This will be my last blog for a few weeks.  I’m taking some time off as I anticipate the recovery of my upcoming surgery.  Fingers crossed there are no more surgical cancellations in the city.

Over the past many months, I’ve been wrestling with what seemed to be a persistent sinus/lung infection combo, and an endless cough.  Endless.  After rounds of antibiotics and several Covid tests, just to be sure, no relief was found, so some imaging was ordered.

A couple of ultrasounds and a CT scan later, the culprit was revealed.  It turns out the cough was not ever going to be squelched by antibiotics.  Instead, it turned out to be a by-product of a rather sizeable tumour on my thyroid gland, just at the base of my neck.  To complicate matters, instead of pushing outward and causing a large visible bump on my neck, the tumour grew inward, pressing on my trachea, eventually pushing it to the left and causing compression.  At the end of August, the airway had a thirty-five percent reduction in space available for breathing.  Since then it has grown slightly and I suspect if we did a new CT scan, we’d find it is more than thirty-five percent compressed now.

There is good news in all of this.  For starters, I was immediately sent for a biopsy.  The very kind pathologist who performed it, had my results to my doctor in less than twenty-four hours.  My windpipe may not have expanded during that time, but I was able to breathe a HUGE sigh of relief when the results revealed a non-cancerous tumour.

Another bit of good new is that it felt so good to find out I hadn’t been losing my mind.  All those months with symptoms that weren’t responding to ‘regular’ protocols had me wondering.  I knew something was wrong.  I’d classify myself as a well-behaved patient, but all my behaving with antibiotics, nasal rinses, steroid mists, allergy tests, asthma tests, pulmonary functioning tests, acupuncture, dental xrays and herbal teas had failed.  As I was biking in the summer, I climbed one particularly tough hill three separate times; once early in July, once at the end of July and once in mid-August.  In early July I climbed it with a normal amount of difficulty – it’s a tough hill.  At the end of July, I really struggled and had to stop at the top.  Two weeks later while climbing it, I experienced ‘striders’ on the climb.  I now know this frightening high-pitched sound and accompanying awful feeling of breathlessness is a sure indicator of an airway obstruction.  At the time I had no idea; I just knew something was wrong.

Needless to say, the difficulty breathing is a problem; the tumour needs to come out. If all goes according to plan, and Covid cases don’t overwhelm the hospitals, I’ll have my hemi-thyroidectomy and tumour-removal surgery next week.  I am not looking forward to it, but I am looking 100% forward to feeling more like myself again.

When the results of the CT scan showed the thirty-five percent blockage of the airway, it made it really, really easy for me to picture exactly what was going on inside me.  Since then, I’ve been playing with the notion of how valuable it would be if other things in my life came with percentages. 

For instance, how would it be if we could get a clear idea, in percent form, how we are impacting others and what impact others are having on our life.  Do they make life twenty percent better, or sixty percent worse?  What if we received some private message telling us we were only paying forty-five percent attention to important people in our lives when they were talking to us?  Or if we were putting eighty percent effort into a workplace that was only returning twenty percent appreciation? What if we recognized we have one-hundred percent compassion for others but only fifty percent for ourselves?  Or if it was revealed we spend seventy percent of our energy thinking about how we will improve, but only fifteen percent actually making those improvements?  I’m imagining what it could be like if I could see I was eighty percent happy, or eighty-five percent stressed or ten percent discouraged.

I love numbers.  I find them comforting.  They give me a place to operate from.  When I know the number, I have the sense I can get some control over it.  I think this has been shown to be true in health care.  When patients’ hearts are beating quickly, they can bring their heartrate down by seeing the number and regulating their own breathing.  That’s powerful knowledge. 

Over the past months, I’ve been putting focus on the numbers in my life.  I’m really just making them up, but I suspect I’m not far off.  As I’m talking on the phone, I notice my ‘attention’ number.  Just noticing it gives me the opportunity to choose to change it.  Same with my ‘kindness’ number, my ‘thoughtfulness’ number, my ‘integrity’ number, my ‘family’ number, and my ‘I need to give myself some slack’ number.

Next week, competent doctors will be watching my numbers for me.  Once they are finished their part, I’m going to continue to watch my numbers.  I want my ‘attention to healing’ number to be very high.  I’ve already stocked up on some nice, quiet projects that will help me enjoy my down-time.  And I can’t find much wrong with trying to ‘up’ my ‘ice-cream eating’ number too.

I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll be away from this blog. I suspect for at least a month. I’m trying put my ‘let’s see how I feel’ number to good use here. 

In the meantime, hopefully you too, will find some time to enjoy watching your numbers and figuring out how to balance them in the best way for you.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What’s my number?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to create the numbers you want for success.

One evening this past week, in a feeble attempt to avoid the ice cream calling my name, I filled a little bowl with some ‘colourful crackers’, as Ben calls them.  They are in fact, those little goldfish crackers. I buy the coloured ones because they seem more interesting.  As I sat in my chair, watching television and munching away, I found myself sorting through the crackers as I ate.  The yellow ones first, then the red, followed by the green. When I only had my most favourite ones left, the orange cheddar cheese ones, I started to chuckle to myself.  After all my careful sorting and eating in order, I couldn’t tell any difference at all between the tastes of the colours.  Had I been blindfolded, I wouldn’t have had a clue.  The truth of the matter is this.  I lost my sense of taste and smell almost four months ago.  Completely.

Not to panic.  This is not Covid.  And hopefully with the help of a good specialist this problem will have a resolution.   In the meantime, my favourite flavour is cold.  This I can discern.  Hence my tendency toward ice cream. 

I miss these two senses a lot.  I feel disarmed without them.  There are so many instances where I would have used my sense of taste or smell to guide me and I find myself less confident without them.  I cook familiar recipes because I can’t figure out if a new one tastes good enough to serve.  I double check that I’ve turned off things, and I set a timer when things are cooking because even smoke from this summer’s forest fires did not register with me.  It’s a small inconvenience compared to what many have to endure, yet I miss it just the same.

So many of our memories and feelings are connected to familiar tastes and smells; the smell of Fall, the taste of Christmas dinner, the smell of our grandmother’s house.  One of our son’s friends told me recently he remembered me ‘always’ making Sloppy Joes when he came over to play with Greg.  I had no recollection of this.   Sloppy Joes are not in my repertoire of things to cook, and yet, I must have made them a couple of times many years ago, for two hard-playing, fort-building boys.  He told me when he smells them, he thinks of the times he spent at our home.

A few weeks ago, I spent part of an afternoon with some of my favourite young women.  These girls and I go back a long way; back to the very early days of the creation of our project in Africa.  They were barely teenagers then, yet they propelled our project forward better than most adults could have.  Now accomplished adults, they continue to feel drawn to the project.  Their current contribution is finding ways to connect with the young girls in the school we founded, and to encourage them in self-confidence, in education, in celebrating being female, and in seeking opportunities that will lead them to the fulfillment of their dreams.

When we meet, we always spend a bit of time catching up on each others lives.  One of the girls was telling us about recent developments in her family.  Her parents, empty-nesters, decided to adopt a child.  About a year ago, they adopted a little boy, who is now about seven or eight years old.  Suffice it to say, that young boy, like so many children in foster care, did not arrive at their home by way of the Highway of Ease.  They have spent a challenging year trying to win his trust, helping figure out and resolve some of his challenges, and remaining steadfast in their love, even as he regularly tests their commitment.  The girl sharing the story told us of the following scene that unfolded at their dinner table one night.

The mother had made rice pudding for dessert.  It was the first time she had made it since the young boy had been adopted.  No one thought anything of it.  The little boy tasted it and burst into tears.  The mom, surprised, wondered what was wrong, and she asked the little boy if he could tell her. 


He asked, ‘What is this?’ 

‘Rice pudding’, she replied, unable to imagine how it was causing his anguish. 

‘This smells like my grandma’, he said.  ‘I’ve been searching my whole life for this smell.’

It turns out, his grandmother, who he was once close to, used to make rice pudding for him.  He had been missing this taste.  The taste of her love.

I’ve had this story on my mind regularly since the day we sat on our deck and heard it.  I had tears in my eyes then, as I do often when I think of it.  Most of us will never know this little boy’s longing for the taste of love.  Most of us, are fortunate to have bits of our history available to us.  Most of us taste love regularly.

In this time of the Covid pandemic, each of us needs just a bit more taste of love, and each of us has the capacity to provide it for others.  It does not need to be in the form of food.  These days, in my world, food cannot give me the taste of love.  I get my tastes of love from walks in the mountains with friends, from smiles and phone calls, from texts from my sisters and brothers, from visits with our children, from Zoom dancing lessons and book club, from outdoor picnics, and from secret handshakes with Ben. 

It doesn’t take much to create the taste of love.  I hope your upcoming week is filled with its flavour.

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What taste of love can I give?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to add the taste of love to your life and work.
 

There was once a Seinfeld episode where Kramer famously slammed his money on the counter and loudly announced, “I’m OUT!”  The details of what the actual bet was aren’t the important issue here, although they did make the episode hilarious.

If I could find the right counter and the exact right amount of money, and if the bet was about whether I could face a long winter of Covid worries and restrictions, I would be the first in line to slap my money down and declare, “I’m OUT!”   I can do it; I just don’t want to.

I have spoken to so many people who feel like they just want to yell, enough.  I’ve watched the news report that over 25% of the population is suffering from severe anxiety and depression over this virus.  I also know that people tend to underreport symptoms of anxiety and depression, so I’m pretty sure plenty more people are suffering than we know.  I’ve heard normally calm people have snippy responses.  I’ve seen drivers furious with other drivers trying to merge.  I’ve heard stories of children worrying themselves sick.  I’ve felt the sting of tears myself.  It’s been a tough year.

No matter.  It may be that we are done with Covid, but as it has been said, Covid is not done with us.  So, we need to find ways not only to exist and persist, but to thrive and fully live during this upcoming winter.  I refuse to believe we won’t see some relief by March.  I’m putting money on it.

Over the last week or so, I’ve done a lot of thinking about what I’m willing to surrender during this incredibly unusual pandemic.  Being a rule follower, I’m more than willing to comply with all regulations recommended by our health professionals.  I’m willing to surrender some of my comforts, like the comfort of not wearing a mask, and of gathering indoors with large groups.  I’m willing to answer Covid questions and not enter public spaces if I exhibit symptoms.  I’m willing to dry my hands out with sanitizer, and use my elbow to press buttons.

What I’m not willing to do is to look back on these months of pandemic and realize that I was only surviving.  I won’t mind looking back and recognizing I had to make a lot of changes.  But I really want to be able to look back and feel as if I’m still creating a rich and full life.  We only get one trip through this world.  I do not want to have an erase mark through these pandemic years on the timeline of my life.

What I’ve noticed is I have absolutely no trouble filling my days.  In fact, the other day I was lamenting that my days are going too fast.  I have more interesting projects than time to complete them.  Don’t worry, I am not wishing for the pandemic to be longer.  But I know myself well enough that I could fill my days in solitary comfort, completing my interesting projects and not come out of this feeling very accomplished.  My observations these past weeks have reminded me my best days are the ones where I include a splash of the unexpected, a splash of colour.

Colour in my life is appearing in many forms.   Colour is what interrupts my routine just enough to give me new things to think about.  Colour is a hike on a new trail with friends.  Colour is looking forward to a cleaned-out garage, knowing it is where we might be able to sit, doors open and heaters on, when my brother arrives in town next week and comes for a little visit.  Colour is thinking about what favourite foods of his I might serve.  Colour is decorating the tube Jim bought for us to shoot chocolate bars down to the trick-or-treaters on Halloween.  Colour is choosing a new quilt to make; one out of my comfort zone, but that I’m excited to try.  Colour is thinking about what cycling adventure I can take next summer, Covid or not.  Colour is talking to my friend, Brenda, about new courses each of us might be interested in exploring and about planning once per week hikes for the winter.  Colour is visiting my friend Betty and wandering together around her property, admiring the garlic hanging in the barn and the newly planted spruce trees.

Last weekend we celebrated Thanksgiving.  Usually we cook a turkey, prepare mashed and sweet potatoes, make homemade buns, cook a variety of vegetables including Matt’s favourite broccoli casserole, break open the homemade pickles, bake some pies and decorate the table.  We invite not only our children but our nephew and his partner, my brother and sister-in-law, and Matt’s sister and her fiancé.    This year, we knew this familiar tradition was not what was being asked of us.  It also turned out that some of these people were not available.  Instead, of trying to figure out how to keep it the same while making it completely different, we chose just to paint the whole scene a new colour.  We did cook a turkey, but instead of a feasting in our dining room, we packed up a cooler with buns and cranberry sauce, divided the food into separate containers for each family joining us, and headed out to feast on a lunch of turkey sandwiches and Kaitlyn’s pumpkin cupcakes, at the foot of the majestic Rockies. 

On this particular day, as it so often is in life, colour wasn’t just handed to us.  Most of the fall leaves had been blown off the trees.  A cool wind warned of the upcoming forecast of snow.  The sky was as grey as the river rocks we walked on.  Still, walking across the rocks with Ben, on our way to toss stones in the water, after a wonderful safe visit with the others, I was glad we had painted the day in our own way.

As winter sets in here in Alberta, I plan to add colour to each of my weeks.  I’m not known for my artistic flair, but I’m learning that a splash of unexpected colour can make all the difference.

My inquiry for you this week is ‘What colour can I add?’
​
Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to add some colour to your day.
 

Jim has finally tackled the daunting job of cleaning out the garage.  I say finally, because while we moved into this home half a decade ago, the huge volume of ‘garage stuff’ we brought from the acreage has been quite content to sit where we planted it; in some cases, it even grew!  Although the garage is usable, whenever I head out there to find a simple tool, I start to understand why we often have five or six of the many standard items.  It’s sometimes just easier to buy a new one than find the old one!

If I said that Jim loves tools, it would be an understatement.  He browses the flyers arriving at the front door, and finds that his car steers into a Canadian Tire or Lee Valley store in much the same way mine can’t seem to go past a Baskin Robbins Ice Cream shop.   There is no cure.  I’m learning to embrace it (or at least starting to appreciate some of the hidden benefits of this terrible affliction of tool collecting).

Last week, late one morning when Jim and I were both working in our home offices, our front door bell rang.  Over the past 6 months, we could count on one hand the number of times this has rung.  Suffice it to say, it immediately captured both our attention.  Jim got to the door first and upon opening it, found our across-the-street neighbour standing at the bottom of the steps.  We do not really know this neighbour.  We have said a friendly hello to her and her husband when we have walked past their house, and once we even stopped for a little chat.  Other than that, we don’t know them at all.  For the purposes of this blog, let’s call them Ellen and Bob.  We do now know their actual names.

Jim didn’t have to dig too deeply to figure out the purpose of the call.  Ellen quickly explained to Jim that they were having a problem with squirrels at their home.  With the squirrels having decided to take up residence underneath the front porch, Ellen, worried they would eventually make it into the house, had decided to install some wire netting that would make it tough for them to find a comfortable home there.  As she tried to figure out a solution, she found herself at the local Home Depot where the sales person sold her some chicken wire and a tool to cut it.

She said she had been working on it all morning and she finally thought she needed to ask for help.  She’d seen Jim outside working on various projects and thought he might be able to lend her a more appropriate tool and give her some tips for the job.  She said she broke down and asked when her hands were just too sore to continue.  She also mentioned her husband was mortified that he did not know what to do either. 

When she mentioned her sore hands, Jim looked at them and couldn’t believe his eyes.  Her hands were cut up and bruised from trying to cut the wire with the tool she’d been sold.  Jim’s comment?  ‘I can help.  Meet me in the garage.’
Jim immediately knew of a much more effective tool he had that she could use, and amazingly he knew exactly where it was located in the garage!  He disappeared from home for about an hour and when he returned, he was able to report she now had a good handle on the tool he suggested and was well on her way to finishing her repair.  He was less than amused that she had been sold not only a useless tool, but one that was more harmful than good in this circumstance.

I’m not a gadget or tool person.  My collection is small and purposeful.  If I had a theory about physical tools it would be if I’m not going to use it regularly, I likely don’t need it.  However, as the events with our neighbour, Ellen, unfolded, I had time to think about other tools we use in life.  Tools I do have.

Each of us has a different assortment of tools, an additional collection to that of our physical tools.  We have tools to help us navigate difficult personalities, tools to help us get our way, tools for relationships, tools to help us with resilience, tools for planning and for setting goals.  Often, we use the right tool for the situation we find ourselves in, and we can successfully navigate our way forward.  However, sometimes we find ourselves in a situation like Ellen’s.  We try to solve the problem at hand with the closest tool nearby.  We forget there are other tools to choose from.  When we don’t have success, we just forge ahead, with more force and determination.  We may not have chosen the right tool, but we’ve chosen a comfortable one, and one we are used to.  We can end up doing more harm than good. 

Each of us is resourceful, capable and whole.  We have all the tools we need to live our most successful and satisfying life.   Ellen and Jim’s interaction taught me a few things about tools.  The tool Ellen had from the store was of no use to her.   Someone else thought they knew what she needed and imparted their ‘help’ on her.  However, in her own tool box, the one she has clearly filled throughout her life, she had exactly the right tool, and she knew exactly how to use it.  She knew she needed help, she knew where to find help, and she knew she had to override both the probable inner voice chiding her for wanting to knock on our door, and the very real voice of her husband who was simply feeling embarrassed.  Ellen had the perfect tool of resilience and she used it.

Jim too has a box of tools he’s collected over the years.  He also knew just what tool would be most effective that day.  Of course, he knew which garage tool would be most helpful to Ellen and he loaned it to her.  He also had some other tools he used.  He told Ellen how delighted he was she had come across the street to ask.  He told her the problem would be easy to fix.  He went across the street to her house and showed her what to do.  I know Jim would have loved to have just done the job for Ellen.  He could easily have taken over and demonstrated his skill, of which he has plenty.  However, Jim recognized this wouldn’t have been the right tool to use at the time.  Ellen had already been sold the wrong tool without her even knowing.  The last thing she needed was for someone else to undermine her.  Jim, understanding that Ellen really needed to be able to complete this job on her own, stayed long enough to show her how to use the tool properly and safely, explained how and what to do, watched to see she could competently do it, and then left her to finish the job she clearly wanted to do on her own.  He did not take away her power or her confidence.  Instead, she gained in both. 

Each of us naturally reach into our toolboxes many times each week.  Sometimes, like Ellen, we grab the wrong tool.  We use stubbornness when patience would better serve us.  We use patience when instead we could advocate for ourselves.  We remain victims when instead we could draw upon our ability to use honesty about ourselves and our fears.   Sometimes, like Ellen, we need to re-evaluate, return the tool that is not best for the situation, and consciously choose one that serves us best. 

My inquiry for you this week is, ‘What tool will serve me best?’
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Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to choose the right tool for the job.

I had an idea for a new winter project this week.  With the pandemic showing no signs of retreating just yet, I’m trying to think of a few nice things that will both keep me amused, and make me feel proud to have accomplished something over the coming months.  I don’t need a make work project.  I do want something creative and interesting.

I found a pattern for a beautiful quilt.  It has six colourful giraffes, all of different heights, standing in a row.  I loved the idea of the giraffes, reminding me of our first trip to Kenya, where we were simply stunned by their beauty, grace and size.  I also loved the bright colours.  Although at first glance I had no idea how detailed the pattern was, after taking a good look at it, and then taking a few deep breaths, I know it will be a great challenge for me.

Walking into a quilt shop can be overwhelming.  Surrounded by thousands of bolts of every possible type, colour, hue, print, texture and tone of fabric, it’s a formidable task figuring out where to begin.  I knew I needed a light and dark version of six different colours, so I got to work using that as my beginning step.

As I selected a light and dark red, a light and dark orange, a light and dark purple, the bolts became too cumbersome to lug around so I found a small table, just waiting for me to lay out my fabrics.  Carrying on I found my yellows, blues and greens.  While I had a nice contrast in each of the colours, when I lay them side by side, something felt off.  Each pair was fine on its own, but together something was not right.  My brain was working far too hard.  Our brains like to make sense of things.  When things are ‘right’, our brains can relax.  There is no puzzle to solve.  But when something is off, our brains kick into high gear.  My brain was working far too hard.

I’ve looked at enough fabric and colours over time to know that one effective little trick is to walk away for a few minutes, then come back and take a fresh look.  Often the problem will immediately reveal itself.  My little trick did not fail me this time.  After a quick sweep of the store, returning to the table I could see the problem.  It was the blues.  The light and dark colours looked good together, but their tone did not compliment the others.  Had I used it, it may have ended up looking ok, but I know each time I looked at it, my brain would not be able to just relax and enjoy the whole image; it would be busily trying to ‘solve’ something.  It would not have been communicating the feeling I was hoping to achieve.
Tone is a critical part of communication.  The most inspiring words can be completely lost when the tone used to deliver them is ‘off’.  As thought there is a disconnect between what is heard, and what is felt or sensed, the listener is unable to focus on the message when their brain is busy tryng to sort out what to focus on, the words or the tone.

Tone most often wins.

The same day I made my fabric purchase, Jim and I watched the American Presidential Debate.  I’m sure there were some excellent facts each candidate had rehearsed in preparation.  I’m sure they had practiced their responses to the questions in great detail.  Sadly, I can’t recall any of the facts, or the details or statistics.  I can only recall the tone of the entire debacle; the tone of intolerance, condescension, arrogance and disdain.
 
Still, this embarrassment of a debate comes as a gift to the rest of us.  What a perfect reminder of the power of our tone.  Most of us navigate the conversations in our lives on our own.  We don’t have speech writers.  We don’t have staff on whom we can practice our comments and our responses.  We don’t have test audiences to check how our comments will land.  What we do now have is the understanding of how important it is for us to consider carefully, perhaps even more carefully than we choose our words, our tone.

So often when we have something important to say, we spend a significant amount of time considering our words.  We choose each word carefully, wanting to convey just the perfect message.  Sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we are left wondering what went wrong.  When we are the listener, often when we hear a moving speech or answer or comment, we are more moved by the tone than the words.  We’ve all heard people say, I didn’t think about my words, I just spoke from my heart.  These moments almost always resonate.  It turns out it is a lot easier to forgive a misspoken word, when we clearly hear the intent through the tone.

When our words and tone are out of alignment, the listener has to engage their problem-solving brain to figure out which thing is true.  Are the words true or is the tone true?  The brain can always figure out when one of these is off; when the blues don’t quite go with the yellows, oranges, greens, purples and reds.  Since tone links to feelings, and since feelings guide us, if the tone is off, the speaker will never accurately communicate their message.

We all have important-to-us things we want to say, and to have others hear.  I’m wondering what would happen if, as we prepared to speak, we spent longer figuring out the tone we want to convey with our message, the feeling we want to impart, and less time worrying about our perfect vocabulary.  I’m guessing we’d end up with a few nicer quilts in our lives.
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My inquiry for you this week is, ‘How’s my tone?’

Elizabeth is a certified professional Leadership Coach, and the owner of Critchley Coaching.  She is the founder and president of the Canadian charity, RDL Building Hope Society.   She works with corporations, non-profits and the public sector, providing leadership coaching.  She creates and facilitates custom workshops for all sizes of groups. She has particular expertise in facilitating Strategic Plans for organizations. Contact Elizabeth to learn how to recognize the power of your tone.