Making Space for Meaning
Something big happened last September, and I am different because of it.
I’ve started and stopped writing this piece in many ways over the past couple of months. What was going to be a six-month look-back at my "head thing” is now this word journey, nearly eight months post-op. At first I tried to wrap it in bows and themes and make it all make sense — but since the circumstances still don’t make sense to me, and I’m still finding myself in the midst of meaning-making, I’m giving myself (a recovering perfectionist) permission to just write.
So here are my reflections from life lately, in all its looping and less-structured glory. Keepin’ it real.
“The only way to be comfortable with death is to understand and see yourself as something bigger than yourself; to choose values that stretch beyond serving yourself, that are simple and immediate and controllable and tolerant of the chaotic world around you. This is the basic root of all happiness. Whether you’re listening to Aristotle or the psychologists at Harvard or Jesus Christ or the goddamn Beatles, they all say that happiness comes from the same thing: caring about something greater than yourself, believing that you are a contributing component in some much larger entity, that your life is but a mere side process of some great unintelligible production.”
– Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck
Something big happened last September, and I am different because of it.
I was blessed with a literal smack-in-the-head, wake-up call reminder we are so not in control of our existence. When I learned of a brain tumor taking up residence in my cerebelum during an ER visit post-car accident (involving a semi-truck and road trip to Harry Potter World — listen here if you want the full story), I didn’t have the time or space to process. I could barely react.
Me reacting was to let others react for me: Adrienne making calls from the ER and doctors making diagnoses and surgery plans and my mom and Josh driving through the night to get me to MD Anderson in Houston. I had to put my literal life in the hands of others, there was nothing else I could do but close my eyes and describe the perfect margarita to my anesthesiologist.
Then I woke up and said funny things to my husband coming out of said-anesthesia.
One week after discovery, I was tumor-free. 48-hours after surgery I was out of the hospital. Two weeks after release we were home from Houston, and two weeks after we got home I returned to work. Here we are, boom, just moving forward with life.
As I finish editing this we’re en route to Mexico, a brief pause at the Delta Sky Club before our connecting flight. Our wedding celebration in Tulum is now less than a week away — something I started planning for over a year ago now, before I knew of the tumor’s existence, before we know what September would bring. And it happened and here we are.
Chaos strikes but the traffic lights keep changing and the sun keeps setting and rising again. Life kept going.We were okay.
I’m learning how sometimes things that happen quickly seem almost less of a big deal. I wondered how hard to try to derive meaning from what had happened. I found myself grasping for peace instead.
We’re not often gifted perfect magical moments of space and time in which to process and heal. Instead, we have to create them for ourselves.
So I sought neutral to sort myself out. Nothing was wrong per se, but deep inside of me the voice prompted to just be, and see what came up. Over the past few months, I fiercely guarded my time and emotional space. I weaned off of the antidepressants I had been on for over six years, a journey in itself. I deleted social media off my phone and cut out caffeine and most alcohol.
It seems extreme but I’ll tell you, in the moment — nothing felt more right. My body was extremely sensitive, and my mind as well. It begged for cocooning in presence.
I wasn’t sad, isolating myself from the highlight reels of others. Those highlights, my loved ones, are what I want to see! I want to see my bestie in Hawaii at the beach with her giggly baby. I want to see the antics of my other friend’s dogs and my co-workers’ art and vacations and celebrations.
But what they don’t tell you about going through an experience that throws life into question is the indifference you may feel on the other side. Not in general, but situations you may have tolerated once before may become intolerable. I have a strong desire not to waste my own time. And getting lost in an onslaught of content and clicks and urgency wasn’t helping. And no, not wasting time doesn’t mean I pack the pace of my day with all the things. I un-pack it.
It’s about cutting out the time wasters and energy sucks and those things that really don’t make me feel good to give space for the healing in peace and pure enjoyment of present — watching the sun set through the forest from my backyard while Ghost catches June bugs, not minding a doctor’s office wait because I have a good book, losing the evening in deep talks around the fire pit. It’s feeling the miracle that is muscle movement during Tuesday Pilates class. It’s game night laughter. It’s waking up blissfully hangover-free on a Saturday. It’s saying difficult nos, it’s drawing boundaries months overdue.
I am different, but I am still me.
It’s a little like I am still getting acquainted with my new self. I’m learning what not only she likes, but what really makes her thrive. And what she really won’t tolerate any more.
I say all this on the edge of my peace bubble, about to plunge into a week long vacation and party. On the edge of a move to Hawaii. Big things are happening and the Diet Coke bottle of my world is shaking up again, but it’s all good. I feel solid where I stand.
All I know about healing is this — it is never just done. But even in the thick of it all, the trees have never looked greener. Food has never tasted so complex. I have never been so in love with the man I call my husband. Nature has never been so mind-boggling. My heart has never felt fuller.
Because I stared down the reality we could lose it. I won’t always seem this precious I’m sure, but for now, I’ll continue to taste every bite.
It took saying a lot of nos and making a lot of changes. But the peace inside and my ability to grasp firmly to the present is a gift at the perfect time — so tomorrow, as Josh and I hop on a plane to fly to Mexico, I’ll pause and let myself ogle at the absurdity of it all. I’ll let myself be amazed and confused and grateful and maybe a little overwhelmed at the thought of me being here right now, when back in September there was a very real possibility we wouldn’t be. There always is that possibility.
It’s okay to let yourself face it though. I choose to approach it with curiosity. How interesting it looks, in the bright light of day, how temporary our time is.
Here we are, if I’ve brought you to the conclusion. As I was scrambling for a pretty ribbon to tie the bow, I realize there is none. Because today’s learnings may seem profound, and yet tomorrow will have another new realization and next month another. And my hair will grow back and my neck scar will fade and we’ll continue to evolve and change (even those fight to stay the same), just like the traffic lights continue their progression from red to green and the sun continues to rise and set.
Or will it?
I think the end (of this post) is this. We don’t owe an explanation on how we’re making it through life lately to anyone, especially when you’re still in the stickiness of a moment for yourself. But sometimes it sure is fun to do some word-weaving and tell the story, even if only for yourself.
Be kind, spread love, and set your boundaries too. Create your magical space for healing, even in the midst of chaos. Especially in the midst of chaos.
There’s no way of knowing if tomorrow we will get.