Life after Trauma

Breathing Space: taking time for myself

And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void . . . 

I wheeled with the stars

my heart broke loose with the wind.

Pablo Neruda

 

 Wind chimes (D. Sharon Pruitt, flickr)

 

As I mentioned in a previous posting, I've been staying at my parent's house for almost a month now. My mother is in a rehab center with an unset fracture in her right hip. I am staying with my dad at my parent's house, which has its moments. For one thing, I've never been a Daddy's girl. Quite the contrary. Dad and I can clash if I'm not careful  - especially when he's anxious, like he is now. So, the past month has been trying in many ways. For one thing, I am rarely in charge of my own time. Mom expects me to spent large amounts of time at the rehab center. On Monday, of this week, she was at the ER again because she wasn't able to swallow. By the time they took an x-ray, however, whatever was lodged in her swallowing tube, had dislodged. Based on her description of what she ate for lunch, the ER doctor thought it was probably a carrot. I call it the "evil carrot."  Anyway, between time spent at the hospital, in doctor's appointments, etc. I am plenty busy with my mom.  At "home", I am the chief cook, laundry doer, medical liaison, and dish washer. What it comes down to is that I have scant time available for myself. I need that time, the way plants need water. 

Some people refer to this space as self-care. Self-care is essential for trauma survivors, people grieving, and people with PTSD; it is certainly essential for me. I have to have quiet "processing" time or I start to feel anxious or -given the small space in my mom's room at rehab - as though I am suffocating. One of my favorite ways to enjoy quiet time, is to lie in the guest room, which is furnished with much of the furniture that was in my grandparents bedroom in Kentucky - and listen to my dad's wind chimes. He has about a dozen of them hanging from trees in the wooded backyard and on windy days or nights I can hear their peaceful chimes up in my room. I love the sound of the wind, the wind chimes, and the whistle of the train that passes several times during the night. 

 

 

Other ways I practice self-care

• Going barefoot 
• Eating fresh fruit
• Listening to music
• Reading poetry
• Talking to friends and family via email or phone
• Writing family and friends
• Walking

All of these ways are good ones. Little things, like going barefoot in the house, help ground me, while "big" things like going for walks and reading poetry give me comfort and recharge my batteries. Yesterday, I went for a walk and saw, among other things, snow drops blooming, a disappearing snow man embedded with leaves, and heard birds calling high up in the trees. The sun was out and for 25 minutes, all I needed to think about was breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the wind, and moving my feet one after the other. Most days, I take time to read poetry and most days I discover a new poem to love, like the one by Neruda above.

I'm also reading three books that are rich sources for ideas on self-care and self-compassion.

Saved by a Poem

Healing Walks for Hard Times

The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion

And, at night, listening to music feeds my soul. Here's one of my favorite "comfort" songs.

 

 

Coping - when real life demands our attention

Problems are not the problem; coping is the problem.

Virginia Safir

My husband is sick, my mother has a hairline fracture in her hip, and I'm making lists about everything I need to do before I fly to Michigan next Monday to be with my mom and dad. Thankfully, my sister will be there too, as much as she can. For those of you who may think that I do nothing but process grief and trauma, read poetry, listen to peaceful music, and go for walks in the woods (which I did yesterday, by the way), it's not always like that. Yes, I have the luxury of doing that sometimes. And I need that space and time to heal. But right now, I have to put my own concerns on the back burner and deal with more urgent matters. 

My husband has a cold or the flu - I can never remember the difference between the two - and he isn't happy!  Last night he had a fever and had hallucinations during the night: little creatures shaped like balloons with weird arms and legs running around our bedroom. (Thankfully, I didn't see them too.) He has a more-or-less non-stop cough and a constantly running nose. So, today, I set aside most of the things I had planned to do and went grocery shopping, washed clothes, cooked dinner, and generally pampered him. My son thinks he's getting sick too, but with any luck he won't because he eats enough oranges that I'm surprised that he doesn't turn orange. 

My husband's cold (or flu) will come and go. My son may or may not get sick. My mother's hip is a more complex and much more worrisome problem. Her hip fracture is "only" a hairline fracture, but it is in a location where it is impossible to operate on. I haven't been able to the x-ray and I have no medical experience, so I can't quite picture the situation. It's not necessarily life-threatening except for the fact that my mother is 78, has serious osteoarthritis, and is prone to pneumonia. I did an Internet search for "hip fractures elderly women" and wished that I hadn't because the first hit turned up an article on how hip fractures have a higher mortality rate than breast cancer in older women. Not exactly reassuring. It also wasn't reassuring that my sister, who as an occupational therapist and does have medical experience said, "I don't have a good feeling about this." 

Put those two things together and I really began to worry. And then Ruthie Foster's fabulous version of the spiritual "Travellin' Shoes" came into my mind. The first line goes something like this: "Death came a knockin' at my mother's door/Saying come on mother are you ready to go?" And then I couldn't get her voice out of my head and I had to listen to the song and downloaded it here so you can listen to it too. It's not that I expect my mom to die from her fractured hip - but she could.  It may seem morbid, but listening to this joyful, sad song eases my heart. 

 

One of the characteristics of  PTSD, is that people with PTSD tend to overreact to real life worries more than other people do. Emotional reactions explains this process. Needless to say, if I am in the throes of emotional overreaction or having panic attacks, I won't be much help to my sick husband or my mom and dad. This post suggests that it is important to watch your self-talk at these times and be more aware of your mind:  in other words practice mindfulness. I already do that and, I have learned the hard way, that during stressful times I have to take extra care of myself. So, with that in mind, I bought some hojicha tea today that a Japanese friend introduced me to last month - Japanese Sleepy Time, she calls it. I find it restful to drink a cup in the afternoon and I plan to take it with me to Michigan. I booked a double session with my therapist on Wednesday and I am creating an ipod playlist for unwinding at the end of the day. I'll think of more life-savers to take along before it's time to go. 

 

Today, I did manage to find time to have coffee with one of my African students and was delighted to receive a beautiful orchid for the New Year. Adit's beautiful smile and the orchid cheered me up and then I cooked a nice supper which cheered up my husband and now, as I write this, I am sipping a glass of wine. One glass of wine, not 2 or 3 or 4.  Relaxation is the key, not oblivion. Because that can be another aspect of PTSD - the desire to avoid unpleasant emotions of any sort or to be so afraid of them you have an anxiety attack or try and bury your emotions in a fog of drugs or alcohol.

Here are some words from Thich Nhat Hanh that speak to me right now. "Smile, breathe, and go slowly." I like these words so much that I'm going to write them down, keep them in my pocket, and try and remember to read them as often as I need to and follow what they say. It can't hurt. 

  Here's another take on the situation: an anonymous verse from the Christian tradition.

God hath not promised

Sun without rain

Joy without sorrow

Peace without pain.