Cultivate

My seedlings

Each day, I spend time cultivating the lives of living creatures, giving back. I care for each little seedling, each dog, and my kiddos gingerly and with love.

Right now it is raining - a fabulous spring thunderstorm. The drops fall on the concrete sidewalk outside my window as I type in a torrent. It smells of spring, and I swear I can smell the nitrogen in the air from the rain. Thunder claps in the distance. A dog breathes in the hallway, sleeping through this beautiful night and spring storm.

I sit cross-legged and breathe in love, acceptance and peace. I breathe out judgement, negativity and hate.

I breathe in forgiveness, serenity and tolerance; I breathe out pain and anger.

I breathe in vitality and healing.

I breathe in.

I breathe.

It's funny how long it takes the soul to repair from trauma. Over the last month, now that it's quiet, all of these memories from the hospital flood me. The lovely, dream-like haze of morphine injecting into my veins and washing over me. The Asian female resident in knee-socks and a white coat at dawn leaning over to listen to my heart and declaring, "murmur. You have heart murmur." Odd, surreal memories.

And then there's the not so surreal ones - ones that are far more ominous and horrifying. Feeling like I'm being held down by a weight on my chest and drowning when my lungs collapsed...Huge man indifferently ripping open my hospital gown while I'm helpless, can't move, can't speak to stick electrodes on me for an EKG, flopping my breasts around like so much meat...callously, callously, while my oxygen reads 82% and BEEP BEEP BEEP...

Can the soul be damaged when the body is damaged?


"Self portrait" - a piece I shot while in the hospital. Many claim they see images within this image

I had no idea when I checked into that hospital room it would be weeks before I'd leave. And I had no idea it would take months to process what unfolded in that room.

So now, nine months later, I sit crying at my dining room table listening to the rain. Nine months. Is this the gestational period to give birth to trauma recovery?

I breathe. Breathe in forgiveness, serenity and tolerance; I breathe out pain and anger.

I breathe in vitality and healing.

I breathe in.

I breathe.

Learn by going where I need to go

It is six degrees out as I type. The snow is piling up outside with no intention of letting up. The house is quiet and in that quiet, a storm brews.

I should be excited. And I am, in a way. But I've had this horrible cough for going on three weeks now, and sometimes right now, it hurts to breathe. So I sit quietly with Gracie lying next to me and Foxy at my feet, thinking. Sometimes, now, I want to just be quiet.

What have I been training for? Several hundred miles logged on the dogs this fall, moving toward a solid goal, only to have everything fall apart at the last moment?

This year has been such a rough year. All I wanted more than anything was to get back on the runners and move forward. But maybe I've moved forward too fast. Because now suddenly these demons are haunting me. Three months of solid antibiotics have weakened me, made me susceptible, led to this awful cough. My body is not what it was. I am atrophied in places that were once strong. And I've been denying this fact.

My intentions were good. I thought picking right up where I left off was the right thing.

But I find myself in these quiet moments remembering the fragility and tenuous hold we have on life. In flashes, now that it's quiet, I remember the helplessness I felt in September, the stream of physicians of various disciplines, the humiliation and frustration and yes, the anger. And I remember the pain. Now that it's quiet, the memories well up inside of me, now that it's quiet, and rushes out in a flood that once was an iceberg. Why? Why did this happen?

I have decided to spend some time processing. Races will be there. I need to embrace this quiet, grieve, feel. And learn by going where I have to go.

Theodore Roethke - "The Waking"

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Gratitude (Kodachrome)

Just six weeks ago, I didn't think I'd be able to witness something as spectacular as an Ohio fall this season.


The rural road that leads me to my favorite places...

I didn't think I'd have the strength for this either.


Today on a training run at the state park

I am so grateful, still, every day. People have asked me if I've settled down yet, or stopped being amazed by the simple beauty of life. Nope, not at all. Every day is a gift. I've got new eyes. I see things in kodachrome.



"Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world's a sunny day, oh yeah
I got a Nikon camera" (I actually have Canons)
"I love to take a photograph
So mama don't take my Kodachrome away"

A Homage to the Human Body

The human body is amazing.

Nearly two gallons of blood is pumped through our bodies daily. Like budding leaves on the ends of trees, human lungs contain 600 million aveoli - enough to cover a tennis court - that filter carbon dioxide and process the oxygen we breathe. The average person's largest organ, skin, covers about 22 square feet and is one of our first protectors against the outside world.

Really, we are amazing creatures. Not only in our ability to live, think, contribute, but also in our abilities to heal.

Healing. To heal. To make whole. To repair. Physicially, cells regenerating to replace or repair damaged cells.

There's all kinds of healing and methods to get there: spiritual healing, physical healing, emotional healing; wound healing, the healing of a broken heart, wholistic healing, faith healing, self healing.

Okay, we get it. So what are you getting at, Shannon?

I had a doctor appointment today, and received for the first time since July good news.

It appears that the abscess on my remaining ovary is responding positively to the antibiotics. My doctor kneeds on my abdomen like a kitten. For once, I do not wince in pain. In fact, I'm in no pain. I feel better than I've felt in three months.

I return next week for one more ultrasound, just to be sure.

To think that not even six weeks ago, I underwent a complicated abdominal surgery that sent me into a tailspin near death is unfathomable...and absolutely astounding. So many times in those first couple weeks after that surgery I didn't think I could hold out, muddle through. So many times I thought my life would never be the same again. And, actually quite quickly, in five and a half short weeks, I feel like myself again.

The antibiotic I still take daily leaves a horrible taste in my mouth that stubbornly holds on despite the strongest, longest dose of Listerine. But that's okay. There are worse side effects. And it's a small price to pay to keep my remaining ovary and have my life back.

But it's not just that mauve pill I take nightly that heals me.

I believe I am healed by each breath I take toward wholeness.

I believe I am healed by that tiny tiger moving through my veins, from the simple act of positive, forward thinking.

I believe I am healed by the love and light sent my way from friends and family near and far.

I believe I am healed from a Light that shines.

I believe I am healed every time I step outside, to see my children, my dogs, the trees, the sky...

And I believe the human body is a truly miraculous thing. And I am so thankful.

Conservative Management

I had a visit from Dr. Karlen, an OB/GYN specialist, objective voice and second opinion today. He agreed with the infectious disease doc that my body seems to be responding well to the Tigecycline.

We all agree on conservative management, that is, since my body seems to be responding well, my white counts are good and I'm afebrile (no fever), surgery will not be necessary; they will continue to treat me with oral antibiotics...which means...

I can GO HOME!!!!


Two of my favorite people on 2 East: (from left) Kelly and Lauren

It's good because I've blown out my second vein since I came here this morning. If I never see another needle for the rest of my life, I will be a happy woman!

It's also good because maybe, just maybe....I can start training in a week or so. We'll see.

TTFN - happy girl!

Tigecycline: the tiger moving through my veins

The yellow tiger moving through my veins

Tigecycline, the powerful, bright yellow IV antibiotic that drips steadily from a little bolus through plastic tubes and into my veins, holds the key to my keeping my remaining ovary. I’m not sure if it was intended to conjure these images or if it’s because of my literal interpretations of language, but because of its name, and the powerful punch it delivers to abdominal infections, I picture a small tiger streaming into my blood stream ready to pounce. I picture its claws extended, its teeth barred, hear its snarls as it travels to this infection ready to rumble. I hold onto this image. I visualize the 4 cm pocket of infectious fluid surrounding my left ovary shrinking, defeated from the Tiger. It’s got to work. I can’t face another surgery. It’s got to work.

Yes, I'm back in the hospital. Abdominal pain and a low-grade temp prompted a visit to my doctor's ultrasound tech, which revealed the glowing mass of infection around my ovary. My only remaining ovary. And I don't want to lose it like I lost the other one. The treatment plan right now is to try to kick this with aggressive IV antibiotic therapy and a possibly ultrasound-guided needle drain in the back. No one wants cut me open again after what happened last time, including and most importantly, me.

My roommate is the most obnoxious, demanding and self-centered elderly woman ever made by God.

She calls out constantly, “Nurse!” every 30 seconds when she has to relieve herself – what she calls going “tinkle” – and she has to relieve herself every 20 minutes. Apparently she abuses the nurse call light so much that the nurses have started writing her pleads for assistance off, like the boy who cried wolf, so now she’s just decided to yell for them. And yell she does, starting before dawn at 6 a.m. when she soils herself.


Dawn breaking over the busy buildings of the hospital

Later, she takes to asking me to push my call light for her...as I’m puking my guts out. My nurse comes in to give me some Phenergan, and the elderly lady interrupts her to yell out, “help me!”

She’s happy to chat about her various illnesses and surgeries, and offers up odd information at random.

“I have a husband,” she says out of the blue.

“Okay, that’s nice,” says the nursing assistant who is awaiting the lovely task of wiping her up after her current tinkle.

When she’s all clean, she makes a phone call, I presume to her husband who I know from her random offering of information that she’s been married to for 57 years. She tells him how she’s being discharged today. She tells him the nurses don’t come when she calls, that they “giggle at her from the hallway.”

Being “sick” has become the elderly woman’s full-time job. At 78 years of age, it’s what she does with her life, and it contributes to the economy just like any job. This woman helps employ many people, from nurses to assistants to doctors and their secretaries; home health aides, Medicare claims adjustors, right down to the people who make the equipment all of those people use.

I wonder what she did with her life before she became sick and frail.

Driving and crying: as American as the open road

It must be an American thing. We love our cars, and I am certainly guilty of fond affections for my truck.

Yes, it's true. In America, driving equals freedom.

There is something about it. An open road, the windows open wide, fresh road-going air blowing, ipod plugged into the stereo. When I used to smoke, there was always a cigarette lit if the car was in "drive." The perfect mix to relaxation.


Still looking rather sickly, I smiled as I pulled out of my driveway in the Toyota today for the first time in weeks

So today, when I fired up the Toyota after a month of not driving, I was more than a little overwhelmed. In fact, I cried. Sitting in the Sunoco station fueling up, surrounded by people going about their everyday activities, something as commonplace as driving took on great significance for me.

So many things have taken on great significance for me now. And I cry often - sometimes from the sheer joy of simple pleasures, like eating, or showering without puking, or washing my hair! The gratefulness I have for life is more than I can explain, and often, more than I can contain. Tears well up and every day things are just....beautiful.

I am very happy to say I have spent much time with my furry four-legged kids the last two days, which has brought tears to my eyes too.


the backyard mayhem

And, I realized yesterday after going out back for the first time in weeks that Big Brown has been keeping a secret.



Chris has been caring for the dogs while I've been in the hospital and recovering. As an editor, he has a lot of attention to detail. In life, however, he doesn't have so much. He had no idea about Big Brown's little secret. But it took two seconds for me to figure it out yesterday.

Big Brown is expecting. Papa, Yeti, like Chris, has no idea. But Brownie girl knows. After dinner tonight, she lay down in the grass and let me rub her growing belly looking up at me, eyes half shut, enjoying the rub down as only a pregnant female can enjoy a belly rub. She should be due in nine days. It's certainly not good timing as we started our fall training tonight, and I am still very weak and recovering. But, as John Lennon said, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. And so, life happens. And it's beautiful: the mistakes, the mayhem, the joy and the sadness. It's all so beautiful.

"All things are ready if our minds are so" Henry V, Shakespeare

In college, I studied countless hours of Shakespeare and Chaucer, thinking like most college students these things could never be relevant to "real life." I find myself thinking back to several quotes again tonight from one of my favorite Shakespearean plays: Henry V.

I was so moved from the king's soliloquy to his soldiers in rallying them to take up arms and fight, I still look back on that scene when I need to muster strength to face a challenge. Out numbered in soldiers 5 to 1, the English army is clearly fearful of going into battle with the French. Until the king, shown below from my favorite 1989 film with Kenneth Branagh as Henry, moves them to be brave "for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother." The scene moves me to tears.

At the end of this soliloquy, Henry says, "All things are ready if our minds be so."

I think of this tonight. Today has been difficult. Even simple things, like showering, seem to exhaust me. It seems like an uphill battle, repairing. Sometimes it's hard to not focus on the pain and all that's happened.

It was two weeks ago tonight my belly was sliced open to reveal a scary world inside, an infection that was taking over my entire abdomen. A lot of it is a blur. I remember the pain. I remember hearing a doc say I would be moved to the ICU and intubated if I didn't start improving, pronto. I remember being terrified.

In the aftermath, now that I'm home, I realize I can never be the person I once was. I am forever changed.

I tear up often. Little things take on great meaning. Last night, sleepless, I wandered into the kitchen to savor a delicious, ruby red grapefruit. It was unlike anything I'd ever tasted before, so sweet and juicy and luscious.

I think of all the things I love that I almost never saw, tasted, smelled or felt again.

I am ready, in mind, to get strong again and heal. I just need to be patient with my body.

Here is that soliloquy from Henry V, with Kenneth Branagh. "Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say these wounds I had on Crispin's Day." Someday, maybe I'll be proud of these battle scars.

And so begins

And so begins the process of trying to put all this behind me and repair.

I was shocked to realize how much my body had atrophied after two weeks in a hospital bed. My legs almost buckled underneath me as I walked up the front step of my house.

For the first time in my life, I'm scared of my own dogs - of their power and strength. I went out to see them yesterday shortly after I returned home, and was terrified they would rip open the stitches in my belly jumping up on me in excitement. They were so happy to see me. It breaks my heart I cannot frolic with them like normal right now.

Which naturally leads to the question: what about this season? It's already September. It will be at least a couple weeks before I'm strong enough to even maintain dog chores and possibly run them. Do I have time to work both myself up and to train them for the Midnight Run?

And why oh why does it seem like every year there's some obstacle staring me in the face, preventing me from getting to Midnight Run? And why do I have to want this this one thing so bad?!

Direct admit

Over the last 36 hours, I have grown increasingly sick. I spent 19 hours in bed the night before last and most of the day yesterday, only getting up to fix the kids a quick bite to eat, apologize to them for killing the last days of their summer with my sickness, and go back to bed.

This morning, in the dim light of 6:15, I awoke from the pain. Everywhere. Throbbing pain in my head, shoulders, neck, hips, knees, even my ankles. And especially pain in my belly: shooting pain that makes my eyes squint shut. I was hot, alternating between sweating profusely or quaking and shivering with chills. I fumbled for the thermometer, waited for the beep and shuddered when I read it. 102. It was then I called the doctor's office.

Shortly after being admitted, I was taken to the ground floor for an ultrasound. It was then I saw the dark mass - about the size of a tennis ball - glowing behind my bladder that's been growing and making me sick.

I am now listening to some woman freaking out in the room next to me about God knows what, and to the steady hum of liquid Zosyn, a heavy-duty antibiotic, flowing through a bag of Sodium Chloride and into my veins. I find out shortly what the plan of action is to get this dark glowing mass out of me. There's talk of doing a painful, CAT-scan-assisted needle drain, but there's significant risk for further infection.

I just want my life back. Dog training starts in the next few weeks, and I won't have my plans for the season derailed by some post-operative infection.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

"Do I dare
Disturb the universe?



In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

T.S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Every time I am on the water, I think this same thought: with every touch of the tip of my paddle, I am disturbing an entire universe. From fishes to turtles to plant life to the tiniest micro-organism, just the simple, slightest movement of my paddle stirs it all.

At first, I never want this evening to end.

Finally back in my kayak. I threw caution to the wind this evening and headed out to the water. How I've missed my time on the water, paddle in hand, the steady rocking hip-to-hip row, row, row in perfect rhythm, nothing out there but me and several hundred species of animal.

I am rowing like this, poised and peaceful, simultaneously calling to a Bard owl somewhere in a forested distance and chasing a Blue Heron when I receive the phone call.

I had my second CAT scan Monday, the follow-up appointment with the doctor today.

In the office, the radiologist hadn't yet given the reading to my doctor. She promised a call, reassuring that, more than likely, the abscess in my pelvis had receded.

"It is very unlikely that it's grown," she said.

Schools of tiny water insects skim across the lake in zig-zag formation as I answer the call.

"Remember how I said it was very unlikely that the abscess has grown?" she says from the other end of the line.

"Well, true to form, you're the one case to go against the odds."

A painted turtle paddles under the surface, his thick, clawed feet moving like slow rudders. My heart sinks.

"The report says the abscessed area has grown since the last scan, now over four centimeters," she continues.



I sit with the setting sun for a long time tonight. It was an amazing sunset - like orange sherbet scooped from God's own hand. I cried on the water. I felt and feel all these emotions: regret, fear, anger, sadness, helplessness.

There's nothing I can do.

Then, I hear the owl again, calling to me from the same forested distance - only now it's closer. I'm reminded, from nature, of just who I am, and more importantly, that it's not up to me. Again, I need this message.

The owl calls, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you.." in the infamous monkey-like call of the Bard owl. He asks me a good question.

I am floating in this water. And though I can paddle, steer, stay afloat, I am not in control. It's not up to me. The boat holds me, its buoyancy sturdy and strong. I let my weight rest in it, and let go.