Bowl of Blessings — Good Health

Today’s tile is “good health.” I drew the tile at random, wrinkled my nose, returned the tile to the bowl, stirred the tiles, and drew again: good health. Fine. I’ll play by the rules. I can take a hint. Good health. Have you seen me lately? Pffft.

Good health is a different concept these days as I find myself taking a more holistic view of health. The last six months have done a number on me. I don’t sleep well more than once or twice a week, I’m perpetually exhausted, my brain is not reliable, I cry every damn day, and I feel decades older than my 50 years. We don’t even need to talk about how I look. I’m aware.

As varied as these complaints seem, I know they are connected. Of course they are. Right now, everything connects back to a broken heart and a lost future. My lost boy. Many nights, when I close my eyes I see replays of Cooper’s last months. Some replays are good; I remember secret-sharer conversations and time spent together. Our entire family–three generations–went to the Ozarks together. Some combination of us goes each summer, but it’d been years since everyone had been there at the same time. The first time we all went in five or six years turned out to be the last time ever. From this year forward, we will be at least one man short. The 2020 week in the Ozarks was the beginning of Cooper trying to find his way back to himself. He was still recovering from his time in the Shawnee and his week in the hospital, but he’d begun what would be weeks of hard work as he tried to restore his good health. It wasn’t to be. And just like that, what started as a replay of good days turned into a nightmare of doubt and second guessing. These memories crowd into the hours when I should be sleeping, keeping me awake and obstructing good health.

It’d be both easy and logical to blame my exhaustion, foggy brain, propensity for tears, and every other symptom on lack of sleep, but it’s far beyond that. I call the exhaustion perpetual for a reason; it never ends, even when I do sleep well. The exhaustion is more than me needing a nap or my body being tired. It’s so much more. It’s my spirit being broken but working to heal. It’s my heart, one chamber gone silent, trying to stimulate or simulate life. It’s my mind, overwhelmed by reality, refusing to fully engage. Good health? How?

There’s no easy fix. How do I restore health to a body and mind, to a heart and soul? I really don’t know, but I’ve found a cocktail that seems to help for now. It definitely doesn’t make things worse. In my new, unimproved life, not making things worse counts as a win. This cocktail is comprised of writing, pool time, and hints of spring. Two of the three ingredients are within my control. Going with the wisdom of Meatloaf, “Two out of three ain’t bad.” I’ll take whatever warmth and sunshine I can score. In the meantime, I can open my laptop and write; I can drive myself to the pool and exercise. I can work toward my own multi-faceted good health.

Ingredient #1: Writing. Writing helps me process. Some days, what I write is a brain dump, some days it’s in response to what I read or hear, and some days the words seem to write themselves. There are days writing feels like purging–getting out something that’s hurting me, expelling unwanted, unneeded, unhelpful thoughts and making room for new growth and understanding–and days the writing is more organized. Regardless of the day’s tone, the words are honest, the emotions true, and the love pure. My words and tears irritate my wounds as I pound out my emotions, turning pain to paragraph. Yet somehow, the very writing that hurts, heals. It moves me closer to good health. A dose of my cocktail onboard.

Ingredient #2: Pool Time. Ahh, the pool. Water time–in a lake or in a pool–has always been therapeutic for me. Lately, it’s been many types of therapeutic. It feels good to push my tired and squishy body, to find out that I can push my tired and squishy body. When I’m in a class, I don’t have time to think the familiar dark and twisty thoughts; for an hour, my brain is so busy trying to keep up with the instructor that my grief and sadness get a break. During class, I kick and pound and shove and slap the water, punishing it and abusing it, releasing my tension and anger and frustration. That poor water did nothing to me, but it gladly accepts whatever I send. If I’m in the pool on my own, it’s a quiet, reflective experience. I slip into stream-of-consciousness mode as I work through my old lady exercises. Without exception, even on the darkest days I’ve had in months, I leave the pool a clearer mind, a lighter soul, a softer moaning of grief. Another dose of my cocktail is in my system.

Ingredient #3: Hints of Spring. I can’t control the weather, so I don’t worry about the weather. I just thank God for the beautiful days when they come. Spring is always a hopeful time, a time for life beginning or returning. Spring is the best cliché ever. One day soon, I’ll be able to write in my hammock swing and prowl the yard with my camera, delighting in the first bloodroot and magnolia blooms. Next month, mushrooms should be up. The month after that, we can open the backyard pool. Those days will get here in their time. For now, I can enjoy the long evening shadows on my drive to the pool, the warm light of sunset through the living room or pool windows. Booster dose of cocktail!

Good health is a bedeviling notion and elusive goal. Right now, my system is pretty roughed up and those who know from experience say the roughing up never really ends. They haven’t lied to me yet. I know my nifty, completely unoriginal cocktail isn’t a cure, but it can begin to treat the symptoms that mess with my days and nights. The cause of my symptoms is no secret. Also no secret–my reality isn’t great, but I can’t change what’s happened. Grief will continue to have its way with me; I believe my experts. No, my cocktail isn’t a magical cure. For now, though, it’s helping me manage my symptoms and survive in my reality.