Living it up in the air

As July 29 rolls near, memories and thoughts nibble at me. Just three years ago on the evening of July 29, the world as I knew it died and a new one began. On that date, a brain aneurysm ruptured. The events that unfolded were shocking and scary to my friends and family. Of course, I wasn’t conscious enough to feel scared. The flashes of memories I have are those of drifting in peace. Once the peaceful fog cleared into moments of clarity, my pragmatic nature kicked in. With death at the door, what could I do? I chose to do what my dad trained me to do: Put faith in God, believe in people who work on my behalf, enjoy all possible moments even if they are brief and tiny, observe and learn new things so that each day offers an accomplishment, and, hard as it is, don’t worry because worry doesn’t change the past, present or future.

Much to everyone’s surprise, I’m still walking on this amazing Earth. The first two anniversaries passed without much ado. But as this third anniversary comes, I am ready to meet it with an exclamation point. Why now? The past three years have felt like I’ve been putting together a 2,000 piece puzzle. And now that puzzle is complete.

Frankly, it was the hardest puzzle I’ve ever pieced. The first corner and edge pieces seemed to take forever to do. Medications (and tweeking off of them) made me sleepy and emotional. My brain frequently continued to kick back to 33 rpm in an iPod world. Driving was not possible at first, then it was a tenuous, tentative undertaking. Could I chat with someone while cooking dinner? No. Could I write automatically without stumbling over spelling? No. Looking back to that period of time I can see now that I was afraid to plan ahead because l had learned that life can change on a dime.

As last year’s anniversary arrived, I could truly appreciate the progress I’d made. By then, my stellar spelling was back, I could more often than not cook a meal and talk or watch the news at the same time, I could comfortably drive for half an hour or 45 minutes. Basically I could do most everything I used to do as long as I was finished and resting by mid-afternoon. Even so, I refused to plan anything too far in advance. Commit to any long-term volunteer positions? No way.

I’m ashamed to say that annoyance and exasperation colored many of my moments. People treated me as if I’m the same as I was before my brain blew up. It’s easy to understand. I look the same, talk the same, problem-solve and reason the same. I read lots of books, have a wide variety of interests, and continue to garden, stitch, knit, clean, cook, do laundry and be as helpful as I can to others. It’s amazing when you think about it.

But the truth is that I’m NOT the same. When the barometer plummets or spikes, my brain fuzzes. When too many people are talking at once or changing topics on me, I silently struggle to keep up. Crowds of people are exhausting. Driving lengthy distances (especially on the interstate) is still not on my agenda. I’m at my best energy and thinking in the morning, but I live with late-sleepers whose peak energies start about the time my brain is winding down.

At some point this past year, I concluded that my so-called limitations are no big deal, but I’m not going to pretend they don’t exist, either. I began to ask friends and family to understand, adjust and accommodate. Some people embraced my new view. Some were perplexed. Still others continue to forget and need reminders. A rare few seem like they think I’m making up excuses. I’m not. I simply want to enjoy living, not gut through it.

Maybe I’m a slow learner, but the recovery piece of survival turned out to be surprisingly hard. For three years, my feelings bounced around like a balloon in the breeze. There’s been fear (will I be here tomorrow?), sadness (I can’t do that anymore), loneliness (people don’t understand), happiness (I can still do this!), joy (isn’t life amazing?) and peace (I may be different, but I’m absolutely okay).

But I can honestly say I’ve recovered. I am no longer “up in the air” blowing whatever direction the winds of the day take me. And it’s an achievement that I’m ready to recognize. Therefore, at the exact moment when my brain blew up three years ago, my steadfast college friend and I will be swaying over the river and trees around Stillwater.

Neither one of us has been in a hot air balloon, so we are excited. As for our husbands? It turns out they are both too nervous to go with us. So if you check the east metro horizon on July 29 at 7 p.m. and you see a hot air balloon, I hope you smile. While our spouses pace and worry with their feet firmly planted on the ground, Sue and I will be experiencing a benediction in the sky. And I promise that if you wave to us, we’ll definitely wave back!