YIPE

I remember watching this dog and Foghorn Leghorn duke it out.  At least once an episode, Foghorn Leghorn would do something to antagonize him and then run away until he was just out of range of the leash, only to hear the dog go from low barking to a high "YIPE!" as all of his momentum is suddenly stopped and he lands flat on his back.  

I've been thinking a lot about that "YIPE!" moment.  Andy and I had been making a great deal of progress on our financial and personal goals, motoring along at a good momentum, and then suddenly I feel a strong, implacable yank across my midsection.  I fell hard on the ground, knocking the residual air from my lungs and stunning my senses.  I'm still on the ground, running a number of system-checks (no bones broken, any bleeding? etc.).  To make matters worse, the tether is around my waist, meaning that I am also checking my ostomy with some urgency, a special system-check that is my own disability and burden.  

And in many ways, this is my tether.  

My health is such a complicating factor in our lives.  When it's going well, I'm allowed to get momentum again, to run freely within its radius until I forget it's there.  And then suddenly the rope snags on a tree branch or I hit the full extent of its length and I'm violently pulled backwards.  I've learned to take a slower pace in some areas, to ensure that when I am yanked back, at least it won't be a devastating thing.  I've learned to place pillows on the ground in certain areas to ease the fall.  

I am never allowed to run at my full potential because the burden and restrictions of my healthcare costs inhibit me from running freely.  Having a chronic illness is not a moral failure.  The way we punish people with chronic illness in this country certainly is.  When we say we are against or "not ready for" Medicare for all, we say that we're okay with certain people dying.  When we support a for-profit system, we say that money is more important than people.  This is not the way it has to be; this is not the way it is in many other places.  More and more those other places are looking very appealing for this fact alone.  

Because accessibility to healthcare is literally about survival to me.  It is life-and-death.  I, somehow, need to get my hands on the medication I take every eight weeks that costs $15K here, without going into irreconcilable debt.  It is an ongoing maintenance medication that keeps me healthy and able to function.  Offerings of covering 80% once a deductible is hit, well, that still means I pay $3K every two months until the max out-of-pocket of somewhere between ten and twenty thousand is reached.  At these crossroads, I am running as fast as I can just to stay in place.  There is no more thriving.  On most other metrics we're doing fine; but this one, this one is a devastating blow.  Technically, I have "access" to it; in practicality, the inflated costs of everything are patently absurd.  

These are the worries that keep me on the ground a little longer, wondering when I'm ready to try running again.  Wondering if padding the entire area is possible and/or cost effective.  Wondering what a safe pace to move forward is.  Wondering if there is a nicer tree with less snags or a more generous line.  Always wondering what we could be if the tether wasn't there.  

I spoke with a friend whose tether was their student debt.  Another whose tether was an ailing family member.  Many of these things come down to money; many of these things are felt in grief.  Sometimes a dream to run freely can only be a dream; other times, well, we need to question what kinds of alternatives had yet to be considered.

Peterson Family Update? Peterson Family Update.

I blinked and July was gone?  Seriously, what happened?  

A lot.  A lot happened, actually.  Let's talk about that.

• I am at my one-year mark of being a nurse.  A full year.  Holy crow.  I have learned SO much and experienced so many things, and yet I'm very much aware of how much I have to learn.  I feel like I am part of the team, that I have a sense of belonging and purpose to go with my title.  I also know what a "good" day and a "bad" day feel like, meaning I have a stronger basis for comparison to start forming my own opinions and ideas on improvement in my flow and the unit's flow in general.  One pattern I've established in the last month is to get at least two patient assessments charted before starting morning med pass, meaning that I'm holding less information in my brain when all of the momentum of the morning really takes off--knowing that at least I have accomplished that one thing makes me feel better about those moments where my time is dictated for me.  It's been a small but important change, helping me find a better rhythm getting into the day.  
• Luna already knows "do a barrel roll" for roll over, "revolution" for spinning in a circle, and "spot" meaning come to a certain area and lay down, in addition to more common commands like sit, come, and shake.  We're working on a new one now:  "eclipse."  This involves Luna covering her eyes with her paws.  As with many things, she can be pretty smart when there is food involved, yet she is still in the beginning stages of trying to suss out what behavior she needs to do specifically to get the food.  
• I am part of class through work that has some additional ostomy information, that upon passing I would have the Ostomy Care Associate certification.  Some of their tips are "well, duh!" to me from my lived experience, but there have been a lot of important things that I've picked up, now to make it absolutely worth my time.  I tend to be happiest when I'm learning something new.
• I got to go to Family Camp for a chunk of it this year, for the first time in a while on Lake Geneva.  I hit some of the favorite highlights:  Pop and I went sailing on the catamaran, I played pinochle, we went on a lakeside walk to get ice cream, and otherwise I was able to catch up with folks a wee bit.  It's neat to re-meet family as a different person, sharing the ways that I have grown and meeting them as they are now, too, rather than my memory of them.  I was interested to see what Family Camp would mean to me now as an adult compared to staying in my swimsuit all day while playing games and swimming and sailing with my cousins growing up.  
• One cousin pointed out that I haven't been to camp much since I got married; I countered that this was a coincidence of timing but not inaccurate, because I had significant health issues that started ten days after Andy and I were married.  Ten years since that summer, circling the drain and back again, with all of the healing and adjusting that entailed.  Strange to think about, how my life permanently changed in many ways that year.  
• Mike has been preparing to start a new education journey at Heartland, starting some courses toward radiology.  I've taken some of the same courses at Heartland as prerequisites for nursing school, probably still have my notes somewhere.  Looking forward to talking shop with him and his new adventures!
• Mike also has a kick-ass new tattoo.  
• I bought a new phone case.  Andy says it looks like it came from Claire's.  There is a lot of floating glitter and pretty colors, along with plastic rhinestones.  It makes me happy.
• Our household has been very much enjoying rock climbing at Upper Limits.  We've been going there a couple of months, now, and it has been so encouraging to see actual, tangible progress. Mike enjoys more of the bouldering aspect while Andy and I have focused more on top rope.  Things we stared at and went "yeah, that's impossible," we're starting to try.  There have been many bumps and colorful bruises along with this, including a notable smash that broke the screen of my FitBit because, of course, I managed to hit it just so.  It's physical and puzzle-solving and requires effective communication with your partner.  
• We like rock climbing enough to take a mini-vacation to St. Louis, where the sister-gyms of our Upper Limits are.  Honestly, though, Andy and I don't recall the last time we took a vacation that wasn't completely packed with plans or focused on a particular event.  It's just a couple of nights, but it's been nice to just take some time for ourselves.  Three rock climbing gyms in two days, though, means my arms and back have some rather loud opinions.

But now, the Big Update:   

As I was preparing to leave Family Camp, I saw that I had missed a call from Andy.  I called him back and let him know that I was going to be heading out shortly, but he had news for me.  Rivian had announced that they would be cutting their staff by 6%:  Andy had just been told that he would be part of that, that his position had been eliminated.  

I may have sped a little more on my way home than I would have normally.  I also may have been trying to hold back my own tears, because that does make for difficult driving.  There is grief.  There is panic.  There is a degree of anger.  There is more grief.  We still have positive feelings toward the company as a whole, but, oof, it's hard not be hurt by that.  

All of our insurance has been through Andy's job.  And some of you may recall from a previous post that I am rather expensive to keep alive, that there are many, many absurd problems in our current healthcare system that would readily see me out to dry.  So, yes, part of my processing in this already difficult process was some sympathetic nervous system activation from good ol' PTSD.  I do not feel safe; I am on constant alert; it is exhausting.  

The only reason I'm a degree of okay right now is that we have some continuing coverage as part of the severance plan.  We have a few months to figure things out.  I'm insistent that Andy take at least a month to reevaluate what he wants from here.  Then we can start running the numbers and see what we actually need, dig into the research to find a solution.  There will be many, many spreadsheets involved.  Both grief and knowledge that we'll find our next right steps exist in the same space.  

Pressure Balance in the Reservoir

I think of my emotional mind like a reservoir.  The image in my mind is clear and polished, seeing both the surface of the created lake and then scaling out to a cross-section vertical image, to gauge the depth and health of the area below the surface. 

There are streams that feed into the reservoir.  There are a couple of gates that allow water to leave and natural spillovers at certain areas.  Too much water in the reservoir is too much pressure, where I feel overwhelmed and experience a great deal of executive dysfunction, tears, and collapse.  The dam and gate system require certain attention:  quality construction and foundation take time. 

There are many ways that I can care for the health of the reservoir.  There is always water in the system, as there is always something to react to, to dwell on again.  Rain feeds water into the system directly—these are stresses that cannot be avoided, that exist from living or cultural influences.  New streams or existing streams can add too much to the system—these are stresses that I do have some control of, that I can investigate and either divert elsewhere or at least reduce the degree of flow.  When the reservoir is full because of rain or stream intake, there are gates that I can use to help reduce the overall pressure in the system—these can be coping mechanisms like routine therapy, resting, exercising, having a good cry, spending time with friends, or a number of other things.  Not all gates are equal, but all gates reduce the pressure to some extent. 

It is imperative to continue to explore the reservoir.  Sometimes, I find gates that are rusty, that could be better help to the system particularly when there is excess rain.  Sometimes, I need to streamline which gates I am using and close others or allow one to close for maintenance if something is blocking that path currently.  Other times I have to venture upstream to understand why a particular source has increased its flow, see if it can be diverted, lessened, or at least understand the need for temporary increase to better make adjustments—in the literal sense, this looks like asking for help, establishing whether I can safely give the concern to another body, find other solutions to reduce the pain of the flow, or rebalance with coping strategies.  I also have to consider the walls of the reservoir:  more than once, I have uncovered a weakened space that was a source of tainted groundwater.  In other words, a past trauma that was hitherto unrecognized with regards to its degree of injury and compounded hurt is now a part of the reservoir system, bleeding stagnated and purulent water into the system.  This can take time and patience to flush out--gumming up some of the gates in the process--as well as some painful excavating.  The system will ultimately be more healthy and possibly even widen the reservoir’s capacity, but it does effect the ecosystem for some time, still leeching elements into the lake until it is diluted enough to become part of it.  Maybe it permanently changes the chemistry; maybe it doesn’t. 

I had felt recently (link to antidepressant blog post) that there had been a difficult combination in my reservoir:  too much rain, heavy stream intake, and some failing gates.  As a result, the water was overflowing and also static.  I felt the pressure and only the pressure, water slopping over some spillways occasionally, but not enough to see the system functioning well again.  The surrounding trees and wildlife were also suffering.  It was all too much.  The worst case scenario would be complete destruction of the gates and damming system, causing a catastrophic flood into the surrounding areas:  a complete mental breakdown.  I will not say that I was at a point where I saw leaks, but I feared cracks enough to continue to care for the system. 

I think Zoloft is helping.  It’s not helping in the way I expected, though.  I had thought that an antidepressant would increase the size of the reservoir, that my capacity for holding things might be increased.  What it seems to be doing instead is working a new pump.  The water is moving in the system now, moving toward the gates and otherwise not allowed to stagnate.  It did not stop the rain; it did not stop the streams; I still felt these things.  But I also did not stay in them indefinitely.  The water is moving, and so the pressure does not build up to impossible levels.  The stress on the system (which is literally representing stress) is reduced.  The ecosystem remains.