For December, I tried to offset my surly mood by posting on Twitter and Facebook a daily "positive thought of the day" for 30 days. It bombed. Looking back, it was doomed it to fail. I didn't want to do it but I felt like I should be doing SOMETHING. It was hard to get going on it. I had a few good feelings and things that I wanted to express in the middle of it. Then it became an utter chore that I forced myself to finish because I had started it. So much for positivity on that one.

My follow-up went a little better. I aimed for 30 days of meditation; a practice that I did from time to time, but not long enough or consistent enough to get any benefits from it. This was also hard going the first week. It got better. I found some dibble dabbles of results at least while I was sitting doing it. I had timed the 30th day benchmark precisely with the start of my second-to-last 500-hour yoga teacher training; a 4-day intensive on studying the Bhagavad Gita. I've more or less stuck with this one; learning about the Gita pushed my understanding of what I have been learning to a whole new level so there's less prodding to continue my practices. Thirty days for meditation is not enough, nor is 500-hours in a yoga teacher training. A friend of mine remarked that we are on the 5-million hour program anyway in these specific areas, so it's time we stop counting.

Now I'm almost halfway through a 30-day project that was somewhat unplanned and that didn't turn out to be optional; recovery from surgery.

Many of you know I've been feeling pretty crappy for a long time. There's been a myriad of health issues that have plagued me within the past year and as of October, have rapidly gotten worse. In January they started spiraling out of control. I went from feeling bad here and there a few days of the month, to feeling bad on days half of the month, to feeling bad the entire month. I had to make a decision on whether or not to go the surgery route, which was one I had been avoiding because last time I did this I ended up with a whole concoction of post-op complications that I did not, for the life of me, want to go through again. This statement is not about pessimism. I know my body. I was aware it was going to be the same story this time around, so I was terrified. But when you're feeling so miserable, you settle, because the hell you've been in is nothing compared to an ongoing cascade as to which you are still unsure whether of not you've hit bottom yet.

For me, surgery is one of the most vulnerable things one can go through. I'm guessing this is the way it is for the majority of people. I wasn't sure what they were going to find so there was little to go on as to what I would be facing when I woke up. The process to getting into the OR is always the same; they confirm name and birthdate in PRE-OP, what you're there for, and then they stick the IV port in your hand or arm. You speak with the anesthesiologist, talk about any previous complications from general; you say goodbye to your loved one, and you're wheeled out.

I find the OR extremely unnerving. You roll in, and things start to slow down. I liken it to watching a movie. You don't really feel a part of what you're seeing but ultimately you are the center of attention. There are a bunch of nurses and other compadres wearing masks methodically setting all the stuff up. Many of them don't acknowledge you; you get transferred to the table and can't see anyone anymore, then the next thing you realize you're having small-talk with another anesthesiologist who is sticking leads all over you. The mask comes. Zonk.

Coming out isn't the hard part. You hear people talking and noises around you; finally, you open your eyes. This time I realized wasn't in recovery yet. I was still in the OR, lying on the chair I was rolled in on, only farther back, watching the same group of people seemingly doing the same thing. The same movie, only this time from row 20 as opposed to a front seat.

I never remember the trip to recovery. As it was the last time, I woke up to Alethea. (Yeah!) I was the first patient on the table that day, on the good drugs, and in no pain. Hours later, right on schedule, the same set of complications reared; knowing what was starting to happen, I clued the nurses in; my head nurse was wonderful and was supportive and probably thought things would shortly settle. She went to lunch; the interim nurse with less experience was on duty when my body pulled the same stunt as last time. There was the 10/10 pain scale as she tried to ameliorate the situation, then pulled in help. Misery accomplished. My IV was shot with a shitload of narcotics. Once again, I was the first one in recovery, the last one out.

It's humbling when you are sick. I'm fighting it less this time around. I'm allowing the support from those who care about me most, and am finally flushing down the drain the ones that don't. My healing is progressing, slower on some aspects, quicker on others. Things backslide as other components move forward. I get too ambitious with some tasks because I get impatient; then my body balks, and I back down. I attempted my first down dog since the surgery on Saturday; quickly found that reverse blood flow is not my friend right now. So my meditation cushion is where it's at. Let's just see how "zen" I feel about not being able to do things when it hits the mid 60's at the end of the week and I can't go for a run.

The myriad of problems that got me to this point are finally being picked apart and slowly worked through. Conclusion: sometimes it's good to crash and burn. It allows body, mind, and soul the time much needed in order to climb back out.