Running Dreams

I had my first running dream in quite some time yesterday. When the injury first happened, these types of dreams were more commonplace and I’d wake up and return to the disheartening reality of crutches or a boot. Six months later, I guess my subconscious tabled my identity as a runner and those types of scenes stopped cropping up. I’m guessing that yesterday’s big milestone of successfully sneaker walking in the woods at the park allowed the hopes and sparks of possible future running finally sneak their way back in again.

I’ve been running competitively for more than half my life, even considering the time off for all of the various injuries, so that vision of myself is nearly as cemented as my own name at this point and it’s painful and jarring to imagine it may not be something I’ll be able to enjoy again. The truth is, that fate is somewhat unknown at this point; with my degenerative connective tissue disorder, this ridiculously temperamental injury, and my overall increased propensity for injury over the past couple years, running may be entirely unfeasible or at least not recommended, and certainly would need to take on a different feel and intensity to remain a viable activity for me. I’m not in a position to even assess or decide yet since I’m still not healed enough to run, but I know it will be an important but difficult decision to face when the time comes.

With that said, my little trail excursion yesterday must have taken a key to this padlocked box with my running aspirations and loosened the lid to allow some of that pressurized passion to seep out and plant itself in my dreams. I was running. I was laughing and running along the deck of a ship, wildly swinging my arms and pumping my legs like a freed child at recess, running without restraint. An entire football team was chasing me and singing 80s pop hits while I hysterically and gleefully circumvented various obstacles along the decks. Interestingly, my left foot still seemed markedly hindered, as every hard corner I took, I’d hop twice on the right to avoid weight bearing on the left during the turn, then would regain an equal bipedal stride once I’d hit the straightaway. I woke up laughing at myself, instead of being instantly saddened by my still injured condition, as would have been the case months ago.

While I hate unknowns and hate waiting even more, I’ll continue to try to maintain hope but exercise the most patience I can bear to see how this foot heals and how my running future will look. I’m working hard to cultivate more balance in my self-image and find and nurture other interests that help me find fulfillment and purpose.

 

 

I’ll Never Be Ready for This Goodbye

Our family dog, John, is winding down and approaching the end of her life. She’s an unthinkably sweet, loyal yellow lab who has been a member of the family for nearly fourteen years. While she’ll always be the “family dog” in my mind, she’s been under my mom’s care since my parents split up about ten years ago and my sisters and I have all embarked on our own lives.

I remember getting John, although, although back then, we called her Rory, short for Arora. She’s a girl, yet has been called “John” for probably all but two of her years, after I decided that’s what she was to me and it stuck. We all started calling her John, or Johnathan when she’d get into some large pile of food and drag it to her “den”-a fort formed between the arms of the couches-and gobble it up. Trays of homemade granola bars, a family-size bag of blue corn tortilla chips, wrapped sandwiches from our lunch bags carelessly stored near the front door to grab on the way out: John is a natural-born scavenger and always a stealthy acquirer of human food. The more bites into a feast she would get, the faster her tail would wag, as if each morsel gave her windup toy tail a quarter turn.

John has always lived for pure joy and found love and delight in everything. She has such a command over true happiness that we’ve all always found her presence to be truly enriching. She loves the woods, retrieving sticks and swimming in the water, going for epic walks in Amethyst Brook Nature Area, and playing on the floor.

John has been a lap dog and a snuggler since the day my mom and sister brought her home. Of course, then, she was under twenty pounds, at least seven of which must have been loose and floppy fur and big feet to grow into. Now, at nearly sixty pounds, she still comes rushing over when one of us sits on the floor and forms a lap: she wants in, though, it’s more like on and over our whole bodies now.

When John was a puppy, I was a junior in high school, obsessed with running fast, getting good grades, and securing a prestigious college admissions spot. I remember nights in the study room, my parents heading up to bed while I sat in front of the computer screen, working on one of many assignments. Johnny, still Rory at the time, was a tiny puppy. She’d come ambling into the study to sniff and explore any crumbs I had dropped below me. As if a pull-toy dragged by a string from her nose, she’d wag and wiggle her way around the whole room directed by just her nose and imagination. Eventually, she’d paw at my shins, pushing my wheeled office chair back from the screen. Up, up! Moments later, she would be cradled in my arms, belly up, as I stroked her ears and gave up on work for the night. Like a baby, she would close her eyes and begin gently snoring, folding completely into my arms, her own muscles fast asleep.

Johnny and I bonded quickly. She liked my energy, my kid-like tendency toward play, my engagement with her on the floor or with toys, or running around the house as her mouse in a game of chase. She immediately earned and filled the perfect spot in our family and soon, it was nearly impossible to remember how it was we got along before her.

Nearly fourteen years later, John has seen and been part of many adventures, changes, heartaches, fights, milestones, and memories. Her companionship has help weather deep pain and sadness, loneliness and hurt. She’s been there in every ordinary day too, reminding us about the simplest gifts of daily life: the rising in the morning of your loved ones, the deliciousness of breakfast and the excitement of eating, the desire to play and explore outdoors. Her love for each of us never seems to tire or fade. She’s just as excited to see you after months of absence as she is when you return from the bathroom after showering; it’s always an enthusiastic reunion and a reminder that you’re special and not taken for granted. She reminds me, at least, that life is enjoyable, even in the mundane, and that happiness is found everywhere that family is.

As John’s health continues to rapidly decline, I know that day when the most painful goodbye to be spoken is coming. I tell myself I’m ready because I know it is her time and death is part of her mortal life, but it’s also painfully difficult to imagine her no longer being with us. She’s been a mainstay, a reliable constant in our ever-changing lives for nearly half of my life. When I think about Johnny dying, it calls to mind the many times my mom would bring her down on adventure-filled weekends to visit me in New York City.

I’d always beg my mom to stay longer and our goodbyes were always tearful; I clutched on to my mom’s tiny frame in an embrace I never wanted to end. As mom packed her last few things in the car and commanded Johnny to jump up into the back, I’d squeeze John’s neck and say, “take care of mama for me.” Through blurred eyes, I’d watch as my mom would drive completely out of sight, engulfed by the cars of outbound traffic, the whole time watching Johnny’s fixed gaze of my diminishing waving silhouette, her eyes saying, Come home with us. Why have you left, my friend? and mine saying Don’t go, Johnny. We will play this same silent dialogue as she leaves this world, my eyes begging her not to go. I will swallow the basketball-sized lump consuming my throat and feign a brave face that tells her it’s okay to let go and that she’s far surpassed her job here. This time, my eyes will need to reassure her that I will take care of mom for her, and relieve her of her biggest responsibility and honor in this world. I don’t know the extent to which she can read my mind, decipher my words, and understand my heart, but if I have one wish for John, it’s that I hope she knows she’s been the stable rock in our tumultuous lives, the ever-burning beacon of love, and the very friend each one of us has desperately needed each and every day she’s been here with us. While I adore Comet and am confident I’ll love other dogs in my life as well, Johnny will always occupy this very precious place in my heart, one that is entirely irreplaceable and one I will forever honor. For however many days we have left that are blessed with her presence, I hope they are filled with peace and her acceptance of all the gratitude we have for her.

 

John, I will never be ready to let you go. I can’t imagine how to say goodbye to you, but please, please know for as much as I will surely fall short, you’ve been far more than anything we ever dreamed you’d be. Please continue to watch over me as I grow up and I promise to keep your spirit alive, for I cannot help but conjure up the sweet image of your face whenever I hear the word “family.”

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Time

The weeks are starting to feel faster. A couple of months ago, on Sunday night, I’d start to get anxious about the impending week and how it would feel long, hard, and lonely. Then, I’d start to get anxious Sunday afternoon in anticipation of the Sunday evening routine and the impossible-to-ignore awareness that the weekend was almost over and the week would soon be upon us. Unlike some people, this dread isn’t about working or not liking my job; in fact, I’m blessed to love my job and I work some on weekends anyway, so weekends and weekdays are often not appreciably different in that way. Mostly, I think, I’d feel sad about being alone so long during each day, not getting a chance to see Ben, and fending off physical pain and depression in isolation.

I’m not so much feeling that way recently, which is a welcome development. I still cherish the weekend time and enjoy the companionship and the more relaxed vibe that characterizes our weekends together, but I’m doing better alone as well. I’d say the pleasant spring and summer weather is the main attributable factor: I’m so much happier when I’m not freezing and there is abundant sunshine to soak up outside. Although not wholly healed, my foot is also better, restoring much of my significantly compromised mobility from the end of the winter and the early spring. Both of these factors result in more outdoor time, which almost always mitigates my anxiety and lifts my mood. If I am completely immobile or stuck inside for weeks or months on end with injury or illness, one of my necessary “tools” to moderate my mental health is missing and so I feel unequipped and justifiably anxious that I won’t be able to handle it well. It’s somewhat like repairman being stripped of her ratchet set or drill but still getting called to a job. She knows she can improvise somewhat, but without some key tools, she would feel nervous and more doubtful of her command over the repair. Give her those tools back, and she’s ready to effectuate the repair with confidence.

In addition to improved weather, less foot pain, and more mobility, I’m excited about my life right now. This may be the first time I’ve truly felt this way in almost a year, when I decided to forego the prosthetics residency and found a job that suited me well. It’s a beautiful thing when, despite numerous and pervasive challenges, you can feel content, and even sparked by your everyday life. The addition of this new job, though undeniably adding responsibility and some amount of stress, is invigorating. I really like what I’m doing and who I’m working with so far and it’s a near-perfect complement to my other job in terms of its different demands, purpose, and focus. I can’t wait to learn more each day and discover ways that I can be helpful and fill obvious and also unanticipated voids and needs.

I’m also continuing to find satisfaction and better self-understanding and self-compassion through my journaling and blogging. Writing gives me time to think, grieve, appreciate, analyze, strategize, and inspire. It helps me dissect and digest some of the many thoughts and emotions swirling about my head on any given day, and it helps me connect with myself and the world. I write about being autistic, having sensory issues, trauma and PTSD, depression and anxiety and physical pain, but also I write about being human and my life and the world through my lenses. As much as I feel different and am different than most people in very obvious ways, it also helps me feel the same and understood, especially when others can relate to my experiences or challenges. I get brief tastes of being as human as I actually am, yet often fail to see from my mental space of “freakishness” and deep, almost metaphysical, loneliness.

Although my progress is never linear and these improvements don’t always feel relevant each day, it’s useful when I do recognize the trend has changed for the positive. Although that familiar swing of anxiety may catch me on Sunday night, I just need to remind myself that the week is really nothing to fear: not only am I fairly equipped to handle it and grow with it, I may even enjoy it.

 

A Memory of “Nothing”?

This morning I have a memory of New York City and my sister. After I’d lived there for a couple years, she got a teaching job in the Bronx and moved to East Harlem. My memory takes place in her small studio in a walkup building on 3rd Avenue. While I lack any ounce of interior design sense, space organization, and taste for what “looks right” or “goes” together (especially with clothes!), my sister is a master of creating eye-appealing spaces and combinations. In just a few weeks and a shoestring budget, she had her place inhabiting the “cozy” and “chic” camps simultaneously. This memory I’m sitting with today isn’t any sort of monumental milestone or particularly notable activity. What I remember is best summed up as simplicity. After a combination of taking the bus and walking to her apartment, I stood, my face out the window, her light, breezy white curtains rippling along the wide window frame in the gentle summer air. The street below was bustling with cars, pedestrians, and street carts, mostly wafting the aroma of tamales and the joyous sounds of neighbors’ Spanish greetings as they bumped into one another. I drank in the vibrant scene and the surprising freshness of city air, my sister joining me in the window, along with her heavyset, but ever-so-soft cat, Bean. In my memory, nothing else happens. The memory is the moment of simplicity itself: standing side-by-side with my older sister, silently acknowledging to myself the magic of New York, the gift of her presence in the city, and the ties that bonded us.

Although it seems that memory should be categorized as one of little importance because there’s no “action” or describable event, there’s an impactful feeling that rushes back when I mentally put myself back on that Sunday afternoon. It’s a place I go to in my mind when I need to remind myself to take pause and soak in the moment because sometimes the moment drifts away too quickly and is gone before you are ready. Five years from now, this moment—lying on the floor in my little living room, listening to the choir of June morning birds, reminiscing, writing, and thinking—may become one of just as much importance as the August Sunday afternoon in East Harlem with my sister.

Research shows that strength gains or physical growth from exercise come during the rest, and not the work itself. Emotional and spiritual growth seems much the same: it’s not always the big moments that directly change us. Growth also happens from those big moments (and small ones) in the breath, the pause, between. This memory of “nothing” is actually a memory everything that matters and the significance of the seemingly mundane is in fact, the direction that deserves the greatest focus and appreciation.

 

Simple Joys: Shoes!

After nursing this foot injury and exercising every last muscle of patience in my body for six months, I finally had my breakthrough step yesterday: no crutches, scooter, wheelchair, or boot; two sneakered feet hitting the pavement. I was shocked, and slightly disheartened, by how strange and difficult it felt to freely move both ankles and walk unencumbered by a big, heavy, rigid plastic boot. I felt wobbly and unsteady, and yet so light. I told Ben the feeling could be modeled by making a stick figure out of uncooked spaghetti and then just dipping the ankles in boiling water, turning them into wiggly noodles. But that model would fail to capture the deepness and endurance of my smile. Like a baby, my whole body beamed while I walked. Although I can probably count the number of times I have cried from happiness on one hand (it’s just not a reaction I get with that emotion), tears of joy welled up as pain-free steps took me further down my road. It took nearly ten minutes of a slow, steady, somewhat braced gait to gain confidence in my stability and ability to walk without any accoutrements, and I didn’t want to overdo it, but by the time I had completed my loop and was back in the driveway, my body felt more like a graceful gazelle (or at least a well-adjusted deer) than a newborn fawn. My mind, however, retained all of the qualities of the newly birthed animal, full of wonder, thrill, pride, and elation. I lifted my arm triumphantly upon my arrival back inside, like when I would win something as a child.

And that’s exactly how I felt: like I won. I beat my mental demons telling me I’d never walk again without at least a boot, I beat the pessimistic prognosis from negative doctors, and I beat the intense anxiety I had preventing me from lacing up the shoes and trying for the past week or so, too afraid the pain would still be there or I’d set myself way back again on the road to healing. My smile lingered until bedtime and it cropped up a few times in the night too, when pain-free steps carried me to the bathroom. I feel good this morning as well; it doesn’t feel like yesterday’s short excursion see me back!

Image may contain: shoes

I’m not out of the woods yet and I still have a long way to go towards full recovery, but these literal steps were a huge figurative one. At physical therapy the other day, we measured the atrophy in my calf. We compared it bilaterally (to my right leg) and also to my measurements back in February when I first went, before the orthopedist told me I needed to be fully non-weight-bearing. Compared to its original circumference, my calf has shrunk almost 3 centimeters, which is more than an inch. It’s also about an inch smaller than the healthy right leg. Most striking was the change in ankle size (and corresponding strength and stability). Compounded with my SPD-induced poor proprioception and balance and my connective tissue disorder-related joint wobbliness and instability, I have a lot of work to do to rehabilitate this ankle and restore safety and function. Yesterday, I finally got to start. Since I wasn’t cleared to do any single-leg work on that side, I haven’t been able to even attempt many strengthening exercises, let alone stabilizing ones. It’ll be a slow process, with bumps and setbacks along the way I’m sure, but this hurdle I’ve cleared fills me with so much more hope, confidence, and genuine happiness that I think it restored my bone-dry patience tank enough that I’ve got the mindset and mental fortitude to be positive and patient, the two critical ingredients to get me where I want to be as quickly and healthfully as possible.

 

Growing and Expanding

I got the job! The past few days have been quite busy so I have sacrificed my writing time to prioritize my other obligations, but I’m excited nonetheless. Like most people, but probably more so, I stumble and struggle through transitions. My goal is always to navigate any change as smoothly as possible but to be gentle with myself and forgiving of my stress and strain as I learn how to contort my schedule and mindset to adopt new responsibilities and patterns. Truthfully, change breeds stress, which makes me irritable as it throws me off my precarious point of balance, even when it’s a desired change. Ironing out the kinks takes a few days or weeks as I learn not only the new job tasks, but also the schedule adjustments that work best for me. I’m robotic in nature, so much so that the precision with which I do the same things everyday unaided by a clock could beat out any sundial and most modern timepieces. Therefore, mentally and physically throwing new activities into the mix to incorporate is like shoving whole puzzle pieces into a wholly formed puzzle, with no gaps remaining. It’s only after a few days of shoving them in that the buckling they initiated eases and the pieces flow together like tectonic plates on the lithosphere floating more mobile-y on the molten asthenosphere below, opening gaps to welcome on the new segments. Although while the stresses build and the pieces fight incorporation, it can feel like things progress as slowly as they would on the geologic time scale, melting the resistance to allow acceptance does come. I just have to ride out the challenge in the interim; the good news is that it’s when things aren’t static (and new pieces are forced in) that we grow. And ultimately, growth is what I always want to chase: a mindset and path enriched with lifelong learning.

Growth is never linear, and it’s also not planar. I view myself like a tree; each branch represents different facets of learning with buds and eventual leaves as my interests, tasks, and cognitive mind grows. Each branch, twig, and leaf I develop offers shade, oxygen, or function to the world around me, a way to pay back and express my gratitude. The roots grow as well, representing self-improvement and growth, strengthening my foundation and reaching deeper depths within the rich soil. Sometimes new roots even sprout and stretch to connect with those of other trees, forging relationships and networking in the world around me. My trunk grows too, with each annual ring signifying the memories and experiences that ushered in the growth, telling a story of the conditions present in the year, the scars of previous years, and the years of bounty. It represents physical strength and fortitude.

This week, my tree is growing quickly. Leaves and branches are extending outward and upward to soak up more sunlight, which will be converted to usable knowledge, energy, and emotional growth. It takes the few adjustment days or weeks for my roots to catch up and support the added breadth and load of my outward structure, but when the roots do spring forth, they will carry opportunities to reach that especially nutrient-rich soil and feed my tree with the sweet satisfying elixir of love, happiness, connection, and fulfillment.

The new job I’m adding onto my current position offers me the opportunity to connect with more people and have a meaningful impact on my own life and the lives of many others as well. In this way, through the combination of the jobs, I’ll get to continually feed my intellectual, emotional, and social needs, and foster an environment for a healthier, heartier, beautiful tree.

 

“Are you mad at me or something?”

“Are you mad at me or something?”

This is a question I’ve rarely, if ever, needed to pose to a doctor, until today. After months of waiting, I finally got to see a new primary care doctor since my doctor, although fantastic, is too far away now that we have moved. There is a saying about how all good things are worth waiting for but today certainly proves that the contrapositive is not true. This doctor spoke to me as if I was a defendant in a lengthy trial for an especially despicable crime. Granted, I struggle to accurately read tone, but my guess is that nine out of ten patients would have felt equally criticized, judged, and made to feel ashamed. For example, consider the following two questions with identical verbiage but different stresses, which, in my opinion, are received very differently:

  1. “So all these people in your family have some anxiety and depression? Wow.” (And imagine that transmitted with a “something is gross” look on the speaker’s face).
  2. “So, all these people in your family have some anxiety and depression. Wow.Wow is not needed and comes across poorly—like you’re unbelievable or some awful and freaky anomaly.

Depression and anxiety often have a genetic component anyway, so nothing about it should be “wow.” I was also told that metal health was not going to be discussed: too bad because that’s one of the two chief complaints I put under “what brings you here today.”

After I asked her if she was mad at me, without looking up from her notes said, “No. I don’t know you.” She continued to make notes. The words hung on the thickness of the humid air, painfully slow to dissipate.

“Oh, because you seem to hate me or something,” I added, as a way to justify my question.

Nothing. Then, eventually, “No. I have never met you.”

True, but it did not really address my impression and concern.

I desperately don’t want to go back there but I’m not sure where else to go. I’ve also heard that one of the doctors in the practice is supposedly very nice, so I want to switch but I’m not sure if I can and I feel too shy to ask. Sometimes I need a few days to bounce back and get the gumption to take the troubleshoot and take the next step. For now, it’s too raw and upsetting. Nothing got accomplished at the appointment and now, after months of waiting, I probably have to start a new search wait all over again.

 

Hot

It’s 8:18am and already 84 degrees. Many people hate it, but I love summer weather, up to about 100 degrees, where my body’s desire to melt kicks in and the sweltering temperatures are no longer invigorating but rather depleting. Maybe the fact that I’m a late July birth, my poor mom suffocating in her pregnant state in stifling July air, programmed my DNA to enjoy summer weather. I’ve mentioned before that I thrive on the Sun; my body and mind are like solar panels, restored by radiant energy. It seems to evaporate some of the mental and physical pain that normally colludes my mood and must be contended with as I soldier through the demands of my daily life. The added energy in my fuel cell and the hot sticky summer nights are the only significant challenges the summer weather imposes on me: Wrestling with my pervasive insomnia is exacerbated as I toss and turn with restlessness and discomfort. I must be cold to fall asleep. In the winter, I open the windows. There’s no equivalently viable option in the summer and yet my body longs to be that chilled.
I remember hating the sticky July weather as a teenager because my priority far above all others was running, fast and long, and that is considerably less comfortable and hindered on extremely hot and humid summer days, the ones that get everyone making weather small talk at each interaction. Today’s priorities are different; happiness and a sense of comprehensive wellbeing top the list, and for me, summer weather seems to usher in these sometimes-elusive, yet precious, feelings.
So today, it’s particularly easy to feel grateful and happy, and I’ll take it. Things in my corner have been trying lately, so it’s nice to ride the wave of goodness while it’s here, acknowledging its blessing and relishing in the genuine joy it carries.

Logic Puzzles

I love logic puzzles, the ones where a complicated problem is posed with a variety of stipulations and you have to find the arrangement that satisfies the given scenario without violating the rules. For example, seven botanists (Amber, Ben, Carlos, Devon, Emily, Frederick, and Giovanni) each hold one of three jobs at a greenhouse: pruning, watering, or fertilizing. No more than three people are responsible for the same job. Devon cannot work with Ben. If Amber does watering, Frederick does not do pruning…etc.

I’ve enjoyed these types of brain teasers ever since I was a young student and first encountered them in math class. After the initial exposure whet my appetite, I became a voracious consumer. Unlike readily available crossword puzzles, which I also enjoy, logic puzzles are much more esoteric. This is particularly frustrating for someone like me who gets single-mindedly obsessed with certain interests at a given time. I’ve learned that this hyper-focused fixation is a common trait held by those on the autism spectrum. It’s not always a good thing, because the drive to pursue only the obsession (termed a “special interest” by autism professionals) places such impenetrable blinders up on all sides surrounding the interest that even activities of daily living and biological needs can get ignored. Although this behavior seems diametrically opposed to the presentation of ADHD, at times, I’ve become so immersed in a special interest that I forget to eat or drink for much of a day. Some special interests seem to persist throughout life or at least for many years, while others are more intense and short-lived. Unfortunately, the latter can lead to forgotten purchases and forgotten clutter.

I’m lucky to have a job with such diverse and interesting assignments. The past two days, I’ve been tasked to develop logic puzzles and associated questions. As difficult as it can be to solve a logic puzzle, a challenge that I find thrilling, it’s that much harder to create them because you have to imagine all of the possible permutations and adapt the conditions appropriately to ensure that the solution for each question is the one and only unique answer. Tackling these types of assignments and turning in well-crafted, tricky puzzles brings me a deep sense of excitement and pride. I find that even when I’m trying to fall asleep at the end of the day, I’m running through scenarios from the exercises I wrote. If a movie festival is to screen six movies from ten available features, and exactly two movies must be played from each of three genres (comedy, drama, and action)…Then the etch-a-sketch screen in my brain starts sketching a rough grid for the problem, to start working through possibilities to satisfy the rules.

It’s not often that I get this specific type of assignment, but every so often when the opportunity rolls around, it’s like seeing a long-lost friend. I am instantly reminded how much I love them and how lucky I am to have a job that requests them on occasion, and a crazy brain that seems to receive a nearly unparalleled jolt of joy when working on them.

For anyone who enjoys them too, I’ve included one below that I made. If you want to check your answers, you can email me at ambersayer(at)gmail(dot)com

A pizza shop owner makes fresh pizzas every morning one at time before opening her doors at 11:00AM for the lunch rush. There are currently seven fresh pizza topping options on her menu: basil, chicken, olives, eggplant, mushrooms, peppers, and tomatoes. To ensure the pizzas are prepared in a logical order according to demand, preparation time, recipe yield, and oven time, the following conditions must be satisfied:

• If the mushroom pies are made earlier than the olive ones, then the basil pies must be made later than the tomato ones.
• The chicken pies are made second or sixth.
• Exactly two pizzas must be made between making the olive pies and the chicken pies.
• If the mushroom ones are made later in the morning than the olive pizzas, then the basil ones must be made sometime before the tomato pizzas.
• The olive pizzas are made earlier than the tomato or the pepper ones, but not both.
• The basil pizzas must be made immediately before or immediately after the chicken ones.

1. Which one of the following could be the order in which the pizzas are made from first to seventh?
a. Basil, chicken, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, peppers, eggplant
b. Mushrooms, eggplant, olives, tomatoes, basil, chicken, peppers
c. Peppers, eggplant, olives, mushrooms, basil, chicken, tomatoes
d. Eggplant, chicken, peppers, basil, olives, mushrooms, tomatoes
e. Tomatoes, chicken, basil, eggplant, olives, peppers, mushrooms

2. Which one of the following pizza types CANNOT be made fifth?
a. Basil
b. Peppers
c. Tomatoes
d. Mushrooms
e. Eggplant

3. The exact baking order of all seven pizza flavors can be determined if which one of the following is known?
a. The basil ones are made third, and the tomato ones are made sixth.
b. The pizzas with peppers are made first, and the chicken ones are made sixth.
c. The mushroom pies are made second, and the tomato ones are made fourth.
d. The basil pizzas are made third, and the eggplant ones are made fourth.
e. The pepper pizzas are made first, and the mushroom ones are made sixth.

4. Which one of the following is a complete and accurate list of the possible slots in which the mushroom pizzas could be made?
a. First, fourth, sixth, seventh
b. First, second, sixth, seventh
c. First, second, third, fifth, seventh
d. First, second, fifth, sixth, seventh
e. First, second, fourth, sixth, seventh

5. Which one of the following could be a possible partial list of the order in which the pizzas are made?
a. Basil, chicken, and mushrooms as first, second, and third, respectively
b. Peppers, tomatoes, and olives as first, second, and third, respectively
c. Chicken, basil, and tomatoes as second, third, and fourth, respectively
d. Mushrooms, olives, and tomato as fourth, fifth, and sixth, respectively
e. Basil, chicken, and mushrooms as fifth, sixth, and seventh, respectively

Keeping Things in Perspective

Depressing. That’s the single word I’d use to describe yesterday’s medical appointment. When I saw him a few weeks ago, although I also received what could be considered unfavorable diagnoses, the appointment was couched in more hope, a possibility of answers and treatment. This time, the diagnoses and their ramifications hung naked, with no silver lining disguise. By definition, chronic illnesses or disorders persist; they do not resolve and many, by their very nature, do not have cures or effective treatment. It’s more about managing the symptoms, mitigating them if lucky, and attaining the highest quality of life possible. On good days, when wearing positive attitude rose-colored glasses, this feels like enough, a pill, though big and uncomfortable, is possible to swallow. On other “weaker” days when the pain is just too obnoxiously loud to be ignored, the sunny attitude is stripped away, leaving what actually remains, the somber outcome, the harsh reality. Most weeks are populated by both emotional responses, although in the weeks that are especially peppered with more excruciating and frequently debilitating symptoms, the balance tips in favor of viewing the bleak outlook with the pessimism that it rightly warrants.

The reality and prognosis painted in yesterday’s appointment was particularly disheartening because the first appointment presented the vague description of my health problems in sort of an intangible dotted outline of what “could” (but hopefully wouldn’t) be. Yesterday, the outline was traced in permanent black marker, with all the gaps and white spaces filled in with distressingly boldly somber colors. I left feeling unusual clarity and unusual hopelessness and sadness. Maybe it was the unrelenting rain and March-like temperatures despite the calendar’s insistence that it’s early June, but I felt literally and figuratively cold, wet, and despondent. I couldn’t even form words in my head, just a feeling of endless grayness, swirling around a vacant lot.

It’s easier to imagine a more optimistic picture when things are presented hypothetically. When diagnostic tests objectively present undeniable data that solidify the hypothetical into reality, the important keystone maintaining that hope is removed, and it all comes crumbling down. Although it’s always possible to view the same situation with a different (and more upbeat) attitude, in the former pre-information stage, it’s a genuine optimism, and in the latter, it is feigned, which takes endurance to uphold.

I’ve faced many disappointments and challenges over the years that I was able to overcome or at least tolerate as my new “normal,” like absorbing a small ball of black clay into the multi-colored amorphous blob representing my existence. At first, it adheres to the surface, marring the appearance with an unsightly blemish, but after a few days and continually rolling, folding, and spreading, the blemish is adopted and blended in to the whole. I have built a fortress to shield my flame of persistence and hope from the resounding winds of pessimism, blowing continuously from varying angles to try and extinguish its glow. I will not resign my efforts to hope for the best and put on a brave front. Bad news is just an impetus to learn more, seek alternatives, and be grateful for what I do have. I’m blessed. Nothing I face is terminal; I’m not dying, and that’s more than many people can say. My conditions may be degenerative and manifested in more substantial physiological damage than we initially thought, but all that really means is more joint and muscle pain and less musculoskeletal and GI function. At the beginning of the day or the end, this is still a way more privileged, lucky, and healthy life than many people inherit. How truly thankful I am to have been born into my life, with the parents, family, friends, circumstances, opportunities, safety, and blessings that I am so abundantly handed every day. Any setback I encounter is surely a dream for someone else in her battle in this world. I fight for myself to be strong and that becomes much easier when I view every breath as a gift and every circumstance as a blessing. So maybe I choose to edit that first word. Depressing. I’m not quite ready to genuinely call it neutral, but for now, I’ll settle for disappointing. But, I can work with that.