Tag Archives: Recovery

Fingers and Toes Crossed: The end of Jane’s no good very bad year.

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This story has gone too far. There are too many plot crises. It is, simply, unbelievable.

I’ll try to do this quick. In November 2023, it became apparent I would require heart surgery. My heart was damaged by radiation treatment I received to cure cancer I was diagnosed with in my 40s. As they prepared for surgery and did all of their tests, they discovered my lungs were also damaged by the same radiation treatment. I had lung cancer. Given the state of my heart, they couldn’t operate on my lung and vice versa. It took a while for the medical team to figure out a safe way to move forward. (In fact, for a short time, I was told that there was no safe way to move ahead, nor would they if they didn’t think I would live two years. I spent several weeks believing nothing could be done.) Fast forward: open heart surgery to repair one of my valves in March 2024 and lobectomy in early May. Two back to back major surgeries. Another valve would have to be repaired, but that was “in the future.”

The future came fast. My recovery peaked in August. The second valve was failing and on January 16, 2025, I had a second open heart surgery to replace the second valve. Then, the unthinkable: they had to go back in and fix a problem that happened in that surgery. A week later, I had another sternotomy. This surgery did not have to touch my heart, but had to be done. Trust me: I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t have to. That was Saturday. Now it’s Wednesday. I’m sitting up beside my bed. Typing.

It’s a miracle I’m alive. I’m going to settle for that now. Thank you to everyone who has kept me alive and a special thanks to all the friends and loved ones near and far who have kept me in their thoughts. Every time, I felt the Operating Rooms positively crowded with your good vibes. It helped.

Here’s the really wild part: This is not my story; it’s a story I keep getting pulled into. I hope it is ready to let go now. I have things to do, words to write, a garden to grow, a bike to ride, people to love.

A photo I took along Dallas Rd. In YYJ. The Straight is in the background but the real star of the show is the dark and moody sky.

Moody Sky

A Heart Too Open

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I’ve been in my health crisis for over a year now. I think it was November 2023 that I learned for certain I would need heart surgery. So much has happened since then, even I can hardly remember it all. Soon I will have a second open heart surgery. It’s getting closer.

For weeks now, I have thought my surgery was imminent. It needs to be soon. But then it is not. I get slower. I try not to alarm anyone so I say I am like an old turtle. This is not a frightening image. But I am getting anxious. I have felt this way before and I know what this is.

As time goes by, the term “open heart surgery” becomes literal. My heart is too open. I feel too much. Everything is sharp. Especially words. After all, I’m still a word girl. This morning, I read the phrase “bed blocker” used to refer to elderly, vulnerable patients in hospital awaiting long term care. How awful is that? Truly heinous. This is how frail people are viewed? I guess so. This is, therefore, how I am viewed. I am a wrench thrown into the machine, an ailing human screwing up the system, a scheduling problem.

People don’t understand the liminality that illness brings. They can’t fathom vulnerability if they’ve always been well. They fear suffering more than anything, believing it will be unendurable. They cannot imagine joy can break through. So they turn away. First from suffering, then from any pain at all, then from discomfort and eventually even from mere inconvenience. I understand. To be inconvenienced is one step closer to discomfort, one step closer to pain, and one step closer to suffering. They want a buffer. This is how I have come to understand ableism. It’s part of the buffer. When I see it this way, I can forgive people’s ableism. But that doesn’t mean I don’t expect people to do better.

We are all human. We are all frail. We are all vulnerable. Suffering is inevitable. It is as inevitable as joy.

I’ll write again in a few months. Meanwhile, I’ll be attuned to joy. I hope you will be too.

Resilient?

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Someone called me resilient.

I’m just doing what’s next. Breathing in. Breathing out. I’m a big fan of breathing.

I try to be grateful for what I have (left) every day. I try. I try not to dwell on what I’ve lost. I try. Focus on the joy. But wow, that takes time. I had to live through pain to do that. That pain changed me. It burned me down to my elements. Maybe you know what that is like. Pain is terrible. Pain takes too much out of me and leaves me without the slightest bit of grace. No one would have called me resilient then. Maybe I don’t really know what resilient means. For now, the pain is mostly over. I’m grateful.

When I’m not in pain, I can focus on joy. The things that are beautiful. Someone said that 80% of what is beautiful and true can be found in a ten minute walk from your house. Flowers in sidewalk cracks. Kids. Dogs. Today I saw an eight point buck in the yard across the street. I realize not everyone is going to see that across the street from them. And he was sitting there like he owned the place. And I think he does. He was so still, I wondered at first if he was a statue. Then he blinked. I don’t know where he came from. Wonderment and curiosity are part of what is beautiful and true. If I had any energy left today, I would walk over there and see if he is still there.

I don’t know what people mean when they say words like “resilient.” I wonder if that buck knows? Is he resilient, living through the loss of habitat and finding a spot to be in someone’s yard? He’s just adapting. He’s doing what’s next. Breathing. Resting.

Maybe the worst word is “brave.” The idea that I have to be brave to live my life, to move forward every day with what I’ve got feels vaguely insulting. Nope. I’m just doing what’s next. Or maybe I’m looking at it wrong. Maybe we’re all brave. I’m no more brave than you when you have to get on a crowded bus or go to that job or to Costco or just live in this f’ed up world. I don’t want to be singled out just because I got sick. I don’t have to be brave to live my life, at least, I don’t have to be any more brave than you do. I have to be gentle. Gentle with myself. Understanding. I have to breathe.

As for “recovery,” that’s a word about nostalgia. To think about recovery is to look backwards, to look to the past. I’ll never be like I was and I don’t want to live in the mental and emotional space where that’s what I’m longing for or that’s the goal. Because it’s impossible. We can’t go back. Time only moves in one direction. I am what I am today. It is not what I was yesterday or last year. That’s the part I’m not supposed to say.

So I say, “Yes, I’m doing better.” Better than what? Better than I was five months ago. Worse than I was a year ago.

I am alive. I’m trying. That is enough right now.

Launch Day! Impact: Women Writing After Concussion

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It’s a big day. Impact is going out into the world after years of work. It carries with it the hearts of 21 writers who share what their lives are like after their concussions and traumatic brain injuries. I am so grateful to each and every writer who made this book possible and offer special thanks to my co-editor, E. D. Morin. I could not have a better partner in this work.

Our thanks also go out to the Canada Council for the Arts for supporting the creation of this work and the University of Alberta Press who believed in it and have done so much to make this dream come true.

Join us for our launch tonight if you can. It will be recorded and available on the University of Alberta Press website.

Also please view and share our videos about the project. They are amazing and another labour of love by the participating writers and by our film editor, Junyeong Kim.

 

Begin Again

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In my meditation today, I was reminded that when my mind wanders, I can begin again. Focus on the breath. Begin again.

We can always begin again. 

Today is a good day to think about that.

What could we do?

It starts with story. We must know our own story.

We must tell the truth about what happened to us.

We could understand that we are all in this together, that the success of one is the success of all, and not just for humans.

We could devote ourselves to an ethics of care and compassion, to kindness to self and others, knowing that others are connected to us, and we to them, in profound ways. 

We could be humble and acknowledge what we have broken and our own brokenness. We could grieve for what we have lost, because we know that we have lost so much. We are not even sure what it is. But we know. We feel it. It exists as a hollowness in our soul that no amount of food or alcohol or consumer goods or anything else can fill.

We could help each other through the grief.

We could repair what is broken. We could make it our work.

We are ALL in this together: the humans, the trees, the plants, the insects, the air, the animals, the soil, the water, and even the rocks. Even the rocks.

We could build an economy that knows that the earth is not merely a resource for humans to use (up), but a part of us as we are a part of it. The earth’s health is our health. It gives and gives and we, the humans, must stop taking so much.

We could remove the barriers to sharing what we do take.  

We  could build an economy that acknowledges limits. 

It could be beautiful.

Think of what you would begin again, if you could, and know that you can. 

Finding Joy Even Though Winter is Coming

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Not to be all “Game of Thrones” or anything, but winter really is coming. It is unlikely there will be dragons, but if 2020 has taught us anything, there will be SOMETHING. I’m hoping it won’t be another four years of the orange menace, and certainly not another four years of the pandemic. I’m weary of them both. Weary and wary. Wary of my weariness. Weary of my wariness. I’d like to go through 24 hours without thinking something is out to do us all in.

Do you have a plan to get through the winter? Something you are doing to help you find joy? I do and I’m sharing. Maybe it will give you ideas.

  1. I’m being rigid about my schedule. It’s not a fancy schedule and includes blocks of time for exercise, work, and food prep. Yes, food prep. We’ve got to keep our strength up and eat well. And delicious food is still something that brings me joy, even if I have to make it myself (which also explains the exercise block.) If I keep my activities in specific blocks, I keep some variety in my day. I can’t work all the time anymore like I used to, (brain injury) and that’s a good thing. But I think a lot of people newly working from home are reporting that they work ALL THE TIME. Let yourself stop and move on to something else.
  2. I get up early and go to bed early.
  3. I meditate every day. I’ve been meditating for decades, but never with this much dedication. I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.
  4. I have stopped drinking alcohol. I actually stopped a long time ago, (brain injury), but I think it is worth mentioning. It’s a depressant. I miss it sometimes, but I have more joy without it. Sometimes, I take a sip of my husband’s drink if it is a really nice smelling wine or a good bourbon. Just a sip. Although it was hard while there were still opportunities for social interaction, it’s not hard now. If you’ve been thinking about it, maybe this is a good time to experiment. Maybe it will bring you joy.
  5. I have cleaned my closet, sock drawer, etc., and edited out worn, horrible or ill-fitting clothes. Again, they are a depressant, at least to me. If I can’t wear that thing I used to slob around in on the rare days I slobbed around, I won’t wear it. I have to choose something better, and I feel better.
  6. I go for a walk every day. My longest regular walk is about 8.5 km and my shortest is to the store and back (about 15 minutes). No matter what, I get outside. I think about what I’m seeing. I look for beauty. A bird, the changing leaves, someone in a nice coat. It’s there. Pay attention.
  7. I try to be helpful to others. I check in with people who are alone. I drop baking off with a neighbour. I write cards and send them to people. This is one of my favourites. It involves several enjoyable steps. a) I have to order cards from a stationery store. I love stationery stores, even on line. My favourite is The Regional Assembly of Text in East Vancouver. I have one closer to me that I really like too, called Take Note, in the Junction. Since I don’t physically go to many stores anymore, it doesn’t matter where a store is. But I try to buy from independent retailers. b) I have to go through my address book and think about everyone and who I haven’t been in contact with lately. c) I have to compose something lively and smart. (It’s a goal, anyway.) It makes me feel better and I love thinking of them receiving the card in the mail, opening it and laughing. d) I have to walk to the post box. (see 6.)
  8. I have projects unrelated to work. For example, early in the pandemic, I dug up everything I have related to knitting. I found half finished mittens, a sweater I started in 1996, and more wool than I imagined I had. So I’m knitting. I’m thinking about breaking into crochet. I have an idea of taking a beautiful landscape photograph, using the app “Bricks” to pixelate it, (Bricks makes everything look like it is made out of Lego) and creating a colour blocked pattern so I can crochet one small square at a time and not get overwhelmed. Then I could put it together like a quilt. If that half a sweater I dug up is any indication, I might finish it by 2040. Crazy as it seems, looking ahead on a project like that makes me feel better. There is a future.
  9. I haven’t given up on getting better from my brain injury. While I think I’ve run my course with what professionals can do to help me, they say time heals. And I have time, all the gods and goddesses willing, and I notice small, incremental improvements, especially in my balance (see #1 and exercise). And these improvements bring me joy. Is there something you can work on improving in your life?
  10. I limit my intake of news and social media. It’s too much. But at least weekly, I take positive action on a change I want to see in the world. I write a politician, I sign a petition, I learn more about a problem that seems insurmountable, not from the news but from a longform article or book or documentary, and I find reasons for hope and learn about other actions I can take.

Happy Winter! It’s going to be ok. This does not have to be the winter of our discontent. We’ll get through this.