Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

After years of therapy, I have finally come to the terms with the fact that I am a fundamentally good-natured person. Even when I am experiencing what most people would consider a major downer, I can always somehow arch my neck over whatever emotional obstacle may lie in front of me to catch a glimpse of that, in my view, ever-present bright side.

Here's a perfect example: after that car hit me in the middle of the summer six years ago, I was lying in the street with a bashed-up knee, multiple bruising and fractures, open wounds and the beginnings of a deep-rooted psycological trauma, and I remember thinking to myself: 'Well, at least it's not raining'.

I have often get the impression that people don't really trust a happy person. Someone who is smiling and positive is generally thought of as someone without conviction, it seems. This is odd to me, that people tend to have more faith in irritable people with little good to say about anything at all than someone with a smile on their face. When I meet someone for the first time, I make it a point to be in good spirits, I'll even beam (if it's appropriate). Maybe I've been reading too many Brontë novels, but I really do think it's important to be amiable and pleasant in any social situation, especially during a first impression. Why should anyone else have to suffer from the fact that I'm having a 'bad hair day'?

Don't get me wrong, I can definitely get pissed when absolutely necessary, and I posess my own rather lengthy list of pet peeves, just like anyone else. When I hear the latest reports about the world-wide financial crisis and that thousands of people are being evicted from their homes, of course I find it unsettling, and would rather think of something else. It's not easy to see the bright side of that situation, but as soon as I find one, I'll let you know!

But being good-natured isn't the same as being ignorant! It's just somehow easier for me to point out the silver lining in most situations than it is for me to join the bad-mood bandwagon, so to speak. Any situation in which you find yourself having to wait will confirm it - people love to complain. Whether it's about the weather, or the current price of gas per liter, or the political situation at the moment, people can find an abundance of issues to be negative about.

Sure, if you're waiting for a doctor's appointment, you'll most likely hear people complain. That's a no-brainer. I remember once in an uncomfortably silent and overcrowded waiting room at the doctor's, a man came in and saw another man he knew. He said 'Hey! How are you?' To which the other man replied 'Well, terrible. That's why I'm here.' After which more uncomfortable silence ensued. Now, I am not saying the man should've deceived his friend, not to mention everyone in the waiting room, by saying he felt great, since that would indeed be a big fat lie. Being good-natured isn't the same as lying! If that man had been me, I might've said 'Well, I feel terrible, that's why I'm here. But at least I'm still alive!' or, maybe, 'But at least they've got some new magazines to read! Have you read this article about New Zeeland?'

Recently, when my mother-in-law came to pick me up from the hospital after my operation, she walked in the door and said 'How are you feeling?' Then, when she saw the undoubtedly cheerful expression on my face, quickly added 'Now, don't say you're feeling good!' But, I'm almost ashamed to admit, I was feeling good! Even though it was no day in the park, the operation had gone smoothly. And although I still couldn't feel my own ass due to the anasthesia, I was able to stand, and my bladder was working properly again. And, after waiting all day in that starched and uncomfortable hospital bed in a place where there was a constant aroma of iodine mixed with urine, I was thrilled to see her and finally be going home! So yes, despite the situation, I was feeling good!

Seriously, though, I must be a real pain in the butt to those around me with my infinite positive outlook on life. My husband, I'm sure, wants to toss me out the window sometimes. If we get stuck in traffic on a hot day, he'll react like any other human being and curse every possible cause for the jam, while I will find it irresistable to mention the fact that at least we've got air-co. And if the kids wake up several times in the night, depriving us both of sleep, he'll react with natural dismay and annoyance, while I'll probably say something to the effect of 'Oh, we're going to miss these times when they move out one day!' And if we run out of coffee, he will understandably use a wide assortiment of swear words to express his emotions on the subject, while I'd probably mention the bright side of the situation again by saying something to the effect of...um...well, let's face it, like the financial crisis, there simply is no bright side to that situation either.

So, you see, there are some situations where my positivity is overpowered by negative influences over which I have no control. Something I saw recently on TV confirmed this: the new Alldays maxi-pad commercial. I seriously don't know who invents these commercials, but this one really rubbed me the wrong way. As most women know, almost every ad for feminine hygiene products is far-fetched, but this one was simply ludicrious. For some reason beyond my comprehension, some advertising ignoramous thought little animated bumper cars driving over the surface of a maxi-pad was a metaphore all women could relate to during their monthly menstruations. But the worst part, the worst part of all, was the slogan at the end.

It said...(I can barely type the words...)

'Have a happy period.'

Have a what period?!

First of all, the words 'happy' and 'period' should never, I repeat never, be used in the same sentence. Or paragraph. Or even on the same day. And even the mere implication that a woman could even manage to have a happy period is like wishing someone a fun labotomy, or a really super root canal. I can only surmise that anyone who would dream of wishing any woman on God's green earth a happy period clearly has never had one himself. I say 'himself' because I can only assume a mind behind so absurd a campaign must be male. It's the only plausable explanation. At least I hope so. If a woman had come up with that slogan, we might have to find her and ostracize her, girls.

So you see, even a fundamentally good-natured person like me sometimes can't be oblivious to negative influences, nor resist the urge to rant about them now and again. That's why I started this blog in the first place! Just like a good meal, when stuff goes in, it eventually has to come out...it's the same with the stimuli of everyday life! I found, the best way to deal with it all is a healthy dose of self-examination and heaps of humour. Oh, and a good shrink. But there's that bright side again: I may be in therapy, but at least I'm not in advertising!

Here's To Your Health!

Apparently, it's very healthy for healthy people to want to get healthier. Well if that's true, then I must be an astonishingly healthy person!

I have been trying to understanding myself for quite a few years now, only to find myself to be one of the greatest mysteries I've ever encountered. Why have I been exposing myself to this struggle, you may wonder? Well, if the stuff they write in self-help books is true, it's because I am healthy, but I want to get healthier. Which means I must have some sort of advantage - at least I'm not starting from scratch.

The person driving the car that hit me six years ago, sending me and my handbag five meters across the street and permanently damaging my knee, clearly didn't consider the fact that my life literally schreeched to a halt the moment he chose not to. Everything I knew to encompass me was suddenly altered by this singular event. I was messed up, but officially, I had 'trauma'. I was a cripple, but officially, I was 'handicapped'. I needed help, and officially, I needed a 'shrink'.

I've heard it's pretty unique to click with your first psychologist. My first shrink is also my current shrink; a young, intelligent woman who, after six years, knows more about why I do the things I do than I do. Yet, it doesn't seem fair, that every time I see her, she has this mental advantage over me. She'll ask me questions and wait patiently as I flounder around, trying to figure out the answers she already knows... I can never seem to surprise her! I sometimes think about making something up to throw her off course, an imaginary and unforeseen breakthrough of some kind, but I always decide against it. If I'm going to get healthier than I already am, I better play it straight, I tell myself.

The first time I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), I took steps to successfully get over it. After a year of shrinking, and with much pride and elation, I finally declared myself healthy and 'de-traumatized', said goodbye to my shrink for good and continued on the merry path of my life as I had known it, 'pre-accident'. Little did I know how unhealthy I actually was! It only took a few years before my disorder reared its ugly head and wanted to play chicken with me. Oh my, it was ugly. Seriously, if you thought the latest smear campaign the Republicans have launched against the Democrats is ugly, let me tell you, my neglected disorder was uglier. I went to my doctor with complaints of head-aches, regular bouts of self-pity and recurrent sobbing fits and to my utter bewilderment, he diagnosed me with... PTSD! What?! I thought I was over that! How was I supposed to know you could get it twice? I thought it was one of those things, like chicken pox, and once you had it out of your system, you were immune! Boy, was I wrong.

As it turned out, the second round of PTSD was of the industrial-strength variety, and it wasn't in the mood to get shrunk anytime soon. In fact, I am still in therapy to this day to learn about how to wrench myself from its clutches. But even after weekly psychological sessions, mindfulness-based stress reduction courses, physical therapy sessions, meditation, self-help literature and the occassional Dr. Phil episode, I didn't really feel like I was getting any healthier! 

Dr. Robin Skynner pointed out in the book 'Life and How To Survive It', which he co-wrote with John Cleese (who, incidentally, is a fellow mental patient, which probably doesn't come as a surprise to any of us who have ever seen an episode of 'Monty Python's Flying Circus'). Anyway, Dr. Robin Skynner said:

'...when we start on this process leading us to greater health, temporarily we can feel worse'.

Aha! Reassuring! The keyword in that sentence being, of course, 'temporarily'. But, a couple chapters further on in the book, he said:

'If you are healthy, you'll get healthier. If you're not, it's down the slippery slope'.

Hmm. Now I'm confused. So, to start the getting healthy process, you have to be healthy. But once you've started it, you'll feel less healthy, allbeit temporarily. But what's happening is that you're actually getting more not healthy. And if you're not healthy, you'll find yourself careening down a ski slope of some kind, assumingly with no experience in skiing and no knowledge whatsoever of how to stear or stop, and staring at a gaping ravine you'll most likely be plummeting into in a New York minute. 

Now just a minute! Where'd the reassuring go?

Although I am full aware of the risks involved, I will not be deterred. I've started this dive into the lake of me, and if I don't finish it, well, then I'd have to remain suspended in mid air for some time with no idea how to get down. Or up, for that matter. I'm not worried. I've managed to surround myself with qualified individuals who have made it their sole purpose to guide helpless souls like me find their way back to, or away from, or out of, or towards, or just a little to the left of...themselves. And it probably won't be too hard for them to do just that, seeing as the bulk of their patients, like me, will most likely already be healthy when they walk in the door.

Healthy, but not quite healthy enough.

Patient Knee Patient

I'm a knee patient, I have been one for over six years now, and if I've learned anything in the past six years about being a patient, it's that you have to be patient, even when it's the last thing you want to be.

It strikes me as extremely contradictory that the definition of the word 'patient', besides 'someone who is receiving medical treatment', is: 'able to wait without being anxious or annoyed'.

Actually I find it downright hilarious that the same word is used for someone who is receiving medical treatment, and someone who is able to wait without getting anxious or annoyed! I sure don't know anyone receiving medical treatment who isn't able to get at least a little annoyed at the fact they even need medical treatment.

Recently, I went under the knife, for the fourth time. I actually shouldn't complain, my track record isn't too bad, especially if I compare myself to some of the poor souls on the knee forums on internet. Some of them have undergone countless procedures involving anything from reattaching to cleaning, replacing to shaving, grafting to drilling, all in the hopes of improving their less than perfect, yet so essential, knee joints.

The entire process of dealing with an injury is pretty bizarre, when you think about it. First of all, it took me years before I was really aware of any serious signs of wear and tear. It's a bitch when your mind and body work together to cope with and cover up pain, and when you finally realize they've been pulling the wool over your eyes, you discover you've been living with it daily for years! How did that happen? And when I finally did collapse in physical agony, everyone around me said in surprise: 'Well, with the way you were limping around like a pirate with a peg-leg, we thought you'd cave in a lot sooner!' I found out the hard way, no one was going to tell me I was in pain and should slow down - that was something I had to tell myself... I just couldn't manage to get myself alone for a few minutes to talk about it!

So, when I finally decided to take action, I thought: 'I'm in pain, I know there are people qualified to take away pain, so what am I going to do about it?' That's when the endless examinations and scans began. First, several doctors, doctor's assistants, physical therapists and nurses yanked on, extended, flexed and wiggled around my injured leg to assess what needed to be done, according to them. I got all sorts of expert opinions and advice, and went home with a severe case of knowing too much. I needed time to digest all this information, so I waited, desparately trying to wait without getting anxious or annoyed.

When I was ready for the next step, (pun very much intended) I had to get pictures done. Which meant being exposed to all sorts of hazardous beams coming from X-ray machines and MRI cabins. I would lie there, wondering if my knee was at all photogenic, on a table about as comfortable as a diving plank. Halfway through the scan, I would always regret the position I was lying in or get an imaginary itch somewhere and feel the overwhelming sensation to move, and I'd have to remind myself what the nurse had said: 'Now lie still! If you move even one fraction of an inch, we'll have to start the scan all over again'. So I would have to be patient again and wait, tolerating, accepting, and especially not annoyed, until the last radioactive beam left my body.

And after the pictures were taken, I'd have to wait, patiently. And finally, when the results would come back, I'd meet with the doctor, the one I finally decided worthy of cutting into me, and discuss the possibilities. There were always many, which meant I'd have to go home and chew it over, think about it. And wait.

And wait. And wait some more. I had a couple kids in the meantime, while I was waiting. And all the time, I'd keep in mind: 'I'll just have to be patient, and not get annoyed at the fact that it hurts just to bend down and pick up the pencil I just dropped on the floor'. Because, after all, that's what being (a) patient is.

Then came the point where I just couldn't wait anymore. I made the arrangements to go through with the procedure of my choice with the surgeon I liked best, and then...well, then I wait for that day to arrive.

Being a hospital patient is the epitome of being patient. You arrive early and hungry, and the nurse on duty will probably give you the better part of two hours to get yourself out of your regular clothes and into one of those charming hospital gowns. A support stocking and glass of water to accompany the heavy pain medication will most likely already be set up on the bedside table, waiting patiently for your return from the OR. If you're lucky enough to have a private room, you get to wait patiently in solitude, but I prefer a full room, where you can sneak a peek at the other patients and maybe pick up some tips on how they're managing to be patient without getting anxious or annoyed. Everyone knows, everyone is anxious and annoyed, but no one's showing it.

But a surprising thing happened to me during my most recent patient experience. When I was finally wheeled into the OR, after waiting as patiently as a patient can wait for the anaesthesia to kick in (which, incidentally, is by the far the most pleasant moment of the entire procedure), I was accompanied by a sort of OR guide, who looked friendly, despite the fact that his entire head was covered with a surgical mask and showercap. Good thing he could smile with his eyes.

As he called up my file on the OR computer, probably to ensure they had injected the drugs into the correct limb, he saw my name wasn't Dutch, and asked where I came from. I've noticed on many uncomfortable occassions that being foreign is the best and easiest ice-breaker. When I said I was American, we launched into a discussion about the presidential elections, which are coming up in less than a month. Just before he left the room, the friendly man jokingly said I was prettier than VP candidate Sarah Palin. I couldn't help visualizing myself in my unflattering hospital gown and showercap, with my limp and lifeless leg looking about as attractive as an oversized breadstick, gone sort of yellow-ish. In spite of myself, I laughed outloud at his bizarre compliment. That's when I realized the doctor had already made his first incision! To my surprise, I'd actually been waiting patiently all that time, without getting anxious or annoyed! The definitions matched!

Now, how did that happen??

I know from first-hand experience how resilient the human body is, and that it really does take time to heal all wounds, but that certainly doesn't mean I'll always be able to sit back and wait without getting anxious or annoyed about it. I'm a patient, but I can get so sick of being patient.