Category Archives: deep thoughts

My Shoulders

My shoulders. They have been blessed to bear the burdens of my life. But those burdens have left my shoulders scarred and stiff. Inflexible. Too tender for touch.

My shoulders tell many stories, particularly the left shoulder where I have a thick scar. Thinner on the ends, pale pink in the center and red along the edge.

This scar is now more than 20 years old, from when I was in the midst of cancer treatment (bone cancer, a large tumor above my knee). I had an ‘infusaport,’ a catheter, inserted into my shoulder so the chemotherapy could be administered more easily and directly into my bloodstream. Previously, they had tried IVs in my arms & hands, but these were inadequate for the task of administering the volume of drugs that I would receive. I would need a semi-permanent catheter embedded between the skin and muscle of my shoulder.

They had to make an incision about 3” long to insert the port. This scar never healed well, as the chemo was killing all of the ‘growing’ cells in my body—including those that would close the incision. My weekly chemo was pumped through a 3”long needles inserted into my shoulder and into the port. The needles left gaping holes that would not heal. Open sores.

By the time I was finished with my treatments, things started to heal. At least on the outside. But I couldn’t stand to touch my shoulder–not even with soap and washcloth–and I flinched whenever someone brushed against the shoulder accidentally. I always approached hugs with the right side of my body, hoping to avoid contact with the left.

I was self-conscious about the scar, which even years later was a raw red color. When I went to prom and chose a dress with thin straps, my Mom sewed a ruffle to cover my left shoulder. A Young Women’s leader taught me to sew my own swimsuits, and I learned to put bright ruffles and straps across my left side.

I married about 8 years after the end of my chemotherapy treatments. I explained to John about my shoulder, asked him not to avoid it. Warned him of the teeth-gritting pain that accompanied even a light touch. I trusted him to be gentle. And he has been.

In meditation over the past few months, I’ve come to realize that my shoulders are carrying great pain. They are stiff and tight. I stoop. By the evening they are sore and burning, they have knots of stress. I began to realize the need for healing. To make them my own again. I started gentle stretches. Worked to make them more loose. Looked at myself in the mirror and pulled my shoulders back–standing straight and tall.

I told my yoga teacher of my desire to work on my shoulders. She pulled me and a classmate aside. She had me bend at the waist, then balance on one foot with the other foot stretched out straight behind me. The other woman took my wrists and pulled them firmly towards her. So my shoulders were being stretched forward. And my teacher put her hands on my shoulders. Lightly and firmly. “You are strong, so strong” she said. And I believe her.

[Copied from my post today at the ExponentBlog]

daily scripture study

So this man, every weekday around lunchtime, kneels in a small patch of grass at the end of my front walkway and reads his Bible. He’s a laborer of some kind, he wears the tan shirt and khaki pants that are typical of the gardeners, plumbers, and painters at the university. He has black hair peppered with streaks of grey. When I walk past him–even a few inches away–he doesn’t lift his head or acknowledge my presence. I am wary of initiating a conversation as he seems so focused.

So I will tell you what I won’t tell him. That I love seeing him there. That he inspires me. Makes me feel as if this world is a good and safe place. Where strangers can read from well-worn holy books near the walkway of a stranger and that stranger will respect their privacy. And their devotion. And their commitment. And their faith.

lunatic?


“Life as it is–I see pain, misery, and cruelty beyond belief. I’ve heard the voices of all God’s nobler creatures, and the moans from bundles of filth left on the streets. I’ve been a soldier and a slave. And the comrades who died in my arms–these were the men who saw life as it is. They died despairing. No glory. No brave last words. Their eyes were filled with confusion, questioning why. I do not think they were asking why they were dying, but why they had never lived.

Life itself seems lunatic. Who knows where madness lies? Perhaps being too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams, this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash is madder still. Too much sanity may be madness. But maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.”
(adapted from Dale Wasserman’s screenplay, “The Man of La Mancha”)

decluttering

I’m gong to take this advice on decluttering from wen (IMO, the fourth item on this list is particularly pertinent):
a. Pick up an item.
b. Do you know what the hell it is? If not, toss it.
c. Does it smell bad? If so, toss it.
d. Ask yourself “Would I rather take care of this item or blog?” If the answer is blog, toss it.
NOTE: Do not toss your husband, wife, children, all the food in your fridge, your pets or your neighbors’ pets.

down memory lane

My first blog was at www.enivri.com. When I ceased paying for my own domain name, the blog disappeared and I never bothered to save my posts anywhere.

John recently showed me how to use the “wayback machine,” which gives a window into my world from 4 or 5 years ago through its archives of my old blog. This is cooler than cool.

–See my post on enivri.com after my first attempt at rock climbing [Note: my butt is not really as big as it looks in this particular picture]
–The post where I write about our move to a teeny-tiny apartment at UCI–a rather momentous event in our family’s history.
–My farewell post at www.enivri.com.

real women

My netflix tonight was “Real Women Have Curves.” It’s taken me way too long to watch this film. And, of course, the best scene is the one in the factory where the women are competing for the most curves, the most ‘cellulite.’

It reminds me of this now-popular blog that features photos of the bodies of real mothers. Though my stretch marks have almost completely faded in the last 10 years, I can still feel their striations as I run my hands over my lower belly. They are scars to be proud of, the physical sacrifice for my two babies that’s been well-worth every mark they left on my flesh.

[Note: but I’m still not brave enough to share any photos of my current belly (my least favorite part of my body). And, unfortunately, I have no such photos from my pregnancies, either–I think Demi Moore hadn’t yet broken the belly barrier back when I was pregnant]

Note to the long-legged orange and black spider that lives in my car

Dear Spider:
I want you to live and long and fruitful life. I want you to spin lovely webs, eat gobs of tasty flies, and make many 8-legged babies with your beloved….

So please, please, stop climbing up my leg while I am driving the morning carpool to summer school! I am sure there are many much nicer places to make your life than in my car. Like those bushes that I parked nearby today. Don’t those bushes look much nicer than the hotter-than-Hades interior of my aging station wagon?

For the love of Arachne, please take note that my gearshift knob is not a nice place to sun yourself, and that the trauma caused by your two journeys up my calf this morning will not foster long life for either of us.

Sincerely,
pilgrimgirl