Sing "Haaaaa" instead of "Maaaaa" or "Baaaaa!"

                Say “Haaaaa!” Instead of “Maaaaa” or “Baaaaa!”

I had a massage yesterday. Delicious. However, as my massage therapist, Kate, began kneading my left thigh, I was struck with sadness. In two days, they will remove part of my body. This is mind-boggling. The idea of surgery, like the idea of war, is a commonplace and familiar one. The reality of blood and guts, bone and skin, pieces of oneself being replaced or shot off is not.  Not acceptable, incomprehensible. It took two years for me to mourn the loss of my mitral valve. One day I was looking at the scar that divides my chest, and the enormity of what I had been through hit me. OMG. The gratitude and respect I feel for this scientific achievement does not alter the horror of having it done.

We went to the pre-op appointment, and it took four and one half hours to accomplish what could have been done in 120 minutes. Still, everyone was kind. Smile muscles in evidence everywhere. I should have brought my drawing pad in addition to my notebook. The result? I have too much information to sleep well until it’s over.

My body has been my ally for 64 years, and now its natural ingredients are being replaced with people-made materials of various sorts.

The injections started last night. Because I am on a blood thinner, I have to test my coagulation rate regularly, and when I have surgery or any procedure, I switch from a long acting anti-coagulant, in the form of a daily pill, to short acting injections, good for twelve hours each. That amounts to one shot in the belly, twice a day until the day of surgery.

Brave Robert performs this dastardly deed while I scream, “Haaaaaaaa!” Good old yoga breath. Scares the injector, but is a boon to the injectee.

“Who needs a nurse? The last time we were faced with these injections, we decided that since Robert was such a pro at injecting our goats and sheep, why not moi? Simply substitute “Haaaaa” for “Maaaaa or “Baaaaa!”

              4:50 AM • 2 days to go

        We just delivered my friend Anne to the airport. She has been a guest for three nights, visiting from Boston - an annual ritual. She played the piano and I sang French songs. We staged a celebrative dinner party, sipped tea on the lawn, watched the Koi kanoodle in the pond, dozed in front of Lord Peter Wimsey and talked of love, life, death and the good old days in Hollywood. We have known each other forever.

I am alone in the house. R. went to the gym. Now there are no more distractions. Nothing between me and the knife. I take that back. I have the sunshine today and the love of my family and friends and words to arrange on the page. I did learn that my dog Mumbles is not supposed to sleep with me the night prior to my surgery and for two weeks thereafter. It’s a germ thing. Everyone is extremely preoccupied with germs and possible infections. I am trying not to get paranoid, but actually considered putting on latex gloves before filling the bird feeders. Quick, anesthetize me before I go completely potty.

No dog in my bed for two whole weeks? (Maybe if he doesn’t get under the sheets, it will be okay.)  However, I am allowed to bring my stuffed bear, Belisha. So says the nurse practitioner, Monique. What’s up with that?

Belisha’s nose is orange and squeaks. I can make a real nuisance of myself at the hospital. Just kidding, I am a model patient.

Or will I be? Perhaps I have come into my own enough to act out just a wee bit.

Loose ends to tie up: Mutiny is the winner of the name-the-cane-contest. The art stickers came unstuck, so Mutiny remains naked, but not unabashed.  I am not misplacing her as often as I used to. An intensifying pain level has seen to that.

On Tuesday, my friend, Lizbeth, is driving down from Lincoln City to lend a paw. She will be the perfect complement to my recovery. Robert is a hero but can use some help. I adore Lizbeth. She is creative and funny, efficient and just lovingly bossy enough to keep me doing what I need to do and not doing what is forbidden. We laugh together. She is a great cook, lovely to look at and can make a mean cup of tea. So important. Also the dogs are crazy about her; she has endless patience when it comes to the flinging of slobbery tennis balls.

My prevailing current worry is not whether I’ll die under the anesthesia, bleed internally, have a stroke or form a blood clot, but will I be able to defecate after twelve hours of fasting?  I am a fish who loves English tea and H2O. I drink tons of water. Monday is going to be a very thirsty day. I won’t even allow myself to consider the impact that anesthesia and heavy-duty pain medication will have on my poor intestinal tract. Just put me under. I don’t want to know.

One more annoyance: I created a new greeting card about miracles and didn’t see the typo before I sent out a dozen copies. Some people turn to chocolate cake when they get anxious, I design a new greeting card. Oh well, in the scheme of things, ça ne fait rien. I’m sure my friends will understand.

Today we head out to the magic medical store cum party shoppe of old and select a raised toilet seat. My heart flutters in anticipation. You’re missing out on all the fun. Try to contain your envy.

Meanwhile, it’s time to feed the fish. Perhaps I will serenade them with a chorus of  La Vie en Rose.

Embraces of lovingkindess to all of you loyal readers.

See you again after the event.

Your ever devoted,

Hipster

"You look cute with your cane."

                                       A SMILE ISN’T FAR FROM A FROWN
             
    Sunday, my meditation group sat together under the willows and redwoods. Nine beautiful women, birds and butterflies and probably some hidden critters -- rats, mice, moles, squirrels and perhaps a garter snake, ants, mosquitoes, and an assembly of icky bugs whose names I do not know.
    It was peaceful, and as always when meditating with kindred spirits, my horizon expands. We sang and I played the harmonium. It isn’t easy sitting on the ground, and the getting up and down part is especially lacking in grace, but I rallied by keeping my left leg extended and limiting myself to one song. There was an array of instruments for those brave enough to play. We sipped tea and devoured ginger cookies and dates. Hearts were one. I read a fable I wrote years ago, The Magic of the Gayatree. Its moral: love prevails and true beauty lies within. Not a new idea, but one often overlooked.
    In twelve days I will be rolled into the operating room. La la la la la. Sing out -- or not.
    Recently, life has come into meticulous focus. This morning, when I ventured out to feed the Koi fish, I noticed hundreds of tiny beads of water decorating the leaves and branches of the bamboo. The huge orange Koi seemed to be lit from within, a neon fish; she took center stage. The other fish, lilies, lily pads and leaves were muted. It was magical.
    Don’t we always wish to live each moment as though it were our last? I’m not being morbid or dramatic but find myself spectacularly aware of the transient fragility of life. I am feeling grateful for my heightened mindfulness and abundance of loving feelings.
     At the end of our gathering, I read aloud from Rumi and Rilke.Then I invited everyone to write down one thing they wished to relinquish, a trait or area of resistance that blocked their happiness.  I plundered my psyche for what I might write down, and could come up with not one single item. Unusual for me.
    Somewhere in my core I feel everything is unfolding true to Mother Nature’s plot. Just for today, I am at ease with my dis•ease.
    My friendships are soul sustaining. Our reciprocity of  breath provides a safety net of healing.
    Woven into every aspect of my happiness is my family. They are the shimmering subtle fabric of my life and world.  Their loving is a constant. I can depend on it.
Mumbles offers comic relief with ball in mouth. Flakey remains the princess and reminds me to accept with grace, the love offered, and to rest luxuriantly  -- without guilt.
     *A smile isn’t far from a frown, just one goes up and one goes down.  Everything comes up opposites, doesn’t it? Two halves. One whole.
    Thunderheads are forming. Our hot summer is about to become cooler and the sultry air electrified. I love the scent of first-rain on a hot afternoon on the farm. I also love the city smells of first-rain mixed with buses and cars.
    Let us invite all of life in. Hold each other. Play a skipping game, or skip playing a game if you find yourself in my predicament. Instead, we can untie the seductive shoelaces of a patient friend -- very moist making.
    Now, you must enter the cane naming contest -- please. The reward will be a copy of The Buddha Smiles or Puddle Moon or six greeting cards of your choice, plus I will illustrate the cane by virtue of its name.
    I’ll give you an edge, contest-wise -- a hip tip. To date, entries include: Citizen, Candy, Sugar, Thunder, Nova, Rosemary and Abel.
    With lovingkindess,
                    The Hipster
As I exited my PT’s office yesterday, she said: “You look cute with a cane.”
Go figure.
* © 1964 and 2011 reprinted with permission from Huggs and Kisses and The Po Pages

WHERE OH WHERE HAS SHE GONE?

                                                  Where Oh Where Has She Gone?
              
    “Ouch!”
“Ouch ouch!”
    “Ouch ouch ouch!”
    It’s a new dance step. Sort of like the cha cha cha with added limp, limp, limp. Then there’s the dip.  It lends a certain
 je ne sais quoi to the whole performance. It is important not to slip when you dip, hence your partner must be both strong and agile.
    I’ve designed a cane into the costume. I might be onto something here.
    My usual disciplined demeanor has degenerated into a ritual of nervous micro managing -- tidying drawers, culling my closet, placing a doily under my teacup. My playful and spontaneous nature has corrupted into an impulsive energy that leaps octaves in a single bound. I’m happy, I’m sad. Wildly creative, then paralyzed. It’s sounds disgusting, doesn’t it?  The inevitable self criticism follows.
    Inevitable. That is the word the surgeon used when he first viewed my hip X-ray.
    “A complete hip replacement is inevitable,” he said. He imparted this bombshell with the matter of fact tone of voice one would use when saying, “The laundry is done, They called to say your truck is ready, I’m going to grill the tofu,” not the same delivery one would expect when announcing, “The dog is on fire, Your mother has always hated you, Oh and by the way, I’m going to cut you open and insert some plastic and titanium in your hip.”
    “Sigh.”
                                                          The Search Continues
             No cane, no pain? That it would be so.
    It’s not in the den or the bathroom, the bedroom or the tea room, the living room or the entryway. Where the Hell did I park my cane?
    My cane needs a GPS system. Or better yet, how about a cane to match every pair of glasses I own? There would be one cane by the bed, another by the computer in my office, one on the sofa in the movie room, and another in the atrium where I have a second desk that serves as a way station for projects in progress. Four canes and counting; I haven’t even considered my sunglasses yet.
    “Sigh.”
    As the surgery date draws nearer, our household is getting nutsier, as my mother would say. The signs of stress are showing in subtle ways, like stretch marks on elastic waistbands or cracks in the walls.
    R. has been grumpy and withdrawn. I’m distracted, a little depressed and having trouble overcoming the initial inertia of facing each new day after a long night spent searching for that one comfortable position. I shift. Mumbles shifts. This goes on until morning.
    I am relieved to see the sun and hear the morning birds’ twitter, but then I remember, limp, limp, limp. That first step is a monumental challenge, but I guess that applies to all first steps.
    “Sigh.”
    I don’t often indulge in self pity, but today I have tasted a morsel, and it’s not to my liking. It’s not fair is a completely gratuitous statement, but it crept into my conversation today. Sneaky devil. I delete it immediately, but a sour aftertaste remains.
    The one exception to the it’s-not-fair-is-gratuitous rule is when my bosom friend puts her arm around me, strokes my hair and says: “I know honey, life just isn’t fair. Never mind. We shall get through this together. I love you.”
    I remember to offer myself compassion. I forgive my human foibles and short comings and try not to catch any passersby in the crossfire of an emotional outburst, should one erupt.
    Mumbles will keep my secret. I give him an extra kiss on his proud nose, and all is well again.
    I call a friend. “Tell me about you,” I say. Then I listen with my whole heart. There is no better medicine, than this.
    That’s all for now. I must resume my search. The trouble is that I know I left my cane somewhere very sensible, logical and obvious.
    Remember to eat chocolate -- very dark, at least 88%

    Your Hipster

PAIN IN THE SERVICE OF HEALING

                                                Pain in the Service of Healing
    I am having a truly crappola morning. Hmm. Ordinarily, I don’t say things like crappola morning, much less commit them to print. Pain brings out one’s strangeness. It is extremely humbling.
    I fell yesterday. My husband scooped me up and  deposited me on the nearest lawn chair. It has a red cushion. Funny what sticks in the mind during moments of peril. Nothing was broken, thank Dog, but this morning everything aches,  and I’m black and blue all over -- not my best colors.
    My husband was heroic, and I’m in one piece, but not for long. Soon I shall be carved up. The days are ticking away; surgery looms. At our pre-op appointment, the doctor said:  
    “Keep moving. You need to be as strong as possible for this surgery. Pain is your ceiling.”
    Thanks a lot, I say, but not out loud. I would love to move: run, play, swim, do yoga asanas. But I get it. It is time to push myself a little harder without being stupid. So not only can today’s soreness be attributed to yesterday’s fall, but also to yesterday’s exercises in the pool and 15 minutes on the stationary bike.
     My husband’s scolding but loving advice after my tumble was succinct: “You can carry things and walk with your cane at the same time. You can even go up steps, carrying things and holding your cane, but you cannot carry things while holding onto your cane and going upstairs through the bushes.“
    Good. I can blame it on the bushes. Isn’t that the American way? To pin the blame on somebody else? Actually, that stopped working for me years ago. Rationalization has no place in my world anymore. Since I have to harvest what I sow, I want the fruits of my actions to be tasty, sweet, organic. I have learned to consider with care, how I move through this world, and taking a tumble now and again is part of it.
    Okay, I’ve brushed myself off. Yes, I’m in pain, but I am rallying. We are lunching with friends and then my assignment is to lend moral support to said friends and hubby as they try to master the art of SUPping on Emigrant Lake. I never knew there was such a word, but there it is. It involves balancing on a fiberglass board -- dimensions twelve feet by three feet -- and paddling while standing up. I can’t say this sounds like fun to me, but I have agreed to be the cheering section and promise not to laugh if anyone takes a tumble. Better to fall into the water than to take a prat fall on the hardwood deck in the bushes.
    Falling assaults the entire being. It is upsetting and disorienting and hurts on all levels.
    I am accepting the pain, not resisting. No resistance, no suffering, right?  Cover of The Buddha Smiles, in case you can’t remember where you saw that. Well, the actual quote is: “Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.” Same message.
    What I know about working with pain skillfully is this: you can immerse yourself in the pain; you can circle the pain; you can focus on something pleasant and entirely unrelated to the pain; you can note emotion and mind activity. The result: the delusion of a solid self dissolves and so does the suffering.
    The pain still exists, but it has become a friend instead of an adversary, and a universal friend at that. Now, I can aim for peaceful coexistence. Acceptance and equanimity are great tools for happiness in the face of life’s vicissitudes. I am breathing in the present. I’m showing up and employing my smile muscles, but not sacrificing my authenticity by being a pain-in-the-patootie-Pollyanna.
    Our discomforts, whether physical or emotional, offer an opportunity to cultivate compassion and suspend judgment. People act out, they get strange, they hurt us, and they also surprise us with their open-heartedness and generosity.
     So limp on, even though it hurts. Then when you sit down, ecstasy.

     With Lovingkindness,
            Your Hip reporter

FYI: I was using my cane when I fell.
This is what SUPping looks like.