Impermanence

A friend recently forwarded an article to me. The article was about a woman who had a double lung transplant at Cleveland Clinic over a year ago and is doing fine. "Dreams do come true," my friend wrote.

Dreams.

Less than a year ago my dreams did not include a double lung transplant. Last year I believed my health issues would be worked out and I'd go on living my life as I had been. But, despite what I wanted, my busy life continued to drop away and left me with one goal...

To survive.

I hope to have the opportunity to create new dreams. If I am given a second chance at life I have to accept that the possibilities may not be what I wanted a year ago. After transplant I will have to get used to the idea of a life of impermanence. I can hold onto dreams but with a loose grasp and with no particular attachment to them. A different life. And, instead of being depressed or angry about what I can no longer have, or dream about, I will have to form a new life from what I would like instead.

Instead. And that is better than the alternative.

Getting my ducks in a row...

After two days of testing and appointments at the Cleveland Clinic at the end of May, I arrived home in a bit of a fog. Shocked, but yet, not surprised. I felt better after a hug from my daughter and a night in my own bed.

I was told I don't have long without getting new lungs. I have to finish the testing and get listed. Soon.

June was a blur. I overdid things, especially in the later part of the month. And, I paid for it... ill and swollen, and it has been taking several days to recover.

Remember those two bags I talked about? I'm still packing. Most days I feel like I am trying to beat the clock and doing so with limitations due to my medical condition. I'm getting my ducks in a row, making end-of-life decisions, going through personal possessions, and working on scrapbooks. I won't get everything done. But then, that is what the other bag is for. Everything else gets packed in there. Sentences around here are frequently started with "When I get my new lungs" and "When I can breathe again."

Not all ducks are orderly. There are a few that weave in and out, and another that always stops to look at something and falls behind. I'll probably never get comfortable with this uncertainty but I must accept it. I may not know where I am going, and my ducks are in a, er... sort of a row, but I must paddle onward.

Whittling

For over a year now I've been whittling. As my energy level plummeted and my health worsened, I started cutting down on responsibilities and engagements. I've stepped down from various committee positions, volunteered less, and said no to more requests. I've taken on no new overly zealous projects and made no promises.

Some days I feel as though I'm not the one doing the whittling... that it is the disease that is whittling away at me. I can no longer be a leader or the person that everyone counts on. I can no longer be in charge of important things, events, or finances. My life is too iffy. I have handed over things I once controlled and it has been hard. Painful. Once so active in so many things, now I move slowly through my days. I take half a hospital just to leave the house.

Just like a block of wood, my life, as it was, is slowly getting smaller as little shavings are being whittled away. Each shaving falls to the ground and is blown away by the wind. Each shaving holds a dream, a project, a once upon a time, a bit of what was me, a hope of what was to come in the future.

Whittling through piles of paper, folders, and drawers. Adoption paperwork... in the recycle bin. CPR training to be renewed... how would I breathe for someone else when I cannot breathe for myself? Pinterest boards pinned with ideas for retirement... delete. Photocopies of archival materials and old research... sent to fellow historians. Papers, projects, and more... handed over.

I have hope, that after all the whittling, my future will be something just as marvelous as I once believed it would become.

Sifting

Lately, I've been doing a bit of what I call sifting. I take a bookshelf, a box, or a drawer of my things and sift through it. And I ask myself: Will I use this again before I die? Or, will I read this again before I die? And, will my family want this when I am gone?

There are some items I wonder... maybe. Then I ask myself: If I did have some time left to use, to read, to study, to do, would I do THAT? Most things, I think probably not. And then I think up about one hundred other things I'd rather do with my precious time.

Some are things with little connection to my emotions. I can easily let them go. I ask friends if they want this or that, or pop the items in the goodwill box. After all, if I really wanted to, these are things that can be replaced. But then there are the items that hold more meaning and are harder to let go. It's not so much that particular item, but the memories that belong with it. Or, that I had acquired them with the intent on using them more or doing something with them some day. There are items I spent a lot of time, energy, and money on. And, there are items that somewhat defined me. They are my past, my former self, the old me. The new me has limitations and needs to clear out things and streamline her life in order to function more efficiently and focus.

I have collected some pretty interesting things in the past thirty-something years. And, as we all have different tastes, talents, hobbies, and interests, I can see why some items can only be appreciated by certain people. By sifting through and passing along many of my favorites, I have been able to share these things and make people smile. Many of my friends are happily adopting part of my past. They are pleased I have recognized their interests and the items I've passed on will be used, displayed, and treasured now and long after I'm gone.

A friend expressed her concern. She feared that what I am doing is a sign of giving up. But I assured her, I am not giving up. Believe me. I cannot give up. This sifting is part of accepting what I cannot change and preparing myself for battle. One must see these things as they are... just things. Because of my illness, I cannot be burdened by too many extra things. I admit, I need things. I like things. And, there are items that make me smile. Things are great when you are well. Things are a great distraction when you have time. Things are fun when you have the energy. But, I no longer need distractions. I no longer have the time or energy. So now, most things seem like a burden. Things need to be organized, stored, and cleaned. Unfinished projects lurk in corners and mock me. Wonderfully useful items sit unused. These things become constant reminders of a life I was forced to give up. By releasing these things, I not only give them a chance to bring happiness to someone else, I gain energy to focus on my family and health. I am preparing myself--physically and mentally--to fight the battle before me.