life

Pilgrimage of sorts day 8

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / Leave a comment

What goes up, must come down

When there is an up there is inevitably a down.

What I had not anticipated was how low the down would be and so quickly.

Starting last night, my back felt like it was having a proper shout. Every muscle ached from the upper to the lower back. Rooted in the shower, I let the water drum into my shoulder muscles which felt tight and restricted.

My dreams were anxious, a range of scenarios that included being in the wrong place at the wrong time, toilets overflowing, mopping up the resulting mess, my husband having a secret love affair, and more. Now if my father were alive, he would have made me put a bet on a horse after dreaming about poo. He always believed that these dreams meant money. I instead think that it is a symbol of transition, or simply movement, or one kind or another!

Those troubled dreams entered my nervous system and I woke up on day eight with a thumping headache and pain in my back which was an anxious pain, not a real pain.

The bed sucked me in and would not let me leave, my partner, exited early to go to the gym, and I was still there at 9.30 when he returned. No painkillers, no breakfast, which made the slump even worse.

For those of you who experience these highs and lows regularly, you may see parallels with your own experience.

Forcing myself out of bed and down, I could barely make a cup of tea, before calling the doctor to get more tablets.

And then I felt the pain in my shin. That same ache that I have had for many months. My anxiety had cracked the door open and allowed the pain to creep back in. A pain that delighted in the misery it found in my body. This was a comfy spot, a known spot, a place for it to settle in. The frustrated tears were just enough to push that pain out although I can sense their toes still in the doorway, wanting for a sneaky opportunity to come back in.

Distraction was my next ploy.

I listened to the next episode of my current favourite podcast – Strangers on a Bench, where two strangers have a conversation about what is happening right now in their life. The revelations that come in these short conversations remind me of the many wonderful and interesting stories that we all hold in our hearts. The joyful music and curiosity in both the interviewer’s and interviewee’s voices lessened the anxiety.

Yellow tee shirt on, face washed, teeth brushed and hair tamed. Let’s see how this day progresses.

Well, it ended better than it started. Like the rolling waves of pain that come and go, so do our negative emotions but for me, the swells are larger now, which means more time has to be spent on the downs.

I had two visitors today who lifted my spirits and sent me on the swell-up. Emmy, who shared her indomitable spirit, recovering from soft tissue damage that she received after taking up jogging. Emmy is 70 and the most inspirational people you can ever meet. We shared lunch enjoying the simple pleasures of soup, bread, and cheese plus a little ice cream. She walked with me around the block where we were both taken by the dedication of an army of ants as they traversed the trunk of a hornbeam, entering the leaf canopy and exiting, stopping from time to time to share a message or two from their journey.

Later, Liz arrived and we made a plan to start our very own book club of two starting with Is the River Alive by Robert McFarlane. We both had the pleasure of listening to him speak at the Royal Geographical Society at the launch of the book in early May. We decided then that we would hold off reading the book until my recuperation period. By next week, we will have read the introduction and will share our responses as all good book club readers do in a week.

Another walk ensued, this time the red poppies that had caught my eye earlier were admired once again. Tissue paper petals that will be gone very soon, but in the time that they are here are joyful to see. A symbol for me of resilience, as they grow in the verges and fields and poor soil. The dark painterly lines reminding of a river delta as it meets the ocean.

The height of the swell had subsided by the time I went to sleep, there were still niggles remaining, but as I slept I took resilience, perseverance, and curiosity to bed with me.

Pilgrimage Day 5

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / Leave a comment

I put the hairdryer down and let out a sigh, not just of relief but a proper exhale which was my nervous system doing a bit of a reset. Drying my hair is an effective self soothing behaviour for me and one which I learnt as a child and now continue as an adult.

For those of you who don’t know what a self soothing activity is, it is one which is used to regulate our emotional state. This one allows for sensory stimulation through the repetitive combing of my hair as well as the noise and the heat from the hairdryer.

The first time washing my hair post surgery was needed. That sigh released tension that I had been holding in my body, tension that had already come out in the form of tears.

For those of you who know me well, you will recognise that my hair is important to me. I have worn it various ways, short, very short, curly, long, bobbed, with a fringe and without. From my early days of queuing in the bathroom to get a cutthroat razor hairstyle, styled by my Dad, I have enjoyed getting my hair cut. My hair is thick, really thick which my Dad enjoyed showing me when he used the thinning scissors for a long time, without denting the thickness of my hair. Hairdressing was one of the many jobs my Dad turned his hand to when I was a young person. I didn’t visit a hairdresser until my teenage years and the resulting relationships with Ken, Janine, Sophie and now Ceira have been closer than some of my family members!

So part of my recovery is making sure I can keep my hair clean and tidy. If that sounds vain, I promise it isn’t, it’s not vanity, it’s bringing me back to a sense of self. When my fringe sits right, all is right in the world.

My hair has its own personality. When I am down and frustrated the curls come weaving out daring others to look at me and turn to stone. Like medusa snakes they have come in use over the years. They can stop people in their tracks, they can start a conversation and they can silence.

One or two snakes seen in my fringe can be playful, give me a devil may care attitude, when the whole head is snake-like, then people need to tread carefully around me.

As a young child we had our hair washed once a week and now as an adult I try to do the same. I do not have any patience for more than that unless I am presenting or speaking to a large group of people and a blow dry helps get me in the zone.

With five children plus her own hair, hair washing day was a real chore for my mum, perhaps another reason why I limit the time on this task. Lining us up at the sink, each of us had our hair washed one by one, sometimes my older sisters helping out. I don’t remember much hair drying, it was drip dry then.

My mum however was different. When her hair was so long that she could sit on it, I have clear memories of standing on her chair behind her and combing her hair out, helping her dry it. When she got fed up with the time it took to dry, she cut it short and then Saturday afternoon became mum’s hairdressing day. Putting her hair in rollers, with setting lotion she would sit underneath the salon type hair dryer we had in the home for at least an hour. This was a time when she allowed herself time, reading her magazines and painting her nails. The noise of the dryer was calming, it was a time when we would be put in front of a Saturday afternoon film so that she could keep an eye that we were not up to mischief.

How does all of this relate to my recovery?

Time for self care of course.

Time to take time to just be with the simple things.

Time to indulge in a self soothing activity.

Time to focus on one thing and one thing only.

Oh the other sigh came from my partner Carl who was sighing with relief that he didn’t have to turn his hand and take on the role of hairdresser for the morning! As his sympathetic nervous system relaxed, mine joined his as well as we co-regulated with a smile.

Pilgrimage of sorts

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / Leave a comment

2.30am and the pain was getting intense. I had woken up several times in the night but didn’t want to make a fuss. A shadow part of me that had surfaced time and time again in the past was in the room. ‘Don’t make a fuss, you will be alright, don’t bring attention to yourself, it will be fine.’

Luckily the more reasonable adult part of me took over from this cautionary voice and I finally pressed the buzzer to alert a nurse. She arrived within seconds, knocking gently and then entering the room. Asking me if I was okay, I told her about the intense pain from my right knee. When she looked, I could see it had blown up like a small balloon, the circulation cut off. The stockings had been put on (by me) to help alleviate the challenge of DVT, but had put unnecessary pressure on the back of my knee, as I thought they were over the knee socks – they were not. I felt so silly but also relieved when she quickly peeled it back and immediately got the circulation back into my leg, my knee deflating as quickly as it had been blown up.

That shadow voice – not bring attention is one I know well as it periodically raises its head in my working and personal life. Where it comes from is the challenge of being the 5th child in a family where time was scant in terms of attention. There was an unspoken rule that you just got on with things, ‘stiff upper lip and all that’.

The opposite of the keep quiet voice is the one that takes action. The part of me that takes charge and calls for attention, waving the red flag and alerting people to see the problems and face the issue. Not caring that I might delay, change course or use time in a different way.

As the pain subsided in my right knee at that quiet time at 2.30a.m. in the morning, I sensed that my mum was standing by my side. I could feel her with me, an intense presence giving comfort, no words, just presence. The time before dusk and dawn are often referred to as thin places, a liminal space where some people believe that there is a door between this world and the next. She had stepped through to comfort me.

This beautiful poem by Joyce Rupp gives a clue to what might happen in a thin place.

Lead me in your love

Thin places

Where the door between this world

And the next door is cracked open

For a moment

And the light is not all on the other side

Thin places transform us

In thin places we become our

More essential selves.

These liminal spaces are places where we can be taken away from our normal roles, normal parts of self. They are a place where we can explore new ways of being with ourselves. A time when rules can be suspended and a chance for transformation to occur.

So what happened to me in that liminal space?

I allowed myself to cry.

The first tears that I allowed to fall post surgery.

Tears that acknowledged my fear.

Tears that allowed me to drop the brave exterior.

Tears that allowed for relief to be in the room.

They were healing tears.

I stayed awake for a few hours, putting down my book just before dawn at 4am. Ready to sleep knowing that on this journey some voices will be more helpful than others.