First things first … regarding my last post… feathers were ruffled. Body fat was contorted. Love handles were squeezed. Muffin tops were mangled. Folks got uncomfortable. Here’s the thing… welcome to MY writing. My words. My way of conveying my Heart Beat. News flash: women who have had open heart surgery and/or other heart issues struggle. I would have given my right ventricle to have had a blog such as mine to reference going into my heart journey. Mentally preparing for hot flashes post open heart surgery, and thyroid issues, and hormones going haywire would have been profoundly helpful. A friend said I am just pudgy. Fine. If semantics are important and fat is a stretch(mark), we can meet in the middle. Bottom line: my body has changed. I have changed (errr enlarged). There’s no disputing that. Let me have my process. I need no comforting. I just need new and bigger pants. I’ll shrink again one day.
On to new topics.
Just over a week ago, I gave my first official public talk about my heart journey. It felt as natural as skiing powder or drinking coffee in the morning. I spent a total of an hour in preparation for it, knowing that whatever I really needed to say would just come to me in the moment. For my entire teaching career, I rarely prepped. I just followed my instincts, my flow. Last Thursday, I was in my flow. I left that night knowing I had started a new chapter of my life, breathing with more purpose than I have ever felt. I felt whole despite cardiac symptoms. I felt complete despite upcoming doctor appointments and looming scary diagnoses.
I truly feel I am meant to help people through story telling.
How did I arrive at a mostly peace-filled place? I was no longer resigning my joy and inner peace to my aching heart (which still hurts… a lot).
I thought of the 113 days of the in-between. The liminal space between when open heart surgery was scheduled and the actual surgery day.
113 days of waiting, sitting, thinking, replaying life, revisiting the few regrets, asking for a redo and rewind, watching seasons change, watching life go on around me… all of this while I tried not to move, so I wouldn’t drop dead. Liminal space. All of it.
And I zoomed in even more to the liminal space of 10 minutes before I was rolled into the operating room. There was a chance I was not going to survive the surgery, and I knew that going in. All I could take to the operating room was the hospital gown on my body and my spirit. That was my turning point. Outside the OR, I had those 10 minutes to myself in the glass lined hallway overlooking the Wasatch Mountain range east of Salt Lake City and Murray, Utah. The winter sun was just beginning to rise and the mountains glowed a deep purple. The city was coming alive. I was alone on my transport bed, tucked in with warmed sheets and blankets and nothing else. I did not bring Jason or money or any possessions. I brought the memories, the love, the laughter, and all of the experiences that made me human. That was all I had rolling into that surgery. I scanned my life for regrets, and I landed on two: not skiing deep powder nearly enough and not writing my book(s).
Once in the operating room, no one asked what I did for a living or what was in my bank account or what kind of car I drove. They saw me as a human being fighting to live. Everything else fell away.
There is so much more to unpack from my liminal moments which is what my book is mostly about. I know several people close to me in a liminal space right now, all of it due to medical issues. Now, I get to help each of them navigate between the not knowing and the knowing.
Unfortunately, I, too, am in liminal land again myself. This time, I am living it differently. Instead of stamping time from one doctor visit to the next, I am simply living my life with gratitude with doctor appointments sprinkled throughout my weeks. I am between the not knowing and the knowing. I know enough that fear has enough of a voice to keep me fighting, but not so much to ruin my day. I know enough to ask questions and to advocate for myself and to ask for help, but I don’t know what the future holds for me. It’s a liminal space I know all too well. Truthfully, I feel at home in this space. It’s where life is wide open. Where emotions are raw and real and normal, everyday life falls away. Ego no longer edges goodness out. It’s where being real is all I have, and its where my soul seems to shine the brightest.
When I cross into the next knowing, I don’t want to lose the liminal lessons. Hence, my book(s). Hence, this Substack blog. Hence, my public speaking.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for giving me reason to shine and to share.
PS - my heart is allowing me to be active in short bursts. I got to ride my mountain bike today for just over 3 miles and I was so very happy even though I gasped for air. Hamilton really loves mountain biking with his mom and dad. :)
You have a beautiful heart and soul from the inside out… Pants size is only temporary ❤️