Category: Uncategorized

Today is the nine year anniversary of my accident (my “traumaversary,” as it is sometimes called). I almost forgot this date as the day approached! One of the advantages of acclimating to a new normal I guess–the significance of this date looms less and less in importance as other noteworthy life events come into the forefront.

Scott and I have been talking a lot about the tsunami of changes the past couple of years have ushered in, between job changes, aging parents, and our kids morphing into stinky, emo teenagers trying (successfully) to weather an unpredictable worldwide pandemic. Working in hospitals has magnified the importance of the now moments– unearthing the fleetingness of youth. beauty. abilities. health. security. Covid has underscored these learnings as I have watched it bring people to their knees, distilling priorities and forcing a collective “hunkering down” to heal. To pause…. when our monkey-minds want to rumble.

I often ponder how each passing year has brought new wisdom and insight. Greater clarity in prioritizing, and less emphasis on the external, temporary whims that used to define my world. (They’re still there, just less-so)

There is so much living to be done. So many choices, so little time.

Middle age is an interesting place to be, with character lines now etched into my face by living and loving wholeheartedly. Eleven years after a life-changing traumatic adoption journey, nine years after a suffering a severe physical accident, and seven years after an amputation, I have been hounded by the lure of scrambling for the shards of youth vigor and vitality–while the reality of life’s temporariness continues to stare me in the face. Again, this little (big) issue of time haunts me. Man, life is beautiful, but it is short.

My daughter is driving (gasp!) and started her first job at the Tosa Rec Department. Two and a half more years and she’ll be off to college. Kai (the kid who came to us with global physical and developmental delays) is becoming a dang good skateboarder. He climbed his first 5.10+ recently. He’s doing okay in school with a village of support. Scott’s and my marriage has gotten stronger over time despite all we’ve been through (no small feat!). My dad is 79 with a host of medical issues. He’s still with us, but we’ve had many close calls. My mom is 76 and the pandemic has been hard on them…yet we’ve gingerly worked out ways to keep them in our lives in safe ways (masks, distance, etc). I’ve got a book in the works and am soooo close to being finished! (Yay! Send good mojo…) Our lives are full with friends, family, and meaningful work.

The biggest life lesson I’ve learned over the past nine years has been this: The endless pursuit of adventure is not “out there” somewhere. It’s right here. In my home. In my family and in my community.

Time is so precious. Cherish it.

Be well,

Chris

EIGHT YEARS AGO I WAS RE-LEARNING HOW TO WALK. December through March were spent in a fuzzy haze mixed with trepidation and fear about the future. With hardware affixed to my hips and confined to a hospital bed in our living room, I asked myself again and again, How do I do this? How does one lie flat on one’s back for three long months (the amount of time required for a pelvic fracture to heal) without going absolutely crazy?

The mind is a funny thing. What if’s and worst case scenarios can loom in one’s consciousness like hungry vultures, feeding off of the fear and insidiousness which often accompany difficult circumstances. We want answers. Hanging onto tangled scraps of hope, we want to know that everything will be okay, or manageable anyway.

I am a doer to the nth degree. I don’t sit still well (much-less lie in one place well). Yet having no choice, I had to learn how to let go. Not easy, yet totally necessary.

Not able to do things my way (God forbid), I began to notice small things that I had never acknowledged before. Activities which previouslyfelt meaningless, trivial or mundane (such as getting my hair washed or slurping a chocolate milkshake) suddenly became high entertainment–something I looked forward to. As life began to slow down in so many ways, I was able to savor my experiences so much more: To feel the warm sudsy water dripping down the sides of my face as my mom gently caressed my head in a scalp massage (which felt heavenly). Evening milkshakes (with a little extra malt protein) were liquid gold. So much yummier because life had become simplified, pure and savor-able. Milkshakes and hair washings–These things were big deals.

(Gingerly) snuggling with my children. Watching the birds. Engaging in sick-humored banter with my husband and parents. Stroking the soft fur of my purring kitties. These things came to define an arduous (yet retrospectively very rich) three months. Somehow, deep rich gratitude had emerged out of a life which one might have described as kinda painful and sucky. Was it easy? Hell No. Did we get through it? Yes. Were we changed? You betcha.

Hunkering down. Taking life moment-by-moment doesn’t suck so much. Trust me.

I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been back at the space of wondering if I’m going to lose my ever-lovin’ mind. Bracing for the onslaught of the worst of this coronavirus pandemic has me scared shitless. Mostly I’m afraid of losing people I love. Knowing without a doubt that there will be deep loss and suffering, there are so. many. unknowns.

Cooped up with a surly soon-to-be 15 year old and teenage son with ADHD sends my brain into high-anxiety mode once again, which is tempered by being increasingly present. Staying in the here-and-now has brought me through before. It’s the juncture between learning to let go and trusting that healing can and will happen. In time. It’s embracing the futility of holding onto the past as we knew it, knowing that whether we’re ready or not, we WILL be changed. As individuals. As a culture. As a global community.

In my work as a hospital chaplain, I have companioned ventilated patients in the throes of respiratory distress. I have seen the terror in their eyes while I held their hands and tried to comfort them in their unimaginable angst. I have cried with their families, knowing all to well, the difficult conversations of holding on and letting go. These are heart-wrenching, life-defining times, yet they are the times where the distillation of the best parts of our humanity come to the forefront. Once again, time is crystalized in the form of mere presence.

I have seen (personally and professionally) what modern medicine is able to accomplish, as well as its limitations. I’ve tested the limits of what the human body is able to endure, and, at the dawning of my middle-age years–have finally learned how to listen to it’s wizened messages. Healing and medicine are a partnership–a delicate dance between the active and receptive aspects of our care. And while fate will always await us at the horizon, it still remains our duty to listen to the stirrings within the hearts of our bodies and the heart of our earth.

We are not alone here. We belong to each other. Forces beyond our control may bring us to our knees, but it is always within our power to choose how we handle the challenges before us.

This coronavirus has ushered in a sobering sense of humility–something so necessary in these times. As Mark Manson states in his book Everything is #@%!ED,

As we gear up for the months ahead, let us summon up the courage to simply BE STILL. In this time where we learn how to navigate the uncharted waters of a global pandemic, to BE STILL may be the most important personal resource we all can share.

Be well, Chris

This post is taken from a sermon given on June 16th, 2019

When I was a kid, I had a huge crush on Superman.  The one played by Christopher Reeve.   I think I was in fifth grade when the movie came out…there was something about his character:  This good looking, boyish, muscled guy—with a piercingly blue eyes and a certain strength of character, ready to sweep in to save unsuspecting victims from their impending doom. 

Looking back, I wondered what it was that drew me to this character—why was it that I couldn’t get this character out of my head?  I had a true fifth grade crush! 

Was it the power he wielded? Was it the muscles? Was it the wry smile he flashed before flying into the wild blue yonder?

No, I don’t think so.  What I remember being so captivated by, was the scene where Lex Luthor put kryptonite around his neck, bringing Superman to his knees.

That sounds masochistic, doesn’t it? 

Well, as I continue to ponder this question, I think my fascination had more to do with Superman’s willingness to take the risks necessary to do the right thing, which often meant becoming vulnerable.  Kryptonite signified this vulnerability.

As we know, Chris Reeve later suffered a horse riding accident which left him a quadriplegic, and dependent on a ventilator—a situation of real-life magnitude where he showed tremendous strength and grit in tremendous hardship.  You don’t get much more vulnerable than he was…yet he developed the Reeve Center for Spinal Cord Injury Research.  A true hero, after all.  Strength in vulnerability all the way to the end.

This year, it was almost impossible to not get wrapped up in the fervor around the movie “The Avengers”.  Adult boys everywhere flocked to this movie…showtimes were sold out for weeks in advance.  My own hubby bought an “Avengers” T-shirt to don for the occasion of seeing the movie with a friend.  What is it, I’ve always wondered…WHY is it that men everywhere are drawn to this kind of stuff?

In narrative and comparative mythology, the monomyth, or the hero’s journey, is the common template of a broad category of tales and lore that involves a hero who goes on an adventure, and in a decisive crisis wins a victory, and then comes home changed or transformed.  

CHANGE and TRANSFORMATION

In the story of Iron Man, Tony Stark begins as a selfish genius weapon maker, who, in a time of crisis, makes something he realizes can truly help the world.  Stark shows valor as he hides his creation from folks who would exploit it for evil.  Eventually, he identifies, publicly, with his heroic alter ego, stating “I am Iron Man”.  With this, he becomes a sort of cocky son-of-a-gun with a tendency toward over-indulgence and questionable behaviors.  

In time, Tony goes through a transformation into a selfless hero when he sacrifices himself to save the world..    However, as he survives this sacrifice, Stark’s selflessness becomes an obsession, as he becomes a sort of workaholic and his relationships begin to suffer.   At last, when forced to save the day without his “Iron Man” suit, he finally realizes that it is he, not the suit, that is the hero.  

Stark has the most important skill and power of the human beings:  Intelligence and money.   Eventually he must deal with the legacy he will leave behind which started with his father.   Once referred to as the Merchant of Death, Stark struggles to change his legacy into something good.   In Iron Man 3, Tony begins to confront the toll his life has taken on him, and the post-traumatic-stress that has believes he now suffers—understanding the reason for the creation of his “armor” (suit) in the first place.    His comment “You need to look strong” is something men everywhere identify with.   AM I RIGHT??  CAN I GET AN AMEN??

The central scene in the movie SPIDERMAN, which I used to show on “confirmation” retreats to ignite discussion, shows the last conversation had between Peter Parker and his uncle Ben, in the car before Uncle Ben was killed.   When Peter confides in his uncle about the powers he discovers he has, he is given the advice:  “With great power comes great responsibility.”   Truths central to everyday life. 

Seems simple, but it’s not.  WHY NOT?

As I strive to understand human nature, particularly nowadays, the ego takes center stage.   Without becoming too political, I think I can suffice to say that we’ve come into an age where “getting over”, “winning” and even taking pride in an ability to work the system is praised.  We don’t hear much about the GOLDEN RULE anymore, but we certainly are witness to a lot of self-promotion.   

Characters like Tony Stark reveal this tendency.   But “old fashioned” themes such as truth, dignity, valor, commitment, self-sacrifice, and integrity win out EVERY. TIME.   

Growing up in my hometown of Sheboygan, my dad was a gifted athlete.  He is currently in the “hall of fame” for his contribution to softball and is looked up to in the community.  As a kid, I think I took this for granted.  He was the guy who folks Relied upon to hit the ball over the fence.   

I remember well, the pressure he would feel if the team was down a point or two and he was up to bat.  All the outfielders would back up, folks on the bleachers would rumble, folks would cheer.    A lot of those times, he WOULD hit it out of the park.  We would win the game!  But not always.  The pressure he felt to be “the one” to win the game took its toll.   His esteem suffered as a result, especially as he got older and was probably not as strong as he used to be.  Eventually, dad struggled with clinical depression.

By the time I reached middle school he quit playing ball.  Still, he was given the nick name “gentle ben” (a name he never liked) signifying the temperament he had:  A big, strong guy, with a soft heart.    As a kid, I was proud of this.  I was proud of him. 

Yet, to this day—still an athlete at heart, my dad will get down on himself if he isn’t up to par (pun intended) on the golf course, or if he doesn’t perform as well as he feels he should.   He is like so many of us, deriving a sense of worth by what we DO, rather than WHO we are. 

I remember in high school, one day, my dad made a comment about all of the trophies on the shelves in the basement.  “All of those trophies…” he said, “they really don’t mean that much to me anymore.” (pause)  “You know what WOULD mean a lot to me?  A ‘good person’ award.  That would mean more than anything.” 

That Father’s Day, my sister and I would give him a bronze-colored trophy.  On it was inscribed:  “GOOD PERSON AWARD”  Love, your girls.    I still remember the tears in his eyes as he opened that gift and read the inscription.  It remains on the mantle above the fireplace in their home to this day.

SO…..Today is my birthday.  (Yes, 51…ugh).   I was BORN on Father’s Day (And I’m the oldest, so the reason my dad became a father.).  At our wedding reception, my dad got lots of laughs as he shared how he “crapped his pants” from anxiety while my mother was giving birth to me.   (I on the other hand, wanted to crawl under the table from embarrassment.)

“With great power comes great responsibility”. 

Parenting is a huge responsibility. 

Mentoring is a huge responsibility.

Caregiving in any form, is a huge responsibility. 

Running a business and making ETHICAL decisions is a huge responsibility.

Making a choice to be compassionate to others, rather than self-centered is a choice, and one that the HERO makes again and again, story after story.

Many of us….fathers or not–Male, female, or non-binary, are not even aware of the potential power that we do have embodied within who we are.   Like an auger, the courage to tap into our own vulnerability unearths great power and great wisdom.   YES the things legacies are made of.

The invitation is always there.  EVERY HERO somehow embraces it.

How will we use our power? 

My invitation today, is to consider the byproducts of embracing your own “heroism.” Think about those affected by your ability to transcend the “self” and embrace the woundedness of the world we live within.

True STRENGTH comes from within.  Not from the need to prove our worth.

Author Brene’ Brown states: “Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.” Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.” 

What is your armor? Who is the person behind the mask? 

I have developed a love-hate relationship with medicine over the years. Medicine can do great things. It can also be harmful in cases where medical providers don’t see the “whole person.”

I get a lot of questions about my amputation, and the story which led up to it. Usually, I give people the “quick and dirty” version….”I had a climbing fall and broke my ankle really badly. We tried for two years / 11 surgeries to fix it, and eventually I decided to amputate to regain my quality of life–to remain as active as possible.” I always always end the conversation sharing that I have no regrets whatsoever.

After my amputation, I decided to choose an older, orthopedic surgeon who had spent some time in Germany during the war. After seeing my x-rays, he made the comment that I was wise to move ahead with amputation. “Good for you…” he said “I see way too many young doctors nowadays that keep trying to fix the unfixable. It’s wrong in my book, especially with the great prosthetic technology out there.” Dr. Konkol has since retired, and I have appreciated his seasoned advice over the years.

Apparently in medical residency there is a culture which Dr. Konkol terms the “not on my watch” culture, where the doctor du jour makes darn sure life and limb are saved regardless of whatever casualties may exist regarding quality of life. “Success” means keeping body systems intact. Never mind the fallout at home, or emotionally. My two years of undergoing 11 surgeries of limb salvage while trying to maintain my sanity, avoid depression, and retain my active lifestyle renders me one example–for millions of others, who put our lives into the hands of doctors every day.

Fast-forward, five and a half years. I am now middle age, and needing to make general working out a part of my routine. I attend the gym near the hospital where I work, naturally.

A few weeks ago, I made the decision to wear my running blade. Because I feel pretty badass when I’m able to bounce around and run sometimes. This particular day my limb-salvage doctor was in the free-weight area, working with a personal trainer. We locked eyes for a moment, but then I avoided him.

I could have struck up a conversation, couldn’t I have? I told myself that he was busy with the trainer. Thank God.

Then I was approached by the gym manager, asking about my accident and my leg–yes, in front of my (previous) doc. She shared that it is always inspirational to see folks at the gym with disabilities, just “doing their thing.” I shared that I had tried several times to work with the hospital to merge the wellness culture with the rehab community, yet there has not been sufficient funding to secure a “program” to make this come to fruition. For some reason, medicine seems to have enough funds for cures and research to be had, yet in this case–no funding for programs for the “broken” to regain and maintain their qualities of life. These programs continue to be driven by generous and big-hearted volunteers with a passion for what they do. Thank God for them. This is important work. I digress….

I continue to see the good doctor at the gym from time to time. I could, and probably will strike up a conversation at some point….Remember me??? We were going to do an ankle replacement which had zero chance of working??? I realize that my being there, and active speaks for itself. I am in decent condition. I could be (but fortunately am not) like many patients I visit, depressed and deconditioned, with multiple co-morbidities, due to nursing a bad ankle. Still.

Sometimes medicine doesn’t know when to stop, and have the deeper conversations.

I am still not sure what my role is, since I continue to be a hospital employee, yet am also a patient, representing others in the disability community. These are important issues, and conversations of power and influence in medicine need to be had, at many levels.

Maybe the stars will align, and the conversation will happen. At the gym. In the mean time, I will keep doing my thing, and kicking ass. Feeling badass with my prosthetic leg.

I have made a decided effort to write about these things, nonetheless. To strike up conversations about these issues, because medicine, like so many things nowadays, is in deep need of healing. And healing does not happen when people harbor shame or resentment.

No shame here. Resentment, maybe.

I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me. Send good mojo.

I’ve always been an adventure junkie.

In the summer of 1995, against my parents’ wishes (and without medical insurance), I would decide to travel to Guatemala and Central America on a kind-of pilgrimage to learn about the religious martyrs I had read about in graduate school. I had a deep desire to see the country, get to know the people and culture, and learn the Spanish language (something deeply regret letting slide over the years.)

I also had this strange idea that I wanted to make a difference in the world. I know, not an uncommon thought for a 20-something year old gal fresh out of grad school. This was many years prior to embarking on my Social Work career–a career which, ten years later, left me jaded and feeling confused and defeated. It’s hard being an idealist.

1995 was obviously before the days of Instagram and social media, but I managed to snap this picture during my travels. I do not remember this girl’s name, and I’m frankly embarrassed about that. If you look closely, you will see something in her hand. It is a quetzal, which at the time was equivalent to about .9 of a US dollar. Those of us traveling who wanted a photo with the people in the villages knew it was customary to give them a little something in appreciation for their taking a picture with you, to capture the experience, if you will. At that time, I was quite impressed with the renegade femme traveler mystique, so this picture held some meaning for me.

I do remember trying to have a conversation with her and her brother about their village of Santiago Atitlan, situated near the base of a volcano and sparkling beautiful lake. She was wearing black shoes which were tattered and scuffled, yet the fact that she had shoes meant that she was better-off than some of the villagers in Santiago Atitlan. Many simply cannot afford shoes at all.

This beautiful Tzutujil Mayan girl with a radiant smile lived in a village where, on July 28th, 1981, Franciscan priest Stan Rother was ambushed and murdered. The gun which killed him was one used by the army and government-backed paramilitaries. “Word of the priest’s murder raged through the village and summoned the Atitecos [residents of the village] to the town’s heart….they had already lost over 30 of their brothers, fathers, uncles, sons and neighbors. Now their priest was gone.” (Father Stan Rother: American Martyr in Guatemala: Franciscanmedia.org).

The people in this little village, along with countless others, suffered years and years of paramilitary attacks in which men, women and children were tortured and killed–Many “with their skin peeled off their face and eyes gouged out.” Generations of families have lived with this trauma deeply embedded within their bones.

I am no stranger to trauma.

I think of her often during these times, and mourn for my previously idealistic self. I wonder about how she and her family are doing. Are they persisting in keeping hope alive, despite our country’s complicity in the pillaging of her people?

I have had some great takeaways from my time in Guatemala–the beauty of the people, the color and texture of the land, and the almost idyllic behavior of the children I met there on the busses and in the marketplace. Because children are worn on the backs of their mothers for most of their entire infancies, they are imbued with a deep sense of love, connection and belonging. I truthfully struggled to find ONE child having a tantrum in the two months I was in Guatemala, but could not find a single behaviorally challenged kiddo.

Fast-forward to the news today, and the children separated from their families at our US borders in Texas and elsewhere, clearly trying to escape a way harsher reality than we could ever imagine. My heart weeps.

Has our US self-interest really come to this? Why have we hardened our hearts to the humanity of others?

I am long-past the delusion that I am going to make a huge difference on the world, but as I dig deeply into my experience, I am often surprised at what I am able to find. Alas, I discovered this meaningful little gem in a dusty old little pocket photo album. Experience is a great teacher. I am grateful.

My Spanish still sucks and is virtually non-existent. Yet I was touched so greatly by the people of Guatemala and their deep enduring struggle to maintain hope and integrity despite their decades of immense suffering. Their struggles are really shared by all of those in Central America and those fleeing persecution.

I want to grab the hand of my old self–the idealist (now in recovery mode.) to affirm her. I want to tell her that there is still merit in valuing human dignity, and remind her that kernels of strength are sewn during these trying times.

…and I want to tell my little friend in this photo (who is now in her 30’s) that it will be okay. But I can’t.

overcoming obstacles 101

• View your obstacle as a challenge, or a very deep ADVENTURE!
• Befriend yourself. Love who you are!
• Celebrate your quirks, oddities, and what makes you different and special.
• Be able to LAUGH at yourself! (it’s really important)
• Stop judging yourself, and others.
• Do your BEST…then let it go. Focus on the POSITIVE and stay there.
• Find your “tribe” (Folks who get you, and you get them.)
• Squash any feelings of shame like a bug….SPLAT!
• Be Creative! Adapt….do what works for YOU.
• Remember, YOU are the star of your own life masterpiece.
• Reach out, connect. Be around people who celebrate you.
• Always remember, COMPARISON IS THE THIEF OF JOY.
• Rock on!!! Love, Chris