Tag: life

Ooph

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[A head’s up, this post contains the subjects of womens health, mental health, depression, and passive suicidal ideation. If this is too much, feel free to skip and go listen to https://youtu.be/x2bd1zp_q6Y?si=TRB_f28QAZvKY8Jz]

I’ve been sick the last week with Covid. The bilateral hip pain, the fever, the inordinate amounts of sweating, the coughing and phlegm, you know, the symphony of the body’s response to an unwelcome guest–all of it fairly typical. I was sick in February, too, but the difference between these two bouts is night and day. In February, I felt like I deserved to be sick, like I wasn’t good and what was the point in getting better. This time, I felt like I can’t wait to get better and go hang out with my friends, do house projects, have the energy to paint and create. Similar physical symptoms, polar opposite mental and emotional symptoms. Why should this be? Well let me tell you a little story…

Last summer, I decided to get the Mirena IUD. There are lots of reasons for such a decision and this post will be plenty vulnerable and intimate I don’t need to go into that too. Just know, that at the time, it seemed like a good course of action for me. Over the next nine months, I would discover that it was a horrendous match for me. If you’ve been following along here, you’ll remember I had a particularly hard winter and didn’t know why. The response to being sick in February was disproportionate and not my customary reaction to illness.

Since last September, my emotional responses to life circumstances swung wide and wild. Emotional lability is a nice way to describe what felt like hell. I wanted to escape the feelings, the world, myself. It was untenable. The parts of me that developed in chaos in childhood started to take over during the uncertainty. I began to invent things to worry about. Do I have throat cancer? Am I dying? Seriously, chronic intrusive thoughts became ever present. If I have throat cancer and am dying, do I deserve it? What do I need to do to be ready? Make a to do list, Becci.

While all of this was happening, I ended one job and started another. I did house projects. I continued to visit friends and family. I sought solace in art and music and the routine of every-day living. I was also proactive in trying to figure out what was happening. Urgent care visits. Primary care physician visits. Blood draws. Tests. Anti-depressant prescription. Exam room tears. Pleas for help. Calls to my sister who helped me map out when the worst of the intrusive thoughts would happen. Monthly, it so happened. Right around my cycle, to be specific–that’s when the lies in my brain would be the loudest. It’s scary to have thoughts that are so outside the norm to become daily, hourly, common.

Many women have success with the Mirena IUD. They rejoice in no periods. The simplicity of it. 10 years and nothing to worry about in terms of buying feminine hygiene products or worrying about pregnancy. That sounded amazing to me. About 5-7% of women who have used this form of birth control self-report depressive episodes, depression, and worse. Guess who fell into that percentage? This gal. The anti-depressant helped, but the thoughts still came right before my period. At the follow-up to check how the anti-depressant was doing, I explained that I wondered if I should get the IUD out and see if that would help. We schedule the removal and got the sucker out. Within one week I felt more like myself than I had in nine months. It was that quick. I have had loss, heartache, emotional highs and lows this summer subsequent to its removal and the emotional response has been more in line with me, with my personality. Yes, I’m heartbroken, sad, joyful, elated, relieved, the gamut of the human experience minus one thing–I don’t want to die.

What’s the point in telling all this? Being so vulnerable about something so terrible? A friend of mine recently told me my writing gave him space to write and communicate his own thoughts and feelings after a tragic loss. If this post can shed light on something someone else is grappling with and help them fight through it to the other side, then my nine months of agony and understanding it afterward will have been well worth it. Friends, if your body and brain are not behaving like you know they should, don’t stop fighting for yourself. You are your own best advocate for your health, mental, physical, emotional, spiritual. Many of my peers are navigating perimenopause and menopause. The shifts in hormones have a lot of these similar effects. There is the right thing for you. Whether its HRT, diet changes, exercise changes, a move to the seaside or the Kentucky bluegrass, keep searching until you find it. We need all of you here to navigate this world. We need your questions and your curiosity. We need your humor and your insight. We need your problem-solving and creativity. We need your light, your joy, your love. Don’t go. Keep fighting through it. You’re worth it.

1995/2025

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From seventh grade on, I grew up in a small town in Southeastern Ohio called Athens. I could dazzle you with my fifth grade state report knowledge and talk about how Ohio is the 17th state of the union, the first of five in what was known as the Northwest Territories at the time. Athens is so-named because it has a university built on a hill and founded in 1804—Ohio University.  
My dad got a job at the medical school there as a means of affording higher education for his children. It was scary to move somewhere new, leave old friends and familiar spaces, family, community and create something new. Athens has a way, though. It’s special. It embeds in your heart—the space, the people, the humid air. I was fortunate to make life-connections in this town. I am lucky I got to spend time with them these past few days.

While I didn’t know everyone at my 30th reunion, there were folks I didn’t have classes with or who moved in different circles, there were those I’ve treasured since I was a kid and others I’ve grown to love more and more as an adult. My heart is full and I am reminded that we all carry our own pain. Some of my classmates lost parents when they were young. Others, like me, in their 30s and 40s. Some are facing very recent loss or the prospect of aging parents needing more help with chores and care, whose health and momentum are slowing down pointing to heartbreaking inevitabilities. We all are walking this human experience with love, joy, loss, fear, and heartache.
I wish I had understood that better as a teenager. I hurt from loss and heartache then, was anxious and insecure—and I erroneously thought I was the only one, blinded by my own circumstances, desperate to be seen and loved while simultaneously hiding, afraid of being really seen at all. Life, given half the chance, helps remove the blinders, reorients the placement of self, and showcases that not only are we not alone in experiencing the fullness of humanity, it is our ability to share it (both the joy and the burden) that makes it wondrous and bearable. The things that carried me then, that carry me now are kindness and humor, antidotes to poison and ego. I appreciate the sharp wit, the clever word-play, the bright sparkling minds of my peers. That coupled with big hearts for others, for the world and the simplest small gestures of  kindness to others, to me make them a marvel. 

I wish I had more time to see more people to tell them all thank you. I love you. You matter. You made and make life better. I’m sorry I couldn’t squeeze it all in. Thank you to everyone who made this so special. I sit at the Columbus airport with a very full heart.

Aunt Daisy

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My heart is heavy, broken, and full all at the same time. Don’t ask me how that’s possible; it just is. My Aunt Daisy passed this weekend after struggling with complications arising from an autoimmune disorder. I was able to join her family, along with my sister, and nephew to say goodbye. I would like to take a moment to honor her memory and share some things that matter to me.

My Aunt Daisy had a quick wit and a delightfully wicked sense of humor. The master of a dirty joke or double-entendre. It’s no wonder she and my Dad, her big brother got along so well.

In the last years of his life, my aunt and uncle welcomed my Dad into their home, providing a space of familial comfort, laughter, emotional safety and what my Dad described as a “big black hole of love.” In that time, she encouraged and persuaded my father to mend his rift with me—a gift beyond measure.

Aunt Daisy was an RN who later pursued and achieved her Master’s degree in nursing. She was astute, knowledgeable, deliberate. She was a caregiver both as a profession but also as a core piece of her identity.

My auntie was an incredible cook, a fantastic baker, a mushroom hunter, a fisherwoman. She was a loving and beloved wife to my Uncle John. She took care of many of her nieces and nephews and I’m lucky to have had the time with her I did. Most of all, she loved her babies and grand babies.

Human beings are complicated, multi-faceted, adapting, evolving creatures. No list I can create will tell the full story, but I can say for certain I know she loved me and I her. I can also say it was my honor and privilege to get to be with her and her family this past weekend. Doing the very hardest things with great love, I believe, constitutes a sacred prayer. I got to bear witness to those sacred prayers and offer my own as well.

100

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Over three months ago I started a project I wanted to try for a long time. Concluding one job and beginning another, getting over being pretty sick, and trying to anchor the beginning of my day with something other than dread and doom-scrolling, I followed some advice about deliberately creating joyful experiences. My method, my medium has been watercolor paint and 4”x6” heavy, cotton paper each morning before breakfast with coffee mug nearby. Painting isn’t a new endeavor for me, but putting these restrictions, or what I prefer to think of as simplifications, gave me enough wind and sail to propel me.

So what did I paint? Abstracts, landscapes, bouquets, trees, produce, and single flowers. I learned that being a beginner is a wide open field of opportunity. Skill and technique really come with practice. I might have learned this lesson better as a ten year old practicing the piano, but I’m a stubborn git and prefer when it’s my idea and not imposed on me. Mom, Dad, just be glad I eventually got there.

I learned that I have a quiet place I can go in my heart and my head that shuts out the noise just for a bit. I learned that the colors you think are right and the colors that make it better are often outside the obvious. I learned that the paper is part of my palette, that water has a mind of its own, and the blow dryer is really handy when you’re running on a tight schedule.

I also re-learned something about myself that apparently I have trouble believing. I’ve got grit and stick-to-it-iveness. I can do the things I set out for myself to do.

If we’re lucky, we get to add 100 more days after this one. Whether we do something or not this time will pass. Why not be a beginner at something? Or why not get better at something you already do? What would you like to be better at? What are you willing to give 20-30 minutes of every day toward? Would you learn something new about yourself?

A Part

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I have this part of me that developed when I was a little girl. She’s the part of me that decided instead of being reactive to unexpected hurt (Mom’s going to the hospital. Mom’s getting an apartment and not coming home. Our parents are splitting. Here’s this new lady Daddy likes and spends time with. Your home is broken. Get used to this new normal, which isn’t.) she was going to be preemptive. Imagine every possible worse case scenario, worry about it, worry about even the most inexplicably random, improbable things because, you just never know. You didn’t think your family would fall apart and it did. Why wouldn’t it be possible that you would be a coked out homeless teenager in New York City–heck even Nancy Reagan was warning you it might happen. It’s very much a child’s logic and yet, that part of me has played a large part in my adult life. It doesn’t help when the worst case scenario is realized as it was with Bryan’s illness. It reinforces that thinking.

But here I am navigating the world as a single adult and doing so with some moderately measurable amounts of success. I open the pickle jars on my own. I changed a lightbulb in the laundry room yesterday evening. I’m having a neighbor build me a fence that has been long overdue. Problems arrive and I tackle them with maybe some frustration occasionally that I have to, but then I do it. Some items on my to-do list have taken longer for me than maybe I’d have preferred, but I did those too. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m trying to persuade the childlike part of me who deals with heavy big feels and worry that actually my track record in facing hard things as a grown-up is pretty good. And while I appreciate the fierce determination this little person inside has to protect me, it hurts more than my simply dealing with things as they come.

I’m a pretty creative person. I paint and garden and bake and write and I have an imagination that is rich, vivid, and detailed. This is so much fun when it is. And scary as all heck when a childlike skillset utiizes a big, adult brain. Yowza! I’m trying to be soft and appreciative to this part and to let her know I’m the grown-up in the equation now and I’ve got this. It’s okay. You did your job, but I’ve got the wheel.