This Life Is a Test

What happens when exhaustion strips away the lessons you thought you had learned?

This life is a test.
It is only a test.
Had it been an actual life,
you would have received further instructions
on where to go and what to do.

Mornings like today have me wondering whether I’ve been telling the truth about all the lessons I thought I’d learned. Or whether I’ve been fooling myself.

I think I’ve learned how to live with uncertainty. I think I understand that a good life doesn’t depend on everything going right. I believe I’ve developed an attitude that helps me get through difficult days and still find something to smile about.

Apparently, life has decided it’s time for a pop quiz.

After another horrid night of disrupted sleep, exhaustion has stripped away my usual defenses, and finding gratitude is another challenge. I’m struggling to find my footing before my feet even touch the floor.

To get up, I roll onto my right side and grab the bar Bob installed before I came home from surgery. As my legs slide off the bed, I reach for my back brace and let my feet search for my slippers. I’m used to this routine. I do it in the dark when my bladder screams me awake in the middle of the night, usually without complaint.

What I still grapple with is the loss of spontaneity and how profoundly vulnerable I feel. Everything I do, every move I make, has to be planned. I can’t simply rise from a chair. I position my feet, lean forward, and prepare myself for the pain that accompanies the movement. Nose over toes, I tell myself as I hoist myself upright.

Even standing up has become an assignment.

If there were a crisis, I couldn’t simply jump up and handle it. The worst is when Shelby struggles. Normally, I would get down beside her and rub her throat. Now all I can do is watch and talk to her.

I can’t just reach out and touch her.

Yesterday and today, after lying awake for hours watching my thoughts, none of the skills I’ve used and taught others helped. Focusing on my breath didn’t work. Mentally visiting a place I love didn’t stop the chatter. It was more like going to paradise with an irritating voice narrating every benign detail. Even my mindless online game failed me.

This morning, as I write, a rumbling, grumbling gremlin inside me is eager to bitch and moan.

I’m alone in the bedroom. No one would hear me, but that isn’t where I want to go. I attempt a smile, but it feels weak and ill-fitting.

If I were younger or still had PMS, I might be able to cry and get some of this out of me. At almost seventy-seven, I’m simply stuck with it: the weariness, the frustration, and the unpleasant feeling in my chest that threatens to overpower my efforts to find gratitude, peace, laughter, and a smile.

Is life testing me? Hey, Ginni, do you think you’ve really learned all those lessons? Let’s see. Try this one on for size.

I know I’m fortunate. Bob and Shelby are still here with me, and I’m grateful every time I see them. I don’t take that for granted. Four of my close friends are widows, and I’ve been paying attention to what their lives are teaching me. But knowing I’m fortunate doesn’t make exhaustion disappear or erase how I feel this morning.

And apparently, four weeks after spinal surgery, I reached a limit today. Isn’t living with all these physical restrictions enough? Isn’t it enough that I look as though I’ve been run over by a truck? Everything that was once muscle has given up, despite the exercises my physical therapist has assigned me.

I don’t own one cute or stylish outfit that looks good with a cumbersome black back brace. I can’t even put on makeup because getting close enough to the mirror requires bending.

Dark glasses are my friend.

Here I am, struggling to find my way into the day. As I continue writing, the feeling in my chest begins to ease. My attention moves away from my body and out the window. The plants are alive with color. The sun is shining. Bob and Shelby are alive. So am I. It’s another Thursday, and it has already been four weeks since my surgery.

This morning was a bump, but it was also an opportunity to reengage the lessons and attitude I’ve been working on for years. Not because I’ve failed them.

Because I need them again.

Maybe learning the lessons doesn’t mean I won’t lose my balance. It means I know how to find my way back. Perhaps I’m coaching myself into a day I will enjoy.

What helps you find your way back when life threatens to hijack your day?

P.S. After writing this, I propelled myself out of bed, took a shower with Bob’s necessary help, got dressed, struggled my way into the car, and off the three of us went to a nearby outdoor shopping area, where we walked for half an hour. Vibrant pink crepe myrtles bloomed against a sky so blue it looked painted. Sights I hadn’t seen in weeks. It was all perfect: me walking, Shelby sniffing, and Bob watching over both of us.

I may not have aced the morning’s test, but I passed.

This adventure called life is truly remarkable. I’m glad you’re here, joining me as I continue exploring what I’ve learned and am learning about living a life that makes sense, has joy even on the hardest days, and gratitude because it’s so clear everything and everyone in our lives is a gift not to be squandered. If you’re a subscriber, whether paid or not, thank you. If you haven’t subscribed yet, hit the button and join me. Please consider upgrading to paid if at all possible. Your support allows me to continue writing The Other Side of Young. Thank you.