Finding Good News in Bad Manners

 "Opinions are like assholes.  Everybody has one."  However, most polite people will keep their unsolicited opinions to themselves.  So, I thought maybe the stranger was kidding when he posted under a recent photograph of me on my Facebook page:  "Boy, have you let yourself go since the show"  (The show being "The 20-Minute WorkOut," a t.v. exercise show which I starred in back in 1983, when I was in my 20's).  

Link to the photo

I was taken aback by the comment.  I examined my photo carefully, and saw what the stranger must've been seeing--I had wrinkles, my teeth didn't look perfect, and considering it was a head shot, and my face must've looked fat to him, he was obviously able to tell that I'd put on weight in all of the other parts of my body.  (When I posted the photo back in November of 2010, I thought I looked pretty good--otherwise, I wouldn't have posted it!)


Since I couldn't be sure of the stranger's motives with his comment, (and I was dying to know) instead of merely deleting the guy's message, I responded with a sarcastic "Thanks!"  (I figured if the guy was kidding, he'd reply back with something like, "ha, ha, gotcha!)"  But instead, this was the reply I got:  "surprised you took that as a compliment, it wasn't meant to be, you looked better on the show then you do now" 


 I was aghast.  So many thoughts started whirling through my head:  I should just delete his damn comments, and delete my horrid photo.  Obviously I've been in denial about how I look to the outside world.  Obviously, I'm old, ugly, and fat.  Who the hell do I think I am posting a photo of myself on Facebook for all of the Assholes with Opinions in this world to view and judge?  Who in the hell does this asshole think he is??  How dare he find my facebook page just to insult me!  My adrenalin was pumping, my solar plexus was on fire--I was raging mad.  Against my better judgement, I found myself going back and forth with comments to this person, with the insults from him just getting worse.  There is no reasoning with a person who is self-righteous in their opinions.  Finally, enough of my real Facebook friends jumped in and responded, and ridiculed the stranger into a public apology. 


Though this person had no evidence (other than a single photograph) for making his generalized statement, since he has no idea about the personal struggles or triumphs or roads traveled by Holly Butler over the past 30 years, the good news is that there was a glimmer of truth in his blatant, big-mouthed proclamation:  In the domain of my weight, I had let myself go!   In 29 years, since the 20-Minute Workout aired, (and I was at my tiniest) I have put on up to 50 pounds--1.72 pounds per year.  What this jack-ass surely doesn't know though, is that I've already lost 20 of those pounds in the past three months, and he has fueled my fire in a big way, helping me to stay on course! 


So, thank you, Mr. Who-Ever-You-Are for your profound wisdom and astute observation.  Although I have no intention of getting back down to my baby-weight of the 80's (sorry, I guess you'll just have to watch re-runs),  I am on my way down--20 pounds and counting!

The now infamous photo--Yep, I have really let myself go!

True Confessions and True Grit

Back in January, I wrote on this blog that I intended to get my weight down by exercising diligently.  I promised to take three water aerobics classes per week, hike at least three days a week, and work-out to my 20-Minute Workout tapes several days a week.   (see:  "Oh How I long to be Fit and Fabulous after 50")


Well, around mid-February (February 22nd to be exact), I was feeling pretty good, like maybe I'd dropped a little holiday weight gain, so I decided to step on the scale after my water aerobics class, and weigh myself for the first time in a year.  To my absolute horror the gym scale registered my weight at the highest I'd ever seen it!!!  I knew the scale had to be wrong.  There was no way in hell, that in just one year, I could have gained 18 pounds--broken leg, or no broken leg.  I complained to the gym manager, telling her the scale must be wrong.  And I spent the rest of the day fantasizing that perhaps the hardware in my femur weighed a good 10 pounds, even though it's titanium, and apparently titanium is as light as a feather, and it still doesn't explain an 18 pound weight gain!!  


After several people told me that titanium couldn't possibly explain my weight gain, I decided to go and buy a scale.  I'd prove once and for all that the gym scale simply had to be wrong.  On February 24th, I brought my new scale home, removed all of my clothes and stepped on it.  Awwwwwww, Sh__!!!!!  My new scale agreed with the gym scale.  


169 pounds.  Closer to 200 pounds than 100.  Startling, since at 5'6'', I used to be a lean 125.  I thought I had been eating healthily and yet, I had to face the fact:  I had packed on 18 pounds in a year, and about 30 pounds since I moved to Nashville 13 years ago.  I've been in denial way too long.  I was so disgusted with myself that I decided on the spot to start a diet journal, documenting every morsel I put into my mouth, and counting up my daily calories--since obviously my "healthy diet" wasn't working. 

I have no idea why I convinced myself for years that I didn't need to keep track of my weight.  Buying the scale was the best thing I ever did.    I step on it everyday, and today, after 9 weeks of real healthy portion-controlled-eating, and lots of exercise, I'm down to 153.  My next goal is 140, and I know I can do it!   

The Cold, Hard Facts?

"I hate to burst your bubble, but you ain't never gonna be the way you was back then."


This was the jokingly friendly greeting I got upon my arrival to Senior Water Aerobics class on Friday.  My classmate friend had just read my last blog post and watched my 20-Minute Workout video before coming to class.  She laughed as she let me know that "gravity" had taken it's toll on all of us and we're destined to remain in the shape we're in now.  I smiled and told her that "my bubble had been burst long ago," and I reminded her that I'd be happy just to get down a pant size!

(As you can see, I need to get down at least a pant size)

The truth is, trying to lose weight has always been a struggle for me.  Back before the 20-Minute workout days, before folks talked about anorexia/bulimia, I was a part-time bulimic for awhile.  I knew there was something wrong with my closeted bingeing and purging, but when I read someone's letter to Ann Landers, I realized I had a potentially serious problem.  I hadn't known there was a name for my condition, or that anyone else had discovered my secret method for weight management.  It was 1979, I was 21 years old, a student in the dance program at Cal State Fullerton, and I believed that I was too heavy to be a dancer, but that didn't keep me from eating.  I went through fast food drive-thrus on a regular basis, loaded up on junk food, got depressed and upset, and forced myself to throw up soon after.  When I finished reading the letter to Ann Landers, and her supportive response, I walked straight to a local  athletic store and bought myself a pair of bright yellow Nike running shoes and started jogging.  My logic was that I could eat like a pig, if I  exercised more.


But it wasn't until 1981, when I was introduced to Karen Voight's intense aerobic class by my long-time pal, Brian, that I completely kicked the bulimic habit.  Aerobic classes were definitely a healthier obsession, and when I worked out strenuously, I could eat whatever I wanted (I'm sure my youth had something to do with this).  Somehow along the way, I overcame my eating disorder without therapy by reciting the following mantra whenever the urge struck:  "if you're gonna eat like a pig, you must suffer your consequences."  


By the time I was cast in the 20-Minute Workout, I was working out five hours a day!  Still, even at my smallest, I felt that I was bigger than the other girls on the show, and was self-conscious about my weight.  At my lowest, I weighed 116, (and that only showed up on the scale one day during 1984).  In general, my weight seemed to waver around 125, and I was a medium, not a small.


Now, I'm an extra large!  And this crept up on me slowly over the course of several years.  Maybe it is gravity!  Or hormones.  Or metabolism.    But I suspect it's because I stopped working out the way I used to (hell, I stopped workout out entirely!), while continuing to eat the way I was used to.


Since 2009, I've tried several dietary approaches:  I've been a vegan, then a vegetarian; I've avoided gluten, and limited my sugar, and yet I can't seem to get the weight off.  I have women friends here in Nashville who are slim and fit, and they all have something in common: they exercise regularly and vigorously in addition to eating less.  

So, no, I may never get back to where I once was, but I'm convinced:  I won't get anywhere if I don't exercise--daily and diligently.  

(Oh, how I long to be) Fit and Fabulous After 50!

With every new year, comes the promise of a new beginning, and this year, 2012, I'm grateful that I have a leg to stand on, and I'm ready to start really using it!  While I was laid up last year with my broken femur, I had time to read a few books, and one of the books I read, "Younger Next Year, (For Women)" stresses the importance of exercise after the age of 50.  The fact that exercise is good for you is something I've known for decades--I got into aerobics back in it's heyday, 1981, where I was trained by fitness guru Karen Voight herself.  I was one of the instructors on the original 20-Minute Workout T.V. Show, and was a personal trainer in Los Angeles for many years after that.  But exercise was never really my passion, just a means to an end.  I wanted to be taken seriously as a Hollywood actress, so I actually turned down the second season of the 20-Minute Workout because I didn't think it would further my career!  


When I finally cast aside my dreams of stardom in 1998 to move to Nashville to pursue a new career as a country songwriter, I became further and further removed from exercise.  The food in the south, the lifestyle of drinking wine at every songwriter round, and the relaxed environment all contributed.  I've allowed myself to get out of shape and overweight (Karen Voight would be so ashamed).  Being laid up last year with a broken femur didn't help matters any.  But the book, "Younger Next Year," makes it ultra clear that I need to get myself moving, and not just a little bit.  This book makes a strong claim that if I want to live a long, full, life, I need to exercise strenuously for  a minimum of 6 days a week--not just to lose weight, but to avoid bone loss and osteoporosis.  I've already broken one major bone, I sure don't wanna break any more!


So this year, I'm going to follow the advice of "Younger Next Year."  I have possibly 40 pounds to lose in order to be as small as I was back in 1983 (when the 20-Minute Workout show aired) but I don't think I need to get that small again!  Right now, I'm simply going to focus on getting out of my "big girl pants" and comfortably back into my pants from 2010!  (Notice that I don't disclose the size of my pants).

          
I'm now on day three of an experiment:  


1)  I'm committed to working out to the 20-Minute Workout dvds I have in my possession EVERY DAY to see how it works for women past 50.  I can already confess that I must modify the work-out to a low impact version.  I still can't jump on my recovering leg, besides, I recall that somewhere back in the late '80's while I was still an aerobic instructor at the Voight Fitness Center, high impact aerobics were beginning to be considered "dangerous" and low impact aerobics became the norm.  


2)  I'm still continuing my Senior(yikes!!)Water Aerobics class three days a week, where I do get to jump in the water without hurting myself. 


3)  I'm committed to hiking 2.5 miles around Radnor Lake twice a week.


So this is the plan, until I come up with a better one (or some lame excuse).  'Til then, my younger self is inspiring me with a     four more, three more, two more...

Out With the Old!

My Year of Treading Lightly

This morning, as we lay in bed, Steve reminded me of this old chinese story: 

Good Luck Bad Luck!

There was a farmer who used an old horse to till his fields. One day, the horse escaped into the hills and when the farmer's neighbors sympathized with the old man over his bad luck, the farmer replied, "Was it bad luck?  Maybe."  

A week later, the horse returned with a herd of wild horses from the hills and this time the neighbors congratulated the farmer on his good luck.  The farmer's reply was, "Good luck? Maybe."  

Then, when the farmer's son was attempting to tame one of the wild horses, he fell off the horse and broke his leg. Everyone thought this was very bad luck. The farmers only reaction was, "Bad luck? Maybe."

Some weeks later, the army marched into the village and drafted every able-bodied youth they found there. When the army saw the farmer's son with his broken leg, they let him off. "Good luck?  Maybe."  
It's been one helluva year.  Breaking my right femur on March 6th was certainly some damn bad luck.  It's shaped my entire year, and been a real challenge emotionally and physically.  But there's been some good luck mixed in.  Like the unexpected surprise when Vanderbilt Hospital waived a large portion of my bill last month, after I fretted over it for several.  And although I lost some home buyer-clients in the months while laid up with my broken leg, I just sold a beautiful home that Arita, one of my best friends, gave me the privilege to list, and I'll have some Christmas money.  

I was looking forward to celebrating the home sale yesterday (Thursday) by taking the day off to just lay around and relax.  But then again, did I really deserve it?  After all,  Steve and I just got back Sunday from a nine day trip to Hilton Head, Savannah, and Charleston, where I worked (a little) with Steve critiquing the songs of country songwriters in Georgia.  Some more great luck:  Steve's cousin donated a week's stay in a beautiful condo  and we earned money while we were there!

So, Wednesday evening, while leaving a songwriting workshop, I stepped off the porch of the host's house, landed on an uneven place, and fell all the way to the sidewalk, twisting my ankle and scraping and bending my right knee in half.  The four other songwriters I was leaving with scrambled to pick me up, carried me back inside where I sat awhile with ice on my knee and ankle.  As planned, I spent the whole day Thursday laying around and relaxing.  Today, as bruises and pain have settled in and I can barely walk (again!), I'm relaxing some more!  

I'm just wondering:  Did I really have to fall and re-injure my leg to justify laying around and relaxing?

Bad luck?  Maybe.

Lost AND Found

Last week, I got the opportunity to work as a "Screener"; screening talent here in Nashville at an open call for the reality t.v. show, "The Glee Project."  I was hired by my long-time friend, and one-time boyfriend (from 35 years ago), Robert Ulrich, who is a very successful casting director in Los Angeles, as well as one of the judges on "The Glee Project."  Robert recently won his first emmy for outstanding casting director of the hit show, "Glee!"


When Robert called me about the gig, he also asked me to recommend some other candidates in Nashville who might be experienced enough to be a "Screener" or "Camera Operator", so I made some calls, and rounded up several of my talented friends who also got to be involved.  So, in effect, I was a location Casting Director!

The Nashville Casting Crew, with Robert

Robert Ulrich and I both grew up in the Central Valley, California--He in Modesto, me in Ceres.  I was 17 years old when I got involved with the Modesto Youth Theatre after seeing Robert, my sister Beverly, and my friend Brian in an amazing production of the musical, "On The Town."  The Modesto Youth Theatre was an excellent training ground for many talented kids, and for so many of us, it was a huge life-shaping experience.  It was the Modesto Youth Theatre that solidified my desire to become a professional dancer and actress.


So, it was Old Home Week in Nashville.  Brian, (who came out to Nashville to help me with my broken femur in April and is still here) and Margaret Rose, (also from Youth Theatre days) who drove up from Orlando, and I, all met with Robert over dinner last Tuesday night and spent hours talking shop about "The Glee Project."


On Wednesday, November 9th, we gathered bright and early at the convention center, where young people were lined up around the block, ready to try out for their big break in show business.  It was such a thrill to be auditioning talented, up- and-coming singer/dancer/actors and to be surrounded by video cameras, because they were shooting a documentary of the entire process.   I felt right at home in the environment.  I was invigorated and joyous.  The gig only lasted two days, for 12 hours each day.  Long hours that flew by.  We closed out our reunion with Robert at a final dinner where we again talked for hours about the auditions.


The day after the job was over, I noticed I waffled between elation and depression.  I was elated to be a part of the entertainment world again, and depressed that I was no longer living that life.  Watching those young singers pour their hearts out made me realize how much I loved performing, and how I'd lost sight of that fact.  Somehow 13 years have gone by since I moved to Nashville, and 5 years have passed since I last performed here in local theatre.  I've been buried in my "real job."  I realize this was a choice.  I had given L.A. 17 years of my soul, and  left there with the decision that if I couldn't be a "player" then I didn't want to be there anymore.  As far as the last five years, I don't know where they went!  Now, I long to be back in the limelight.  I'm sure I  could play a parent on "Glee," or a teacher, or a janitor?!  Or perhaps a cameo as one of the former stars of the 20-Minute Work-Out, complete with my post-broken-femur limp.   "Hey, Mr. Ulrich, Here I Am!  I'm the Greatest Star, I am by Far, But No One Knows It!" 

All in a Day's Walk

Although my right femur is no longer broken and I'm walking as well as one can expect at seven months, I'm still "expressly forbidden" by my spousal equivalent Steve, to walk our three dogs without any help.  He doesn't want me to fall again!  Maneuvering the three dogs on their leashes is no easy task since two of them weigh 90 pounds, and the third one becomes a ferocious little bitch when she sees other female dogs walk by.  But I have no choice when Steve and our live-in friend, Brian, are both unavailable, and the dogs are begging to go to the park! 


So, this morning as soon as Steve left for work and while Brian slept, I braved it (as I've done many times).  I risked being pulled, tripping, falling, and getting tangled up in the leashes because I love my dogs and they love going for walks.  


When we got to the park, I saw my neighbor, Mr. Johnson, an elderly man, walking by himself.  I'd never seen him beyond his front yard, so I asked, "what are you doing out here?"  He surprised me when he said he was stiff and needed some exercise.  (I couldn't help thinking that  he ought to give his dog some exercise!)  


My history with Mr. Johnson goes back several years.  I've watched him acquire puppies since 2003, plant them in his yard on a short chain where he leaves them to rot while they live out their short lives. I plotted a few years ago to steal a sweet pitbull puppy he had named Bouncer, but Bouncer was one of the lucky ones.  He broke free from his chain.  Most of the dogs I've seen in Mr. Johnson's yard simply die young.  I've called Metro Animal Control over the years but it never helped.


As he usually does whenever he sees my dogs, Mr. Johnson said, "oh, those dogs, they is honeys"  "Oh yeah, they's honeys."  I said, "Yes, they are!"  Then he said, "We lost our big dog."  (This didn't really surprise me, since I had recently noticed a new little dog chained up in his front yard.)  "Oh?"  I asked.  "Yeah,...she died,"  he said.  "the heat got her."  I felt my rage rise up through my cheeks as I got sick to my stomach.  I had seen that beautiful, sweet and friendly rottweiler chained up outside in the hot sun all summer.


I asked Mr. Johnson how old the dog was.  He said, "I don't know, she was my daughter's dog."  "Maybe, 10?"  Incredulous, I said, "I think she was only about one, wasn't she?"  Then he said, "Well, we all gonna go sometime."  And I said with a disgusted smirk, "Well, I'd rather it be later than sooner.


Trying to impart a little wisdom upon his ignorant, deaf ears, I said, "It was a hot summer.  That's why I keep my dogs in the house all summer.  It's too hot to leave dogs outside.  Is your daughter going to keep the little dog in the house?"  He shrugged, then said with his shit-eating grin, "I don't know."  I wanted to scream:  "YOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED TO STOP GETTING DOGS!"  Instead, I held my breath, smiled politely, and somberly walked my dogs home. 


I was still upset as I ran the water for my shower.  When I started to get in, I noticed a huge grasshopper struggling to hop up the side of my tub, trying to escape the water, fighting for survival.  For an instant, I thought of killing the grasshopper.  Instead, I ran and got a couple of paper cups and helped him out of the tub.  I covered one cup with the other until I got him outside and released him on the front porch.  I wondered if the grasshopper felt afraid while he was inside the cup.  I thought of how I had his life in my hands.  Then I thought of Mr. Johnson and his innocent rottweiler, and how that poor helpless dog didn't stand a chance in this world.


I went and lay on the couch with my dog Spike, buried my face in her fur, and cried.

A Poolside Lesson in Humility

This past Tuesday, my friend Carolyn's husband asked me, "So, why did you break your leg?"  

I was taken aback for a moment by the audacity of the question.  Usually, when one suffers a tragedy, or has an accident of some kind, one will wrack their brain trying to figure out why it happened.  "Why me?," has always been a popular question.  But what he wanted to know was, "why did you create the accident?"


I believe in the spiritual philosophy that I create my own reality, but I told him that I'd not been able to come up with a reason that made any sense.  

Still, he got me looking at some questions that I hadn't bothered to think about lately.  In addition to "Why did I break my leg?" Questions like:  What have I learned over the past six months?  What benefit did I get out of the accident?  Why am I still using the broken leg as an excuse to be a victim, to get sympathy, to be liked, to be lazy, to take it easy. Whaaaa?  What was that last part?  To take it easy?  What's wrong with taking it easy, I wonder?  And why am I still using the broken leg to beat myself up?  Why am I not letting go and moving on with a new story about the broken leg, and what new story can I tell?.... 


After living with these questions all day Tuesday, I went to Senior Water Aerobics class on Wednesday with a renewed sense of acceptance.  (Although I hadn't come up with an answer to "why" I broke my leg, I know I wouldn't have joined a "Seniors" class had I not needed gentle water therapy).


After the class, I stayed in the pool to do extra leg exercises.  An elder woman from the class whom I'd often smiled at, but never talked with before, made a casual comment:  "You haven't had enough, huh?"  I answered with, "well, I just need to strengthen my leg."  She asked me if I was recovering from a surgery.  And I said, "yeah, I broke my femur in March."  I saw the sadness in her eyes as she said, "my son did that."  She paused.  Then she said, "he got a blood clot."  I paused.  "Did he make it?" I asked.  "No."


She went on to tell me that her 37 year old son fell in a hole, much the same way that I did, and landed wrong, just like I did.  He had surgery, just like I did, was recovering well, went home, and two weeks later developed a blood clot that traveled to his lung and killed him.  She said she didn't understand why the doctor hadn't prescribed a blood thinner, why her son had only been prescribed aspirin.  (Blood thinners are usually prescribed after femur surgery, because the risk of developing a blood clot is so high).  She said she didn't understand why her son, who was a good Christian, happily married with two children, was taken so soon.  But, she said, she had to accept that "the Lord must've needed him for some reason." 


As I quietly listened, I thought about the fact that I chose not to take the blood thinners that were prescribed to me after surgery.  And I wondered why I escaped a blood clot.  Why was I so blessed?  Why was I given the opportunity to survive, live, grow, change?


Today, I'm still pondering all of the questions and I am filled with humbleness and gratitude.

My Great Big Party!

Monday, I had a great big party.  It lasted for hours!  Clear into Tuesday evening.  I didn't invite anyone.  Who'd wanna come anyway?  I'm talking about a Ginormous pity party.  The kind where you wake up angry, and before you've even had your first cup of day old re-heated coffee, you feel that life couldn't get any worse.  You cry and rage and cuss and nobody wants to be around you.  Steve tried to soothe me with his classic matter of fact self-help line, "a mood has you."  "Duh, no fooling you!" I said, with my most charming witch face.  Brian offered (with the kind of authority that most men seem to have on this subject),  "it must be your menopause!"  


At first, I couldn't figure out what was going on.  Was it all the sugar I'd eaten over the weekend that caused me to plummet?  Nothing else out of the ordinary could've caused this journey into the deep, dark abyss.  Just a casual conversation on Sunday evening with a fellow real estate agent who appears to be doing sooo much better than me financially.  That, combined with my ever-present hospital bills, and the ever-present pain in my right leg--the leg that's supposed to be completely back to normal in six months according to the doctor.  (My six month check up is only three weeks away!!)  


So, I woke up mad, and feeling sorry for myself, and completely oblivious to the underlying cause:  I was comparing my failings to another's success.  It's no fair that I broke my leg and couldn't work for several months.  It's no fair that I'm still not operating at peak productivity, doing as well as Ms. X.  


I recognized this old trait of mine while in the middle of my wallowing.  I remembered my Hollywood acting years when jealousy ate away at me most of the time.  Sometimes I would be so upset after seeing a great film, because I wasn't in it, that I'd be depressed for hours.  At one point, I determined that it was my jealousy and competitiveness that were keeping me from attaining my dreams.  Now I wonder, are these same ugly attributes keeping me from succeeding again?  And as I have this thought, I realize it's just one more negative thought to beat myself up with.....


Comparing what you have to what others have is a good 
way to make yourself miserable.  


Amen.


There will always be someone smarter, stronger, prettier, thinner, wiser, healthier, happier, and more successful than me.  


There is one good thing about comparing myself to others though.  It usually pisses me off enough so that when I've worked through my "mood," my competitive nature kicks in and causes me to come up with creative ways to be better at whatever it is I want to be better at, and I focus on that.


“When you are content to be simply yourself and don't compare or compete, everybody will respect you.”  Lao Tzu


http://hellogiggles.com/9-tricks-to-kick-envy

The New Normal

I just got home from my first traveling vacation since my fateful fall.  I flew to San Francisco, California with my friend Brian, and we met up with a friend from L.A. acting days (hadn't seen her in 15 years),  then we attended a reunion with old theatre friends on the Russian River.  After Brian flew back to Nashville, I stayed five extra days and went on a road trip with my two sisters to the Monterey area, where we hooked up with two of our cousins for an extended girl's va-cay!


I love traveling, and it feels normal to me.  I've been blessed with many traveling adventures in my life so far.  Checking in and going through security are as natural as drinking a cup of coffee.  This time, however, I had to tell the security officials that I have a metal plate and screws in my leg.  At the Nashville airport, they simply told me to go through the big 
x-ray machine and I didn't set off any bells or whistles--what a disappointment--no fanfare of any kind!  Since I usually travel on Southwest Airlines, I knew about their open seating policy, and I was prepared to ask for a "pre-board" pass, so I could be seated before everyone else and get an aisle seat where I could stretch out my right leg.  All I had to do was show the ticket agent my 12-inch gnarly scar over my knee, and I got to pre-board!


Months ago, my surgeon told me that at six months I would be completely back to normal.  I'm still counting the weeks and it's been 21 weeks today since my accident.  Almost everything is "back to normal" except it's a new normal.  I walk with a different gait, (a slight limp) and I walk very carefully, especially up and down stairs.  


I feel so fortunate to be traveling again, and many times over the past two weeks I forgot I ever broke my femur!  

Independence is Bliss!

This past week, I spent hours and hours at Fido, my favorite coffee shop, working on the computer.  Fido was my office on the road.  Why is this so exciting?  Because I drove there myself.


At 18 weeks (and still counting) into my broken femur recovery, I'm no longer at the mercy of being driven around by my friend Brian, or my spousal equivalent, Steve.  I can go where I want, when I want,  in my own car and I'm in the driver's seat.  That's not to say it wasn't fun being chaffeured around and having Brian at my beck and call to take me places.  We went to so many fun places, but just being able to get in the car and take off feels so liberating.


Over these past couple of weeks, Brian has torn down the wheelchair ramp at our front doorway, and thrown it in a pile for the dump.  My shower chair was delegated to the basement.  The wheelchair, walker, and crutches, are waiting to be returned to their lenders or donated to Goodwill.  And I am driving!


Life is getting back to normal.  But it's a new normal.  One where I have to stretch before I can even get out of bed in the morning if I want to walk.  And one where I have to exercise every single day in order to keep my knee joint lubricated and my leg functional.  Water has become my best friend.  The wonders of water aerobics and the healing powers of the pool are amazing, and more than ever before in my life, exercise MUST take priority over everything else.  So, over an extended 4th of July weekend, while Steve was out of town, I drove myself to Senior Water Aerobics, and another water exercise class almost everyday, and Brian and I went to Percy Priest Lake, where I exercised my leg as well.  I drove myself to Radnor lake, where I took two hikes (2.5 miles each), and I actually danced on two occasions.


But I digress... 


I drove myself and a friend to the Nashville Sounds baseball game for the 4th of July fireworks, drove myself to the Bluebird to see songwriting friends perform, and I drove Brian back from Arrington Winery, (because I had less to drink).


On the road to recovery, driving equals independence, and independence is bliss!

Rich Little Poor Girl

5 years ago on Sunday, May 28, 2006, at 12:00 noon, my mama died.  It was a new moon and Memorial Day weekend.


Winifred Anne Butler,  "Winky", was born in Chattanooga during the depression.  She graduated high school at the age of 16 because she was super intelligent.  She became Miss Chattanooga (I don't know the year), toured with Mickey Rooney in a traveling medicine show, and then  joined the army when she was 20, so she could travel the world.  Her plans changed when she got pregnant, and got married instead.  My oldest brother was born in 1951.

Mom raised 6 kids, while teaching Spanish at a high school full-time. She became so involved with her job (and her students) that she became an absentee mother for a while, and throughout high school I felt much closer to my dad.  But once my parents finally got a divorce when I was 18, I moved out with Mom to help her cope.  

My mom performed in a production of Hello Dolly with me, and loved coming to see every play I was ever in.  She showed up for a one-woman revue I did once dressed in a t-Shirt emblazoned with the words:  "Holly Butler Fan Club, Charter Member."  When I started to write songs, my mom started writing songs too, and had high hopes for both of us!  During my lowest point when my own marriage was failing in 1994, Mom gave me a pep talk that was quite possibly life-saving.  In her final years, she wrote a memoir titled, "Rich Little Poor Girl" about her childhood, and I sure wish I knew where her manuscript ended up.  

During these past three months I've really just wanted to call Mom and tell her about my broken leg.  I keep remembering different events, like when she flew down to L.A. in 1985 to nurse me back to health after a car accident, and about the time she visited me in Nashville in 1999.  She was always tearful as she said goodbye at the airport, about the wonderful time she had.  I realize that I inherited her tendency to cry easily, and her love for high drama, and I cherish both of these qualities.  

I miss you, Mama.  Did I tell you that I broke my leg 12 weeks ago today?  You'd be so proud of my progress--I'm walking again!

Stagnation or Incubation?

Stagnate:  to stop developing, growing, progressing, or advancing: as in "My mind is stagnating from too much T.V."

I was complaining to my friend Vickie on the phone yesterday about how I am sooooo over this  too-long-of-a-broken leg vacation.  How I'm so upset over not being able to grow my real estate business while I've been nursing my leg.  How I've not been able to write any songs, or practice my guitar, or try writing a novel.  How now that I'm finally attempting to walk with a cane at 11 weeks, the pain is worse than ever.  I'm not progressing, I'm just stagnating.

And Vickie said, "Maybe you're incubating."  (Huh?)

Vickie went on to say that when she was pregnant with her only child it was a very difficult and sometimes painful nine months, but of course the birth of her daughter was well worth the long process of incubation.  (I thought, oh please dear God, don't let this pain go on for nine months!!  Coincidentally, I recently read an article that claimed breaking a femur  is more painful than child birth...).

My wise friend Vickie continued,  "Maybe you're just incubating, you know, you're healing, and then when you're done healing, you'll be a creative genius, and you'll be more productive than ever!"  This made me feel better. 

So I looked up incubation and found these definitions that I really liked: 
1. incubation - Latin incubare, the source of incubate, literally meant "lie down on"; incubation once had the sense of sleeping in a sacred place or temple for oracular purposes, 2. incubate - grow under conditions that promote development,  3. To form or consider slowly and protectively, as if hatching.

So I'm incubating.  More like a chicken with her head cut off, screaming the sky is falling, but I'm incubating! 

"A Blip In Time"

That's what the doctor said at week five.  He said I'd be back to normal before I knew it and it would feel like a "blip in time."  Now I'm saying, "Like Hell!"  I'm coming up to week 11 and I am NOT back to normal.  Last week, I was all brave, and determined and with gusto, walking up those flights of stairs with my walker trying to impress a potential real estate client (who still hasn't hired me or returned my phone calls, thank you very much!)

That was sooooo last week.  This week I'm walking with a cane, and paying the price.  My right leg is throbbing regularly, and most of my other body parts are sore from overcompensating.  And my old pal, Impatience has come to call.  I know her well, and I haven't missed her.  It's been nice not having her around on a regular basis (like when I'm really busy and stressed out while working for a living).  But this morning, I woke up and Impatience was back, screaming in my head:  "I'm frustrated, angry, and tired of hobbling around!  No more Miss Nice Girl!  Everyone says I've been handling this situation so well.  Well Bullsh-t, I'm sick of it!!  I want to walk without a cane!!!  I want to run!!  I want all of my energy back and I want and need to make some money.  I'm tired of this so called "life of leisure."  I'm tired of laying around!"

My friend Brian said, "You're not yourself today.  Where's my Holly?" 

Steve said, "A mood has you.  Stop talking with that potty mouth, you sound like white trash."  

Because all I could do all day today was cuss!  "F this" and "F that".  "Where is my F--king book?"  "Where did I put the G--Damn, Mother F--cking paper I need?"  "I am so F--king pissed."  (I read a scientific article recently that stated that cussing helps to alleviate pain.  And damn it, I believe it!)

Now I lay me down to sleep.  Tomorrow is another day.  A Blip in Time?????   My Ass.

The Beginning of the End

This past week I took three senior water aerobics classes with Steve (I fit right in with my need to move slowly and cautiously).  At physical therapy, I walked "hands free" for about eight feet and was given the go-ahead to walk with a cane if I preferred.  And, I had my first real estate listing appointment since my accident.  


I didn't tell the potential listing client in advance that I'd be showing up in jogging shoes and getting around with the aid of a walker (I chose the walker because I knew the home had some stairs and I wanted the extra security).  I told him that my husband would be chauffeuring me, because we had taken my car in for an oil change (I didn't mention that I still wasn't driving, since I broke my right leg).  I didn't want the potential client to imagine that I'd have any limitations as his real estate agent.  


When Steve and I arrived for the appointment, we both exclaimed, "Oh, no!  Look at those stairs!"  The entrance to the home looked grand, but daunting.  Steve was especially worried, but I was determined to appear completely capable. The steps up to the front porch turned out to be shallow and I managed them with unexpected ease.  I knocked and we waited.  The home was vacant and through the windows it looked newly renovated and gorgeous.  


Finally, the potential client, David, came around from the back of the house and said that unfortunately, he had forgotten his keys and that we'd have to reschedule!  He didn't seem to pay much mind to my walker and jogging shoes.  He said, "we can walk around to the back of the house and look in the windows.  You'll be able to see most of the house that way, and you can tell me your opinion on a list price."  Then he asked,  "Can you get around okay?"  "Absolutely", I exagerrated,  "I'm just using this walker for support while I recuperate."  We strolled very slowly to the back of the house, then I spotted the three sets of stairs up to the back deck.  (YIKES!)  I didn't let on as I winced in pain with every step up.  We walked back down, across rocks and cobblestones and uneven terrain just as David's brother showed up with the house key.  So, a tour of the inside began with yet more stairs and much more standing and walking.  Steve was invited to come in from the car and he listened to my entire listing presentation.  Talk about being put on the spot!  


Afterwards, Steve took me to lunch and told me how impressed he was with my real estate knowledge and my sales presentation.  I asked him to tell me again at least three times.  I felt a great sense of accomplishment even though I was  exhausted and in pain when we got home and I had to nap for several hours.  


I haven't heard back from David or his brother, even though I followed up.  I'll be disappointed if they don't hire me, but I know I did my best.  It's been 10 weeks, and although I'm not completely healed, I'm getting there.  I'm slowly re-learning how to walk.  I'm slowing getting back up on the horse (figuratively) as far as remembering my real estate skills.  I'm slowly thinking ahead to getting on with my life.


It feels like the beginning of the end of my broken leg odyssey, and the beginning of a new beginning.