Every now and then when I’m moving through life at too fast a clip and I think I have all of my problems licked, the Universe sends me a BIG, HARD message.  I liken it to being hit over the head with a two-by-four.

It happens when I haven’t been paying attention to the many small hints I’m sent on a fairly regular basis. When I listen and act on what my “gut” is telling me I do okay. And for the most part, I pay attention and take the advice I’m sent seriously. When my head is drooping and I can’t keep my eyes on the screen, I know it’s time to turn the computer off and go for a walk … or take a nap … or pull a few weeds in the garden.  When “something” tells me I need to go in a different direction than the one I insist on, I need to listen.  If I take too long catching on to what is being suggested, the two-by-four comes out.  And it’s usually in the form of a health problem.

The first time it happened was a long time ago in the late 70’s, on a January first. I had been pissing and moaning about how I hated New Years and what a boring day it was.  I was glad the the old year was gone, but I was hoping for a year filled with all kinds of excitement. I hated looking back at what looked to me like an uninteresting life. I was hoping the big calendar shift would bring some exciting new thing to get me up and moving toward something big and bright that would peak my interest and the passion that I’d been missing for a while.

At the time, life was a mishmash of being a mother, a wife, a daughter and whatever else came my way.  What ever it was didn’t matter, as long as I was busy and time passed quickly. I was stuck, overextended, and not appreciating the small things in life that one day turn out to be big deals.

Just moments after bemoaning the dullness of the cold and sunless day, I heard my two dogs, Mildred and Chippy, having a knock-down-drag-out fight out in the field in front of my house.  I envisioned major injuries and blood loss.  Without thinking, I ran like hell down the driveway to break them up, forgetting that there was a cattle guard between me and the dogs.  By the time I realized what was ahead of me it was too late to stop.  One leg landed between concrete piers and I heard a snap.  There was no pain at first, but I knew I was in trouble.  Both bones in my lower right leg were broken and I was in a cast of one kind or another for four months.  If I thought life was boring before the event, it was really bad afterwards.

I got the excitement I wished for, but it was the wrong kind. Within the dark clouds over my head was that often spoken of and highly celebrated silver lining in the form of time. Time not only to heal a damaged leg, but also time to think about where I’d been and where I was going. I changed a whole lot things and became a better person.

The second time it happened was three and a half years ago when I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer.  I had recently lost both my mother and brother to cancer. I was scared out of my mind. I’d been hoarding all sorts of raw, hateful feelings toward both my mother and my brother. I felt broken and unhappy, wondering what would happen next.  Surgery removed all of the cancer and brought the promising prognosis that in all likelihood it would not return.

Again, my gift was time. Over the days, I figured out that I needed a major make-over.  Not a new hair style, makeup and wardrobe kind of makeover, but a new way of looking at life and recognizing the lessons that keep coming my way. Since then I’ve worked hard learning about love, forgiveness, and my own ugly warts. And since I started writing about my my healing journey with my mother, I’m feeling like a new person.

That is until three and half weeks ago when the unimaginable pain of a pinched nerve set me back from the self-imposed deadline of having the first draft done by October first.  For a full week all I could do was stay in bed.  I felt as though I couldn’t hold my head up, and the excruciating pain radiated from my neck down into my left arm and into the palm of my hand.  Working at the computer was impossible.  During the second week the pain lessened but I was told that sitting all day in front of the computer screen, writing my book was the most likely cause of the problem.

In my rush to get that first draft done, I’d forgotten to take care of myself in other ways.  I’d decided not to travel over the summer, became a recluse, and kept on writing.  I wasn’t exercising enough and even my usually healthy diet took a hit. That’s all well and good for some I suppose, but for me those were the wrong decisions.  I was lonely and wanted to get out of here.

I need more socializing than I thought I did and the continual revisiting of dark days in the past wore me down. Something was going to give, one way or another. It seems more than a coincidence that this problem in my left shoulder and arm happened as I was writing chapters about my mother’s last few months of life, when she broke both her left shoulder and her left femur.  I considered them among the worst days of my life.  Is it so surprising that I was having these symptoms as I relived them?

So again, I’m being taught something and am surrendering to the lessons.  I continue to write a little bit every day, but it can only be for an hour or so. Within that hour I’m supposed to get up and move about every thirty minutes.  I’m seeing a physical therapist, doing lots of stretching, and there is an MRI in the works. But my pain in the neck, shoulder, and arm has given me plenty of time to read and get caught up on filing, and rethinking how this person needs to go about her work.

I am being given the gift of time once again. Time to work more slowly and deliberately, in order to get out the best story I can tell.  Before my pinched nerver,  I was rushing through the darkness so that I could get out from under the clouds.  Now I’m taking both the light and darkness together, slowing down and paying attention to where I am.  It feels so much better.