Monthly Archives: April 2019

Teaching

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Back in September I took on a challenge (that is still continuing) by enrolling in Yoga Teacher Training (YTT). I was full of fear, insecurities, and doubt. After all, I do not come without a slew of challenges. Between MS, limited range of motion of my left arm from breast cancer that required surgery, and a fused spine, I am what I like to call a hot mess. The schedule was set before we even started and I worried that on the days when I needed to be at Teacher Training, something could happen MS-wise, making me unable to even complete the training as required. Plus add in my usual dose of self deprecation feeling inferior and incapable, and I had no idea if I would be successful, and the former perfectionist in me reared it’s ugly head my way.

Yoga family hug on the day of graduation

Nevertheless, I had already fallen in love with yoga and I just wanted to learn more: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The road has not been an easy one for me, to say the least. But I have worked hard, both on and off my mat, with the unconditional support of my entire yoga family. Hell, I even showed up to a teacher training for a whole weekend while suffering from a fever, which for a heat intolerant MS patient, may as well be death. I was shaking everywhere, totally off-balance, with every symptom magnified yet I showed up on my mat. I sat as far away from the others as I could so as not to spread my germs, and I pushed through. It took me several days to recover, but I showed that I had the dedication to do it.

This was just part of what came with me when I was so sick but dragged myself to YTT.

Also, yoga teacher training and the schedule is not negotiable. Not only have a missed precious time with my other half, but I also missed family functions because they fell on a YTT weekend. This caused some strife with certain members of my family, while others have been supporting me on this journey, and are proud of my work ethic and dedication to this undertaking because they know how intense it is and how deep the work is.

In April, I graduated with my 200 hour certification, even as I continue to work towards 300 hours. It was a proud day for me, because I have had to work twice as hard as the others because in addition to the physical limitations I deal with, I also have cognitive deficiencies from MS that affect my focus and memory, as well as retention of information. Just as we were getting ready to graduate, my teacher reached out to all of us, seeking subs for her classes so that she could take a well-deserved vacation. The other girls in my YTT class had already been subbing, but I was holding back because I was not yet certified and although I had been teaching certain segments of classes with my teacher in the room, I wanted more time before taking on a whole class of my own, from beginning to end. I told my teacher that I wanted to think about it overnight before committing, even though I knew it was time for me to take the leap.

Proudly admiring this certificate for all the work that it took to earn!

Hard earned. ‘Nuff said.

So I sat down with my notebook, and wrote out a class that I felt really good about. I practiced it, I spoke it out loud, I timed it, I added to it, I did it with my trainer, and I worried about my need for a notebook since I was afraid that the good ‘ole MS brain fog would sneak in anytime it wanted. Bruce worried that the inner perfectionist that I have worked hard to dissolve over the past five years was coming back and that I was reverting back to old habits. I assured him it was just this first class that I had to get under my belt and then I’d be fine. He had every right to worry but ever my rock he gave me the space I needed and believed that I was being honest with him.

Spread out everywhere just to write up on class!

On the night before the class I was teaching, I got those very familiar “Sunday night teacher feels”…. the anxiety, the nervous stomach, and the inability to sleep. In fact, I woke up at 4:00 am, saying parts of the sequence I had planned over and over again in my head. But walking into that studio on the morning of my class felt just like coming home. I watched as some MS sisters came to show their support. I watched as my trainer came and planted herself right in the front row. I watched as one of my Gypsy Soul Sisters, who just happened to be on spring break, set up shop in the front row. I watched as a beloved former student who is really more of a runner but wanted to support me came in to the studio. I watched as the regulars who I have been taking this class with since I started at the studio came and were full of excitement that I was teaching. I felt loved and supported, and totally ready to teach.

This girl, a friend I know on Facebook from an MS and Exercise group, traveled 70 miles to take my class.

As soon as I started, I fell into my old, but not forgotten role as a teacher. I’m not going to lie… it felt fantastic. I have always been the teacher that learns as much (or more) from my students as they learn from me, and this was no exception. Yes, I used my notebook, but not in an intrusive way, but more as a security blanket knowing that I had what I needed right there. Because of MS I might always have a notebook, but I’m hopeful that some day I can create a class on the fly that everyone will love. But if I can’t, I’m ok with that.

My notes for ONE class… many pages long.

When I resigned my position as a classroom teacher five years ago, my principal told me she did not envision that my teaching career was over, but simply that my classroom would just look different. I know I can’t do this full time, or even all that regularly. When you combat crippling fatigue that isn’t even helped with the strongest of amphetamines, sometimes you can only do one thing a day… if that. I’d be withholding information if I didn’t share that after this class and a cup of coffee with my MS sisters, I crashed. Hard. I’m used to that. It’s life with MS.

And these are two of my MS sisters who are local and incredibly supportive. After this was taken, I went straight home to rest.

But this time I slept soundly, knowing that I would never again have those Sunday night teacher feels because a yoga community is way different than a bunch of high schoolers. Even with 200 hours under my belt, I feel like I have so much more to learn and I’m really excited to share it with those who attend my classes in the future. I can’t promise that I won’t be using my notebook. But I can promise a great playlist of songs you might not normally hear in a yoga class, a flow that may take you by surprise a little, and a heart that is 100% full of gratitude and appreciation for the students, the practice, and my place in this world. Namaste. 🙏🏻

Texts from my classmates were so sweet afterwards!

Partner

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I thought it appropriate as we near the end of April, which is full of celebrations that are all about me and Bruce, to bring back this blog which explains why I constantly refer to him as my partner. It might seem odd to some, and maybe this can help others understand just how different it is to call him my partner rather than simply calling him my husband. By the way, it was his idea to revive this post, but I totally understand why.

The other day, Bruce turned to me, and asked me why I always refer to him as my partner rather than my husband.  It’s not that he was upset or angry about it, it’s just that he was curious. And looking back at the many blog posts that include him in any way, I do always refer to him as my partner.

I looked at him and I almost didn’t even know where to start explaining. I mean partner encompasses so much more than saying husband or spouse. By being partners, Bruce and I share every single aspect of our life together.

This is the exact spot where Bruce first saw me walking across campus, and last summer we went back to the scene of the crime!

By simply calling him my husband, no one would know that he is my care partner. He is the one I lean on when I’m not feeling well, and he puts everything else aside for me during those times. He supports me physically when I’m not well by picking up my share of the slack around the house while still working full time. He does this without complaint, knowing that if the roles were reversed, I would do the very same for him.

Calling him my husband doesn’t reflect the depth of our friendship, that started when we were just 18 years old. He was my best bud for years before we started dating, and the history we shared during those years made our relationship much more special when we finally did get together. That’s how I knew it was for keeps because he’s still my best friend. He’s the first one I turn to when I need love and support. He makes me laugh so hard that I cry (and maybe even pee a little bit… but that could be MS too!?), and having him beside me, even if we are just sitting in silence, provides me with the kind of peace of mind that calms me to my very core.

Saying that Bruce is my husband can’t possibly do justice to the guy who loved me even when my entire life revolved around my job… and even more when I added graduate school to the mix, taking away more time together from the already limited amount we had. Even when we were spending time together, I was always thinking about school or grad school. I was seldom fully present, but he supported me anyway because that’s what partners do.

Being my partner means that he has chosen to continue on our journey together despite the many obstacles we have faced. Being my partner means sharing the burden equally, and that burden can be pretty weighty at times. But when we each take half, it’s not so bad. Bruce wears many hats in our world… best friend, care partner, husband, fiancée, soul mate, and partner.

A reenactment of one of the very first pictures of us, taken in New Hope, PA.

I can’t even remember what it’s like to not have him as my partner, or when his title evolved to partner. What I do know is that having him as my partner in life has made everything better, including MS and breast cancer. Having him as my partner means I smile wider, love harder, and give thanks every damn day that he is there.

The truest sign of our partnership is that we complement each other so that each of us is better because of the other. With all that being said, it is true that Bruce is my husband. But he is my partner in this life, and being my partner entails way more than just being my husband. Plus, he’s the captain of #TeamRankin… and as we all know, #TeamRankin never loses!

The Sandbox

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How much do you remember from kindergarten? I don’t remember much. After all, kids are usually around five years old in kindergarten, right? Well my 74 year old mother-in-law (mama) remembers a lot. She remembers the first day of kindergarten in 1950, independently leaving her mom behind as she marched into the classroom. She remembers walking by a boy who was tearfully being dragged inside by his mother because he had never been apart from her. Little did she know then that this emotional little boy would end up playing in the sandbox with her, creating a beautiful friendship that would last until they graduated from their K-9 Catholic school.

Here they are in 1950!

As these two grew, they ended up in the same circle of friends. At a particularly “wild” party in 6th grade (at age 11), a rousing game of spin the bottle led to their very first kiss. It was so much the talk of their class that on the Monday following the party, the nuns had a stern discussion with the girl whose party it was, especially since it happened to take place during Lent! Meanwhile Mama and Bill continued building a platonic friendship even though Bill carried a torch for her.

This is a series of photos from the infamous spin the bottle party!

Because they attended a private Catholic school, people came from many different towns, and these two lived nearly 20 miles apart! Nevertheless, they walked home together every single day. Bill lived walking distance to school, so together they would walk to Bill’s house, and from there she walked several more miles where she then got on the bus to finally make her way home.

After 9th grade, the pair parted ways, each heading to the public high school in her/his town, and as is often the case, they lost touch. Each went on to graduate high school and get married to other people. Unbeknownst to either at the time,  in 1973, my mama and her young family moved to beautiful Packanack Lake, Wayne (NJ), and in 1974 Bill and his wife also moved to Packanack Lake, just three blocks from his childhood crush. Life went on for these two as they began adulting, each with her/his partner.

One day, 15 years later (sometime around 1989), mama was walking around the lake (as she often did and still does) when out of the blue, a man she could never forget approached her and asked, “Bobbie? Is that you?” From that point on, they would casually run into each other at the lake or the clubhouse, and they always had friendly exchanges. Bill was heavily involved in the community, and she was a very active and knowledgeable real estate agent in Wayne and the surrounding towns. She helped him sell his mother’s house, and he was always able to refer people her way because he knew she was extremely good at what she did. Whenever they ran into each other at the clubhouse or at the lake, Bill always told everyone (and anyone) the he and my mama used to play in the sandbox together. In fact, in 1999 when Bruce and I were planning a post marriage party for our friends and family upon our return from Las Vegas, we went to look at the clubhouse, and who did we run into? Bill! He was there helping to set up an event, and the two embraced exactly how two childhood friends with so much love shared between them should. She introduced me to Bill, who wrapped me in one of the warmest embraces I’ve ever experienced, and then told me that he and my mama used to play in the sandbox together. And for the record, at this time both were married to other people and they LOVED running into each other, but theirs was a strictly platonic love, nothing more. She said that it always felt like coming home when they did see each other.

Fast forward to 2017. Bobbie had been divorced for quite some time, and Bill became a widower after being the care-taker for his terminally ill wife. My mama had also moved after selling her house at Packanack to my brother-in-law, downsizing to a beautiful apartment literally three minutes away. Bill was unaware of it since he had been so consumed with his wife. When his wife passed in September, my mama sent a card to her long time friend, extending her condolences.

(At this point in the conversation I had with these two in order to get some of the details, Bill winked at me, “now I had her address!” And she said, “And now I have his checkbook!”)

Bill decided to send her a Christmas card, and on the very day he sent it, they ran into each other at the YMCA. He parked right next to my oblivious mama who was too busy texting (me probably) to notice him, but when she walked to the door, there he was. Bill had no intention of meeting anyone or being in a relationship so soon after losing his wife. But if there was anyone in the world it was going to happen with, it was her. Their conversation went like this:
Bill: “Are you…?”
Mama: (nervously) “No.”
Bill: “Would you…?”
Mama: “Yes.”
So Bill suggested that perhaps the two could do some socializing.

Shortly after, my mama came to spend some time with me and sleep over. She brought her iPad. She was sitting next to me on the couch and she said, “Oh my god… I just got an email from Bill and he asked me if I could have lunch with him. What should I say?” I looked at her, sitting there like a love-struck teenager, and I said, “Tell him yes!”

A second chance at love…

Ever since that lunch, these two are living life in retirement with more joy than I’ve ever seen. She said that it was like they had never been apart in a way. They both said that the chemistry was instant. Bill has easily slid into his role in our family and we all appreciate him for all that he does for mama, and for all of us. My nephew LOVES “Mr. Bill”, and we all know that kids are the best judge of character ever. To see the two of them in love, traveling the world together, and just enjoying what he calls “the opportunity they have been given to live their lives again” is truly beautiful.

Our small (but bigger by one person now) family.

I think all love stories are beautiful (even though I’ll always think mine is the best one), and this one ranks pretty high. Seeing my mama get spoiled and treated like a queen (which she is) and Bill loving every doting minute, makes my heart soar. This is what she deserves after so many years spent thinking only about us or her mother, but never herself. And Bill deserves to be happy and love her freely. This is the kind of love everyone deserves.

Oh. And one more thing. Yes, Bill, I know you used to play in the sandbox together when you were kids. And Mama, yes… I know you have the checkbook. Please see my Amazon wish list any time you feel the need! 😉

Harsh Reality

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This week, the thing that’s most on my mind (having just spent the entire month of March trying to educate others about MS) is how completely apathetic some people are about this illness. I mean people that I know personally and who are affected by the me that exists at this moment in time on my journey of almost 16 years since my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosiversary still refuse to seek some knowledge, or at the very least compassion for how hard things can be.

Yup… I storied nothing but things having to do with MS for the entire month of March, which is MS Awareness Month.

The patented response I am ALWAYS given (and DESPISE with a passion, as many other MS patients can relate to, I’m sure) is, “But you look so good!” Blah blah blah. Looks can be (and ARE most often) very deceiving. I understand that people don’t see me as disabled, especially when I make stupid choices like participating in a Spartan race last year. I was trying to issue a big FU to MS but it didn’t quite work out for me, and I paid the price for it. It took weeks for my body to recover, and I ended up with two sprained ankles and a messed up pinky, none of which are completely healed even now. I thought I could prove something to myself and others. This was not the way to do it, and I get that. But we all make mistakes, and just because I did that race it doesn’t mean that I could do it every day, or even at all now. Because MS is a progressive illness and a year later (although I won’t deny that I’m strong), I can’t do the same things I did just one year ago.

Some days, this is the most I can manage.

What is particularly bothersome for me is those who think I use my disability at opportune moments. In a way that’s true. I know that I can’t do more than one big thing in a weekend or else I am useless for the rest of the week. I also have to limit what I do during the week so that I can enjoy whatever I choose to do with my husband because the weekends are for us. Certain things are definitely not possible for me. No longer can I drive into New Brunswick and hop on a train to NYC for a day of hanging out with my sister. I wish I could, but sadly, it’s just not something I can manage anymore. When I hear that people think I use my disability to take advantage of a situation or as an excuse for anything at all, it is downright hurtful, especially when it comes to people who are close to me and still don’t get it after 16 years. To those people, I say walk one (1!) single day in my shoes, living my life, and see if you can please everybody the whole time while also just trying to get your body to make it through the day.

Most non-yoga weekends are spent thusly: just me and Bru on the couch watching movies.

Since September I have been committed to yoga teacher training, and our required training days have been set from the beginning. I have missed many family events because of the schedule, and Bru is supportive as hell even though he says I’m “married to yoga” right now. The truth is that my neurologist was amazed at the improvement he has seen in my balance since starting this journey. Plus it makes me feel so much better, and I am hoping to inspire other people who are chronically ill and struggling to give it a whirl. I have heard whisperings that people think I’m wasting my time doing something they don’t think I will use, when really they never cared enough to have a conversation with me about what my yoga goals are. But even if they didn’t, they need to respect the fact that I made this commitment, and I ALWAYS honor my commitments.

Yoga training weekends are a struggle for me, but I do it no matter what because I am determined to show others that they can do this too.(Even though it takes me two days to recover just from that.)  I try to practice every day. Sometimes that hour and 15 minutes is all I can manage in a whole day. Sometimes I can’t even manage that at all. And there is absolutely nothing more insulting than being accused of using my illness for any benefit at all. I have carried enough self-imposed guilt relating to not being good enough to do EVERYTHING (cooking, cleaning, food shopping, or even the more basic things like showering) and having other people project their misconceptions or lack of understanding my way is the perfect storm for relapses.

So thankful for my other half who picks up ALL the slack around the house when I can’t do things. Most men would have walked right out the door but thankfully my guy is one of integrity and strength, and i would be lost without him.

This week I am turning 47 years old. It doesn’t bother me that I’m turning 47. It bothers me that it has taken me this long to let other people think whatever they want about me, without me feeling the need to defend myself. Living with Multiple Sclerosis is hard. Life isn’t the same as it was once upon a time. I’m fine with that, and I’m constantly adjusting to my new normals. Maybe someday other people will understand too. I’m not holding my breath, but I am (and always will be) the consummate optimist.

You decide what your perspective is, but life is so much more beautiful when your glass is half full, especially when you have to deal with people who question your reality and authenticity.

Acceptance

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I love my friend Mary. We both journal, and often we like to talk about things that come up through our journaling. We both see ourselves as human beings striving to evolve and become the best possible versions of ourselves, and neither one of us is afraid to make mistakes along the way. After all, without mistakes, we can’t learn and then we stop growing.

My Mary. I just adore her! This was taken at one of our lunch dates.

Our conversations always make me see things differently, or sometimes even more clearly. One time  after we had just seen each other, I remember Mary calling me because she wanted to share a thought she had, which tied right in to what we had talked about that day. Sometimes she asks things that I don’t want to think about, that are very difficult, soul-searching, and even probing questions. But what she had to say on this particular day was the following: as human beings, we need to make a conscious effort to be as kind to ourselves as we are to others.  Think about that. I mean, I never waste an opportunity to help someone else or offer a kind word when someone (even a complete stranger) seems to need it. But I am not that kind to myself. Why is it so hard?

Mary has also reminded me on more than one occasion that we should all be grateful for the bodies we are given. It is up to us to treat it well and take care of it, no matter how it functions or what it looks like. When I thought about both of these comments that Mary made, I agreed with her 100%. Then I got mad at my younger self… the girl who put too much pressure on herself, beating herself up for not matching some unattainable societal standard, and who never treated herself with kindness. Not ever.

It took a career-ending relapse and finding the right people to walk (stumble, scoot, or rollate) beside me on my journey to discover this lesson, and it’s value is far beyond measure. Some people live an entire lifetime without learning it.

I have always abided by the “kill them with kindness” rule, but why is it so hard for us as human beings to be kinder to ourselves? Instead of getting angry at myself these days for not accomplishing something I may have set out to do, I thank my body for all that it DOES do for me and for me allowing it to rest when it needs it, and that itself is an accomplishment because I haven’t always been able to do that.

The body is just a shell. The good stuff is inside. I mean think about an M&M (shout out to Cathy who I am sure loves this comparison because she LOVES M&Ms!). The crunchy part is ok… it comes in many different colors, sizes, and shapes, depending on the kind of M&M it is.  But what’s really the best part? The inside. Chocolate, peanuts, almonds, crunchies, peanut butter, or whatever other good stuff they choose. I understand this now.  I treat my body well. I nourish it, exercise it, and even allow it to rest because regardless of what it looks like, it’s the only one I’ve got and I’m doing everything I can to be kind to it. It’s not perfect according to the image set forth by the society’s standards, but it’s mine, and it’s getting stronger all the time. Under the surface I am fighting the War against MS, having already won the Battle of Breast Cancer, and it hasn’t let me down…. because I accept it, work on it, and am kind to it.

Mary issued a challenge to me. I have never been comfortable showing my arms in any sleeveless top. I am a broad-backed girl, and I always have been. My shoulders are wide, and my arms, though muscular, do not make me feel lady-like at all. I’m not what you would consider dainty, and in fact, I have always felt more like a line backer than a lady because of it. I have an array of little sweaters (both short and long sleeved) that I wear on top of any sleeveless top or dress, and I would never, ever take them off. Mary challenged me to get over it and just be me. So what if I’m not perfect, because I am perfectly me.

I’m not kidding about the many different sweaters in all colors, weights, and sleeve lengths, that I wear over anything that shows too much arm!

I have to thank Mary for this (plus about a million other things) because she made it seem so simple. She said that even if I just start out by wearing a sleeveless top, getting in my car and driving around the block, it’s still a start. She’s right. Why should I be so afraid of something so simple and so frequently done without a second thought? The answer is this: I shouldn’t be. Now I’m not saying you’ll see me showing off my guns on a regular basis, but what I am saying is that I am going to make a concerted effort to rise to Mary’s challenge. And while I might not feel comfortable with how it looks, I will be proud of myself, inside and out, because I should be. In fact, Mary was with me when I said “yes to the dress”, which oddly enough, is beautifully strapless. I am done beating myself up about the crappy candy coating. Let’s just get down to the good stuff inside.

Yup. I said yes to the (strapless) dress.