Similiarities between a broken shoulder and a political campaign?

“If you are going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

 

Two years ago this week, I fell down a long flight of wooden stairs in our house and shattered my shoulder. One year ago this week, I was embroiled in a fierce campaign for a city council seat. Surprisingly, my memories of both experiences are remarkably similar.

 

The shoulder and the campaign both involved pain and required perseverance. Both journeys took a lot of time and demanded that I do things I didn’t want to do.

 

I don’t like doctors or medical appointments – not at all. In fact, I avoid them to a sometimes ridiculous degree. The shoulder (“Flippy” as I call her) caused me to spend more time in hospitals and clinics than I’d spent in my entire life. There was the ER visit, the orthopedic consultations, discussion of the surgery, and then the surgery, which involved the placement of nine pins and two plates. After that came the aftercare, and finally, physical therapy – initially, twice a week.   

 

For a person who feels nauseous and ready to faint just sitting in a medical waiting room, all of that was very hard and pretty miserable.    

 

Similarly, for an introvert like me, the process of “putting myself out there” to run for office was quite daunting. Running for public office has never been on my wish list, but at the time I felt like change was needed and I could contribute.  I entered the race in late August and due to a run-off, the process that was supposed to end on November 5 lasted another month.  

 

As with the shoulder, almost all of the things a political campaign requires are difficult for me to do. Going door to door, introducing myself to strangers, making appearances at meetings and public events, and dealing with public criticism did not come easily.   

 

Both endeavors taught me that patience is, indeed, a virtue although it’s never been one of mine. They also taught me perspective and the importance of being able to laugh. “Flippy” and the campaign required a lot of family support and my family gave generously.  

 

During both events, I surprised myself with just how brave I can be. The shoulder pain lasted much longer than it was supposed to…there was a re-injury along the way…and every time I came close to mastering the therapy exercises, more difficult ones were assigned…Gulp, gasp and go on. Canvasing neighborhoods, knocking on doors…another round of signs…one more meeting…a series of vicious attacks.. Gulp, breathe and go on. I did that over and over again…

 

The doctor said it would take a year for my shoulder to heal and it did. It took another year for “Flippy” to be as good as she’ll ever get. I was sure I could make it through a two month race, but when it stretched to three, that almost got the best of me.

 

In both healing and politics, a certain amount of optimism is needed in order to continue on. And, for a glass-half-empty girl, the light at the end of a very dark tunnel often eludes me. But, the support and encouragement of so many folks, both strangers and friends, carried me through it and it turns out, there was light on the other side.  

 

When “Flippy” and I were struggling complete strangers would open doors for me, offer to carry things and ask if I was alright. Friends offered encouragement and meals, light-hearted chatter and small gifts. Similarly, when I was campaigning complete strangers would offer such warm enthusiasm, opinions and tips for success, while the generosity of friends and supporters provided constant encouragement. All of this was heartwarming. It gave me strength. It reminded me that no matter how far outside of my comfort zone I ended up, I was never alone. 

 

In the end, “Flippy’s” outcome was better than the city council race. The final vote count was 376-323. I lost by 53 votes. My heart was broken, but I didn’t feel bad. Those numbers indicated that I’d given it a good go and a lot of people believed in me.

 

As for “Flippy,” she still hurts when the weather changes and there are some things I simply can’t do, like pull-start a lawn mower, carry heavy objects or certain yoga moves. I don’t mind, though. It reminds me of how thankful I am that I did heal and that life goes on. If these are the biggest challenges I have to face, I am well-blessed.  

 

Nelson Mandela said, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.” I like that thought, especially now that “Flippy” and the campaign are no longer challenges, but mere memories.    

 

 

tomatoes and the art of transition...

“Life is a transition.” – Lailah Gifty Akita  

I just ate the last tomato sandwich of the season. Either bugs or blight or both took out my tomato plants, so I pulled them up yesterday. As sweaty and grouchy as I get in the last heat of the summer, it’s always a bit sad when the garden starts to fail and die. But then, I struggle with transition.  

It’s not the major transitions that get to me. I went from high school to college, college to work, single to married, married to motherhood, motherhood to empty nest with relative ease. Those were transitions I chose, prepared and planned for.

It's the unexpected transitions and the small, frequent transitions – the ones I have no control over - that challenge me. It’s reasonable to get a bit panicked by things like “now my husband's out of work" or "my daughter has to have appendix surgery - today." With pause, think, breathe and make a plan, I have coped with these. But I have to focus and breathe even more calmly when something like the car won't start or the plumbing gets clogged or a pet gets sick happens. Why?

Transition is the constant in every day. We move from sleep to dream, dream to awake; home to work, work to home, busy to resting; still to active; and so on…And, on any given day, we are parents, children, siblings and spouses; caretakers, caregivers, alone and with others. We move between worker and supervisor, teacher and learner. Then there are the emotional transitions - strong to weak, energetic to tired, happy to sad, bored to fulfilled, needed to needy, aware to oblivious – the shifts go on and on…  

One of my problems with transition has to do with being a perfectionist. If things aren’t just right then they’re not right at all and keeping the bar set that high results in trouble shifting gears. When I was busy being the perfect worker, I worked longer and harder than my family preferred. Yet, in order to meet my personal standards as a mother, I never truly focused on work. The same goes for housework and yard work and life's other details. As long as perfect is what I'm striving for, I am destined to fail. Add to that, the unease that comes with not being in control and unexpected transitions become a big deal. 

Over time I have learned that striving for balance and embracing compromise help me transition more easily. It also helps to not be so hard on myself. Chaos happens and, it turns out, a little imperfection is just fine. It’s easier to move through the day, as well as life changes, if you take things one step at a time, rather than let the big picture loom so large that you become paralyzed.  

I used to see everything that challenged me as a struggle, but the more I embrace (and remind myself to embrace) the idea that all I really have to do is simply keep moving from transition to transition, the less of a requirement struggling is.

Unexpected things happen, as do predicted things like the end of tomato season. Transition is the bridge that moves us between and through. If I simply remember to pause, think, breathe and make a plan that embraces the inevitable imperfection that life brings, I can better deal with transitions big and small. After all, the end of tomato season signals the beginning of fall, which means a whole new set of plants to plant and pleasures to enjoy.  

 

Oh, Shadie...what a hot mess.

“A person can learn a lot from a dog, even a loopy one like ours…He taught us the art of unqualified love. How to give it, how to accept it. Where there is that, most other pieces fall into place.” – John Grogan, Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog   

 

I like to think things happen for a reason, but sometimes that reason is pretty hard to see. Yet another rescue dog has landed in my life and though she seems nice enough, I’m having trouble viewing her addition to our pack as a good thing.

 

The dog’s name is Shadie partly because she’s a bit of a shady character with an obviously checkered past. Also, she seemed to have no response at all to Chewy – the name her owner gave when he turned her in at animal control. He said Chewy is eight and that’s all we know about her.  

 

A black, medium-sized dog, Shadie has tall German Shepherd-like ears, a curly tail, and her belly looks like she’s had many litters of pups. She was flea-ridden, heart worm positive and needs to be spayed. That’s the only kind of rescue the good Lord sends me…

 

Shadie sat dejected and sad at the animal shelter for nearly a month without generating any interest. Clearly depressed, she lay there ears flat, tail never thumping, barely looking at passersby. She wouldn’t even take a treat; it was as if she’d given up and was waiting to die.

 

When her last day was approaching, a Facebook plea by shelter volunteers generated 245 Likes, 28 Shares and a financial pledge from a woman in Canada for any person/rescue that would save Shadie. In spite of all this, only one adopter came forward and that fell through late on Shadie’s last day.

 

That evening a friend I’d hoped would fall in love with Shadie (but didn’t) called, saying she’d found a permanent foster situation, so, acting for a local rescue, I pulled Shadie from the shelter and took her to the vet. During Shadie’s “freedom ride” (as rescue people say) she jumped out of the car and took off running. Thankfully, a quick and kind woman grabbed her leash and with much cajoling and a box of treats, I was able to get Shadie back in the car.

 

Later, at the permanent foster’s house, Shadie started showing her true colors. She didn’t like to be touched and was very wary around people. She paced back and forth nervously, stopping only long enough to slobber water on the deck. She wouldn’t eat, she didn’t know how to go up and down stairs, and she had no house manners at all. Paws on the counter, tip the trash can over, pace some more, then run back outside…

 

Those people returned Shadie the next day, saying there was nothing about her that would allow her to fit in. My friend, feeling guilty about overselling Shadie to her failed first foster, agreed to give the dog a try. She lasted there almost a week, but by the time they called to say Shadie couldn’t stay - not even the rest of the day – her nervous energy had driven them crazy. They said Shadie seemed to want to please, but had no idea how to do that and so was getting more neurotic every day.      

 

It was becoming clear that Shadie was unadoptable. Whatever her prior life involved had rendered her unable to act like a normal dog. Upon hearing the second foster failed, the rescue turned her over to me, so she became my dog and I didn’t want her - not at all.

 

In desperation, I called my friend, Hank, a dog whisperer, and asked him to come assess Shadie and see if there was anything in her worth saving. Apparently Shadie is very sensitive to energy, because Hank’s calm, gentle but firm pack leader energy put her at ease almost immediately. Within an hour she was settled in with my pack, exploring her new yard and house, in a surprisingly normal way. Hank proclaimed her “a good dog, a smart dog, a dog that, with a little work, will be just fine.” And, so my adventure with Shadie began.

 

A quick Google search revealed that Shadie looks like a black version of an Australian Dingo – a very smart, very active, usually wild dog. A little more research indicated an American version lives wild in the swamps and forests of Georgia and S. Carolina. And, the very behaviors that make Shadie so unnerving to be around are explained by the traits of the Dixie Dingo or Carolina Dog.

 

Used to fending for themselves, these dogs are intelligent, alert, active and very attentive to their surroundings. They live in packs, so have strong cooperative instincts. They are perceptive, not destructive and rarely show aggression. They retain their “puppy energy” well into old age.  

 

While Dixie Dingos can and do bond with humans, they are also aloof, wary, shy with strangers and slow to warm up. Once they do bond, however, they have a high need to be with their pack (dogs or human) in familiar surroundings. They don’t adapt to change well and often can’t be rehomed or even boarded out.

 

These dogs need a lot of exercise and bore quickly. One site described Dixie Dingos as “challenging and their high energy disconcerting until you learn not to be apprehensive about the way they behave.”  Bingo! Ms. Dingo.

 

The saving grace is the dogs are eager to please and learn very quickly. All it takes is natural authority and consistent, confident enforcement of the rules using kindness, patience and a firm but gentle hand…Well, that’s probably the reason Shadie ended up with me. My pack is full of hard luck rescue cases and I rule with a wobbly weak hand. There’s nothing about me that says Pack Leader and my dogs take full advantage of that, which, as dog people know, is no way for dogs or their human to live. Apparently, if Shadie the Dixie Dingo’s going to make it, she’ll need a strong pack leader in me…

 

So far we’re making progress. She follows me everywhere and seems to reflect my energy. The sheer weariness that comes from having a dog underfoot and in near constant motion has me doing a better job of staying calm and focused, because when I am Shadie will sit or even lie down. I have to be firm with her, which means I’m firm with the rest of the pack and they seem to benefit from that. And all dogs love long daily walks.  

 

Hank says it takes two weeks for a dog to settle in and feel comfortable enough for its true personality to emerge…Sounds like in Shadie’s case, if I can provide the leadership she needs, watching her personality bloom will be a good thing. At the very least, the other dogs will benefit from me regaining control…As my daughter-in-law says, “What a hot mess.”

 

 

 

 

 

a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don't help.” – Bill Watterson

 

When my kids were little they liked a book called Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, by Judith Viorst. My kids liked it so much they asked me to read it over and over again. I hadn’t thought of that book for years until last week, when I had one of the worst terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days I’ve had in a long time.  

 

It started with helping a sick, sad, broken old dog with a sweet spirit die a good death. The dog was not mine; she’d been abandoned after her owner died. The poor soul sat by her lady’s body for three days until the death was discovered, then ended up at animal control. She was a very thin, very small Chow mix - deaf, blind and barely able to walk due to arthritis. All black, except for her white muzzle, this dog was clearly a very old girl, fallen on very hard times. And, she had the saddest, most bewildered look on her face – like, “Where have I ended up…and why?”

 

Once she could be released from animal control, I took her to the vet, who agreed that the kindest thing for this old girl would be to help her over “the rainbow bridge” as animal people say. Honey Bear, as I called her – no one knew her name - seemed to like the car ride. She even smiled a bit and thumped her tail, as she sniffed the air from the open window and rested on a blanket.

 

Our stop for a sausage biscuit really got her old sniffer going and we had a nice picnic together – actually she ate the whole biscuit slowly, but quite enthusiastically – sitting next to me on her blanket in the shade outside the vet’s office. She didn’t seem to mind the exam, which was quick and also on the blanket in the shade. Then, I asked them to leave Honey Bear and I outside for a while longer, as she seemed to be enjoying the sun and the wind and the gentle pats on her head.

 

She fell asleep with her head in my lap and her passage over the rainbow bridge was a quick and peaceful one. It comforted me to think that her last hour was spent calm, happy and loved. One of the things I like most about dogs is the way they live in the moment, from moment to moment. I like to think all Honey Bear remembered, as she slipped across that rainbow bridge to meet her lady on the other side, was how good that sausage biscuit tasted and how nice it was to feel safe again.

 

As I left the vet’s office, the thought of Honey Bear and her lady walking together again, neither of them limping, both finally pain free, helped me through my good long cry…

 

Fast forward a few hours and I’m headed into Hill’s Ace Hardware for a few things to complete a project. For some reason, thankfully, I looked down and noticed that my shirt was on wrong side out – white tags sticking out rather obviously on the sides, the back of my shirt proclaiming its brand and size. A quick trip back to the car for a shirt reversal, crouched down low in the back seat, had me corrected and in I went. I was glad I noticed the wrong-side-out shirt, as Hill’s is one of those places you’re sure to run into several people you know, no matter time of day you’re shopping.

Note to self: turn clothes right-side-out as I take them from the dryer and maybe spend less time at animal control helping out and getting my heart broken…

 

A few hours later it was time to walk the dogs. I usually take them to Ft. Yargo for a good run, which involves loading them all up in the car. We had no longer set out, when I heard the ominous sound of a dog vomiting. I pulled over into the nearest parking lot, which happened to be a bank where a crew of landscapers was busy at work.

 

I’m usually okay with pet clean-up, but the sight of a whole bird and some other assorted things, barfed up in the back of my car got the best of me. I got the bird cleaned up, but then found myself barfing on the other side of the car door. It was so hot and I felt so sick and humiliated and still sad that I just drove away, without cleaning up after myself.

 

I’m sorry landscapers, I’m having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.     

 

I ended the day with a glass of wine. My only criteria for that wine was that the bottle had a screw cap because I had no energy left, not even for something as simple as using a cork screw…I know these are First World problems that only a person with a very blessed life would bother to talk about, but sometimes even in a very blessed life there is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.