Happy Holidays?
The holidays can be particularly tricky for people with chronic pain and illness. I’m a social person by nature, and I love getting together with family and friends. It just kills me to turn down a party invitation. I draw energy from interacting with others, but if I exceed my limit, I can’t do much. Sometimes I choose to tap all my energy for a particular event if it’s really important to me or someone I love. I continue to make plans even though I might have to cancel. I know if I stop planning, it means I’ve lost hope.
The holidays can be a time of magnified emotion, so I have to be careful about why I want to do something and not let nostalgia or guilt color my decisions. I sometimes fall into the trap of agreeing to do something even though I don’t really want to use my limited energy that way. Whispers of shame and fear of not being enough occasionally invade my thinking, and I feel as if I have to pay back my loved ones for canceling plans, being a party pooper, or just plain not being fun. It’s easy to get caught up in my desire to make loving me less burdensome. You see, I sometimes forget that the gift of myself is enough for those who truly love me. It’s not about being at this or that event, buying the perfect gift, or cooking a gourmet meal. It’s about honoring my connections with others. Most of the time, my FOMO, fear of missing out, is kept at bay if I can stay focused on relationships instead of events. Of course, I’m disappointed when I miss something fun. But I replaced that fear with the choice to engage in experiences that don’t sap my energy and connect me with people I love.
My parents taught me about the importance of relationships. Mom could stretch a weeknight dinner for one or two more, and drop-in guests went away feeling as if they were honorees at a banquet. My shy, unassuming dad loved with his whole heart. His eyes sparkled with tears of joy when he saw his children or grandchildren. He was the type of guy who thought a beautiful sunset was an emergency. If it was an especially beautiful sunset, everything in our house stopped, and the whole family sat on the front steps to witness the spectacular show together. It wasn’t quite as beautiful to Dad unless he shared it with us. Dad had a way of living in the moment, not spontaneity, but presence - presence to the people in his life and the natural world.
Our trip to Youngstown NY on Lake Ontario
Dad continued teaching this lesson even as he was dying from pancreatic cancer. During that difficult year, even when he was too weak to do much, he reveled in being with his children and grandchildren. I remember him lying on the sofa with his eyes closed as my young daughters played nearby. I asked if he wanted me to help him to bed because he seemed so tired. He smiled and said, “No, I want to listen to them play.”
After Dad died, I took over hosting Thanksgiving. One Thanksgiving night, I went to the neighbor’s house to borrow more chairs for the Thanksgiving tables as the number of people for dinner had unexpectedly increased from twenty-two to twenty-four. As I stood across the street from my house, I saw my home. I stopped and stared at the cars packed in our driveway like sardines in a tin. A warm yellow glow emanated from the windows. My brother came out to get a drink from the bar set up on the front porch. The windows were open so I could hear peals of laughter, a chorus of voices young and old, and the hum of the electric knife as my husband carved the turkey. I got teary-eyed. For the first time, it hit me. I was standing in front of that house. You know the one – the one where everyone is welcome. It was the way my home was as a child. Our tiny house was often bursting with people. The constants for us were good food and love, but you never knew who would show up for dinner. The cherished people in my house have varying opinions on politics and religion and whether we should have rice or potatoes, gravy made with roux or giblet gravy, but we are all grateful with one heart for the gift of each other. I still host Thanksgiving even though people tell me I should give it up. I won’t give it up because the joy it brings me is immeasurable. What I have given up is doing it all myself and worrying about how the house looks and if the table is set perfectly. I‘ve learned to ask for and accept help. I know that the gift of myself is enough. In making decisions about how to spend my limited energy, I ask myself:
Is it mine to do?
Is it worth my energy?
What will happen if I don’t do it?
What will happen if I do it?
Is there a way to alter the experience so it takes less energy?
Does it honor the love I have for myself and others?
Not everyone will understand when you choose not to do some things, especially if you have pushed yourself in the past. If it’s someone close to you, show them Christine Miserandino’s YouTube video about The Spoon Theory that explains the choices that people living with chronic illness make every day.
