Accepting Love

Strong.

Brave.

Independent.

These are descriptors that I have embraced as the very essence of who I am. Over the course of my lifetime, I have clung fiercely to my ability to be self-sufficient.

Several months ago, that self-sufficiency was in jeopardy. I faced an uncertain outcome when I made the decision to undergo ACL reconstruction. That, in and of itself, was, apparently, an unusual and “aggressive” (one surgeon’s assessment) choice. Apparently, this procedure is not common for people over the age of 40, for reasons that are still very unclear to me. But primarily, it may be that people over 40 don’t require the use of an ACL, or are simply poorer candidates for recovery.

The recovery and rehab looked daunting. One protocol had me in a hinged brace for six weeks. Most protocols stated no driving for 4-6 weeks. If a meniscus repair was needed, there was to be no weight bearing beyond toe touching for at least 6 weeks.
Despite these potentially dire results, I still opted in. I’m playing a long game and this was a relatively easy choice.

However, after making that decision, I faced something that, for me, might have been the most difficult part of the whole process.

I needed to ask for help.

Why is asking for help so hard? I have tons of courage when it comes to just about everything else in my life, but, for some reason, I resist the action of reaching out for assistance.

It’s possible that growing up with a mother who was unable to provide a strong and stable bond convinced me that the only person I could really rely upon was myself. Unlike the stereotypical single person, I love to cook for myself, I keep a reasonably clean house, and I’m fully capable of doing things that make me happy, with or without others.

But all this self-sufficiency has come with a price. In my closest relationships, I have erected barriers by predetermining what others can or cannot do for me.

That’s pretty unfair to all involved.

So, when faced with a potential prolonged period of helplessness, I needed to break out of some very ingrained habits.

I first discovered that, as a self-sufficient person, I manifest self-centered behavior, especially when I make things about me that are not in the least bit about me. It’s an extremely crippling mindset.

So, I realized that when I asked for help, I was going to have to do it without any preconceived notions of who would be willing and able to help me. Most importantly, I needed to not make it about how much I believed someone cared about me. Because in the end, whether or not someone else is willing or able to help me has absolutely NOTHING to do with how much that person cares about me, and has EVERYTHING to do with what is going on in that other person’s life. Full stop.

Changing this mindset was far more difficult than I expected. But I knew that it was imperative if I was to get through this event. When I ultimately asked for help, I set aside any expectation in the outcome. After all, that part was simply not within my control.

The response was swift and gratifying. One friend expressed her desire to make me “feel loved.” When that sentiment overwhelmed me emotionally, I made yet another self discovery: all my self-sufficiency had severely stymied my ability to accept love.

After all, helping is a form of love. Most of us want to be helpful, and we feel great when we are able to help others. But sometimes being on the receiving end of help can make us feel weak or vulnerable. Or maybe, deep down, we don't think we are worthy of being helped....or being loved.

As it turns out, there is strength in vulnerability. Just as there is strength in accepting love.

And so, I am learning to accept love. After years of embracing the mantra: “I can do this,” I have shifted to a new one:

“I am worthy.”

The Preciousness of Time

Sunrise is my favorite time of day.

In midwinter, the sweet spot is somewhere between 7:40 and 8:00 a.m.

Saturday, the sunrise was obscured by clouds and softly falling snow. It was peaceful, literally the calm before the storm. The forecast called for falling temps and wind gusts up to 50 miles per hour.

I savored that quiet walk even more than usual.

For me, time has always been my most precious commodity. 26 years ago, when I signed documents to be a full-time government attorney, I studied the pension information. I knew I wanted to retire as soon as I was eligible to collect a pension. Turns out, by retiring at 55, I give up 50% of what I could receive if I wait 7 more years and retire at 62.

I have never had enough time to live the life I want to live, because the bulk of any given day is spent doing a job for which I earn money to spend on the things that make me happy. While being a lawyer has suited me temperamentally, the toll it has taken on me mentally, emotionally and physically is significant.

Several years ago, I bought myself a little piece of paradise. During the winter, I leave in the dark and return in the dark. My wildlife friends sleep deep in whatever warmth they are able to create for themselves, only appearing after I am gone.

I miss out on the sunrises. I miss out on days that are uncomplicated. I miss out on a feeling that I have an abundance of time.

I am happily giving up 50% of my pension for seven years of time.

Last week I met with my financial planner. He expressed concern, particularly with my upcoming knee surgery. He worries that I will run out of money when I am 85. He is in his sixties and still working because he is saving for assisted living.

Assisted living is not a future I can contemplate. I told him I would throw myself down a flight of stairs before going into assisted living.

A dear friend, who is 66, is currently residing in assisted living. He collapsed at the gym as a result of a cardiac arrest incident. Four months later he is fighting to regain the skills needed to live a normal life. While he has made great progress, the latest report is that when he is alone, he becomes very agitated due to his situation.

My heart breaks for him. It is exactly how I would feel.

Death and disability can appear at any time. Once you cross the mid-century mark, these events seem to happen with greater frequency. The unexpected ones can be devastating.

When I met with several medical professionals to discuss the options for my torn ACL, one did not seem to understand or care about the big and little details that make up what I love about my life. I guess he is not paid to do that. But the other surgeon, who had cleaned out my other knee, wanted to see the agility video that showed how I sustained my injury. She then listened patiently as I explained, tears rolling down my cheeks, that this next chapter, the one I have spent the bulk of my adult life preparing for, is a chapter that demands two working knees. I love the "chores" that come with maintaining a rural piece of property. I love yard work. I love snowshoeing. I love dog training. Right now, I am in self-imposed bubble-wrap and I hate it.

The rehab is going to be long and brutal. A realistic goal is a return to competition agility a year from now. If I stay on track, Watson and I can resume field work in the spring. I just need to be really careful.

Which is why I need to start the process as soon as possible. The future is never guaranteed. All I have is right now.

Each sunrise represents a new day to get it right. This is my opportunity to get it right and get it right now.