Today I went to new volunteer orientation today at Food & Friends, a local D.C. nonprofit that prepares and delivers healthy meals, groceries, and nutrition counseling to people in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia who have life threatening illnesses. 10,000 volunteers help make their work possible and I’m very excited to join them. I’ll be cooking, delivering meals, and helping at special events.
If you’re looking for a great volunteer opportunity, they always need extra hands and hearts. Individuals, groups, and people of all ages (including kids) can be a part of their work on a very flexible schedule. I love this quote from one of the people who has received meals from them: “This isn’t just about food. It’s about life.”
Phin taking a long nap after our hike in Rock Creek Park
Phineas crossed a new threshold this weekend and taught me another big lesson in the healing process. It’s now been 2 months since his surgery. It was beautiful outside yesterday afternoon so we suited up and headed for Rock Creek Park. I wasn’t sure if or how Phin would navigate it. It’s been almost 6 months since we’ve been out on any trails and Rock Creek has some steep hills. I figured I would let him try it and if it was too much for him, then I could carry him.
I was skittish about approaching the hills, but Phin wasn’t phased by them one bit. He went after them with his usual gusto, bounding straight up without giving it a second thought. He’s not quite as agile as he used to be and he’s a little slower, but he did damn good. We arrived back home 2 and a half hours later. Phin was tired, though so was I.
I’ll be the first to admit that I still monitor Phin’s gait on a daily basis. There isn’t a moment that goes by when I’m not abundantly grateful that he’s with me. I remember all too well how close I came to losing him, and how close he came to losing his ability to walk.
The thing is that Phin doesn’t worry the way I do. He doesn’t get caught up in the psychology of injury, nor in the hard work of healing. To him, this is just life now and he’s happy. He knows he gets tired more easily and that he’s lost some flexibility in his spine. He knows he teeters over from time to time and that he can’t run quite as fast as he used to run. He loves and knows he is loved, and that’s his focus. To him, every walk, wonky or not, is a good walk. Every day is a good day. I’m not as zen as he is about all of it, but I’m trying and Phin is a patient and enthusiastic teacher.
This week I’m in the midst of many big and heady discussions about industries that demand rapid and radical transformation: healthcare, education, and the state of the planet for starters. We cannot close our eyes to the enormous problems we face as individuals and as a society. The good news is that we have everything we need to change our fortune—technology, know-how, and our imaginations. The trick is to find ways to unleash and connect them on a massive, actionable scale. And that scale lies within all of us building meaningful and impactful careers.
It’s easy to develop a solution that solves part of a problem. We’ll help some people and manage the costs with a relative degree of effectiveness. For a while, the band-aid will hold. We could almost fool ourselves into thinking this is okay, that it’s the best we can do with what we’ve got. Mediocrity is ours for the taking and my suggestion is to shun it with every ounce of strength we’ve got. We can and must do better starting now.
We could watch the news about California’s austerity measures in the face of the most horrible drought in its history and say, “That has nothing to do with me. I live thousands of miles away and I have plenty of water where I am.” The truth is that California is the canary in the coal mine.California will be everyone’s realty if we don’t take action to reverse course now. Think of all that’s been wasted there sustaining thirsty lawns in the middle of a desert for the sake of aesthetics. I actually feel a pain in my heart thinking about it. What have we done? What are we continuing to do by just going through the motions of life as usual? And if we think we have war now, imagine what will happen when we’re fighting over water rights that literally draw the line between life and death. Without water, debates about nukes are irrelevant.
These same kinds of scenarios are also true in education and healthcare. Our public education stats are appalling because we have failed to engage students and care for all of their needs from having enough food to eat to living in a safe neighborhood to nurturing their imaginations. We may be experiencing the rise of a lost generation of talent and potential because of the state of public education, and we can’t afford that. In healthcare, we discard our elders, dismiss patient concerns, and believe that quantity, churn, and lowering costs take precedence over patient experience and compassionate care. How we treat the sick, the young, and the old says a lot about who we are as a society. And I want us to be better because I know we’re capable of it right now.
Let’s stop making excuses and start doing and making things that matter for the long haul. We’ve got all of the technology and know-how we need. We each possess the most marvelous machine ever created – the human mind. Let’s join them and use them to develop career that are callings, callings to build a better, healthier, happier world.
Today, I woke up in my new home in Washington D.C. It’s freezing, and yet I don’t feel the cold at all. My smile and heart are warm because I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: in a city of people working to make the world a better place in their own special way.
Right before I started my last leg of the drive to D.C., I read Dr. Oliver Sacks’s essay in The New York Times in which he explained that he has terminal cancer. It’s one of the most positive, uplifting pieces of writing I’ve ever read. I’ve long been an admirer of his work and life, and this essay explains why. (The incredible movie Awakenings, starring Robin Williams, is based on his book about his early career.) Though he is now face-to-face with death, he remains joyful, grateful, and hopeful for the world that he will not be a part of in a few short months.
If Dr. Sacks can feel like this while standing on death’s doorstep, then we can all feel it every minute of every day. Regardless of the weather, regardless of how we feel, regardless of how others may behave. We can be happy, grateful, and glad to be alive. That’s my goal, today and every day.
Last night I went to bed thinking about the wonders of meditation, and especially when practicing that long-distance meditation with friends. My friend, Sofia, had just posted a link to a new study that provides further confirmation that meditation changes our bodies and minds at a cellular level.
In a very powerful dream, I arrived at Faneuil Hall in Boston. My friends, Mary and Tom, whom I’d meditated long-distance with the day before, were there smiling and waving. I made my way to them, they gave me a hug, and Mary said, “All will be well.” I smiled, turned around, and found myself facing a maze of paths through a grassy field. There was a street sign nearby with an arrow that read, “On the path to ancient healing”.
With that, I knew that all the plans I’m making now are the right plans. They’re what I need to do now, even if the road ahead seems uncertain and winding. Luckily I have many friends who are lighting the way.
Yesterday, I gave myself the gift of a 30-minute meditation. I needed to shift my energy and state of mind in a big way. I also needed to release a lot of emotions that I didn’t want to carry around with me and I wanted to send more healing energy to Phin. I was chatting with my friend, Mary, and she asked what time I planned to meditate so that she, her wonderful husband, Tom, and their sweet kitty, Jamie, could join me and Phin. I’m in Florida. They’re in the Boston area.
I never long-distance meditated before yesterday, though I now want to make it a regular part of my life. I could literally feel their energy flowing through me and Phin, and I was able to send that goodness back to them. I also strongly felt supported and cared for. As it turns out, Mary actively sent that feeling to me in many forms. Just knowing they were out there and that we were in this practice together made my meditation much richer, and more powerful. When I compared notes with Mary later, we actually had some identical insights rise up with regards to my future. That synchronicity amazed and inspired me. Even Phin and Jamie connected by ending the meditation asleep with their faces resting on their paws in the same way.
I feel so lucky to have had Mary, Tom, and Jamie with us in spirit during this stressful time. Their light, energy, and strength made it down the Eastern seaboard and I’m so grateful for that. United in distance. As Mary said to me, “All will be well.” And so it is.
As Phin became stronger this past week, I exercised the right (with his doctor’s permission) to put him on a blanket on the floor next to me to let him stretch out a bit more. The trouble is that now he’s getting so much better (though not totally back to normal) that he wants to take a stroll around the living room. He’s even slyly snuck away a few times to venture (slowly and wobbly) into the kitchen.
I understand his impatience—like mother, like dog. So now we’re back to strict crate rest despite his energy rebound. He’s not happy about this. He gives me his best Bette Davis eyes. One time, I think he actually winked at me. I can’t blame him the little guy for trying to turn on the charm in an attempt to secure a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’m not happy about it either and I’m not even the one stuck in the crate.
Healing, any kind of healing for anyone, takes time and rest and dedication. Healing is a lot of work. Let’s face it – the whole process of healing is a pain in the rear. And if we rush it, if we do too much too soon because we want so much to just get back to normal, then we risk robbing ourselves of all the potential that waits for us on the other side of healing.
I want Phin to make a full and complete recovery. I’m looking forward to the days when he and I can take our walks together again in the sunshine and fresh air. And they’ll happen; I know that. Come spring, we’ll take our spin around the Tidal Basin and he’ll roll around on that precious little healed back in the cherry blossoms. It’s just going to take some time and patience on both our parts – him in a crate and me sitting next to his crate as I write – marching toward our common goal to be well and whole.
Becoming a Jedi takes patience, puzzling, waiting, and a lot of slow learning. So does healing. What I hate most about the healing process is the waiting. I can’t do anything to speed it up, and I like to do things. I like to contribute. Healing is on its own watch, and I want it to be on mine. I’d like to snap my fingers, and have Phineas’s spinal column immediately knit itself back together so that he can walk again without a shred of difficulty or discomfort. Is that so much to ask?
I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress next to Phin’s crate since he came home on Friday. (Don’t feel bad for me—it’s a nice, comfy air mattress.) I spend a lot of time watching over him, and a lot of time waiting for the magic of healing which is taking its sweet time when I want it to use a magic wand. Healing, stop holding out on me. I’ve never been known for my patience. Quite the contrary. If something can be done today, right this minute, I’m doin’ it. Why can’t healing have that same work ethic? Why is it so damn lazy?
The body’s magic; life is magic. I get it. The surgeon drilled a hole into one of Phin’s vertebrae, cleaned out the ruptured disc area, and now the bone and disc are going to magically regenerate themselves in about 4-6 weeks. Okay, okay. We (humans and animals) are all tiny miracles of growth and progress and evolution. I know it’s a miracle that we have these soft squishy bodies that heal themselves through no effort on our part save for sleeping, eating, and, occasionally, taking some meds. Awesome. Now hurry up!
My pleas and prayers for an overnight recovery have thus far gone unanswered. The universe is making us sit, and wait, and watch, and learn. And I’ll do all those things because healing isn’t giving me a choice. It’s the boss, the teacher, the wise old sage, rocking in the corner, who’s earned the right to do things when it’s good and ready and satisfied that we’ve earned and learned everything it meant for us to earn and learn in the process. I’m thick-headed; I always have been. Lessons take a long time to seep into this skull of mine and make themselves at home in the deep recesses of my brain.
I’m inflating the air mattress. I’m giving Phin his meds wrapped in cheese (he’s crazy for Havarti), and tucking a soft blanket around him. He closes his eyes and drifts away into conversation with the sage, away from any pain, into a dream world where he walks and runs and is by all accounts perfectly healthy in every way. For him, for now, that’s enough. He’s content to give his body all the time it needs. I smile, and wait.
We are what we think, and what I wanted to think about were the blessings of life, large and small. I wanted to be wowed; I wanted to laugh; I wanted to stay positive and send that positive energy to my dog, Phineas, as I waited for the results of his tests by the neurologists.
So I meditated, helped my nieces get ready for school, and watched CBS This Morning. I wrote some articles about the trend of curation in education, jobs that won’t be lost to advancing technology, the wine industry in Northern California, and personal finance lessons learned by women in their 30s. I read about the restoration of wild Amur tigers in Russia, a 200-year-old mummy found meditating in lotus position, astronomers’ discovery of a planet that has a ring system 200 times the size of Saturn’s ring system, and Nerdgirl’s blog contest to celebrate her 39th birthday at Noma Tokyo with a blind date.
And you know what? It helped. It helped a lot. Of course I was still nervous for Phin. Back surgery, especially for a dachshund, is a very serious procedure. Phin isn’t like family to me; he is family. His rehabilitation could be long and tedious. With proper care, his recovery is highly likely but not guaranteed. So the best I can do now is keep my head up, my ears open, and my thoughts as optimistic and as realistic as possible. Writing, reading, and laughing helps.
Go ahead, illness. You don’t stand a chance against this heart.
My dachshund looked drunk. And for a dachshund, a breed prone to spinal issues, a collapsing of the back legs can be a death sentence. I rushed him to the ER, and he was immediately admitted to ICU. I got in my car, alone, and sobbed loud angry cries of “No! Not yet, not yet. I’m not ready yet.”
It really forces you to draw your own character into question when a 5-year-old 16-pound weiner dog who was abused and abandoned as a defenseless puppy is braver, stronger, and more courageous than you are. He was disoriented and uncomfortable, likely in deep pain that he refused to show anyone, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He soldiered on. He believed. I would have been ashamed of myself upon realizing this, but I was too bogged down in my grief. Thankfully Phineas just smooched my face before the nurses took him back, and got down to the business of healing.
The sad and subconscious deal you make with the devil when you adopt a dog is that you are very likely to outlive him or her. At some point, they will cross over and your life will go on in this plane without them. I try never to think about this fact. When I do, it overwhelms me like a mammoth wave of brackish water. I feel sick, lonely, and afraid. I’m usually able to pull myself back from the ledge, but with Phineas facing a grim prognosis in ICU two days ago I was helpless against the wave. It batted me around good and hard until it coughed me up, face first on the scratchy sand. Just stab a knife through my heart and turn it. It hurt that badly.
I was preparing myself for the worst. And in his typical stubborn style, Phineas refused to follow my lead. He wasn’t going down that dark path I set for myself, and for him. No, he was going to carve his own path. He went his own way. Screw the odds. That little guy is fighting, to be well, to live, to be whole and happy, and to be with me. The thought of giving up never crossed his mind.
I woke up several times in the middle of the following night sobbing. I’m glad it was dark because I’m sure I looked hideous. I’ve never been a pretty crier. I don’t trust anyone who is. I’m quite certain my guts were on the outside of my body after each crying fit. I buried my face into one of Phineas’s blankets and somehow fell back into a shallow sleep. Around 7am I phoned the hospital to see how he did overnight. He’d done it; he had begun to respond, very slowly but steadily, to medication and rest and the prayers that friends and family have been saying nonstop since I took him to the hospital. He took all of that goodness in and used it to his advantage. I was shocked. The doctor was shocked. Phineas was not.
Throughout the following day, he continued to climb out of the abyss I had relegated him to. He walked a few feet, slowly and with some difficulty, but all on his own. He took oral pain medication without getting ill. The door to the kennel where he’s staying has a sign that says “will bolt”, meaning that if a nurse isn’t careful when he or she opens the kennel door Phin will dive right out of the kennel with the IV flapping behind him so that someone will play with him. Just call him The Unsinkable Phineas Brown. He’s not ready yet, either. That’s one thing we both agree on.
Christa Avampato 