On Momentum

Reflections on how we get going and keep going when navigating a health maze

Hello, dear friends,

You might have noticed. It’s been a wee bit between posts to you.

I confess, I’ve been struggling to write to you.

At first, I wasn’t sure why.

Is it summer, full of distractions?

Is it decision paralysis around what to write?

Is it the fear of not having anything polished enough to share with you?

And what got me out of the morass to write this?

Well, first I happened upon a marvelous “typewriter interview” by Austin Kleon with the violinist and author Vijay Gupta.

In his myriad insights, Vijay shares:

“People are not hungry for your perfection; they are hungry for your love."

Somehow that was enough to get me going.

Maybe it resonates for you, too?

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Then, once I started typing to you, I had an epiphany that is writer-related and also health-related:

I had lost momentum.

Momentum, that invisible and mighty force.

Momentum is like a rushing river, carrying us along more easily. It’s the feeling on a bike of pedaling faster and faster, the delight of learning something new and having it start to click.

I can do this.

It’s getting easier.

I can see what I can do next.

Momentum is not the motion that came before, along with the anticipation and belief in what can come next.

I wrote one sentence.

I have a few more ideas.

I’m writing the next paragraph now.

The future, pushing along the present, a gentle hand on your back.

* * *

I was first contemplating momentum in writing, or in any creative practice. It can be harder to get going after being away from the keyboard or the canvas for a while. It’s easy to feel frozen. Hesitant. Uncertain.

But momentum is more widespread than just creative practice.

In anything that requires initiative and repetition, anything that requires you to be pro-active, anything that benefits from support and encouragement and persistence, momentum is key.

Like: health.

Health can be a frustrating puzzle.

Some ailments are easy with a clear fix. Strep throat? Get a test, get the right version of antibiotics, get better.

But I imagine you are reading this, and I am writing this, because sometimes, it is not that simple.

What’s wrong? Why? Doctors don’t always know. And then what?

* * *

It’s all to easy to become frozen when the next step in improving your health is unclear.

Maybe you need a second opinion, but from whom? Maybe the doctor told you there was nothing to do, but that’s wholly unsatisfying. Maybe the treatment isn’t making you feel better, but worse, and you have a strong hunch that you were misdiagnosed.

Or: Something is wrong, but it’s not five-alarm fire yet. You went to a doctor, and they didn’t know what the cause was, maybe offered you a drug that didn’t seem to help.

Then what?

You start to think to yourself, I guess I just have live with this.

It could be worse.

I can manage.

And so you drudge along, suffering, in tiny or huge ways.

There’s no momentum for a change.

You stopped writing new sentences.

* * *

What is missing — I’m realizing as I write this out to you, think through this aloud with you in real time — is HOPE.

Hope is energy. Hope is a push. Hope drives us to try something new, because we believe something better is possible.

If we are resigned to the current state, there’s no hope, no energy toward change, no reason to act.

* * *

I have felt this health paralysis many times in my four decades of navigating ailments and illnesses.

Once, many years ago, I was so sick that I was vomiting every day. I was working as an editor and loved my job, so I would leave the newsroom to throw up as discretely as possible in the bathroom, brush my teeth, take a breath mint or chew some gum, and go back to work.

I had a GI chronic illness, and I had convinced myself that this was just part of that. I had gone to a doctor who had told me there was nothing to be done, and I believed him.

I would learn later that I needed life-saving surgery, which thank goodness, I got in time.

But I had no momentum to change. I thought I had to suffer through it. I believed that was the only option.

Suffering is never the only option.

* * *

It is, I acknowledge, very hard to have hope when a healthcare expert tells you that nothing can be done.

If they don’t know, who would?

Well, actually — many other people!

Healthcare professionals are highly trained. They have deep knowledge and perform life-saving miracles daily.

But no one healthcare professional is an expert in everything. I mean, who could be? No one!

There might be a second opinion, or a third opinion, or someone in a different field entirely — a speech pathologist rather than an ENT, an acupuncturist rather than an allergy specialist — who could provide a new clue.

Plus: Feeling good in your body and your life is a complex matrix that goes far beyond a diagnosis. It includes your mindset, your friend and family circle, your setting, so many things.

I’ve come to realize, something else is always possible.

It might not be a cure. It might not be a medical intervention.

But something is out that that can make you feel a little — or a lot — better.

* * *

So how do we keep trying things that might help? How do we generate hope? How do we create momentum?

I try to remember:

1. There is a way out of this. It might not be invented yet. It might be in a different field. It might not be known to your particular doctor. But everything (except death) can be changed with enough time, resources, technology, and creativity. Think of all the terrible illnesses in the past that now have cures or treatments. Maybe it’s not possible now, but maybe it is. Sometimes I try to imagine 200 years in the future, how someone will have solved this issue.

2. We are all going to die sometime. This is the one true fact. Everyone wants to live to be 100, but most of us won’t. There’s a necessity to enjoying whatever time we have, as best we can. I often think, in an alternate version of this world, I might already be dead. Then today becomes a bonus day, a beautiful gift.

3. Even if my issue can’t be cured today, something out there can help me feel better. Maybe it’s a massage. Maybe it’s a warm bubble bath. Maybe it’s a favorite tea. Maybe it’s rest. Maybe it’s playing music. Maybe it’s calling a friend. Maybe it’s laughing and laughing over something ridiculous.

4. Our bodies are wiser than we can comprehend. I think of what my body is doing today to keep me alive and functional, and it’s astonishing. All the billions of tiny actions to breathe, to metabolize food, to speak, to control blood flow, to create pee and poop, to allow my muscles to move, to think! It’s incredible!

5. Small things can make a difference.

6. Consistency can make a difference.

7. Unexpected things can make a difference. Here’s a story for you …

* * *

Max Scherzer is an All-Star baseball player who had been grappling with pain in his right thumb for years.

If his thumb couldn’t heal, he couldn’t play baseball. Millions of dollars were on the line.

He had gone to physicians and specialists, the best of the best. He had tried cortisone and needling.

Sometimes, the pain would be excruciating, he told a reporter. He had finally resigned himself to his career ending — he simply could not continue pitching while his thumb was in such pain. He was in his 40s. He had a long career. He has won two World Series. He is a future Hall of Famer.

Maybe he was done with baseball.

Then, he stumbled upon a surprise.

Max, a father of four, retold the story to the New York Post:

“It was right around the All-Star Break [mid-July]. I was trying to teach my kids how to play the piano. I had just basic knowledge of it. … I learned a couple of songs and was playing them.

“And I went to the field the next day, and all of a sudden, I grip the ball and thought, whoa, my hand feels better, my thumb feels better.

“And then I made a start and thought, whoa, whoa, I just got through that start way more cleaner than I ever had.

“I had been to every doctor. I had done every exercise.

“Cortisone shots, needling, shockwave, electrocating my thumb.

“There wasn’t a stone I didn’t have unturned.

“This was the first time I actually saw progress.”

After he realized that the piano playing was helping his thumb, he dove in.

He started playing piano all the time. He started playing for two or three hours between the games where he pitched. He started seeking out pianos in hotels when the team traveled to play games. He eventually bought a digital piano with weighted keys to take with him on the road.

‘Because, this was his new reality:

“All of a sudden, my thumb issues were gone.

“There were times when I was throwing 100 pitches and I felt fine. I wasn’t having to do anything.

“It was the biggest sense of relief considering how bad it was.”

I love the surprise of this treatment and its simplicity. And what hope!

Here is a pitcher worth millions, who has access to any medical expert in the world. And he found relief in an ordinary finger movement that children around the world are doing every day, pressing down on piano keys.

Now, a year later, Max is back on the Toronto Blue Jays’ injured list right now with thumb issues. The piano playing didn’t cure his thumb problem forever. But it helped for a while. It was a surprise assist, a relief, a blast of hope.

And piano playing? Who would have thought?

* * *

Tending to our health — or our writing practice, or anything that requires regular care and tending — is a never-ending journey.

I think back to getting stuck writing to you.

All it took to get me dislodged was a line of encouragement from a person I never met — a violinist who was typing a letter to an artist, and I happened to read his words.

We all need encouragement.

We can find it in stories we read.

We can find it in friends or family members.

We can find it in ourselves, in our own inner dialogue.

Momentum relies on hope and encouragement, with each action building upon the next, so that action becomes easier.

* * *

Is there a place in your life where you feel stuck?

I think you can get unstuck.

Look for reasons to hope.

Look for possibilities of an action you can take.

Remind yourself:

I can do this.

Let me write one sentence, look up one new doctor, consider one different option.

Let me think about what I can do next.

Even trying one little thing will help add energy to your quest.

It will give you a little push. It can start you on your way.

To our journeys,

Brianne