As an example, we have a group of folk from college that try to meet up every year. Last year, Andy and I had our flight canceled on us, leading to a frustrated, impromptu drive to Minnesota, which shattered my energy budgeting for the day and certainly heightened my anxiety as a result. I won't lie that this colored my experience in the weekend more than I would have liked. Of course all of that with the added anxiety of my impending surgery, this being only a couple of months before the Melvin-ing. In short, we were in very different place last year. This year, there were some very significant changes: Sara and Erik brought their four-month-old, Andy and I were coming from corporate because of his new position in the company, Elena and Emma had both had major shifts at work and moves, I had Melvin, and many other small and major changes since the previous year that we were all digesting in our own ways as people and as friends.
We're all continuing on, catching up on events of the year and where we've grown as people. It's easy for me to find moments where I felt stuck and stagnating until I step back and find a better measuring stick. I've been measuring in too small of intervals, oblivious to elements of incremental change while still being hyperaware of some components of it, if that makes sense. These kinds of parallel events, where I can compare this year to last year, they create an incredibly powerful contrast.
I've had my ostomy for almost a year now, almost a year out from my last surgery. I still very much remember where I was emotionally at this point last year (and I can definitely go back on old blog posts to get a better idea of it again if I needed to). There are points where I have to remind myself that scars aren't there to show me that something will never be the same but instead that scars remind me of how I survived. I take a measure of pride in my scars.
Melvin, though, is a permanent wound that will never scar over, so I have fair bit of cognitive dissonance on what that's supposed to mean. I know how to deal with scars. They're closed reminders that I can wear with triumph or hide as my own secret. But Melvin continues to make me feel exposed in some ways while simultaneously I wear it proudly as a statement of radical self-acceptance. I have to keep reaccepting, cycling through grief, anger, trauma, and adaptation, even just for physical obstacles. I knew that these components were going to be there, but I think it's fair to say that it is a flavor of impossible to be ready for the depth ot if. There's still a lot to work through.
As an illustration, I will highlight the following: Andy and I drove up to Steven's Point, Wisconsin, because his position had him up at Skyward corporate headquarters to present some ideas. I decided to tag along for the fun of it and also because it put us conveniently much closer to our weekend plans. Packing was a bit of a flurry, but we headed up on 39 and kept going. Once we were cleanly into Wisconsin, the landmarks were very familiar and I felt the car closing in on me--while I knew logically that it wasn't true, my body was reacting with an emphatic "we're going to Mayos" panic. This path meant Rochester, MN, to me. I had made that drive so many times--sometimes determined, sometimes resigned, sometimes hopeful, but always with a healthy underlaying of fear--and even particular rest areas and rock formations along the path put me immediately back in those places, swimming in the trauma vortex again. It was hard to breathe; I was fighting back tears; I was instinctively stilling parts of my body and clenching others in a effort to guard myself. When I could will myself to move enough, I reached out to Andy, told him that I was wigging out, and asked him to distract me. Writing about it puts me back in that same space again.
I did a chunk of the driving on the way home specifically because I very rarely ever did do the driving back from Mayos--it didn't seem to have the same grip on me if I wasn't a passenger (plus, it was my turn). Once we get to Rockford or so, I tend to be okay, but that part of Wisconsin, I've really only known it in connection with the drive to Mayos. I had thought those parts had scarred over better than that. The wound is open still.
Some elements with Melvin have settled nicely--he's a consistent size and mostly round, which means that I have pre-cut wafers now instead of resizing and trimming these each time, like the first few months after surgery. I have my favorite days of the week to do a bag change and patterns for those components. I plan out when to best do a bag change before being away from home for a day or two. I spray the fabric-esque backing of the bag itself with ScotchGuard so that it stays a little less damp after showers. I monitor the skin under the appliance to make sure that it doesn't need additional treatment. I try to remember to treat this part of me with compassion, still working toward a frameshift in my mind in how I think about sensitive parts of my digestive and immune systems. And mostly, I get on with my life.
 |
The current wafer has a convex part, putting a little
extra pressure outside of Melvin, ensuring that the
ostomy pooches out a little bit more and, in my case,
is less inclined to leak. Still all pre-cut so I can slap
it on directly from here instead of trimming.
|
This is my normal. It's easier some days than it is others. I'm still learning about my emotional boundaries pertaining to Melvin and the different components of my trauma/depression/anxiety, but my awareness is growing and, with it, my acceptance. I am remembering where I was, contrasting it to where I am now. This helps in some ways and sparks frustration in others. There are scars that I'm not aware of until they sneak up on me. And I know that while I can be well-adjusted to a number of these components, I must also realize that things are continually changing, that each yearly or infrequent event is going to be a space to consider that again.
The wound is designed to be open.
No comments:
Post a Comment