Celebrating Life – The Anniversary of My Decision to LIVE

Tomorrow is an important anniversary for me. I will celebrate one year of learning to love life again.

Sometimes depression creeps in unnoticed. We keep on doing the things we need to do, but we stop caring about the things that used to matter to us. We may continue to care about others, but we stop caring about ourselves. For me, it was like that. I can’t point to an event that triggered it. I don’t know why things changed. I just know that in the days and weeks leading up to March 9, 2014, I was in a dangerous place. I didn’t think anybody really cared.

You see, at over 300 pounds I was having a lot of health issues. Daily life was difficult. Losing half of my body weight seemed like an impossible task to contemplate. I was having “heart palpitations” and began to feel as if I was about to lose consciousness on more than one occasion. I came to believe that I was dying. Rather than seek medical help, I decided to let nature take its course. I wasn’t about to take steps to actively end my life, but I didn’t want to make the effort to save it. I guess you’d call it passive suicide. My overeating and inactivity were robbing me of life in a very real way, and I didn’t care enough to stop it.

I wish I could tell you what, exactly, flipped the switch in my head. On March 9, 2014, I made up my mind to call my doctor and ask him to prescribe an antidepressant medication. It was a Sunday. The office was closed, but I made up my mind.

I called first thing on Monday morning. My doctor was out of the office for the week, but I had a prescription bottle and an appointment for the next week before noon that day. Opening the bottle and putting the first pill in my mouth, I felt both a sense of failure for not being strong enough and a sense of relief that maybe, just maybe I could feel better.

I have a group of online friends who I have “talked” with in various places for 7-8 years. They are my invisible (not imaginary) friends. I have plants they sent to my dad’s funeral to prove they exist. I confessed to them my feelings of failure over needing medicine.

I confided in them about the tremendous loneliness and the feelings of isolation I was experiencing. One of them suggested I try running. I chuckled at the thought. I tried going to the gym the next day. I had a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of judgment. I made my husband turn around and take me home.

A fellow attorney practicing in another part of the state (not one of the previously mentioned group of invisible friends) who I have never met in real life sent me a message suggesting we virtually work out / run together and sign up for a race.

The “Arthur” video began showing up in my facebook feed over and over. I’d watched it dozens of times before. I’d even purchased the DDP Yoga videos in 2012, shed quite a few pounds, and did a great job of learning to get off the floor (a skill I’d retained) before eventually giving up and going back to my old ways and regaining nearly every pound I had lost.

I watched the video again. This time, when Arthur began running, the tears streamed down my face.

I’ve learned in my life that when I start getting the same message over and over from different sources, God is trying to tell me something. I listened. I decided that if I wanted to live badly enough to put medicine in my body, then I wanted to live badly enough to take back my life. If Arthur could learn to walk again, and learn to run, then so could I.

Those of you who have followed me the past year know how the rest of the story goes. I started walking, and then I began running slowly on the treadmill. I got over the fear of the gym and added weights to my workout. I hit the yoga mat and did some DDPYoga. I swam laps. I posted on Facebook (a lot).

Soon the weather warmed and the outdoors called. I ran on the high school track. I ran through town. I ran on trails. I ran on the beach. Although I sometimes took Jimi the Wonder Dood with me, usually this was time to myself. I started seeing the wonder in nature- in leaves and waves and birds. I talked to God. He talked back in rustling leaves and wind on my face. He talked to me through “cheers” when friends “liked” my runs on Facebook.

It wasn’t quick or easy. I still had days when sadness pressed on my heart and made it difficult to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Slowly, though, I returned to the land of the living. I stopped just going through the motions. I devoted more time to getting my soul back in order through prayer, meditation and lots and lots of sweat.

The popular adage says that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’m making lemonade and trying to give it away. One year ago I really didn’t care if I lived or died. One year ago, I thought that nobody cared. One year ago I couldn’t have dreamed how wonderful life is today.

I still take those pills. I take another for my thyroid and one for my blood pressure. It’s part of my daily routine. The pills didn’t fix me. I had to do that myself with a lot of help from God and my friends and family. I still run. I still get sad once in a while. It’s no longer overwhelming.

I’m a little frightened to post this, but I feel it is necessary. It’s scary to admit that you struggle with depression. I worry that it could hurt me professionally. I fear that people will think less of me if they know that I have problems just like anyone else. I believe that we need to move beyond the stigma that mental health issues hold. I believe that if people in pain knew how many people suffer with them, people would be more inclined to seek help before it becomes easier to think about dying than to think about living.

Writing this blog post is me making lemonade. It’s not the “koolaid,” if it’s not your thing – move on.

I don’t believe that God tests us like Job in the Old Testament, but I do think that he gives us opportunities to understand and help others when we face trials. I think that he gives us the grace to move through our challenges if we ask. I think that when we are taught lessons paid for with blood, sweat and tears, it is only right to share the lessons that we have learned.

Please don’t give up. Don’t passively wait for your vices and problems to kill you. If you are depressed, there is hope. Medicine is not shameful. Therapy is not shameful.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid of failure. Don’t be afraid of judgment. Never, ever give up.

Today, I celebrate the life I have been given. I am excited to see what the next 365 days holds. I am a work in progress. Next year you will see another brand new me. I can’t wait.

To those of you who have “liked,” “commented,” or “shared” my writing in the past, thank you for encouraging me. To those of you who are new to this page, welcome. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share with you.

Today, I am celebrating life. Welcome to the party.

~Be~

Ditch the Witch!

Posted by BecomingBetty

I wrote this several years ago (2012) at the beginning of one of my “practice starts” to my healthier lifestyle.

*****************************

There is this woman in my life – she makes things so hard

she never leaves me alone
she goes everywhere with me
she sleeps with my husband (that’s awkward!)
she makes me carry her up the stairs
she makes me carry her down the stairs
she shares my clothes
she eats my meals

She’s mean, too:

she won’t let me ice skate with my kids
she won’t let me ride a roller coaster at Cedar Point
she won’t let me do fun things with my husband

Every step I take, I carry her with me.

Letting the other woman into my life made sense at the time. She helped me hide from the people who might want to get too close. She protected me from attention I couldn’t handle. She helped me come up with excuses for why I couldn’t go for a walk or dance at a wedding. She was my partner and co-conspirator (and made a wicked hot-fudge sundae, too!)

I weigh as much as two of the *real* me.

Every step I take is twice the work.

I’m going to ditch the witch!

She won’t go away all at once. I’ll have to push her away ounce by ounce. She knows she’s on her way out. I’ve started packing her suitcase. Most of the size 26 clothes are already in it. She can have them. I don’t need them.

I won’t send her away hungry. The cupboard is full of processed foods with gluten and refined sugars. She loves that stuff, so I’ll pack her a care package.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to run on the beach, ride roller coasters and chase kids and grandchildren.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I’m going to buy skinny clothes made for one person – not two.

I’m going to ditch the witch.

I don’t need her anymore.

*********************************

Update: her suitcase is getting pretty full. She’s been given the eviction notice and she knows her time is limited.

I’ve added to the things I’m going to do when I ditch the witch

I’m going to run (and FINISH!) a half marathon.

I’m going to run up and down the stairs at the high school stadium

I’m going to zumba and kickbox and yoga and RUN her right out of my life.

I’m going to ditch the witch (3/4/2015)

I Wear Many Hats

Posted by BecomingBetty

On a recent trip to Walt Disney World, I had fun trying on many of the fun hats. My teenaged daughter rolled her eyes, but I had fun anyway. The truth is, though, that I really DO wear many hats.

In my personal life I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, friend, niece, stepmom, grandma, and reluctant dog groomer.

Professionally, I am a lawyer. I am an optician.

As a self-employed lawyer married to a self-employed eye doctor, sometimes I am a medical biller. I am an adviser, an advocate, sometimes a photocopying maniac, file clerk, janitor, courier, and receptionist.

I wear many hats.

Some of them are more elegant than others.

Some of them fit more comfortably than others.

Some of them make people a little uncomfortable.

When we wear many hats, it’s important to recognize that sometimes we put on the police hat when someone really wants the chef hat, or the nurse hat. Having been taught to think like a lawyer, I approach problems differently than many people. When I hear someone else talking about their problem, my first inclination is to try to help them solve it, or at least to give them some idea of what they may be facing. Sometimes that’s not the hat they need to see.

I have a friend who is a psychologist. She told a story, once, about going to see her sister, who was having a bad day. My friend listened to her sister rant about the bad day. Before deciding what to say next, she paused. “What do you need from me today?” she asked. “Do you want to know what I think about what happened? Do you want me to tell you what I think that you should do? Do you want me to hug you and tell you that everything is all right? Do you want me to tell you that you’re right and they are wrong?”

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what hat you need me to wear.

That’s the problem when you have too many hats! It’s difficult to decide which one to wear. One goes with your outfit, but it’s too dressy. One will keep the sun out of your eyes, but it clashes with your shoes.

My lawyer hat is not warm and fuzzy. I’ve spoiled a couple of budding friendships by bluntly delivering my legal synopsis of a situation when really all that person wanted was for me to listen to them.

When a potential client comes to see me, they get “the talk,” in which I explain that my role as their lawyer means that thy may not like what I have to say. It’s my job to be realistic and tell them their options and the consequences. If they want someone to make them feel good about themselves and their situation, they need to go see my friend the psychologist.

I’m getting better at keeping track of my hats and wearing the right one. It’s not always easy wearing many hats.

The Bus of Shame (or, The Saddest Ride at Walt Disney World!)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Last Sunday, I had the great pleasure of participating in RunDisney’s Princess Half Marathon at Walt Disney World Resort. I lined up at 4:30 a.m. in a parking lot at Epcot Center with about 15,000 of my fellow runners for the happiest half marathon on the plant.

On the long walk to Corral “N,” we passed a large truck with the label “mass casualty response unit.” This was more than a little disconcerting. Still, although the air was chilly and I hadn’t had my coffee, I lined up and excitedly waited for the first group to be released at 5:30 a.m. As you may have gathered, it takes some time to release nearly 15,000 runners on a course. Consequently, I was still waiting to begin my run for another hour. I spent that time reflecting on the journey that had brought me to where I was.

I thought back to the day in March 2014 when I took my first steps in several years on the treadmill. I was elated when I finished my first mile. Soon I traveled to a running store and purchased “real” running shoes and downloaded an handful of running apps. Although I often felt slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter, I kept going.

A few months later my lovely “bonus daughter” (also a runner), told me she was planning to run the Princess Half Marathon. Although I knew it was a lofty goal for me, I registered and began training. Over the course of 2014 and early 2015, I logged over 400 miles. Sometimes life got in the way, and between unexpected life events and illnesses, I missed out on several significant blocks of training. As the race date approached, I knew that I could go the distance, but my times were still slow, and I knew it was questionable whether I would be able to maintain the required minimum pace, although I was doing well on my training runs on the nice flat, climate-controlled indoor track.

I obsessively checked my training times, read blogs about the wicked “balloon ladies,” (the pace group for the 16 minute/mile). I crafted my tutu, packed my bags and felt moderately confident that I wouldn’t be “swept” and have to ride the “bus of shame” back to the finish line instead of running through the happiest finish line on earth.

By the time my corral was called, I was cold and my feet hurt from standing in one place. My timing app wasn’t working right, my glasses were fogged and smeared so I couldn’t read the screen anyhow, my earbuds were malfunctioning, and I had absolutely no clue what my pace was. I just knew it felt slow.

I had a blast running among other “princesses” (and a few princes) wearing tutus (the princes, too!). I pumped my fist as I ran by the speakers playing the theme from Rocky. I sang along to “Don’t Stop Believing” and I smiled my way into the Magic Kingdom. As I passed through the park, I remembered the long, long lines at the porta potties I’d passed, and I popped into a “real” bathroom. Still blissfully unaware of my pace, I readjusted my tutu, washed and dried my hands and popped open a packet of caffeinated jelly beans.

As I joined the pack of princesses, I heard the news – the balloon ladies had passed by. My trip to the bathroom had cost me precious minutes, and now I had to try to fight my way through the pack of princesses to catch up. I flew through Cinderella’s castle and as I exited the park again, I spotted the balloons waaaaay up ahead of me.

I tried my hardest to pick up the pace. The news filtered through the pack that we had until Mile 8 to catch up, or we would be swept – transported to the finish. I tried hard to weave through the other back of the pack princesses. I could see the balloons getting closer. We passed by several security people and I overheard one tell the other, “the race is over for these ones, whether they like it or not.” I passed by a woman sobbing loudly. I asked if she was okay, and she answered through tears that she was okay, just devastated that she wasn’t finishing.

I pushed harder even though I knew I was wearing myself out with 5 miles left to go. I could see Milepost 8, and I could see the balloons. As the balloons passed the mile marker, two large buses pulled across the road. Medics were there to help those who needed assistance, and we were asked to board the bus.

The driver told us each, “great job.” The ride back to Epcot seemed to take a very long time. There wasn’t a smile to be seen. We had been swept. We were on the vehicle that had been dubbed “The Bus of Shame” by numerous bloggers. My heart sunk. My Facebook was broadcasting my splits to my friends. I really thought I could do it. I had failed to reach my goal. I was sad.

As we exited the vehicle, some of the wonderful volunteers staffing the event met us with high fives and medals. Although we had not finished the 13.1 miles, they draped a shining medal around each of our necks. They showed us where to get our bananas, our drinks and our snack boxes.

I wandered over to the “real” finish line for a few minutes and watched the crowd cheer for those who were finishing. My heart sunk into my shoes, and I moped my way back to the bus that would return me to my hotel for a much needed shower.

I called my husband, and told him I’d only made it 8 miles. I posted on Facebook that I’d only made it 8 miles. I waited for my bonus daughter (who finished! Yay for her!!!) Then, I took a nap.

Naps fix almost everything – especially attitudes.

My high school friend, Lyle, posted one of my statuses from early 2014 on my wall – one where I was overjoyed that I was able to run for a handful of minutes without stopping. It was at that moment that I realized there was absolutely no shame in having been swept after 8 miles.

I thought back to my first 10K race in September. I finished dead last, but I was thrilled to have finished. That race was only 6.2 miles. My Disney run was 2 miles longer (more if you count the long hike to the corrals before it even began!)

Since I started running in March 2014, I’ve completed four 5K races and a 10K. Yesterday I finished my 500th mile. I’ve run on trails and tracks and through parking lots. I’ve had scores of wonderful experiences and only a handful of negatives. Best of all, I’ve lost over 70 pounds, I’ve regained the ability to physically do many things that I couldn’t dream of for a number of years, and I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Although that bus ride was still the saddest ride at Walt Disney World, there is no “Bus of Shame.” Every back of the pack princess on that bus was someone who set a lofty goal and spent many hours training getting to mile 8. While I apologize to the runners who had to fight their way through the pack in order to pass me, I’m so glad that I tried. I’ll be back next year, and I may even wear a tiara.

They Call it the Present Because it’s a Gift

Posted by BecomingBetty

There is no time like the present. I really mean that. Right now is the time to start doing whatever it is that you know that you need to do but have been avoiding. You may think it’s too big. You may think you’re not ready. Whatever idea it is that you have in your head that’s holding you back, get RID of it.

I’ve spent pretty much my entire adult life being overweight, obese, or morbidly obese. I’ve used every excuse out there. I can justify anything. I’m the master procrastinator. I’d go see my doctor and he’d bug me about my weight. My line was always, “One thing at a time. I’ll deal with (fill in the blank), and then I’ll work on the weight.”

I dealt with the broken leg, the thyroid, the illness and death of several people close to me, undergrad, law school, setting up a law practice, and countless crises that come with the territory of being a wife, mother and human being. When I had bloodwork, my numbers were good. Although I was borderline hypertensive, my A1C and lipids were good. I prided myself on being “healthy fat.” I had a love affair with Ballreich’s potato chips and anything sweet or salty.

Just about a year ago I was sitting at my office conference table with three friends who were in my Rotary Club. We were discussing what needed to happen and how to get things rolling. As one of my colleagues was talking, I realized that the room was fading. I broke into a cold sweat. My heart was doing weird jumpy things, and I couldn’t concentrate. I considered asking one of my friends to call my husband to take me to the hospital. I was feeling that strange. However, I said nothing. I concluded the meeting, went upstairs to my office and collapsed into my chair. I was chilled and clammy. I wondered if I was sick or dying, and at the moment, I wasn’t sure if I cared. Life wasn’t much fun. I had a hard time moving on the best of days. I was tired of watching the people who I cared about get sick and die.

Whatever happened was happening to me passed. I went about my business and finished up the day. I didn’t pass out, die, or get sicker. I also didn’t say anything to anyone about what had happened. In retrospect, it was probably an anxiety attack, but in that moment it felt like death was knocking at the door.

I got up the next morning and realized that something had to change. I had put off going to the doctor because I didn’t want to have the conversation about my weight. I hadn’t been on a scale in months. I don’t know exactly how heavy I was, but it was a big scary number, and it was only one of my problems.

I posted in a Facebook group full of ladies I met on another internet site that I was having some troubles in my life that had me feeling very discouraged. One of those ladies suggested I look for a group called Moms Run This Town. She said that not only would I feel better getting some running in, but the other ladies would be great listeners as I worked through my issues. I thanked her, and laughed silently at the thought of me running anywhere.

Over the course of the next week or two, more people suggested I try running. One offered to train with me for a 5K race. Although we lived miles apart, and the training together would be virtual, I agreed to give it a try. That night I put on my walking shoes and dusted off the treadmill. I walked a mile. It took a good, long time, but it felt good.

I remembered a line from The Shawshank Redemption. Red said, “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I decided to get busy living. I’d been just simply going through the motions for far too long.

When I first started exercising, it felt like I would never be able to “run” a mile without stopping. In those first weeks, I spent lots of time holding on to the side rails of the treadmill and supporting a good part of my weight with my arms. Still, I faithfully got on that treadmill night after night.

Time passed, and I got up the courage to go to a running store for a pair of real running shoes. They didn’t laugh at me. I didn’t get sarcastic comments or rude remarks. I left the store with a box with a pair of shoes that cost a good chunk of change and I vowed not to let them gather dust in the closet. I vowed that if God would just let me live long enough to undo some of the damage I had done to my body, I would enjoy life again.

As I progressed, I left the safety of the house for the high school track and then trails at local parks. I began participating in 5K and 10K races. I marvelled as a doe and fawn watched me run. I came alive listening to the sounds of nature. I began looking for new places to run. I visited parks and neighborhoods in my town that I had never been to in the 15 years that I have lived here.

I’ve listened to music of every genre, waved at hundreds of strangers, learned to enjoy a good sweaty run, and I’ve enjoyed (nearly) every moment of it. I’ve learned that chocolate tastes better if you have to run a mile to earn a piece, and that potato chips are still my kryptonite.

Since that day in March 2014, I have run over 450 miles. Today, I ran a half marathon on the indoor track at my gym. In two weeks, I will repeat that feat at Walt Disney World dressed as Ursula from The Little Mermaid. I can hardly wait. I’m still 100 pounds overweight, but I can run a half marathon.

I’ve done a lot of reviewing the past year. What does it have to do with the present? I’m still here. I’m healthier than I’ve been in years. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My life is still not perfect, but life is sweeter because I received a wakeup call. Only when I thought that I might possibly be dying did I realize how sweet life really is. I don’t take my life for granted any longer. I want to live long enough to dance at the grandchildren’s weddings. I want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane on my 65th birthday. None of those experiences are promised. Life is sweet and it can be cut short in a moment. When you “get busy living,” every moment, even the sad ones, is a gift.

I don’t know what you’re struggling with. I don’t know what battle you are waging and which side is winning. I do know that whatever you want to happen, there is no better time than right now to start doing something about it. If you want to lose weight, get up and walk right now. Don’t wait until Monday to start your exercise program. If you want to write a book, grab your pen and write an outline. If you want to learn to play Rhapsody in Blue, get up and play the first page as slow as you have to play it to get all of the fingers in the right place.

If you want to run a half marathon, put one on the calendar. Pay the registration. Recruit a partner.

There is no time like the present. Tomorrow is not promised. You will never regret starting right now. A year from now you’ll wonder why you waited so long. I promise.

Don’t Be Ashamed of Your Story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I didn’t come up with this title on my own. It hit me smack between my eyes first thing this morning as I reviewed my Facebook feed. I thank Kara Louisell for sharing it. Check out her FB page for lots of inspiration. https://www.facebook.com/karalouisell?fref=photo

I shared this image on my own Facebook feed this morning. I’ve made a lot of changes in my life in the past 10 months or so. As a result, I’ve shed a bunch of weight. I’ve run over 350 miles. I’ve learned new ways to deal with sadness. I’ve begun reaching out to others, learning to delegate, and being kinder to myself. I’ve chronicled those changes and shared them here and on my Facebook page along the way.

I’m not normally an attention-seeker. I’m a little bit uncomfortable being in the public eye. I like to work behind he scenes. I’m the person who doesn’t generally strike up a conversation, but I enjoy it immensely once given the opportunity to engage. I’m naturally quick to discount a compliment and I still don’t like the way I look. I’m my own worst critic.

I’ve become one of those annoying people who “checks in” at the gym on Facebook. My nike+ app tells my friends when I start a run and how far I go. I’ve posted pictures *eek* spandex, covered in sweat, painted up, covered in colored powder, and generally having fun while being less than necessarily “proper.”

A long-time friend posted something recently about people who stay the course without need for praise from others as opposed to people who do things half-way and seek applause. I pray that I’m not the person that friend had in mind. I share these changes because many have shared privately that I am inspiring them to change, too.

I am very uncomfortable being anyone’s inspiration. I know how fallible I am. I know how often I stray from my health diet and eat potato chips. I am very aware when I skip a workout to go shopping or watch TV. I’m imperfect. I’m still overweight. I mess up. I don’t FEEL very inspirational.

Perhaps that imperfection – the humanity – is what inspires? I have lost 75 pounds through sheer determination despite going through down spells, having injuries, and just feeling grumpy some days. I’m not a fitness model. I haven’t reached my goal weight. I finish last at most races that I run. My flaws are myriad – but my sincerity is real.

When people started telling me that I INSPIRE them, I wanted to tell them not to be absurd. But, just as I learned to accept a compliment graciously, I’m learning to accept that I have no right to tell another person what (or who) is “good enough” to inspire her.

My story is complicated and colorful. I’ve been through a lot of challenges, and despite it all I’ve managed to carry on. I’ve made decisions that I’m not proud of, but I am proud of where those decisions have brought me. Perhaps that’s why I have been given the gift of being able to inspire others.

I’ve made a decision not to be ashamed of my story. It’s mine to tell – all mine. It’s different from your story. Perhaps it will inspire you to change. Perhaps it will inspire you to block me on Facebook. I just write what I know.

I Sure Wish God Didn’t Trust Me So Much

Posted by BecomingBetty

I don’t know whether she ever truly said it, but Mother Teresa is credited with saying,

“I know God won’t give me anything I can handle. I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.”

I’ve shared that quotation on my Facebook wall in times when life is handing me lemons so fast that I can’t make the lemonade quickly enough to use them all up.

Yesterday, one of my many beloved Invisible Friends (people I have met online and have never had the pleasure to meet in real life) posted words to the effect that she doesn’t believe the old adage that “God won’t give us more than we can handle” is appropriate to say to someone in their time of trouble. God doesn’t give us the pain, but he helps us through it. She later posted a link to a powerful blog by another writer who expanded on the thought. Having had a day to think about it, and facing my own obstacles this morning, I must say that I am in agreement.

Life is not fair.

Cancer and other terminal illness has been a constant in my close family since 2006 when my wonderful father-in-law succumbed to cancer after successfully fighting it off multiple times. No more than a month after we laid him to rest, my own father was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. It seemed that he had no more than gone into remission than he was struck with severe congestive heart failure as the result of damage to his heart muscle from the chemotherapy that had saved his life. We fell back into a rhythm for a short time, and Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had surgery to remove her right breast and 23 lymph nodes, which all tested positive for cancer. She consented to radiation, but refused the chemotherapy which might have killed off the cancer cells that remained. We lost Dad a short time later. Mom was struggling to recover herself and caring for him. They finally consented to come to my home so that I could help, and we lost Dad within 2 weeks. I struggled. I thought that surely now things must get easier.

Mom’s PET scans have been negative for cancer in her soft tissue since that time. However, a tumor marker protein in her blood work has been creeping up – slowly at first, and now rapidly. She went for a repeat PET scan last week and yesterday her oncologist said that there is no sign of tumor in her soft tissue, so we must look to the bone. The tumor marker is elevated to the point that there is no question – there is an active disease process raging in her body that will require aggressive treatment.

My dear mother looked defeated – not at the thought that the cancer was in her bones, but more at the thought that she must, again, endure another long test in a lonely room with no television, no music, and not even a picture on the wall to look at. My heart wanted to break.

We went from the doctor’s office to get lunch, visit family, and go shopping. Mom seems to be handling it all very well. I, on the other hand, am ready to pitch a hissy fit. My friend’s post was timely. God isn’t testing me. God isn’t giving this to me. Life happens. It isn’t all about me. God didn’t select me out of all of the people on this planet to shoulder the load I am toting right now because he has some belief that I am tough and I can handle a little bit more. I am not Job.

We are intricate creations, but our design allows flaws (cancer and other disease) to develop. Our environment and our choices influence the likelihood that disease process will start, stop, slow or speed up. We don’t have an infinite life here on earth. Our bodies eventually wear out, whether or not cancer strikes. Eighty-six years is a long life by any standard. Many women don’t get to keep their mothers for 47+ years. I’m not giving up hope, by any means, but I know that whether it is cancer or heart disease or simply old age, I am going to lose my mother – I just don’t know when. This latest crisis has removed my ability to pretend it won’t happen. It’s not an “if” – it is a “when”. Death happens to us all.

I will survive this challenge. I will not survive it because I am strong, though. I will survive it because I have no choice in the matter. I will pray for strength and for grace and peace. God didn’t give this particular challenge to me because I have some ability to be resilient. God didn’t plan for me to find my husband after his suicide in 1998. He didn’t plan for me to tell the doctors to remove life support for Dad in 2013. God didn’t plan this – he gave us free will. He’s not the superhero in the sky whose purpose is to go around putting out fires for those who are too weak to handle it. Instead, he promises us his grace.

I will be there for my Mom through whatever treatment she chooses to take. She will turn to God for comfort, as will I. God doesn’t give me challenges because I am strong. I am presented with challenges because I am human – I am alive. Mom is alive, too. I will treasure our remaining days together whether I have to say goodbye to her, or whether I am the first to leave this earthly plane.

I will experience more pain, suffering and grief than I can handle. God’s not dishing it out to test me. People around me aren’t developing cancer because I am strong. I don’t have to be strong. I can admit that I am powerless. I can allow myself to cry. It isn’t all about me – and I’m so glad it isn’t. It’s not about God trusting me – it’s about me trusting Him for strength to weather the storms.

A Clean Heart (and the Cone of Shame)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Once upon a time, I had a little cat and a little dog. They were sworn enemies. One day the little dog gave chase to the little cat and caught her. Little dog created two tiny punctures in the little cat’s side. We washed them and treated them with antibiotic. They scabbed over and nearly healed, but they must have begun to itch. Little cat ripped off the scabs and the little holes became a little bigger.

We cleaned them again and they began to heal. They were looking great when little cat once again ripped the scabs off and the holes became even larger. This happened once again, and the two holes became one large gaping wound. There was still no infection, but it was a scary looking wound. We took little cat to the vet and he said that he couldn’t stitch it because the risk of infection would be too great. Instead, he fitted her with the cone of shame.

The cone of shame worked its trick. She stopped picking at her wound, and the wound got smaller and smaller until it healed once and for all.

Yesterday I spent a lot of mental energy dwelling on something someone said to someone else that wasn’t even directed at me. My child brought home an illustration from class that I thought was inappropriate. I posted it on Facebook and garnered support from my friends and began to feel self-righteous. I presented my point of view in an email to the person who originated the distasteful example and went to my “zen den” to try to let it go.

The joy of sitting in a darkened room lit only by candles, listening to soft sounds and wrapped in the warm embrace of a soft blanket is that in the stillness, God can speak to our busy minds. Last night I had such an experience. As I watched the thoughts drift in and out of my mind, a bit of scripture turned into song came into view and stayed long enough to stick.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.

-Psalm 51:10

I did not dwell on that thought last night, but the subtle experience made its impression. My husband came to find me and we watched some television together and slept peacefully.

This morning I received an email in reply to my message. The person who used the example that upset me failed to understand where I was coming from. The peace I had found in my private sanctuary last night dissolved, and I experienced, once again, the sting of perceived rejection.

I got ready for work, leashed Jimi the Wonderdog and drove to the office. My office is in disarray right now. I’ve been trying to fit too many things into too little time while worrying about too many things. I realized that no meaningful work could happen until I took care of the piles and restored proper order.

As I tidied piles and washed dirty mugs, the psalm/song came back into my mind. Sometimes we need to take a moment to clean our heart so that we can get back to work, too. Holding onto resentment allows us to go back to it time after time, picking and picking until the wound becomes larger and larger. I asked God for help to forgive and forget and to renew a spirit of tolerance, kindness and forgiveness within my heart.

I really don’t want to wear the Cone of Shame.

Love and Light,

*Be*

Nobody else can “make” you happy

Posted by BecomingBetty

My blog is titled “just write what you know.” I know a lot of things about a lot of things. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am an expert on any subject, but there are areas where I am well-versed. This post isn’t about one of those subjects. This post is on a lesson learned hard, and one I may never master.

Nobody else can make you happy.

The moment you depend on someone else for your happiness, it’s all over. People can certainly say or do things that make you UNhappy. Don’t get me wrong – other people can do things that help you feel good about yourself, and their actions can give you happy moments. However, most of us aren’t content to go through life unhappy with little bursts of happiness that depend solely on someone else’s actions. To me, at least, that would be an unhappy existence.

If what you seek is a life that is full of peace, joy, contentment and satisfaction, you must take responsibility for your own happiness. As a first step, being happy requires that you learn about yourself. Do you consciously seek out experiences that you enjoy, or do you just go along for the ride with your friends or significant other because you don’t want to rock the boat? I like to do things that make other people happy. Doing for others is sometimes easier than doing for myself. Doing things that make others feel happy feels good. Doing something just for me can feel selfish. If you know that feeling, it’s time for you to understand that doing something for yourself or buying something for yourself is not selfish.

What experiences or things do you enjoy just for the sake of pleasure? If you could spend an hour alone, what would make that hour enjoyable? If you had $10 and had to spend it on yourself right now on something completely unnecessary, what would you buy? If you can’t name at last five answers to either question, it’s time to figure it out!

With my hour alone, I would run alone on a trail in the fall woods. I would crochet in my zen den with all of the candles lit and soothing music playing on the stereo. I would brew a pot of tea in a real tea pot and drink it out of a china cup while looking out the window. I would lose myself in a novel wrapped up in front of the fire in the afghan my mom made for me. I would sit in the sun watching waves lap at the sand. Those would be happy hours.

With a ten spot in my pocket, I could buy an abandoned treasure at the thrift shop and imagine a story for it. I could buy a bar (or two) of hand-crafted soap that smells sweet and makes me look forward to a hot shower or a soak in the tub. I could buy a couple of dark chocolate covered sea salt caramels to savor (and have $8) left over. I could buy a book for my kindle that would take me to a far away place I’ll never see and pull me into a story rich with imagination.

The next thing you need to learn is that happiness doesn’t come from things – it comes from a place deep down inside. Happiness is an emotion, and it is subjective. What I label “happy,” you may label “content,” or “peaceful,” or maybe “giddy,” “joyful,” or “downright crazy.” What you call it is unimportant. What matters is that I know what happy feels like to me, and I know when I’m feeling it. I can be happy and feel sadness at the same time. I can be happy for others while I suffer disappointment. I can be happy for myself when seeing others in pain. Happy is a state of being. Having things we love or doing things we enjoy can give us glimpses of happiness. Once we become accustomed to those glimpses of happiness, it becomes easier to remember what happy feels like. When you feel down, you can remember those happy moments and summon up the strength and the emotion to recall what it feels like to be happy.

I remember being in relationship that ended badly and feeling that I would never be happy again. I remember people doing things that hurt me, or things that I didn’t approve of and feeling that they were responsible for my dark emotions. What I had not learned yet was that although those events saddened me, I still retained a choice regarding how I would respond to those events. I could choose to be bitter because my love found someone else. I could choose to be angry because someone else did something negative, OR, I could choose to accept that their decision caused me pain but that I could still choose to be happy.

Once you’ve mastered the art of creating your own happiness, you can experience the pain, anger and sadness without allowing it to overcome you. Taking a moment to reflect on what is good in your life, to enjoy something that soothes you, and to react to the negative experience in a healthy way allows you to move back to your peace, contentment or happiness.

My own quiet life includes prayer. I believe in a higher power. When there are issues that I cannot solve, praying for wisdom brings me peace. Even if you do not have a belief in God, learning that worrying over things you cannot change changes nothing allows you to put the worry aside.

When I began my fitness journey, I discovered Diamond Dallas Page’s DDPYoga program. One of DDP’s pearls of wisdom is that “Life is 10% what happens and 90% how you react to it.” DDP is a smart guy.

I’m in a place in my life where I have a lot of things to be thankful for and a lot of problems to face. The people in my life are mostly adults with free will. Sometimes they make choices that I approve of, and sometimes they don’t. Learning that I can be happy even when things don’t go my way is difficult. I’m not close to mastering that skill. I’ve accepted, though, that my happiness is my own responsibility.

I’ll admit that the journey is much more enjoyable with someone who cares about my happiness. I don’t need someone else to make me happy, though. I have to learn to get there on my own.

Everybody has a story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’ve never attended a twelve-step meeting, but I’m familiar with the one day at a time concept. I have often used it, or variations (one semester at a time, one month at a time…you get the idea) to deal with difficult or stressful events. I got through law school 16 weeks at a time. I told myself that I could do anything for 16 weeks, and having resolved to do so, I finished on schedule.

I started making some big changes in my life in March. There was no plan. I was afraid that I was going to die. I had a couple of scary medical events. I was hypertensive, morbidly obese, and full of excuses. With a thyroid disorder, a busted up leg, severe arthritis, COPD and likely close to type II diabetes, I was a mess and convinced that my sedentary lifestyle and obesity were beyond my control.

One day in February I was in a meeting in my conference room and the room began to get black around the edges while a ringing in my ears got louder and louder. I didn’t pass out. The event passed and I lived in far that it might repeat itself. Soon thereafter, I was walking through the grocery store with my husband when I broke into a cold sweat. I could feel my heart beating, and I couldn’t wait to get back home to crawl into bed and see if I lived until morning.

This pattern repeated itself a few times over the course of a few weeks. I did not seek medical attention because I was convinced that my physician would scold me about my weight. I had a gym membership that had been unused for at least 9 months. Several times I got dressed for the gym only to have a panic attack on the way there and scream at my husband until he drove me back home. I was convinced people would stare. I was convinced people would laugh. I was convinced that people would find me disgusting – and tell me so.

One day, I hit rock bottom. My health was scaring me. I was short-tempered, my family was bewildered, and I was depressed. I went to the doctor. He added a prescription for an anti-depressant to my list of meds and told me I needed to lose weight. I said I would (like I had each time I saw him over the many years before), and scheduled my follow up visit.

The next day, I decided it was time to “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I dusted off the treadmill (we won’t talk about the thickness of the dust layer) and took a step. I don’t remember how long it took me, but I walked a mile that first day. I went back the next day and tried jogging a little bit. I was thrilled when I was able to “sprint” 2.5 mph for 30 seconds. Day after day, I went back to the treadmill, and was amazed at the difference those 20, 30 or 40 minutes made in my attitude.

I began to share those little successes with my facebook friends. I found a iPhone app that tracked my runs. My feet starting hurting, and I asked my facebook friends to help me pick out a pair of running shoes. I received scores of comments and suggestions from runners and walkers who are scattered all over the country. Boosted by their well wishes, and filled with a sense that this time would be different, I entered a running store and plunked down $120 for my first pair of running shoes. On that day I posted a photo of my new kicks and decided “I am a runner.”

Having found the confidence to walk into a store for athletes without being met with scorn or laughter, I resolved to try the gym again. Armed with my new shoes, I made it through the door and through a circuit without anyone laughing, pointing, or (to my knowledge) posting a picture of my backside to their flickr account.

I have a hugely supportive circle of family and friends. They have “liked” and commented on my runs (which makes my phone cheer), they have put up with me posting photos of myself in spandex, shining with sweat and holding up a medal. I began posting for accountability’s sake, and along the way I have received many messages telling me to keep posting because I have inspired my friends to make changes in their own lives.

As I share my story, those friends keep telling me to write a book. I love the idea, but didn’t know where to begin. I finally know where the book is coming from. I am a survivor. I am a fighter. I am a listener. I am changing my life one day at a time, one step at a time, and one mile at a time.

My name is Betty. This is my story. It’s still being played out. I want to help you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t tell you how to do it, but I can tell you how I’m going about it, and perhaps you will find inspiration to do the same.

Every story has to have a beginning. You may see parts of mine in flashback, but for now, we’ll start here: “Once upon a time there was an unhappy woman who was scared of life. She was sick, and tired, and didn’t know where to turn. This is the story of how she took her life back.”