Given all the foolishness going on I have decided to cancel April Fool’s Day this year. Here is an essay instead.
These past few months I have been at a loss for words. When that occurs I try to just roll with it. I have been feeling that with everything we are bombarded with each day, maybe silence is the appropriate response. This week I finally started to feel the urge to write again and have been drawn to a topic that is always dear to my heart, the subject of loss. Springtime is a season that signifies growth and new beginnings, however it follows winter – a time of loss and endings. This cycle is an important aspect of our lives – the cycle of birth, growth, harvest, and death.
One of my teachers’ says that in the course of a life one will experience a significant amount of loss. He says that we should use the small losses in life to practice for the bigger ones. For loss will surely come one’s way, big and small. I’ve taken that advice to heart and always try to view loss as an opportunity to practice acceptance, adapting, and finding the opportunity in loss. And perhaps more importantly just to practice grieving – to learn to be comfortable with grief. I notice that the more I engage with loss, the more I am also able to appreciate, and be present for, the gifts of joy and pleasure that come my way. I understand that loss is just a part of life. Over the years I have experienced many losses, big and small: relationships, jobs, pets, loved ones. These losses have also been accompanied by so many beautiful gifts, by much love.
Some of you may have noticed that I walk with a limp. That limp is a result of a loss of sorts – the loss of my right anterior tibialis muscle. Sometime in the late 1990’s that muscle decided to atrophy. I first noticed it walking – my foot would get sore after walking a short distance. At the time I was in Acupuncture school so I endeavoured to find out what was wrong with my leg and to see if I could fix it. After many examinations and various doctors I was given the diagnosis of peripheral neuropathy and told there was not much I could do about it.
I started seeing one of my teachers, Dr Johns. With the help of some of his needles inserted in a few key places I regained some of my coordination and strength but was never cured – the muscle continued to slowly atrophy until my right leg stood out in thin contrast to my left one. This was my first significant foray into human vulnerability.
At this same time my sister was struggling with a life-long illness known as polymyositis – an autoimmune disease that causes all of one’s muscles to slowly atrophy as a result of being attacked by their own immune system. The disease is a methodical illness that slowly weakens all your muscles. Over the span of my sister’s illness I watched her go from an active energetic person to one confined to a wheelchair, about 25 years, until she died at the age of 50.
Witnessing this I started to imagine that my muscle atrophy was a kind of sympathetic condition that connected me to her, giving me some small sense of what her experience was like. I started thinking about the gifts that loss brings way back then. I thought about how her loss – her illness – brought us closer together, and also played a big role in me deciding to go into healthcare work. I thought about how her death helped me to connect to others who had experienced the death of a loved one, how it helped me to feel more empathy and be present for others suffering.
My own condition has caused me some trouble over the ensuing years, but nothing I haven’t been able to deal with. I have been prone to tripping over small obstacles, and to twisting my ankle. At the same time I’ve learned to pay more attention and to feel more fully.
The thing about loss is that we are often surprised by it. We know it’s out there but we often fail to see it coming until it suddenly lands on our doorstep. This winter I went up to Mount Washington to go cross country skiing. I’ve been an avid cross country skier since I was in my late teens but I had not been on them for several years given that our nearest ski trails are several hours away.
Arriving at the ski centre, freshly fallen snow covering the trails, I excitedly put on my gear and waxed up my skis in preparation for a beautiful adventure through the woods. However, after only a few short kicks with my skis I knew that my right leg could no longer perform the once familiar kick and glide. My foot just flopped to one side refusing to cooperate. At that moment I came to the awareness that I would most likely never cross country ski again.
Watching everyone else glide by was a humbling experience considering I used to pride myself on my skiing form. All-in-all though I’d say that I accepted the loss with grace and acceptance, although not without some sadness. I took off my skis, walked back to the lodge and kindly requested a refund of my ski pass, explaining my situation. Fortunately the ski centre was kind enough to grant my request.
After contemplating my options I decided to don a pair of snowshoes and headed out into the woods – my foot more or less cooperating. I still felt envious of the folks gliding past me but I was still able to enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods, perhaps even more so due to my much slower pace!
One of my elder clients, Florence always used to say; “getting older ain’t for sissies!” I smile inside when I think of her zest for life despite so many life challenge’s and losses. Florence reminds me to grieve the loss but also be present to the gift of the forest regardless of how I get to experience it. Grieve deeply but also celebrate deeply the many gifts of this life we live.
Thank you Florence.