A Different Kind of Trying

Such an interesting word, don’t you think?

“Child, you are trying my patience,” can be heard from the mouths and probably from the depths of the very souls from many a parent—at least those in the South.

And then there’s the standard usage, the one that many of us either say or at least think when working to do better or maybe to do at all. “I’m trying,” we say as the energy flags and the doubt presses in.

Drill sergeant types bark out, “Don’t try. Do,” and if you had one of those kinds of parents, those words might ring in your ears as you give it one more go.

In a former life I had a career as the director of a program for women starting over after divorce or widowhood. Women needing to figure out how to take care of themselves after being dependent on a spouse. It was the dark ages, and women in those post-WWII era had been sold on the dream that you got married and had children and ran your home with all the many tasks it takes to keep a family functioning.

They were called homemakers, a perfect description, but the position was tenuous, and it always depended on a functioning marriage to succeed. When it didn’t, for whatever reason, wives found themselves in the uncomfortable position of being unprepared to support themselves.

I and my team were there to guide that transition. and it took a lot of attitude adjustment, self-worth renewal, and confidence-building to get a woman to the point of being willing to put herself out there—for employment or for training. To try.

One of the discussions we held had to do with the words we tell ourselves—one of which was “have to.” I have to pick up the kids, keep an appointment, call my parents, take, do, go.

“What if, instead,” I would propose, we simply said, “I’m going to do” whatever it is? What if we introduced the idea of choice by saying,  ‘I’m choosing to do xyz?” So often we’re bogged down by all the “have-tos,” I would say. If we instead say that we are going to do something that we’ve convinced ourselves we have to do, does it make us take a look at that thing and perhaps begin to question how many of those things are really necessary? Have we simply make ourselves feel essential and given ourselves all these burdens of responsibility so we can feel important—overwhelmed, even?

I wasn’t advocating that anyone NOT pick their child up from school, but simply asking that we—all of us—take a look at the fact that we had begun to box ourselves without choices. Going about life doing all these have-to-do this and have-to-do that, removing the empowerment that comes from deciding which things we could say no to and which ones we chose to do.

It wasn’t wrong.

I wasn’t wrong.

It was simply hard to do.

I think we are hard-wired to feel responsibility. Maybe from Pilgrim days, who knows? An anthropologist or historian or someone much more qualified than I am—maybe even AI—might know. Might even find my conclusion faulty.

What I do know is that by sliding toward the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy, I find myself with fewer choices and more have-tos.  

And it’s making me cranky.

Talk to me, please. I’d love to make this more interactive.

RLS and Me, Part Two       

When going through a rough patch as I am, it’s frightening but necessary for me to ask if I’ll come through this and get beyond it. Will I stand on the other side wary from the realization that I was so vulnerable and that life as I knew it was indeed a ticking time bomb?

Just seven weeks ago, crawling into bed, I was naively accepting that the next day I would wake up, maybe shower, wash and blow dry my hair, apply some make up, get dressed, and drive my car eight miles to the store. There I might buy groceries, bring them home, take them into the house, unpack them, get the frozen foods into the freezer, store everything else where it belonged. Easy-peasy. No help needed, thank you.

Or maybe tomorrow was a doctor appointment for Ed, and I would position the car at the end of the ramp, get him into the car, drive the twenty miles or so to the doctor’s office, go in and get him a wheelchair, bring it back to the car, push him into the office, talk to the doctor, get him back into the car, take the wheelchair back into the building, and drive us back home. Maybe pick up a prescription along the way.

On the other hand, maybe I would drive to Gainesville, meet up with Cindy for lunch or Nic for breakfast. Such small things—after all, I was hardly participating in a marathon, was I? Small, simple pursuits. So small, in fact, I wasn’t expecting them to be ripped away. Are any of us? Ever?

Here’s the thing: I was assured that life was going to change for me at some point because I was on a dopamine agonist medication that had been reported to inevitably betray me. I had read plenty and had participated in enough support groups for RLS victims to know this medication I took every night would stop working and wreak havoc on my life. I simply didn’t know what that would look like.

I’d put myself through several sleep studies and talked to multiple doctors—one even an hour’s drive away—looking for some other medicine to take that would mask the RLS   symptoms and not make me eat compulsively. Looking for something that might even cure this syndrome that far too few people have in order for public awareness and therefore public demand for this condition that destroys lives.

Researchers knew that dopamine agonists were not stable. It makes sense that any medicine you take that stops working unless you add higher doses of it—in my case, again and again–is not a long-term solution. Dopamine agonists provide their own dopamine. Dopamine regulates your mood and your pain receptors. Dopamine agonists are a miracle until they backfire. And that happens in a few years for some or, in my case, twenty-four years. At least eight times the dosage was raised to accommodate my need to sleep unimpaired by spontaneous leg movement.

People in blogs, on social media, and participating in online support groups told stories about their experiences with the medication when it augmented, but I didn’t know what it would really feel like or that there would be so few knowledgeable people available and able or willing to help me.

Even armed with lots of information, I was in denial. I was ignoring the fact that something was about to mess with my ability to be relatively pain-free, to stand upright, to navigate stairs without fear, to walk unassisted, and to drive myself and my grandchildren to wherever we needed to be, those things were doomed to be taken away in a flash. And I had no idea what that would look like. Or if I would get it all back.

The wait continues, the ordeal is excruciating. Each new day is … well more on that in a few days or maybe weeks.