Recovering from the kind of hip surgery I had is part art, part science, but mostly it is sitting still and following the doctor’s/PA’s/physio’s instructions to the letter.

For someone who a) is incredibly active; b) has run 14 marathons in four and a half years; c) is very fit, this sitting still has been a challenge.  For nearly two weeks post-op, I was spending about 4 hours in this device:

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And then additional time in the ice machine:

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And then trying to fit in physical therapy appointments as well.  It was just so…time consuming.  And some of the therapies were boring.  Four hours of bending?  Come on! But you know what?  I wasn’t in pain.  For the first time in almost a year, I wasn’t in pain! It was amazing.  Boring, time consuming, and amazing!  I’ll take it.

I went back to work in the second week of recovery, and would come home in the evenings and have another 2-4 hours of bending and icing to deal with after working a full day.  I have been marvelling this whole time about how great I feel, but also how much TIME this whole process takes.

Thankfully, my physio allowed me to substitute 20 minutes on my bike for one hour of bending, which has made the timing piece a bit easier.

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Seriously, you guys.  Open a new tab in your browser right now, and buy yourself a spin bike on Amazon.  I got this fancy contraption for less than $300, and it’s just as nice as something you’d ride at the gym.  Very sturdy; very quiet; super easy to put together. When I am fully back in the saddle, I will YouTube some spin routines, or be Sarah’s spin choreography guinea pig (it always helps to have a friend/cousin who is a group fitness instructor!).  But for now, I am using a timer set for 20 minutes on the iPad, and some old episodes of AbFab — which are are just what the doctor ordered.

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I cannot fathom how I went for so long being in so much pain.

I had my stitches out on Monday, and the surgical nurse showed me the photographs the doctor took during the surgery; showed me the placement of the screws in my hip joint; showed me the before-and-after of how they ground down the bone on my femoral head.

You had a lot of work done, the nurse explained, I’ve never seen quite so much inflammation in a joint before — see all that redness?  That’s why it’s so important for you to keep taking the anti-inflammatories.  We’re all shocked and pleased you’re in so little pain.

Not “little” pain.  I’m in NO pain, I said, eyeballing the screen, surprised by the fact of it myself.  I was looking at the redness on the screen; the rawness, and the things that had been hiding inside of me.  I was thinking of Jacob and the angel; of me wrestling with the unknown; of being forever transformed; of what this process has changed in me.

For now, on the doctor’s orders, I am sitting still.  I am taking it easy; I am asking for help; I am taking in support.  I am doing all the things that I never thought I would be able to tolerate or do.  I am recovering in all senses of the word.

I am not in pain and I have never felt quite so good.

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A few months ago, I was in Montauk with my girlfriends. I told the story of the trip, but I forgot to tell a few OTHER parts of the story.

We had planned this girls’ trip, and we were all en route to Long Island on a Friday afternoon when I had a complete, total, uncharacteristic melt-down.  It was mid-October and I was spent.  Work had been so busy, and life had been so busy, and I was strangely exhausted, and I was way behind on marathon training to boot.

But I also didn’t know then what it would take three more months to discover: That things that seemed so benign on the surface were actually malignant.

You see, that week I had just gone in for a routine scan, and the radiologist had incidentally noted a cyst that seemed like nothing, but would later turn out to be something.  And it would take two more months of accidental discoveries to uncover the fact that the alleged cyst wasn’t what it seemed.

Not long after that weekend in Montauk, I had seen a doctor to ask about switching a medication I was taking. I had made a few complaints, and as an afterthought, mentioned the radiologist’s report.  Moments before I left, he checked my chart and he decided to run a few additional tests.

They all came back with very abnormal results.

After Thanksgiving, and a few more rounds of tests, it was clear that something was wrong.  By mid-December, I was on edge with all the news I was getting.  And when I got back to New York, after a very busy week of work in London and Amsterdam, I had to schedule surgery for right after the new year.

Somewhere in my shock, I remembered that this was not the sort of news that one text-messaged to people — this was phone-call news.  It was a weird soup of emotions I cycled through — it was the process of not getting too emotional over knowledge I didn’t yet have, but getting emotional enough to look like I was scared.

I am not sure why I cared, at that point, about how I would be regarded by others.  I think it was because I had been told for so many years to have feelings; to be emotionally accessible.  But I had learned a long time ago that, at least in my experience, emotions had no place in a crisis.  Deal first, feel later.

I was dealing.

On Friday, 10th January, I had surgery.  Bethany came up from Washington to be with me, and we walked down from my apartment to the hospital together.  It was a damp, unremarkably grey morning after the Polar Vortex.  We arrived at the hospital, and the pre-op process was quick and painless.

And then it was done.  I had a few complications and so what should’ve been a straightforward day surgery wound up taking a couple of hours longer than expected (my blood pressure dropped significantly and unexpectedly in recovery, which was a little scary).  Bethany stayed another night, and eee and Katka stopped by.  I ate a lot of ice cream.  I survived.

This week, the doctor called with the pathology reports.  The “cyst” was really an early stage malignancy.  They were able to remove it all.  Further treatment would simply be close observation.

And that’s it, really.

I haven’t felt like myself in a long time; I haven’t felt like writing. Things have been weird, and scary, and unexpected.  And I have been extremely angry — angry in a way I didn’t know how to handle before now, and I don’t like to write about things until I feel I’ve got a good handle on them.

I have felt…rabid.  Frothing at the mouth; suspicious; unable to take in the simplest things.

And now, I am…healing.

Maybe someday, I’ll go into the intricacies of the wounds.  Maybe someday, this will all be worth discussing.  But for now, I am going to be…Okay.

#Reverb14 is the opportunity for us to reflect and project throughout 2014.   Each month, Kat, Sarah and I will be posting on a new prompt.  Please check out the #ProjectReverb main pain and join in.

Routine: Have you started a new routine this January?  Is this routine different from last year?  Is it the result of a resolution or goal you’re working on?  Tell us about your days.  How do they flow?  If you’d like, maybe give us a full “day in the life” or just some snippets.

My life is anything but routine these days.

I am waiting.  Waiting for news.  Waiting for the phone to ring.

Waiting is fine for other people, I keep telling myself. I am not a patient woman; I am used to skipping to the head of the class, the front of the line.  I had to wait to board a plane for the first time in years, recently, and it was stupidly jarring.  But…how have I forgotten who I am; what kind of idiot am I who thinks it is her birthright to go first?

So what makes me worthier of right now?

The answer is…nothing.

Not desire; not status; not…anything.  When it comes to waiting — the cosmic wait — I am just one amongst many; one amongst millions and billionsTake a number, kiddo.  Wait it out.

Since December, that has been the routine:  Wait it out.

I wait.  I phone friends.  I try to go about my daily routine — what’s left of it.  I snuggle up with the dog

When this process got started, the doctor’s nurse told me to write down some words that were meaningful.  I wrote down: Patience; bravery; stillness. When this process was well underway, she told me: You have great veins, as she took my blood.  They always say that to me, like having great veins can set aside the cognitive dissonance of the seeing a youngish, healthy-looking woman curled up in a hospital bed.

Today, the phone rings; the wait is over.  This is the news I have been waiting for.

It is weird, suddenly, to find that I have come through a thing I never fully knew I was suffering.  It is strange to suddenly possess a new vocabulary of sharp and dangerous words.  Cutting words; cut-out words.  I have, without my complete knowledge or consent, inherited a lexicon of survivor words.

And so begins a new life and a new routine.  It is a peculiar, quiet triumph.

These have been hard years.

This really occurred to me when my brother knocked at my door on the morning before the Marathon — after he escaped the Nightmare That Was Los Angeles Under Siege:  These have been very hard years.

I talk about them in the abstract; we talk about them in terms of Drugs, Heart Failure, Jail, Divorce, Eating Disorder, Loss, Et Cetera.  I talk about them in terms of Redemption, and What I Have Learned.  It has all been one, long, horrible Life Lesson — a very shitty Afterschool Special that Kristy McNichol might have starred in if this were the ’80s…

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…and in which she might play someone’s mom if she were still on TV.

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So my brother showed up at my house, by way of a miracle flight, on the Morning Before The Marathon, and I thought: The hard part is really over.

(I am not really sure why I had that thought, because I still had an entire New York City Marathon ahead of me.)

We ran the race, but I barely remember the race.

We got to the finish, but I barely remember the finish.

We arrived back at my house, and then I remember opening the door to a house full of people I love — people who were screaming SURPRISE, and who were passing a tray of Champagne around.

At some point this year, I think I stopped fumbling.  At some point this year, our little urban tribe hit The Bottom.  And perhaps that sounds silly, because one thinks that things “can always get worse,” but on the morning before the Marathon, I discovered that The Bottom is not always the worst place to be.  I thought: Why do we have to be such pessimists?  Sometimes, The Bottom is merely the point at which you make your Revelation.  It is the point at which you are Redeemed.

Together, we have survived the worst kinds of losses, and crises, and all of the kinds of things that most people don’t ever encounter in a lifetime.  Together, we have weathered the kinds of things that tore my marriage apart.  We have sat together in hospital rooms and kept watch; we have rushed across state lines to be together.  We have celebrated victories, and cheered accomplishments.

We have shared secrets; we have found safe spaces.  We have laughed, and cried, and climbed mountains.  We have run the hardest races and still reached the finish.

We have…survived.

I think that the scariest thing about relationships is not knowing whether you will be loved back — not knowing whether, if when you leap, that the net will appear.

We have been each other’s net.

We have held on.

What have I learned?  What life lesson has come about?

I have learned that sometimes, one has to lose everything in order to Start Again.

I have learned that I do not have to “behave” in order to be loved.

I have learned this because, years ago, I invested in many box-sets of After School Specials. Someone had copied them all to DVD, and was selling them on Amazon.  I bought the ones where Rob Lowe is a teen father, and he figures it out.  I bought the ones where Kristy McNichol is a wayward teen orphan who learns how to love and be loved.  I even bought the one only available on VHS where the Edward Hermann (aka Richard Gilmore from Gilmore Girls) is a widower who buys his kids an electric grandmother who teaches his motherless children how to open their hearts.

I don’t think I knew, back when I purchased this treasure trove of complete nonsense, that it would have a purpose.  Did any of you watching those specials back when they aired believe that they would be The Light that guided you out of the Shitswamp?

Probably not.

I did not.

But I guess what those shows were trying to teach — either by accident or maybe on purpose — was resilience.  The Main Idea is that if you fall, you can get back up. If you leap, the net will appear.

The race is long, and the miles will be hard, but at some point, you rise to the challenge, and you learn to live again.

I did not think I could ever be so grateful for these years I have spent in freefall.

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Throughout the month of November, I will be posting stories of change, gratitude, forgiveness, and grace — both my own words, and the tales of carefully selected guest voices.

I think that if God forgives us we must forgive ourselves. Otherwise, it is almost like setting up ourselves as a higher tribunal than Him.
- C.S. Lewis

I am hard on myself.

I find it easier to forgive others, but hard to forgive myself.  But if I can’t forgive myself, am I really forgiving anyone?

What sort of bullshit system do I have going here?  What sort of false piousness is this?

This time of year, I see a lot of posts on Facebook and on Twitter — self congratulatory posts — about paying it forward.  People who write statuses and tweets about the times that they give unto others.

I paid for lunch for a blind, one-legged 127 year old WWI veteran today.  He was so grateful!  Brought tears to my eyes when he thanked me!  Remember to pay it forward!

I cannot forgive myself for the time I didn’t do X or Y for someone close to me, and then she died, so now I always do X or Y for strangers in our community.  Remember to always to X!

I’m just as guilty of this as anyone else, by the way, so this isn’t me passing judgment — it’s more of an observation.  I talk about the money I donate, and the fundraising I do, and the volunteering I undertake.  I want you to know about it.  I want you to think I am a good person.

Why do I want you to think I am a good person?  Because I think I’m a bad one.  Because I can’t forgive myself for the major and minor trespasses I’ve committed.  Because I was a jerk to someone this morning, or did something imperfectly, or tried and failed and failed again, and so I have to tell myself — by telling everyone – that I cannot possibly be a Real Jerk because I do these good things for other people; because I practice kind actions, and I pay it forward; and I actively forgive.

But what I have found, in my limited experience in thirtysomething years as a human, is that it is infinitely easier to be less of a jerk to others when I am nicer to myself.  I have found that I do not have to run around, bumbling, fumbling, frantically pay for others’ drinks and brag about it on social media to compensate for my bumbles and fumbles, when I am just a little kinder to me.

It’s not just about the false piousness, though.  Failing to forgive means continuing to resent.

I don’t really want to be resentful anymore.

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Throughout the month of November, I will be posting stories of change, gratitude, forgiveness, and grace — both my own words, and the tales of carefully selected guest voices.

A guest post by my friend Aimee
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I offered to write something on gratitude
But I had no idea how difficult it would be to put into 1000 words or less,
The overwhelming amount that I feel
When I tried, I sounded like an annoying Pollyanna
I made myself a little sick reading what I’d written
Perspective is everything so I will attempt to give you mine

At the age of 35 I nearly died
I had a large aortic aneurysm
It was so large none of the medical professionals who saw it had ever seen one that big
A tech administering my follow-up echo after surgery said, “Oh I’m sure people have had aneurysms as large, they just died before they made it to the hospital.”
The emotional fall out for me was huge
I suffered anxiety, depression and I ended an 11 year relationship with my son’s Father.

At 36 the same disease that attacked my heart, attacked my eyes and I went legally blind for a period of time.
I was finally diagnosed with an often fatal, auto-immune disease and I spent the year fighting for my vision, my life, and custody of my child.

It was the year I turned 37, just after going blind, that I lost everything, but also gained everything
I could no longer work, I was in court trying to keep my child at least once a month, and I was in and out of the hospital and doctors offices just as often
For the first time in my life, probably since the age of 15, I had to rely heavily on others
I felt helpless and lost all sense of independence
My parents drove me everywhere and I was financially dependent on my boyfriend
I did not feel like an adult
But I was incredibly grateful to be surrounded by friends and family so willing to give and do so much for me.  It was during that time of dependence and vulnerability that I started to see and appreciate just how much good there was in my life

I am 38
Custody has been resolved and although my disease is not in remission, I can see enough to drive again
And I am starting to feel better overall
I don’t spend most of my days sick in bed or on the couch and I am able to help around the house, cook and run errands, lessening the burden on my now fiancé
He, supported, cooked, cleaned, and carried me through last year
He did not sign up for this at all
He met a very independent woman who never wanted to lean on anyone
And less than a year into the relationship he had to do everything for me and he did it all without question or a single complaint
My Father, who was never a person on which I could rely
Suddenly became a person on whom I could rely
And a lot of my childhood wounds, feeling abandoned by him, were finally healed
The number of friends and family who stood by, while I was humbled with weakness
And offered emotional support, kindness, and generosity overwhelms me
Last year taught me about the goodness in humanity
Even though it was a lesson taught through the most trying of times
I’m thankful for it
I view the horrible year, as a gift
It changed me and it changed how I conduct myself
I am a better person and I’m happier
My perspective on life has completely changed
And for that, I have nothing but gratitude

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photo aimee

Aimee is a writer, and a mother of two boys, a dog, a cat, and five chickens.  She’d like to write prose, but each time she tries, she writes poetry.  Her hair is the color of corn at harvest, and her laughter makes each snapshot of her…perfectly, beautifully Aimee.

Aimee and I have been friends for nearly nine years, but have yet to  meet in person.  She is, and always has been, an inspiration to me, and my admiration for her grows all the time.
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Throughout the month of November, I will be posting stories of change, gratitude, forgiveness, and grace — both my own words, and the tales of carefully selected guest voices.

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There are things you think are never going to happen.

For instance:

I’m never going to run a Marathon.

My brother is never going to get better.

My life will never improve.

Things will never get better.

I’ll never find my way.

And then, because you believe — and you don’t have to believe as I believe, you just have to have something to believe in — things get better, they really do.

The thing about running marathons is…it’s hard.  It’s mentally and physically hard.  But, one step at a time; one foot in front of the other, you go from walking to running, to running for really long periods of time.

I have run a lot of marathons.  None have been so great as the 2013 ING New York City Marathon.  It wasn’t a personal best, and in fact, it was a rather painful day out on the course because I was running injured.  But it was one of the greatest days of my life, running with my brother; being paced by one of my best friends; meeting my brother and our parents, and Paul (who had met my parents for the first time that morning, and had obviously gotten on well with them, because they were all wearing matching fleeces by the time they got to Central Park) and Katka (whom my parents love more than words) at the finish line; coming home to a house full of the people I love most in this world shouting SURPRISE and handing us glasses of champagne.

So often, I forget to say thank you.  Sometimes, I forget to say, I love you.

This was one of those days where every moment was a chance to say thank you, I love you, thank you, I love you, thanks.

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Throughout the month of November, I will be posting stories of change, gratitude, forgiveness, and grace — both my own words, and the tales of carefully selected guest voices.