Reclaiming Me

A strange queasiness in the pit of my stomach swelled to a lump rising in my throat, followed by tears, hot and salty against my cheeks. I told myself I was ready, but there are some things you can only be ready for by experiencing them. The loss was not only tangible, it was visceral. I had to look, to see it, to own it. This wasn’t a finger I recognized, the one I had spent my whole life with, used to hold a pen and write letters with. No, this stubby little half finger was disarming at first glance, shockingly so. And to me, ugly and unfamiliar. 

I hadn’t expected to see the results of my surgery and amputation for two weeks, but my bandages came loose on the third day, causing friction between the two surgical sites and it had to be rewrapped. I knew I needed to make a decision as to whether or not I would look at it. Yet. But the way I navigate a challenge given me is to face it head on, no matter how difficult or fierce. When the lab tech peeled the last bit of gauze from my wounds, it took my breath away and I requested a few moments to lean into the weight of the emotions that came over me. My friend held my hand as I cried. I was grateful that the excruciating pain from the metal was gone, after an exhaustive, difficult year. And I was heartbroken that it had come to this.  

That same day my boyfriend’s daughter was hospitalized for a gunshot wound and my roommate, who is going through cancer, was dealing with some very difficult symptoms. Instinctively, I wanted to be there for them, to help ease their pain, while managing my own, and they wanted to do the same for me. These losses were personal, connecting us by our own humanity and wouldn’t be resolved quickly. 

That next two weeks went by, in a blurred, dizzying array of heaviness, lingering and deeply felt. As intellectually prepared as I knew I was for my surgery, I also anticipated that there would be many more feelings bubbling to the surface and, boy oh boy, was I right! I had no idea how to traverse having a finger amputated because I’ve never done it before. As with everything I’ve never done before I tried to start with what I knew, and that was listening to my body because every response it shares with me is there to help me find my way. Between the upheaval in my living space and continued chaos in the world I simply could not hear it. I realized that a lot of that was my own fragility, both emotionally and physically, but this was all so foreign, and I felt lost. None of my coping skills seemed to be working. Literally, part of every day found me crying, seemingly out of the blue, feeling confused and unequipped to deal with the ups and downs that were ravaging my body. I wanted to record my feelings as I clumsily made my way through this new experience, to talk about the spiraling thought process, share those real and raw moments of mourning, and not just for my own release but in the hopes that I might help another person. Sadly, I couldn’t find my way to writing and wasn’t ready to let our collective situation disconnect me, but I lacked the energy to do anything except let go. There was no respite from something I couldn’t identify. So it remained in our home, clouding our normal, affectionate existence, shrouding it with emotional pollution, smoggy and stifling. Eventually, I made the decision to just let all of it teach me, to not worry about figuring it out or changing it, but just to sit with it. 

To be okay with not being okay. This shit was hard.

I reminded myself that I could be present for these men I love and share a home with, but I wasn’t responsible for them, nor them for me. I owned what was mine and they owned what was theirs and we showered each other with grace and transparency, working together to create the most loving supportive environment we could muster. It was the permission we gave ourselves to navigate our experience the way we needed to, and it is how we healed.

Fast forward to now and I find myself in a better head space. I’ve acknowledged the gravity of all this, the fog is lifting, we are all reconnecting and coming to the other side of our own trauma. Time offers perspective. I got my stitches out on Friday and now I am in the process of conquering the mundane and the miraculous with my new fingers. Both need time to mend from the incisions, and the middle one still needs to be splinted while the bone holes heal from the metal plate and 7 screws. Of course, there’s pain and a great deal of fatigue, along with the readjustment. I don’t cry now every time I look at my finger. In fact, I am learning to be comfortable with how it looks and feels. I experience phantom pain everyday, so I wrap the little nubby in a blanket and squeeze the end that’s missing to remind my brain there’s nothing there. The sensation of an actual finger is currently drowned out by nerve damage. It’s wildly surreal, kind of indescribable. I see it, I touch it, I feel pain at the actual sight and the sight that’s gone. It is odd to feel the finger that isn’t there but not the one that is. So I let myself experience it all. Every time. And I breathe. I breathe in hope. 

The art of reclaiming myself during a deeply felt loss is seeking my complete, unconditional surrender. It requires something of me, which is to remain curious, grow toward understanding and become a loving partner with my body, as it works its magic to render me whole again. Respecting the value of  grief and loss has been an interesting road. Ultimately, this is about coming to terms with me, without condition or judgement, accepting every emotion I’m going through as equally important and valid, every weakness, every fear, every bit of strength, fortitude and resilience. Visualization has helped me imagine myself as malleable, everything flowing through me, no matter how uncomfortable, feeling like one finger has sympathy for the other and wants to restore it. In those moments when the pain is too intense, I lay my left hand over my l right and invite the energy to move freely through me. I know that my body is a majestic vessel with a powerful purpose, and with time and synergy, it will heal itself. I also know, humbly and without doubt, there is beauty in both the darkness and the light and this process of healing has been both for me. Eventually, I will gift this little half size digit of mine with an appropriate name and a badass tattoo, to honor the sacrifice that it made for my body, and represent the gratitude I feel for everything it’s meant to me over a lifetime. 

The truth that rises to the surface for me is that even when it’s hard to hear, everything we need is inside of us, a lesson I learn again and again. The power of our minds and how our bodies can adapt to change continues to amaze me. I was in a place emotionally that I’ve never been before, unable to find my center, yet here I am now, on the other side of it, expanding my ability to grow, my gratitude intact. Everything ebbs and flows, the joyful and the difficult. 

As I journeyed through the last two weeks, unsettled and uncertain, I came to know that this was never just about losing a partial finger, but about all those little losses I have felt over the years since I got this illness. All those things that chipped away at me, those things I thought were part of my identity, that I have since come to recognize as a lie. This was about practicing self-love on a profoundly meaningful level, finding my absolute worth at my core. I am now and will always be so much more than any one thing that is taken from me.