Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

I’m not quite sure when it kicked in.  Can’t quite put a finger on how exactly the stars were aligned when I woke up.  But I did.  It finally happened.

I dropped regret.  Completely.  Well, almost completely.

Regret is like worry.  It’s actually a stronger poison than worry.  Because it’s about the past.  Something you de facto cannot change.  While worry is also a waste of time, at least it’s about the present or the future; something our limited human minds manages to reason it has dominion over.

But regret?  Well, that’s just sad.  A spinning of wheels.

And it doesn’t matter what the regret is.  How big it seems.  How sad it feels.  Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Regret tampers with the tapestry of our lives that is singularly ours; unique, flawed, interesting, colorful.  Regret is graffiti tagged on our life’s mural.  Whether I wish I would have made a different choice isn’t really part of the equation.  Rather, what has emerged from what feels like a wrong turn, an impulsive act, a bad decision, a costly intimate rejection?

Let’s face it.  Isn’t it possible that Plan B is more interesting, riveting, and worthy than Plan A could have been?  And if not, you can’t change the past, but you can certainly move forward with a freshly set intention of living life without regret.

When tendrils of regret start encroaching on my psychic garden, I prune them with thoughts of “insteads.”  With what have I been blessed instead?  By what have I been challenged instead?  

And the answer to both questions is, plenty.

Bottom line, hasn’t it all been so interesting?  Like following a firefly through the light and shadow of an enchanted forest.

The Test

It was that time again.  I was six months overdue for what Kaiser has deemed an appropriate interval between mammograms.  So 2-1/2 years after my previous one, now armored only by a bronze health insurance plan and feeling very ambivalent and reluctant to undergo the damn thing at all, I caved.

The day after the mammogram, I got a call.  An overly cheerful male voice announced that radiology would like to take a few more pictures, that they had noticed something.

I sighed.  Great, I thought.

“Can you come in again in the next few days?” he asked.

As chance would have it, I was working at home that day, and I happen to live three blocks from Kaiser.  Lucky me.  “I’ll come within the hour,” I said.

On my walk over, I was feeling really pissed off.  

Within several minutes of my arrival, a radiology tech ushered me in and took several more pictures of my right breast, which, laughably, there isn’t much of to begin with.

“Okay, great.  Now wait here.  I’ll be back in ten minutes.”  I got dressed.

Remarkably, in less than ten minutes, the tech returned and led me down a hall to an office where a young woman was sitting in a chair in front of a computer.

“Hi, my name is Casey.  I’m a nurse practitioner.  Have a seat.”

The next 15 minutes were a surreal blur.  On the screen of her computer, she pointed out to me four pin prick-sized calcifications in my right breast pretty far back from the front.  Tiny, tiny. The radiologist, via Kaiser protocol, had deemed this biopsy-worthy.  When I asked what that entailed, what I keenly gleaned from the words that oozed from the nurse practitioner’s mouth was that it would involve cutting.  She went so far as to suggest that I could kill two birds with one stone by removing the area of calcification WHILE they performed the biopsy procedure, since they were already infiltrating the tissue, and be done with it.

I was stupefied.

I asked what other women had done in my situation.  By this point, I think she knew that I would take no bullshit from her and that she better be straight with me.

“Well, calcifications are very common, and 75 percent of the time, they’re nothing to worry about. But 25 percent turn out to be pre-cancerous.”

PRE-cancerous?  What the hell does that mean?  25 percent?

“Some women do opt to return in six months for more films to see if anything has changed before taking further action.”

“Ah,” I said.  “I like that door.  I’ll pick that one.”

“Okay.  Well, due to liability issues, I have to send you a letter that you have to acknowledge receipt of via signature that documents our conversation and that you have opted to wait.”

“No problem.” I replied.

“Kaiser’s official recommendation is to proceed with the biopsy.  But I understand your decision.”

Listen,” I said.  “You have to do your job, and I have to do mine.  This is my body.  Thank you for your time.”

I was out the door, actually feeling better than when I had entered.

Over the next few days as I tossed and turned over what had transpired, I slowly settled into a comfortable position.  A calm clarity.  A resolute peace.  My anger had burned through a filmy residue of fear.  Now I knew how the game was played.  Six months hence, I thought, I may or may not return for more films.

But my biggest fear?  I’ll let the bastards scare me again.

Honoring My Winter

I’m sure I’m not the only one for whom winter can be rather tough.  I used to think it was the cold, gray, wet weather that put me in a funk.  But in generally fair-weathered and recently drought-stricken California, where one can conceivably swim in an outdoor pool well into November with minimal discomfort, I don’t have that excuse.  Perhaps it’s the light deprivation or Seasonal Affective Disorder (the Cal-lite version) that takes hold of me.

Yet as autumn has fallen upon me this year, I’ve been reflecting on how I can prepare and perhaps “do winter better.”  And I have made what feels like a very satisfying resolution.

In the past, I’ve regarded winter as just another season, wherein my routine is little changed.  I’ve endeavored to work, move, and live with as much fervor as I do the other sunnier seasons.  And it is in precisely this effort, I’ve discovered, that I’ve made my mistake.

All four seasons uniquely require and inspire our alignment.  And winter, for me, poses the greatest challenge in this regard.  Like many, I thrive on sun, water, and movement (not water that is snow and not movement on skis down a hill, mind you).  So, for me, winter is a journey through a strange, dark, foreign land that I make with resistance, where I keenly savor the post-Winter-Solstice lengthening of days.

In my contemplation about this coming winter, I’ve figured out that it is best to surrender to what winter is calling me to do (and not do).  Winter’s elements echo my winter within; that tick on the dial of my cycle that is winter and all that engenders.  Heck, if the bears are retreating to their caves, perhaps I should take a page from their book.

So as I am so moved, I will turn inward.  I will nurture myself, surrendering to the stillness.

1.      I’ll listen to music, light a candle, and drink ginger peach tea.

2.      I’ll walk the lake instead of running at the beach.

3.      I’ll wear flannel pajamas and watch marathons of Mad Men and Damages on  Netflix (and maybe even Gilmore Girls).

4.      I’ll take long hot bubble baths instead of quick showers.

5.      I’ll roast root vegetables instead of steaming broccoli.

6.      I’ll keep the gift-giving simple and meaningful.

7.      I’ll pull out and actually wear my winter scarf collection.

8.      I’ll take a leisurely tour of the holiday lights around my neighborhood.

9.      I’ll celebrate my awkwardly dated winter birthday (January 4) with a trip to the spa for a soak and a shiatsu massage.

10.   I might even ice skate. 

May you honor your winter as well.