutting of any sort on such a perfectly pleasant and perky nose (a true gift of Nature - or your mom or dad? :-) is yet another cruel irony. [People PAY big $$ to create your type of nose! heh]
That you should change my mind in 10 minutes about not wearing sunscreen after my husband unsuccessfully spent 10+ years pleading with me to wear it.
That's right. I - the one who never, ever wears sunscreen - will now wear sunscreen. Nope, I'm not a masochist or a moron. I just never wore sunscreen. Now I will. And now I'm thinking this piece should appear in many other pubs and on other sites...to scare the hell out of everyone else into wearing it too.
Thank you Ann. THANK YOU. (my husband will probably thank you too)
I am so very happy that you are feeling better.
Best wishes,
Jaculynn
One consolation (I think) your children are to young to be able to insult you with Bozo the clown jokes?
Hope you are back at your WII best soon!!
My wife flagged this piece, and I knew you were undergoing some surgery, but I had not fully internalized the experience you were going through. And your words are so poignant in that regard.
I sincerely hope you're feeling better and that this surgery has 'taken care of' what ails you. I'm sure this is something you would not like to make a regular thing.
Best wishes for a continued recovery!!
Wow! I could read your writing all day long. So sorry to hear of the whole ordeal, but what a gift you've been given.
Perhaps the debate at the end should not be about how long we have before we become permanent exiles or refugees from the bodies of our youth, but rather how long do we have to bring smiles to the faces of others through the talents God has given us. You are unbelievably talented and you bring smiles to the faces of so many through your writing every day.
In about 4 months I will undergo my 3rd surgery, only this time it's a biggie. What started out as a simple hernia repair has now grown into a major complication. Apparently, it comes with a lot of risks and a two-month recovery period.
While I certainly have my concerns, there’s a part of me that welcomes the down time. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of my own pink pills, but I hope that it gives me a similar time of reflection. I hope that it gives me the time to pen something as poignant and compelling as the things you put out every day. And I hope that through my writings I can put a smile on someone’s face like you do each and every day through your own written word.
You’re the best, Ann. Your body doesn’t define you. Read the words of all those who care about you and who responded to your post. You educate people. You motivate people. You move people. You make people laugh. And in this particular post, you did it all while living in temporary exile. What a gift indeed!
What an eloquent writer you are ~ so glad to read & know that you are doing well and recovering. Wish you all the best sincerely ~ and look forward to reading more of your updates via ur blog site as well via twitter. PS - yes! SPF50 all the way for myself and for my family.
Best!
Susan