Life’s Transitions
Everybody makes a big deal about turning forty, as if somehow that number was the embodiment of bad karma or something. I don’t know. Forty is just a number. I’m turning forty this year, and I don’t feel any different.
Quite frankly, I am looking forward to a new decade. I spent the last one hating myself. For being grossly overweight. For being divorced and living the special torment that is single motherhood. For being mentally challenged thanks to a car wreck mid-decade. For being scared of everything and everyone. For letting other people walk all over me. For … well, for a lot of things, really.
So the new decade is a chance to turn over a totally new leaf and begin loving myself. I started taking steps a year ago. Some of the steps were accidental … but since I’m accident-prone, that’s not too surprising. Or were they, really? I don’t know that I believe in “accidents.” I believe that there is a Hand that guides and directs, even when I’m not particularly paying attention. And there are no surprises for Him.
Even the three defining events of my thirties were not surprises to Him. The disintegration of my marriage started off my thirties on a pretty sour note. I left my husband on Halloween 2000, at the age of 31. The divorce was final just a few months before I turned 32. But that divorce was no surprise to God.
Things rocked along for a few years, with jobs gained and jobs lost, debt paid off and debt re-accumulated, milestones for the kids, a few happy moments, a lot of struggles.
And then came the wreck. 16 July 2005. I was 36. That wreck changed everything for me, because it left me with a thirty percent decrease in mental ability, and severe physical limitations. Imagine waking up with a third of your brain no longer functioning. How would you cope? Could you cope? I didn’t, for a long time. My doctor said that where I was at 18 months after the wreck was where I would likely be. Permanently. When that time marker came, I was still having debilitating migraines, had no short-term memory to speak of, had a temper like a box of blasting caps, and had issues with mental focus and comprehension, among numerous other problems.
Including a stutter. I never used to stutter. I had friends and family members with various speech impediments, including stutters, but I’d never struggled with speech myself. Talk about humbling! Try having scintillating and witty things to say, but being unable to enunciate them. No way to impress or amuse your friends. You learn to be a good listener when you cannot talk. But frustrating! Oh my word. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be rocking along in a conversation when your mouth gets stuck on a sound – your brain is still rocking along, but your mouth isn’t cooperating. And you feel like Porky Pig: “puh, puh-puh, puh-puh.” You want to swear or scream, or just sink down and cry. You worry all the time. Will my friends who have speech impediments think I am mocking them? Will my other friends think I am trying to be funny? Can I get through this public recitation without tripping over my tongue? You put dreams on hold. I stopped singing publicly. I let my Red Cross instructor certifications lapse. I abandoned the idea of joining Toastmasters.
I spent the next year fighting my doctor’s “sentence.” And when I finally had to admit that he was right, that there had been no further improvement in my condition, I was devastated. The resultant depression lasted almost another year. And when I finally came out of the depression, I had no will to fight left. I’d fought all the fight I had in me. Or so I thought.
But, you see, that wreck and the devastation it wreaked on me were no surprise to God, either. And so He engineered the circumstances that would lead me to my third defining “thirties-moment.”
My house was burglarized in November 2007. This led to the installation of an alarm system, and some anxiety issues for my kids and for me. My younger son began imitating Spiderman and other superheroes, with their crime-fighting and hand-to-hand combat abilities. He asked if he could take karate. I was unnerved. Traditional karate teaches certain things that are opposed to my Christian beliefs. So I asked an online group of friends with similar values for advice. And one of them recommended a karate school that was based on Christian principles. She said she knew the sensei personally and admired him. I e-mailed him. He warmly welcomed the kids, and encouraged me to try “just one class.”
The day before that first class, I was informed that recent tests showed I had diabetes; and I was given six months of freedom – if it wasn’t under control in six months, I would have to take meds. Or shots. I watched both my grandfathers die from complications of diabetes. I was adamant that I was not going that way, even if I had to become anorexic to achieve the staggering weight loss that was required of me. (What would you do if you were told that you needed to lose half of your body weight — well over 100 pounds?!) I’d actually lost a lot of weight in the years between my divorce and my wreck, but the physical problems that stemmed from the wreck made exercise an excruciating impossibility for almost three years. Even now, I have challenges that require constant, careful adjustments in the activities that I do. With a totally sedentary lifestyle, the weight I’d lost came back.
I showed up for that class with the worst possible attitude: I hate exercise, everything hurts, I am a fat sick old woman, and I suck at sports. To make matters worse, traffic congestion on the 385 made us late. I hate being late. We almost turned around and went home because I did not want to walk into that training area late. God sometimes plants His hand firmly in the small of your back and propels you forward, no matter how hard you resist. I had said I would be there. I couldn’t disappoint my kids. So I swallowed my pride and in we went.
And so the third pivotal moment of my thirties came on 22 July 2008. I was 39.
I fell in love with karate that day. I’m not very good at it. I may or may not achieve black belt. I don’t care. I love doing it. I have missed very few classes since that first night, and I’ve managed a few extra training sessions at a sister school when my schedule allowed. I’ve even turned 16 square feet of my tiny backyard into a training area. There have been profound rewards. I’ve lost more than half of the weight that I need to lose. I’ve gone from being unable to see my toes to being able to wrap my hands around my toes and rest my forehead on my knees. From aiming kicks at my opponent’s ankles and knees, to aiming at their chest or head. I’ve gained SO much flexibility! I rediscovered my biceps. And I have finally shaken off the last remnants of that depression and started facing life with my old courage and spirit.
So, like I said, I don’t know that I believe in “accidents.” I’m pretty certain that all of these events were guided and directed by God. And they are definitely working to my good.
And because of that assurance that God is there, working out His plans for me, I’m not fazed by turning forty. I’m looking forward to a decade free of self-hatred, fear, and misery. I’m looking forward to guiding my kids through their adolescence while enjoying my own life to the fullest.