The end of 2019 was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it. Plans and actions were in place to satisfy my various interests. Mistic Freed, my new pride and joy, was just getting off the ground. A bucket list vacation to Scotland was the next thing to check off the list. Life was not that bad. Until it was.
Night fever, Night fever….
I remember when I was in 4th grade and caught the flu. I was an emotional wreck on the couch for a week. I remember crying over the most ridiculous things: food and drink commercials on tv (couldn’t keep anything down), my cat looking at me like I was an idiot and walking away, wanting to be in my room but the couch was in the living room (couches are always better when you’re sick). Ridiculous, right? I’m pretty sure my mother wanted to end me before it was all over.
That horrible week was nothing compared to the hitchhiker that found its way into my body during that bucket list trip. I was on the tail end of recovering from a cold when we left for London & Scotland, so when I started to cough and feel a bit achy the last night we were in Europe, I had assumed it was the cold back for another round. It’s not like I was getting the best R&R time running around all day, sometimes in the rain. A few days after getting back, the cough got worse. So did the aches, pains, fever and OH MY GAWD THE EXHAUSTION. It sounds strange, but it’s like I could feel it in my blood, especially in my arms. Everything was swollen. For the first time ever I had “pouty” lips.
Nothing Helped Much. Depression Was Taking Over.
I was doing everything I could think of and every trick in the book, but this thing was relentless. The coughing got so bad I had my person take me to the urgent care to see if I actually needed a prescription. After a miserable time sitting there coughing up a storm, a lot of side eye’s from the medical staff, and a chest x-ray, the doc said I had viral bronchitis. He was thorough, and a nice guy, but I could tell he thought I was too sick to have gone in. So the usual: rest, fluids, breathing treatments, blah blah blah NO TEACHING FITNESS CLASSES UNTIL THIS GOES AWAY. Even though I trusted the doctor, that little voice inside was telling me he unknowingly wrong, but I was too exhausted to say anything else.
In the news they were talking abo
ut a virus that was causing some problems in China. A doctor had gotten in trouble for telling his colleagues a new pneumonia was going around and to use a little extra caution treating patients so they wouldn’t catch it. For some reason it was catching media attention, because why would a doctor get in so much trouble for reminding his colleagues to wear their masks and wash thoroughly when treating these specific patients? Why did the colleagues get in trouble when they were consulting with each other about what treatments were & weren’t working to treat this unusual “pneumonia” and possible “bronchitis” patients? Something wasn’t right, just like I knew something wasn’t right with my diagnosis.
Had to do SOMETHING physical, even if it killed me
After a couple weeks off, I had started teaching my Zumba Gold class again because I could do that sitting if needed. It was the middle of holiday season, so classes weren’t going to be consistent anyway, and exercise is good for the immune system. It would be a motivator to get me out of the mental funk and start recovering. That’s what I told myself.
Around Christmas time, a few of us were visiting my brother. I was in this weird “better but not” stage. I didn’t need the breathing treatments regularly, yet was still easily exhausted, “bloated” and still felt weird internally. This fricken virus was taking a toll on my mental and physical health. I was beating myself up because Mistic Freed, my new life coaching business, was taking a hard hit. Depression was creeping in more than I realized. Then it happened. I slipped coming down the stairs. I slipped down one freaking step, but it was enough to dislocate my knee cap….again.
Life was changing, and NOT how I had planned
Upon returning home from my brothers, I made an appointment with my chiropractor, whom I have a LOT of trust in and usually go to him first with any injury to decide the best course of action. He looked at my knee and was not happy. Off he sent me to my physical therapist with strict instruction NOT to be doing anything more than absolute necessary walking until my PT cleared me for more. Crap. He had never gotten that stern about previous injuries, so I knew it was bad. My PT confirmed that it was not good. At least 2 months, NO FITNESS TEACHING, no workouts or usage beyond his specific instructions.
Hello darkness my old friend. Is this going to be the end?
I tried to find the positives about the situation. The forced down time would force me to get over the virus I hadn’t been able to completely shake. I would have a bit more time & energy to work on my side biz. I wouldn’t be driving home so late on nights I would normally be at the gym. In reality, no matter how hard I tried, my world was getting dangerously dark. For the next two months even though I was appearing at work, going through the motions at home, and posting what was necessary online while taking a marketing class in a desperate attempt to not fail again at another business attempt, a big part of me was inviting death to come in.
Who was I to think I had any business to help others when my life was one shit show after another? How could I help people transform to get out of their own swamps if I couldn’t get out of mine? How could I help people stay motivated to keep moving when I was constantly getting injured over stupid things? Who the hell was I to talk about learning to love oneself when I wasn’t sure I wanted to even be around me anymore? WHO THE HELL WAS I?!?!?!?!
I can’t say I was actively doing anything that would have ended my life but waking up each day was getting to be extremely disappointing. Every day driving into and from work I wondered if today would or could be the day I became one of those crash statistics. I’ve got a vivid imagination sometimes and the thoughts were getting darker and darker.
On March 1st 2020, after appointments with my medical team, they all said I could no longer teach fitness classes at the Y. Part of me knew they were going to say that, but my heart still broke. I went to the gym and told my boss what the verdict was. I took one last slow look around, took a big breath, and forced myself to walk, not run, back to my car, head down. After a good hard cry, I drove the 30 miles home with tears still rolling down my face. The Y had been a part of me for so long, and now because of a fricken illness that was taking FOREVER to recover from and slipping off of one damn stair, I was forced to say good-bye. All the time and money spent on training to get licensed and certified in various things, all of the goals and dreams created from this little side hobby ripped away because of one virus and one stupid injury. I felt dead inside and would have welcomed it completely.
I can survive this
Two weeks later COVID-19 shut down the world. That catastrophic event was miraculously the beginning of my recovery and major transformation, but that’s a story for another time.