Under my skin

I have been given a gift.  No, it’s not the gift of health.  I had the gift of health for 28 years, and mostly took it for granted.  No, I’ve been given the gift of illness.

Yes, I am healthy now, for the most part.  There are a couple of issues that are yet-unresolved-but-resolvable, but my main symptoms and illnesses were gone within 6 weeks of my decision to take some control over what I put in my body.  I’m not a religious fanatic about it – I spent 4 days in New Orleans eating and drinking whateverthehell I wanted – but for the most part I avoid foods that cause me to feel unwell.  And it works.  My identity is no longer that of the sick person.  I have scientific proof:  for the first time in seven years, my sed rate and CRP – classic inflammation markers – were normal.  There is no inflammation in my body.  I’ve never been able to say that.  It’s not just the science –  I feel it.

None of this would have happened without all of the love and support of my amazing family and friends, but they could only help me help myself.   I would try, and search for answers, and gave up more times than I could count.  I licked my wounds (which were the times my friends were there for me the most), regrouped and tried again.  The truth is, I did this.  Finally, I have found what works for me.  I couldn’t have gotten here without the support of everyone I love, but I’m the one who drastically changed my lifestyle.  I’m the one who decided to control what I put in my body.  And I’m the one who actually controls it, and decides when to relinquish control and just enjoy myself, and exercising that discretion is what has given me health. 

The fact that I have been able to do that makes me feel like I can do anything.  I have healed myself.  That is my gift.

My only disappointment lies in my failure to learn this years ago.  I hate that it’s only when I’ve become healthy that I am able to recognize the beauty in having been ill.  People have said “oh, you’re so strong to be able to go through that.”  I haven’t been strong.  I gave up more than I tried.  I REALLY hate that someone else going through something similar might decide that they can’t find their strength until they get physically healthy first.  It’s just not true.

I was telling someone recently about part of my trip to Hawaii, the trip I took 2 years ago that was so powerful and memorable I was unable to write about it, because words were not enough.  I went to visit friends, who lived on Oahu, with a side trip to the Big Island.  Before I went island-hopping, my friends told me about this heiau (temple) that was difficult to get to, but supposedly really mystical and powerful to see.  They hadn’t been able to make the trek (something about puddles and flip-flops), but I added it to my list of things to try.

The morning I was to fly back to Honolulu, I drove up from Kona to the northern end of the island.  I found the road that my friends and my guidebook had pointed out to me, parked my rental car, put on my hiking boots, and headed out to Mo’Okini Heiau.

They weren’t kidding about the puddles.  Knee-deep, the size of tractor trailers and the width of the entire road (so there was no going ‘round them).  I knew I would be covered in mud with no ability to clean up before getting on the plane, and I just didn’t care.  I had no idea how far it would be to the heiau, but I knew this might be my once-in-a-lifetime chance to see it.  I had to try.

I kept on walking/wading, until I got past the puddles and was just walking along the dirt road.  I had no iPod, no friends to talk to, it was just me and the road, and the silence.  The silence was palpable, but it was also my companion.  That is, until I turned a corner and found myself walking along the Pacific Ocean.  I had no idea the road to the heiau followed the northern shore of the Big Island of Hawaii, but coming upon the waves crashing against the rocks was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

Until the whales showed up.

I was so present in that moment, I did not take pictures of them.  I took 1600 pictures in 12 days of Hawaii, but I felt like those whales were there to greet me, to encourage me to continue down this path of unknown length and skeptical destination.  I wanted to respect them, yes, but more than that I did not want a record of them.  They were there for me, and no one else.  No whale watching boats, no tourists, just whales surfacing 200 yards off the coast, nudging me to keep going.

I continued down the road, and it grew steeper uphill.  I was exhausted.  I’d already spent several days doing more physically challenging work than I thought I was able, considering my limitations.  But I had come this far.

I climbed that final hill, pushing away thoughts of having to walk the whole way back.  I wondered about this historic temple, hundreds and hundreds of years old, where thousands of lives were sacrificed.  What would it feel like, to be in a place so sacred, yet so full of death?  So mystical . . . so historic?  I kept climbing the hill, until I got to the top and . . .

The sprinkler system was on.  To water the grass.  The modern, man-made invention that is intended to preserve the pristine nature of the lawn surrounding this place – when, in reality, there were no sprinklers 1,000 years ago so the grass looked like what it looked like.  I hiked my ass through all of that to come to the sacred . . . sprinkler?  Are you KIDDING me? 

My response?  I laughed.  Hard. 

That is life.  You can plan, and expect, and toil – and end up looking at sprinklers.  If you don’t appreciate the irony in that, the fact that you cannot take yourself or your life too seriously, you are missing out.

At the time, I thought that experience was unique, and special, and not to be repeated.  In certain ways, that’s true.  But in other ways, that’s what my whole life is like now.  I want to do things, I want to see things, I’m tired of hiding in my house, so I set out.  And it’s hard sometimes.  Despite my high level of interpersonal contact in my job, in social settings this former butterfly – no, HUMMINGBIRD – is out of practice.

It’s okay.  I will practice.  I will get better.  I will make stupid mistakes and probably revert back to junior high more than once.  But, as I climb to the top of that hill after a long journey toward that sacred temple, when I hear the sprinklers I will laugh.  Because under this skin, you will find a human being who knows who she is, knows what she is capable of, and is finally completely comfortable with herself. 

Does that scare you?  Good.  That means it’s your turn.  I will be here for you.