Oh, What a Feeling

Most of my days are filled with silence. At least that has been my preference ever since I lost my connection to music after the events of 9/11, as I described in a previous post. Before my intimate encounter with terrorism, I listened to music constantly. It was part of the fabric of my being. But the numbness that greeted me that day left me wanting nothing but silence; not even music could move me anymore. If I did listen to a song on the radio, I often felt worse, knowing what I was missing and being reminded of what I once had; pure joy, passion, excitement, peace, intimacy with my Heavenly Father. I was in enough pain, so why torture myself with more. I often felt turning on the radio or popping in a CD was a useless attempt to recapture what I was certain would never return. So, in my car, which is where I usually listened to music, I drove in silence.

All of that ended when my soul was re-awakened the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors when they appeared on Oprah earlier this year. Since getting their debut and Christmas CD’s downloaded on my MP3 player, I am rarely without the sounds of music. More specifically, I am rarely without the sounds of the Tenors! At times I listen just to see if my soul is still alive, as if the emotions I experience through their voices would no longer rise to the surface. Thankfully, that has not happened!

But I mostly listen because I simply love their music and the sound of their voices. I hear something new practically every time I turn on the player. I can once again hear four-part harmonies, which always send chills down my spine. Clifton brings such a gentle strength to the ensemble through his wide vocal range. You can’t help but stand a little taller anytime he sings. Remigio’s enthusiasm is exquisitely articulated through his voice and in the strumming of his guitar on various songs. (And if you’ve never listened to any of his solo works, you’re really missing out! This guy is talented!) Victor brings romance through his operatic voicing; the kind that makes you want to grab the one you love and just let nature take over! Fraser has the most pure-sounding voice I have ever heard. He forces you to connect with the music in such a way that leaves you feeling as if you are one with him and the song. But the intimacy and emotion he exudes allows you to melt willingly. Who else can do that?

My husband and I just returned from a road trip to South Carolina to visit my parents. I brought lots of writing material and, of course, my MP3 player, intent on listening to more of the Tenors. It is about a 10-11 hour drive, and I’m certain I could have listened to them repeatedly for the duration. But I decided to spare my husband and used the earplugs. But even then, I couldn’t exactly ignore him through our entire commute. And I wouldn’t be able to use the earplugs during my leg of the drive. When I climbed behind the wheel, I chose some of my old favorites, just to pass the time. I played Celine Dion, Carrie Underwood, some old gospel music, Point of Grace, and Faith Hill; songs I hadn’t heard in a long time. And I couldn’t believe what happened.

Instead of the emptiness I’d felt so much before, I felt full of life listening to these artists and their music. Instead of the dark clouds that hung over me, I felt clear skies, as if God was caressing my face with the sun. I found endless wonders in the melody and strains of the instruments. It was almost like what I had experienced the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors, albeit not as intense. It was just like before 9/11 robbed me of the sweetness, purity and innocence I felt in life and song.

I wasn’t expecting this surprise. But isn’t that how God works? Mysteriously and usually when we’re not looking. While we’re busy looking for the burning bush, He sends His love in the soft, melodious sounds through the voices of the children He created. And, oh, what a feeling.

What do you feel when you listen to music?

BONUS: Check out this sneak peak of the Canadian Tenors and their upcoming PBS special (The Canadian Tenors: Live in Toronto)

Sleepless in Indy

How much sleep do you require to be fully functional? Me? Oh, about 10-12 hours. No, seriously. Sleeping has always been one of my favorite hobbies. Beyond that, I just need a lot of sleep. Always have.

One of the downsides to anxiety and PTSD is that sometimes you sleep a lot and sometimes you don’t sleep at all.I have actually gone for days with no sleep. And I have fretted for years over my strange sleeping habits. I can recall being absolutely frantic if I didn’t get enough sleep, fearing that my lack of rest would result in one of the worst motor vehicle accidents ever known to man. All of it caused by me.

As a youngster, I required copious amounts of sleep but when you’re young, you’re also invincible. (Aren’t you?) Oh, I still enjoyed sleeping but I found ways to cope. After 9/11, sleep became my bitter enemy. Sleeping pills eventually became my BFF before they turned me into something straight out of the movie “Pet Cemetery.” Once I was able to ween myself off the pills, I tried sleeping without an aid with much success at failure.

Being married makes sleepless nights an even greater burden. I mean, a wife is supposed to be at her husband’s side in their bed at night, right? But I eventually discovered the guest bedroom, hoping that I would be seen as the respectful wife for wanting to ensure her husband got enough sleep to go to work and bring home the bacon, which I would then cook. Instead I often felt like the unrepentant wife who was only looking out for her own comfort. At first, Kurt would notice my absence.

“Come back to bed, honey. It’s ok,” he would say.

So, I returned to our bed only to curse the incredibly bright light on his digital alarm clock – a light I am certain the International Space Station can see clearly without the aid of a telescope – his snoring, and the cat, who followed me from bed to bed and made sure I felt like a sardine crammed into the proverbial can no matter how much room there was for both of us. My restless body syndrome had me bouncing around like the best of jumping beans, giving me more ammunition for guilt over keeping Kurt from a restful night.  But now, he doesn’t even know when I leave. Each night he goes to bed next to his wife and won’t know whether she’ll be there when he wakes up the next morning until his eyes are forced open by the screaming of his alarm clock (which can also probably be heard on the Space Station).

When I was single and starting out as a writer, I loved writing until the wee hours of the morning. But that usually meant I had to sleep half the day. Not exactly the ideal scenario for married life. But I have learned to let go of the angst. Our good friend, Larry, showed me the way. When he confessed his own sleeplessness, I learned that he didn’t fight it. He’d get up and read or pray or both then return to bed for another hour or two before waking rested. Sheesh. Why didn’t I think of that?

Before I discovered the guest bedroom, I would flip and flop to find the perfect position and then clinch my eyes shut as tight as possible, willing myself to sleep. I would pray, count sheep and go through the alphabet thinking of boy and girl names for every letter. I tried melatonin, exercise, deep breathing, reading, watching TV, wine. You name it. I would go to bed earlier and earlier every night only to fall asleep quickly but wake up again at some ungodly hour. After hearing Larry’s story, I was inspired to try it for myself.

At first I would watch Red Eye with Greg Gutfield on Fox News Channel or play on the computer. But Facebook can be a lonely place at 3 am unless you have friends in foreign countries or you know other locals with insomnia. Eventually I decided to try writing, which, by the way, is what I do for a living.

It was just like the old days when I felt free to be creative – just me, the pen, the purring of my kitty and the silence of a world at rest. But if I was up in the middle of the night writing, I’d require some amount of sleep during the middle of the day. Was that such a bad thing? I am a writer, as I have already established. Where do I need to be at 8 am? No where. Writers don’t work 8-5. My part-time PR gig affords me the leisure of coming in usually no earlier than 10 am, and I’m usually home by 1:30 or 2 in the afternoon – which, by the way, is a terrific time for a nap!

I check emails, return phone calls, do a bit of cleaning or grocery shopping before hubby comes home and I’m cooking bacon again. He and I spend our evenings together before he retires for the evening. Even if I’m not sleeping at his side for 8-10 hours every night, I am still at his side. He’s no worse for the wear, and I am at peace knowing that no one is missing out on anything by me working in the middle of the night for a few hours. Besides, what I’m working on at that hour could help pay the mortgage! And that’s never a bad thing.

So, if you’re sleepless in your town, check me out of Facebook. If I don’t answer, I’m probably just allowing creativity to rule the night.

Post Op Observations: I’m Must Be Doing It Wrong

As if recovering from surgery isn’t challenging enough. Now I have people insisting that I’m in a grieving phase because I can’t have children anymore.

Practically everyone I talk to about my hysterectomy automatically goes there. “Oh, it must be hard accepting that you’ll never get pregnant.”

Well, actually, no. It’s not hard knowing I’ll never get pregnant. I have never been pregnant, and I will never be pregnant. And I’m good with that!

I have never been the type of woman who desperately wanted to feel a baby kick them while it is in utero. I have never been one who longed to go through all the beautiful – and yes, sometimes disgusting – things that go with being pregnant. I’m thrilled for other women who get to experience it, especially if it’s a pleasurable time for them. I’m always more than excited when a friend announces she’s pregnant. I love seeing God’s little creations and watching them grow up. I just never wanted to push one of those little creations out of my own body.

Is that so wrong? Kurt and I had already decided that I wasn’t going to get pregnant. Ok, well, maybe I really decided I wasn’t going to get pregnant, and he just had to go along with it. I think he finally understood that my body wouldn’t be able to handle having another living being inside of it. Chances are, I wouldn’t have been able to get pregnant anyway considering all the issues I had. So, I really think the grieving people are trying to force on me is past tense.

There were times I thought I wanted to be pregnant. But then reality enveloped my daydream, and I got over it. So, if I never wanted it to begin with, why would I be grieving? I reconciled this issue a long time ago.

Perhaps it is my husband who is grieving… and simply isn’t telling me. (Honey, if you’re reading this, let me know if you want to talk!)

But the bottom line is this: If God wants us to have children, He’ll provide through adoption. If not, then we can live vicariously through the lives of our friends and family. It’s great that people are concerned for my emotional well being. But please, I’m not doing it wrong.

Post Op Observations: Who Cares?

Recovery from surgery has been two steps forward, one step back. And I don’t much like it like that. But, at least I’m taking two steps forward each time.

I continue to notice things here and there while I’m in recovery mode. I already commented on the best medicine in a previous post. But, I’ve also noticed some things that make me a bit blue. You find out who your friends are when you’re down and out. Sad, but true.

I’m not trying to focus on the negative. We have indeed been blessed beyond imagination during this time of healing. So many friends brought us delicious meals so that we didn’t have to worry about it. As much as I love my husband, he’s not the cooking kind of guy. I like Mac & Cheese, but not every night! My mother was here for two weeks to lend a hand. My mom is the greatest cook but the meals provided her the opportunity to do other things around the house and take care of me while Kurt was busy with work stuff. I received some terrific cards and notes from people wishing me well. Some people called, sent me an email or posted a note on my Facebook page. It’s been wonderful. All of it, and I am very thankful.

But, I was surprised and disheartened by the people who seemed MIA. It’s happened to me before. When I was diagnosed with PTSD a few years ago, some of my friends disappeared. One gal disappeared for several months and then sent me an email saying she heard I was “a bit down”. Hmmm… I’d say a suicide attempt is a bit more than “a bit down”. She knew what was going on. But she just wasn’t there.

I recognize that people have their own lives to lead. And sometimes life can be a struggle at best. Maybe they can’t handle someone else’s pain. Maybe they have too much pain in their own lives; so much so that they simply can’t add on someone else’s. Maybe they were busy and simply forgot. I find that one hard to believe though. Maybe they’re uncomfortable around someone else’s pain and don’t know what to do or say.

Whatever the excuse, it’s wrong. As Christians we are called to bear one another’s burdens. And sometimes those burdens are heavy and ugly. I’m amazed at the people who call themselves Christians who never even bothered to utter a word to us. And I’m hurt. And I’m bitter. And I don’t really want to see those people. I had more business associates that I never expected to hear from reach out to me while others never said boo. I had people I’ve never even met in person send notes of concern and well-wishes. Others remained silent.

All the while my heart has been hurt, I  have also taken the time to consider how I respond in times when someone is hurting or recovering from an injury or illness. I don’t want to seem braggadocios but I recalled even a few times when I was flat on my back where I reached out to some women who were hurting. I always try desperately to let people know they are being prayed for and that they have a friend, not just in me but in Jesus.

I will continue to examine myself. And I’m sure that with God’s help I’ll overcome my bitterness and hurt. In the meantime, I want to encourage you to reach out. Put your life on hold for three minutes and send an email or a text message or a card. Let them know who cares.

Taking Flight

I was never a good airplane passenger, even though I had been one dozens of times. Being a military brat gave us the opportunity to travel by plane often. We lived in Europe for a while so we often flew back to New York for family visits. And when we settled in South Carolina, we went back to Austria to visit my mother’s birthplace. But, I never totally got used to it nor did I develop a fondness for it.

After 9/11, I swore I would never get on another plane. And then I got married and had to go on a honeymoon. We picked Siesta Key, Florida, and driving was not an option. I was, as I like to say, heavily sedated for the entire flight. And I was still a wreck. But, I had my wonderful, new husband. Then a couple of years later, we went back to Siesta Key for a family vacation. Again, I had my wonderful husband. Last October found us traveling to Oregon to visit our good friends, the Dyer’s, who were married two weeks before us. I still didn’t like it but I still had my wonderful husband.

I am about to take flight again tomorrow. A wonderful opportunity has presented itself to me; the kind you just can’t say no to. I’m heading to Charlotte, NC to do some magazine work surrounding Michael Waltrip Racing and the NASCAR All Star Race this weekend. You just can’t beat all expenses paid!

The caveat is that my wonderful husband will not be coming with me. I toyed with the idea of being heavily sedated again but am not comfortable with that notion since I’ll be flying alone. Besides, perhaps it’s time for me to take flight alone.

Yes, I am scared to death. Yet, I feel peace about this entire trip. I believe this will be a flight of healing. It’s going to be incredibly difficult for me to get on that plane alone. But I know that, in reality, I’m not alone.

My Lord is with me. And He won’t leave me; turbulence or none. He is always at my side. I know I have to keep reminding myself of that. This is not a leap of faith – but a flight of faith.

Loving Father, I am trusting you on this flight of healing. Your will be done.