Attitude. It's Everything.

When my father was 12 years old he contracted gangrene and had his leg amputated at mid thigh. Penicillin was a few years away from discovery. When I was a teenager he told me that he could still remember the horrific pain of the amputation and that, even after decades and decades, he still felt the phantom limb. That was the first and last time he ever mentioned it to me.

My father was not defined by the loss of his leg. He never considered himself disabled. He fished, he hunted, he climbed ladders to make home repairs, he tended to our huge yard and he never took a handicapped space in a parking lot. He offered words of encouragement to other amputees. I saw him approach a young boy in a wheelchair whose leg had recently been amputated. I will never know what he said to the child but I saw my dad pull up his own pant leg and I watched the little boy take a timid hand and softly knock on my dad's wooden leg. The child smiled.

My dad wasn't a man who talked a lot. He certainly wasn't a man who complained. His wooden leg was just that...made of wood. It was heavy and it was cumbersome. The old artificial limbs were not nearly as efficient as today's lightweight limbs. My dad's had a hole cut out where he would place his "stump." He would pull a white cotton rag through a small hole and create suction that kept the leg attached. He would screw on the valve, tighten it just so, and be set for the day. The leg rarely fell off. But, sometimes it did.

After a business dinner one night in Galveston he headed downstairs with a group of men. My dad's leg made it downstairs before anyone else. Picture the heavy rogue leg bouncing down a very long flight of wooden stairs near a beach boardwalk. For the guys who drank too much at dinner and for the people passing by on the sea wall below,  I'm sure it was a shock. My dad thought it was funny. Attitude is everything, isn't it?

Lately, I've been putting that "attitude is everything" mantra to good use. My friends know how difficult it is for me to publicly acknowledge my own health issues and I'm sure they've always wondered why. My father is my reason why.

I feel like even mentioning how I feel is the same as complaining. Oh, I know that's crazy. But, I grew up with a father who spent his life propelling himself forward and upward even when faced with obstacles that seemed too high to scale. He put on a happy face. He must have saved the complaining for his private moments but I wasn't privy to it. His physical disability did not define him. He would hate that I used the word disability.

A year or so ago I was diagnosed with Connective Tissue Disease. For most of my life I have felt like there was something wrong. Over the years I have made intermittent trips to doctors and have been diagnosed, incorrectly, with a variety of things. My faith in medicine was not so great. The closest any doctor came to a correct diagnosis was my obstetrician. Both of my children were premature and he recognized that my pregnancies were very similar to the high risk pregnancies of women with Lupus. So, I diligently reported to his office every 6 months for a few years and each and every time my autoimmune tests came back negative. I quit having it checked and thought feeling bad was just my lot in life. I now know that it can take years and years to get a correct diagnosis and that it hasn't been until recently that doctors are getting a clearer picture of Connective Tissue Disease and all autoimmune diseases.

Over the years I pushed through a lot of physical pain and fatigue and just kept keeping on even though I would have stretches of time where it was an effort to get out of bed.

I just read that last sentence and I want to delete it. To me, it sounds like complaining. But, I'm going to suck it up and let it stand.

I worked hard, I played harder, I raised my kids, I moved to Los Angeles from Dallas and spent 7 long years living apart from my husband while my young daughter and son chased their own dreams. My husband joined us in LA when my health became a larger obstacle. For him, having to start over in a new city when he is past 50 has been a challenge. He keeps a smile on his face, too.

For me, a diagnosis of cervical cancer and the subsequent surgery was the impetus that brought on an onslaught of symptoms that were like my past physical ailments times one hundred and one. My body's wiring is way off. My B Cells and T Cells attack healthy tissue and muscles that they mistake for foreign invaders. It's all very James Bond. There's a war raging inside me and my own system thinks it's fighting the good fight to save me but the soldiers are getting the orders all wrong. Rashes, fatigue, sore muscles, weakness in my hips, thighs and arms, a cough that will not go away,  small blood vessels collapsing, lab results that now show high positive markers for Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus, neurology tests that are positive for Dermatomyositis and a long and boring list of other things that go hand in hand with the umbrella diagnosis of Connective Tissue Disease. And if the disease doesn't do you in you certainly feel like the drug regimens will.

I keep a smile on my face. I dress for the day each and every day. My skin rashes, swells and peels and I have not worn makeup in over a year. If you know women in the South and women in Los Angeles then you know that the one thing they have in common is that they don't even go to the mailbox without mascara, eye shadow and lipstick. I keep a smile on my bare face. I figure I save 30 minutes a day and that's 182.5 more hours a year that I can do something great. I hope that's right. Math was never my thing.

Why am I writing this now? I have a brain that doesn't shut down. I am my own best therapist. (I tried real therapy once. I tried to run the session. Did I mention that I am also bossy?) I have often said that this blog is for me and if people choose to read it I hope they enjoy it but I'm the one getting the most good out of it. There's something about writing and hitting publish that does more to clear my brain than any other tonic. My brain is switched to "on" 24/7 and lately I have been questioning why I have such a hard time letting others do for me...even my own family. They try to keep me out of the kitchen and away from the laundry and insist that I get the amount of rest that I need. I slip behind their backs and do loads of laundry and attempt to clean baseboards. I pay for it the next day. I spend time shopping for my vintage store even when my back is hurting and sorting through racks of clothing makes my arms feel like they will fall off.  I do all that for me. I do that to prove to myself that I can still do it well...or reasonably well.

I imagine my father. I imagine him never giving up. I remember him taking off his wooden leg at the end of busy days and lancing huge blisters. The very next day he would be back at work. He put on that happy face and lived his life.