The surgeon was running a little late. I was right on time. I had followed every pre-op instruction to the letter: donated a unit of my own blood to receive back during surgery, had an MRI and new X-rays, taken my liquid iron and B vitamins and blood thinner and Celebrex, met with an anesthesiologist, a physical therapist, a pharmacist. I’d given up coffee and my evening glass of wine days ago, had my teeth cleaned (from now on, that will involve a precautionary dose of antibiotics), tidied up the house and paid the bills, and scrubbed my right hip twice a day for three days with Hibiclense. I even got my hair cut.
Through it all, I worried and wondered. Was I doing the right thing? Would I be better off to accept my lot, buck up, and carry on with my own two painfully arthritic hips? Was I trying too hard to hold on to youth? Being greedy to want to hike or do triangle pose or ride a bike again? Or would I look back, as a few hip-replacement veterans predicted, and wonder why I waited so long to get new parts?
By the time I climbed into my assigned bed in a small pre-op cubicle at New England Baptist Hospital last Friday, there was nothing more for me to do. And there was certainly no point to any more mental dithering and debating. A curious, unexpected calm descended.
I was warm and comfortable. Whatever happened next was completely out of my hands. I’d expected to find myself at this juncture feeling terrified, with clammy hands and a heart pounding with anxiety — my typical response to stress. Instead I was . . . peaceful. It occurred to me that this is what faith feels like – the quiet, still, rather unfamiliar place Khalil Gibran calls “an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking.”
Somehow, moments away from the first major surgery of my life, I had found my way to that oasis. An accidental destination, deep and mysterious and welcome.
“We’ll give you something to make you relax before we take you in to the operating room,” a nurse promised as she deftly slipped an IV needle into a vein in my wrist. As it turned out, there wasn’t time to administer the drug meant to soothe my nerves. When the doctor was finally ready, he wanted me in there on the table, pronto. It didn’t matter. Some invisible current had already begun to flow. And I had given myself over to it.
As I sit on the screened porch at my parents’ house six days later typing these words, there are many small details of the last month that come bubbling up. Since I last wrote in this space, my beloved friend Lisa died after a long journey with brain cancer. The intensity of her final weeks and the intimacy, wonder, and grace of the three-day vigil friends and loved ones created after her passing — sitting with her body, reading and singing and praying and speaking to accompany her soul as it departed – every bit of this is all still vivid in my mind. (A subject for another day perhaps.)
The grief I feel is fresh, but not raw. There is a quiet oasis in my heart for this sadness, too. I keep thinking of the dream I had in the recovery room on Friday, exactly two weeks after Lisa’s death. While swimming my way back to consciousness after surgery, I experienced something that was perhaps more illumination, or visitation, than dream: Lisa and I sitting together having a picnic by a lake, a shared sense that all was well, that there was nothing very unusual here, just our simple joy in seeing each other.
Moments later – or maybe an hour later? who knows? — I woke up from that shimmering picnic, surrounded by nurses speaking my name. The first days with my new hip were more than I’d bargained for: the pain, the nausea, the foggy brain, the plugged up digestive system, the pully hanging over the bed for slowly moving my leg, the hesitant steps on crutches, the mushy, marshy nowhereland between sleep and wakefulness, neither of which was fully achievable.
And yet. Somewhat to my surprise, I was still in the oasis, still at peace, still surrounded by kindness and love. Held afloat by the good wishes and prayers of a whole circle of dear friends, I had only one task: to relax into that love and allow it to bear me forward.
On Sunday afternoon, my husband drove us here, to my parents’ house, the finest rehab facility anyone could wish for. My mother ceded to us their king-sized bed and bathroom on the first floor and greeted me with turkey soup, tulips, and the ice pack of my dreams. And so, just months before my parents leave this dear old house forever and move into the new smaller one they’re building closer to us, I find myself returned to the home of my childhood for one last time.
The autumn leaves drift down, a golden dance of deliverance. In the backyard, the apple tree – so much broader now than when we two first met nearly 45 years ago – has released her generous crop of golden apples, spread around her like a skirt. As I make my way slowly around the back yard on my crutches, I must be mindful of fallen acorns thick underfoot, the oak trees’ abundant yield. Every where I look, it seems, something is letting go.
Even as my parents await their moving day, the new owners of this land have begun to realize their own vision for it, carving out roads and house lots and felling trees. Each day, we listen as the forest my brother and I wandered as children disappears. Early this morning the huge machine was right at the edge of the yard. For my mother, who has spent most of her adult life in silent conversation with these trees, it was wrenching to see them shudder and fall, one after another, each loss forever changing the landscape of this place we all still think of as home. Little wonder that we found ourselves in tears.
“You knew this was going to happen,” my dad reminded her. And of course we did. Still, for a few moments there, as I stood on my crutches and my mother leaned on her cane in the unseasonably mild sunshine, and the trees crashed down one by one, the symbolism was almost too much to bear – the last act of The Cherry Orchard revisited.
But in a little while the workers moved on, out of sight. The felled trees were silent, the view out past the field so much vaster than before.
My parents spent many years creating a home here, but they leave it behind knowing full well the time has come to let go. In a sense, the letting go happened already, as they chose a new place to live, sold this one, began cleaning out sheds and cellars and drawers. For them, too, the debating and deliberating is over, and there is nothing to do but have faith in their own next steps.
A few days before my surgery, I admitted to my husband that I wanted a break from lessons in letting go. The last year has been hard, one loss after another. And the two hip replacements, though my own choice and surgeries from which I expect to fully recover, well, they represent a kind of loss as well.
It’s been a long time since I went up the stairs without grimacing or walked without pain. The two-year-long medical journey that led me to this decision has been humbling in every way. And, too, there is a vulnerability after surgery that’s altogether new to me, as challenging in its own way as any of the physical trauma. Like most of us, I much prefer the role of capable care-giver to that of needy patient. But here I am. My husband spots me as I step gingerly into the shower. My mom wrestles my tight support stockings up over my calves. My friends, bless them all, are offering meals. A nurse comes every couple of days to check my INR levels. I look at the pharmacy’s worth of medications and vitamins on the counter and can hardly believe they belong to me, the girl who eschews Tylenol.
And so, moment by moment and day by day, even as I heal and graduate to one crutch and learn to use the four-foot-long shoe horn to get my sneakers onto my feet, I also have to surrender over and over again to this new vulnerability, and to the loss of my young, fit, able body that served me so well for so many years with all its own parts intact. Right now, my newly operated on right leg is one inch longer than the left. The next surgery, no longer optional, will even me out. Till then, I’ll wear different kinds of shoes on each foot. No matter; I’ve had to let go of my fashion aspirations, too.
But just now, as I finally have the time and space to sit quietly and begin to reflect on all that’s happened in my life this autumn, I’m beginning to see things a little differently. Perhaps the hard lessons I’ve been learning haven’t been so much about letting go as they have been about letting be. “Letting go” suggests a need to actively do something: let go of hurt, let go of fear, let go of what’s over, let go of expectations of what will be next.
What if there is a path to the oasis in the heart after all? And what if that path opens at our feet when we stop trying so hard to decipher the roadmap through life and allow ourselves instead to simply be with life as it is?
Everything comes and goes: the green of springtime and the fleeting gold of fall, the apple blossoms of May and the ripe fruits of October, the tiny acorn and the mighty oak. Not to mention youth and age, homes and bodies, hopes and dreams, life and death. We don’t have to do anything – neither hold on tight nor let go. We can just let it be.
“People who have faith in life are like swimmers who entrust themselves to a rushing river,” says the wise Benedictine monk David Stendhal-Rast. “They neither abandon themselves to its current nor try to resist it. Rather they adjust their every movement to the watercourse, use it with purpose and skill, and try to enjoy the adventure.”
Enjoy the adventure. I love this idea just as much as I love the image of an oasis in my heart. And it seems that “letting it be” is both a profound affirmation of faith and an opening to possibility. I am savoring this quiet, healing time more than I ever would have expected. After many, many months of doing, being is quite a welcome relief. After all that worrying and second-guessing, it is lovely to allow my own caravan of thinking to come to a halt for a while. After a long chapter of caregiving, offered with all my love, I’m deeply grateful to those who are showing up to care for me. I do my new hip exercises. I read and take naps. Slow walks up and down the driveway. Some chair yoga. The oasis in my heart is green and quiet, its waters undisturbed. The days fly by.
a bit more. . .
So many of you reached out with kind words during my friend’s illness and that circle of support meant a great deal. It was an honor for me to have an opportunity to write Lisa’s obituary, to spend a few days trying to capture the essence of this very special friend and teacher. For those who might wish to know more about her, here’s a link that will bring you to the full version of my remembrance of her. May you, too, be inspired by the qualities she embodied. Click here.
On September 27, I joined Team Diane for the last seven miles of the Jimmy Fund Marathon Walk. Buoyed on by ibuprofen, my commitment to this important cause, and my dear friends (and glad that by mile 19, their pace had slowed down a good bit), I was able to walk that day in support of ovarian cancer research. And thanks to YOUR incredibly generous contributions, my walk brought over $2,500 directly to Dr. Ursula Matulonis and her ovarian cancer research team at Dana Farber. My very belated individual notes are coming soon. But in the meantime, here, now: thank you!
Wow I had no idea you had surgery it is always so hard but so worth it. my husband had a knee replacement this last January and he is really glad he is out of pain. I will keep you in my prayers.
Everyone I know who has had replacement surgery says that it was worth the short term loss for the long term gain. My Mom (we call her Bionic Mom) had both knees and a hip replaced when she was in her 70s! The change in her life was remarkable. Hoping that your replacement will bring renewed ability and a lot less pain and limitation.
I had three surgeries 11 years ago for breast cancer, and experienced the same feeling of peace and warmth you describe before them. I also know others who have had a similar experience. I think that you reach a point where you realize that things ARE out of your hands, and you somehow have the wisdom to accept that and have faith that all will be well.
May the beauty of the season that surrounds you and the love of those who are caring for you bring you continued peace and healing as you emerge from this valley of your journey.
xoxo been thinking about you all the time all week. just drowning in life here so all I could manage was good thoughts.
Very best wishes to you, Katrina, as you recover. Your chosen mindset continues to amaze and inspire me. Letting be… yes, a good lesson to remember and so hard to make happen in our go-go-busy-busy- culture. Thank you for sharing your insights as I take time simply to “be” and read your wise words.
There are tears flooding down my cheeks as I read this. Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. I just wish there was a way to convey to you how deeply your words touch me. xox
I love your post today. Reminds me of a poem from Hank Dunn’s Book “Hard Choices for Loving People.” I pray you have a speedy recovery! xo
Giving Up, Letting go and Letting Be
By Hank Dunn
Giving up implies a struggle —
Letting go implies a partnership —
Letting be implies, in reality, there is nothing that separates
Giving up says there is something to lose —
Letting go says there is something to gain —
Letting be says it doesn’t matter
Giving up dreads the future —
Letting go looks forward to the future —
Letting be accepts the present as the only moment I ever have
Giving up lives out of fear —
Letting go lives out of grace and trust —
Letting be just lives
Giving up is defeat at the hands of suffering
Letting go is victory over suffering
Letting be knows suffering is often in my own mind in the first place
Giving up is unwillingly yielding control to forces beyond myself—
Letting go is choosing to yield to forces beyond myself —
Letting be acknowledges that control and choices can be illusions
Giving up believes that God is to be feared —
Letting go trusts in God to care for me —
Letting be never asks the question
So many layers in this writing. I, too, thought of you….not knowing exactly when your surgery would be but sending you prayers. Beautiful writing and lots to think about. You are able to take fuzzy notions in head and articulate them so clearly and touching. Wish I lived close enough to be part of your team.
Thank you, Katrina. You are a gifted writer…putting in words so many feelings that mirror my own feel, yet I have been unable to articulate them. May your healing journey continue to be a time of being in that peaceful place. And please let your folks know I am thinking of them as they move into their new home.
As always Katrina, your words touch my heart. Such a powerful post with richly vivid images and feelings. I really feel for your parents and for you. As a nurse, it sounds wonderful the way you are handling recovery.
Your note came at the perfect time. My sister took her life in July and at 3 am last night I got a phone call that my 90 year old mother was just taken to hospital following an overdose. She doesn’t want to live since my sister is dead. I am now going to approach this with, “Letting it be.” Thank you.
I have checked your website for a new blog every day- not knowing you were having surgery, yet thinking of you. I love your writings and each time, they speak to me. I learn something, and I cry. I too want to begin to “Let be”. AMEN!
Get better. Listen to your own words of wisdom and just savor the time while you heal. You will get better. You will be physically active again. I love the poem from Sally about letting go and letting it be. I love your reference to David Stendhal-Rast. What wonderful thoughts and wisdom! Thank you.
Katarina –
I, too, was in 24 hour a day pain for the past 3 years due to a bad hip. I had the replacement surgery on January 28th of this year and what a joy it is to wake up and go throughout my day pain free now. The first 10 days to 2 weeks are the longest and hardest and truly, a very easy journey after that. My friend had both hips replaced this year, 4 months apart, and is a changed woman now, as well. So keep your newfound peaceful place and know that there are thousands wishing you well. I am so sorry you have experienced so much loss this past year and send you 10,000 Blessings that 2016 will be full of joy for you and your family. Your writing has given so many of us great comfort, joy and even “aha” moments. Thank you for sharing your gift with us. God Bless You.
Katrina, I was just thinking about you the other day, wondering when I would
get another post, and here you are, you are amazing, I admire your strength, but
I have to say I felt sad for your Mom seeing those trees comes down on her life.
it would be like losing your neighbours that were always there for you, I do hope
they love their new place but I am sure there will be times when they will miss those
trees dearly.
Take care of yourself, look forward to hearing from you soon.
May I say first that the obituary for your friend was absolutely beautiful. You are truely blessed to have had such a wonderful friend, and she to have had you! Your friendship is something special and incredible.
I hope that you are feeling on the mend. I am sure it is wonderful and bittersweet to be with your parents in your childhood home. Enjoy it.
Take care of yourself and thank you so very much for sharing yourself, your insight, wisdom, and messages.
Katrina
Thank you for sharing your thoughts on your journey thus far, so beautifully shared and applicable to so many life experiences. Letting go and trusting can take us all through many a long hard day.
Wishing you a speedy recovery and continued peace in your road to wellness.
Thank you.
In June of 2001,I had my left hip replaced. I was 48 years old, My children were 10 and 13. My daughter’s Bat Mitzvah was that November and I was able to dance at her party.
In July of 2007, I had my right hip replaced. Six weeks later I was driving because my son needed to be chauffeured to his activities and he didn’t have a driver’s license yet. In Oct. of 2012, I had a total knee replacement. That actually went easier than the hips. On Sept. 8 of this year, I had my left knee replaced. My bone spur that dug into my knee every time I walked and caused excruciating pain had been removed during the operation. I can’t believe I am pain free. I am 8weeks post-surgery, and feel so much better. Through my wonderful doctor, great physical therapists, a terrific husband, and great friends, I finally feel like me, only better. I can actually go up and down steps for the first time like a normal person, I can drive a car, I can wait in line without rocking back and forth, and I can lay down without pain. I don’t know why I waited, Perhaps it was fear. Going through four total replacement surgeries in fourteen years has not been easy for any of us. I thank god I am well again. I appreciate every step I take, something most people take for granted every day. Life is good.
.
Dear Katrina-
Wishing you patience and good progress as you recover. Having never had major surgery myself, but being close to those who have, I so appreciate that the recovery process can be trying. My recent broken toe, about as mild an injury as exists, reminds me of the need for patience, and gives me empathy for you temporary need to put aside fashion aspirations for shoes! Please take care of yourself and give your Mom and Dad my best wishes too.
Katrina, I am so glad your parents are moving closer to you as I know these years will be treasured. Like your Mom, I am hesitant to see all these trees felled for the change, we will see what all that brings as well. Glad to hear of your physical progress.
Best wishes to you – my father had his right knee replaced 8 days ago, and is still in the rehab center, but doing well. He had his left one done ten years ago – and said afterward, as you mention, ‘why did I wait so long?’ He’d been in pain since a football injury in the late 1950’s. Enjoy the time with your parents, and I’m glad you seem to be in a good place. Will send healing thoughts your way. 🙂
Katrina, what a wonderful journey I had this morning reading your words. Full is the way I feel now, and hopeful. Sending healing thoughts to you on your new adventure.
There are certain things that pop into your space at a time when you need to see them, hear them. And as I sit here with tears in my eyes, I realize this is one of them. Words to hold onto as I face days ahead.
I send a heart full of healing to you — to your hips, to your heart, to your soul. I think all three are well on the way but I add my wishes to the countless others you’ve received to wrap around you like a warm, cozy blanket. Perhaps we first must let go to finally let be. I hope so. Thank you.
So glad you are back Katrina & the hip is behind you. With the expert help you will be getting from your Mom & your own make up you know you will be doing yoga & all the other things you want to do in no time.
Fondly,
Polly
Bathing in your insights as I share in your physical pain through my own (very recent) knee replacement surgery and struggle a bit with the “letting go” of so many things at this stage of life. Thank you as we both rest in His grip.
I love and appreciate your thoughtful words of “being”. You inspire me always! Sending love and healing as you continue to recover.
Katrina,
You have been in my thoughts as I have been remembering that you had an impending surgery. I am glad you are doing o’k. Amazing where this path alone has taken you. I am sorry for the passing of your beloved friend. She indeed seemed like a remarkable woman and I am honored to know a bit of whom she was through you. I do hope your days up ahead find you seriously thinking about publishing your blog posts. Collectively, they are book worthy! I know many of us had made mention of it before again, and again. It’s wish-list stuff for me! In the meanwhile, do take good care of you. You deserve that oasis. Thanks, again, for passing on your brilliant thoughts and words!
sending love through all the letting go’s and the tenderness that so infuses your days. holding your mama and papa in a special close place to my heart. the trees being felled feels crushing. your picnic dream made me weep, as i not long ago dreamed of a potluck for a friend who was dying. her mama, gone for maybe three years, came to the potluck in my dream, and welcomed her beautiful daughter into her arms. my friend died five days after i had the dream. and i have to believe it was as real and as close to “the other side” as we are ever graced to be. oh, how i would love a picnic dream now. just to squeeze her hand one more time…..that you had that dream as you drifted out of anesthesia is truly amazing. typically anesthesia blocks dreams. but someone wanted you to have that one…..xoxox
I was so happy to read your post. I’d been thinking about you for days and wondering if you had decided to stop posting but now I know how busy you have been caring for a friend and preparing for an operation. I’m sorry you have had to endure both experiences but am so glad you are on a path of healing. I can’t wait to read about your first post-op hike or Yoga class. As always, your post makes me feel better and less alone with the changing landscape of my life. For today and each day to follow I will try and Let if Be. Here’s wishing you each day finds you a bit stronger than the day before. You and your word are such a gift in my life. Thank you.
Oh, my sweet friend. I had no idea you were facing this surgery. I guess that means I’ve been terrible about keeping up with you! I’m enjoying this new life in the Colorado mountains, but still think of (and miss) my east coast friends. If you are ever in this state, please come by for a hug!
In your opening paragraphs I was taken back to my hospital time, laying there waiting for my huge surgery a dozen years ago. So much anticipation. So much hoping/wondering if it was the right choice but willing to just jump in and make it work. I’m happy you are recovering patiently. It WILL be worth it. I’m a prime example (with different body parts!) You can borrow my life mantra, the one I use when life throws the big stuff my way – This Time Next Year.
This time next week, or this time next month, not a lot will be ‘all better’. But man, this time next year you won’t believe how good things will be. Imagine dates in the future…for your recovery I’d pick Easter. Imagine how much more mobile you’ll be at Easter. Imagine the walks you’ll take in the East Coast spring time, around Easter time. Let those visions get you through today, and the snowed in months. Then, when Easter gets here, and you are taking that spring hike, smile. Take a moment to be thankful that Easter did in fact arrive, and brought with it the recovery you’ve been dreaming about. These are my coping skills, that have served me well through my big recoveries.
Hugs, my friend. From the amazing mountain side in Colorado that I now call home. I miss you, and my far away friends, but love that I have this thing called an internet, that keeps me posted on what you’re up to. Happy healing. If anyone is equipped to heal quickly and thankfully, it will be my friend Katrina! I am carrying you in my heart as your hip knits to your body.
MUCH Love!
Judy
Dear Katrina,
As always, your words are just what I need to hear and I am always amazed at how you get right to the heart of the matter. Being sick or not at our best is so difficult, and yet, you have transformed your experience into one of learning what it is to let things be. What an oasis your words are. Thank you!