I get by with a little help from my (girl)friends.

I spent my Memorial Day weekend on a three day climbing intensive course in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. It was pretty amazing, and I’m hoping that even without a high frequency of us, that I will retain most of my newly acquired knowledge of anchoring techniques and gear placement and knots and hitches.

And I’m glad that my body was cooperative for the weekend, and that I was able to make it through several eight hour days without experiencing any of the sort of Crohn’s symptoms that would be the worst to have while on the edge of the cliff in a national park, while in the company of a group of virtual strangers. This part of the trip feels like a small miracle. Maybe a small miracle of the Prednisone variety, as after meeting with my doctor on Thursday we re-upped my dosage due to symptom resurgence in the week prior.

There’s a lot more that could be said about either of the above. But there’s something even more important that I spent a lot of time thinking about, recently in general, and this weekend in particular.  Girl friends. Or you know, female friendship, if the term girlfriend has an air of ambiguity in your head.

This trip was planned with one of my closest girl friends, Jessie, and a new girl friend who we met through the climbing meet up group that I organize. And I can’t imagine having had better companionship for the weekend.

Girls, by whom I mean women, and their friendships – both in girlhood and womanhood, get a lot of bad media. Some of which is certainly deserved, and much of which there is a basis for. We can be, as Jessie put it, silent competitors – even with our best friends. We can be catty bitches. Judgmental. Back-stabbing. Queen bees and wannabes. I don’t know any adult woman who has not been on both the giving and receiving end of all of this, at one point or another.

I’ve struggled through much of my own adulthood with friendships, and in a variety of painful manners have lost several female friends who I had thought were too close to have the kinds of falling outs that led to our friend break-ups. But in the past few years I’ve been lucky enough to meet and become friends with some girls who seem to have transcended these dynamics. Women who truly care for one another, who are supportive and nurturing but who also won’t stand for unnecessary drama. Women who know how to boost me up, but who can still set limits, because honestly I sometimes still need them.

Without these ladies, my life today wouldn’t be half of what it is. I hope that over time as they make their recurring guest appearances here you will get to know and love them even half as well as I do, because they are truly spectacular

A new normal.

It’s been less than a month since the official Crohn’s-Colitis diagnosis landed, like a punch to the gut, out of nowhere.  I feel like in the past few weeks it’s been all I’ve talked about. I’m tired of talking about, but I also can’t stop myself from talking about it. I guess that, in counselor speak, I’m still processing.

I’m trying to keep as much normalcy in my life as possible.

I’m lucky that I’m in a position at work where I can have some control over my schedule. So that I’ve stopped scheduling morning meetings, and on the days when I’m late I’m able to just call in and let my boss know how late I’m going to be.  With only a few weeks left in this school year I am hopeful that I can make it through, and not become overly reliant on having extra time in the morning. I’ve gone from a typical day being at my desk by 7:15 or 7:30 to being there closer to 8:30 or 9:00. I know this still seems early; but in the world of public education starting before 8:00 is standard. That’s why we get the ‘perk’ of being out earlier than five.

I’ve been slowly adding physical activity back into my schedule. Starting with my greatest passion, climbing. I’m on a two day a week climbing schedule, which is what I was on before; although I had been planning to up to three days a week.  It’s hard to keep my own frustration in check, as even though I’m hitting up the gym with the same frequency my climbing is not as strong as it was. Of course it’s not. In my head that’s logical. But when I’m struggling to send a 5.8 route and watching my climbing pals progress on 5.10’s my jealous, competitive side rears her ugly little head. I have to remind myself that on some days for me, just making it to the gym is a victory. A thought that doesn’t bring me a whole lot of comfort. Who is this sick girl, and what has she done with the real me?

I’ve dropped fighter fitness classes. I’ve dropped my home work outs. And yoga. As my symptoms continue to decrease in intensity I’m evaluating what should be added back in. Yoga will be the next to come back. A few months ago I bought a groupon for five classes at a yoga studio that I’ve been excited to try. Since breaking up with my Bikram studio last year, most of my yoga practice has been at home, with just an occasional class. But I know that for my practice to be where I really want it to be that I need to start going to classes again regularly. So I’m going to start with one class a week, on top of the two days of climbing.

Three days a week of activity. It just seems like… so little. But then, kickball starts again next Thursday nite. And while I’ve always considered kickball more social than truly athletic, at least it’s another day that I will be on my feet and moving around for an hour or so. So, four days of light to moderate physical activity. I hope my body cooperates, because this is just the beginning of me taking control back from this disease.

Welcome Crohn's Disease.

My body is traitorous bitch. You’d never know it simply by looking though.

I admit it, it’s only the past couple years that I’ve started really taking as good care of her as I should. And my motivations, in the beginning at least, were not of the noblest form – although the desire to keep off this persistent ten pounds that took up residency shortly after thirty doesn’t seem like the worst reason.

I changed my diet. I changed my activity level.  And as I got into better and better shape amazing things started happening. My energy level increased. My migraines decreased. I found sports activities and hobbies that I enjoyed, that I craved participation in. Not to mention that I’ve met some of the most amazing people who also keep me motivated. I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, not just psychologically, but physically. Comfortable with my body, knowing of the things that it can achieve.

As I approached my mid-thirties I was in the best physical shape of my life. Thirty-five was a scary age for me for a lot of reasons, but none of them remotely related to my physical health or well-being.

I should have known better.

The very day after my 35^th birthday I had an ‘emergency’ colonoscopy because of unexplained bleeding. Diagnosis Crohn’s-Colitis. Happy birthday to me from a chronic auto-immune disease that I am now learning to manage; something that will be a lifelong process.

I know, I know, I know. There are so many worse things that it could be. And my life is so full of so many other blessings. I feel petty, sometimes, even complaining.

Then I wake up the next morning, and I’m wracked with stomach pain so bad that it brings me to tears.  And I force myself out of bed, and sometimes I fall back over immediately and I all can do is curl up my knees and lay there for another 15 minutes to half hour until it lessens, somewhat.  In the past two weeks I’ve been curled up in my bed, and on my bathroom floor, more times than I’ve been able to keep track of.  It feels as if someone has their hands inside of my gut and is wringing my intestines around.  After I’ve managed to drag myself out of bed for the day I will get this feeling several more times.

But it’s worse in the mornings, SO, SO much worse, which means that usually by the time I’ve gotten myself together enough to venture out of my house I can put on a brave face.  I can live my life, for a few hours, as if that morning didn’t happen. Or at least as if it wasn’t quite that bad. And I can pretend that I actually believe that maybe tomorrow will better.  I can pretend that my new found fear of mornings isn’t one of the things keeping me up at nite, in addition  to the miraculous and evil prednisone. I can use my anger, and my fear to motivate me to not lay in bed and just become a sick person. Because, most of all, that alternative is what I refuse to allow my own traitorous cells to do to me.