Kristen Dobson

Author’s Note

“Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth.”

- Martin H. Fischer

The art of Origami is like that of the human journey; a mastery demanding resilience, patience, cunning, wonder, strife and sweat. There are difficult and easy bends, inconsequential and significant paths, all of which inferring a different outcome. Some lead to a dead end, then an eventual undoing, others, possibility and potential. Exasperation is a bystander widening the gap of perspective, while hope teases then fizzles. And precisely, just when the inclination to give up arises, a detour points out a new direction. Each deviation causing faith and prowess to grow, both tools necessary in developing conviction.

Momentum continues and proficiency builds; an overlap, a shortcut, another layer, and one more press forward, precious growth under the ability to flex, gather and find the grooves. Wielding, the pace becomes an elegant habit, the handiwork a rhythm. Magically, when the paper couldn’t feasibly pretzel once more, and the road has become so beaten, anticipation peaks as a figure is born. She is brilliant, the final product exquisite under the artists hands. The creation only complete because of all the necessary folds and passageways molding her unique perfection.

Traditionally, a Japanese Origami doll is called a Washi Ningyo. Underlyingly, this is the same ingenuity of how I came to be – a character built through a series of creases.

The following pages contain parts of my story, freeze-framing memories. Memories of a girl, then a woman, who spent the first 25 years of her life running from herself and the next few decades finding her way back to herself.

'Unfolding', is a love story about what shapes our actualization. My love story. Not the romantic kind where a prince swoops in and rescues the maiden (lord knows that’s the greatest fallacy out there), instead, this is a chronicle about how love appears in the most beautiful and heartbreaking destiny kind of way. This is a story about how much we need one another, even if we’re scared and lost. This is also a story about how much we can learn by listening and being present to one another. But mostly, this is the story of how I finally figured out who I am and why I am. How I learned what has broken me and what defines me. How I learned to rise by unraveling. And on top of all of that, it is a nod to the someone somewhere who is looking out for all of us.

In sharing my story, I did my best to represent, but this is my lens and undeniably the truth is clouded by the person who is relaying it. While I hope I got it right, I’m human.

‘Unfolding’, although based on a true story, has been rearranged and changed to suit sensitive information and to protect specific identities.

The broken. We find one another in this life. Our sharp edges are too shiny to resist. What we decide to learn from one another, to do with the time we share, is either the tragedy or the pot of gold.

Chapter 1 – BROKEN

“You do not just wake up and become the butterfly - growth is a process.”

- Rupi Kaur

July 12, 2020.

Sprinting as if the ground burns underfoot, I plow ahead. A glimpse over my shoulder ignites panic. Like a mountain lion, something is on the hunt, silently stalking and edging me deeper into the thicket. Winded, I pause, scanning my surroundings. The forest sways and closes in, camouflaging danger. I try to scream, but the words paste to my throat. I try to take off again, but my legs buckle, flattening me to the dirt floor. Near to being drugged, my body betrays its commands. I scramble, dragging myself, bloodying my knees as I go. My arms grow heavy, rendering me powerless, I can’t move another inch. Merciless fragility smudges my vision as the intensity builds. Seconds thud by, the menace beats closer, practically breathing down my neck. The air charges with anticipation, each moment getting more and more agonizing, and just when the threat is about to overtake me, I jolt awake.

Sweat ripples down my chest, gathering under my arms, drenching my pajama top and slickening it to my skin. As if I’d run a marathon, the chambers in my heart are working overtime, surging blood throughout my body. Disorientated, I narrow my eyes, attempting to draw my focus towards the ceiling. I have to remind myself to breathe, that I am fine, safe in my bed, and that like always, it was only another bad dream.

At 45, I was still having the same vivid nightmare I’d been having since childhood. Back then, the hours between dusk and dawn felt unbearable, reducing me to a shrivelled irrational mass under my down duvet. Scared of everything, including the monsters dwelling under my bed and in my closet (monsters who would surely eat me alive if I dared to drift off), I’d refuse to lie with my back to the door while insisting the hall light stay on. Knowing what could be coming at me was crucial. The house I grew up in only made matters worse; her old creaky bones speaking in the dead of darkness, inviting the likes of ghosts and ax wielding murderers to life. No matter what though, calling out for my mom or dad was not an option. Sorely, my parents and most of the grown-ups I knew weren’t actually so grown up. Like touching a hot stove, they could be intense, reactive, and extreme, escalating from zero to ten without provocation. I’d go to any length possible to avoid being chastised.

After exhausting every escape scenario, eventually my eyes would grow heavy and I’d lapse into a semi-conscious state. Intermittently, the nightmares would follow, burning up whatever time I had left to sleep. Vigilance held the hand of vulnerability in those years - being on guard lent me a sense of control. I was that kid at the slumber party sneaking off to the bathroom and vomiting from nerves after watching the feature horror movie. Keeping my ears to the ground, I’d wipe the puke from my face and remain shaking in my bedroll until the sun rose. Meanwhile, all the other girls dozed peacefully. Ashamed, I’d wonder what was wrong with me – why couldn’t I be more like the other kids? I ached for normal, and for belonging. It took me forever and a day to understand that the fears and bad dreams were nothing but a coping mechanism; an intelligent filing system my juvenile brain used to slot feelings I couldn’t otherwise comprehend into categories I could. This was the only way I knew how to respond to the exigency and uncertainty of my home life. Laterally, I’d also discover that there was no such thing as “normal”, and moreover, belonging wasn’t something attained from the outside. Rather, belonging was/is this basic fundamental need for all humans, and originates from having healthy attachments to our caregivers from birth. Connections which were never established in my family.

As with many Gen Xers, I was a product of the times; a latchkey kid with parents who were focused on their own self gratification. Being the owners of a carnival company, mom and dad didn’t exactly keep a 9 to 5 schedule. As such, my sister and I would often caretake ourselves, especially during working hours. Of course, tons of other kids shared the same kind of rogue freedom in those days but despite this, and despite not being sure of what went on behind their closed doors, I knew something different went on behind ours. Like a snake in the grass, the atmosphere in my house carried an underlying tension, a level of stress where the bite of oppression poisoned innocence. Navigating the chaos was an ongoing crapshoot. Fortunately, I excelled at obedience, parroting the expectations thrown my way. Resilience keyed my survival. Through calculating my parent’s actions, interpreting and translating their feelings, while simultaneously trying to gain their approval, I persevered. Long term though, being that “perfect” became a trap, by and large leaving me feeling like a burden, too much, not enough, and never fully wanted.

Forty years later here I was still stuck in the past, terrified by a powerlessness I’d yet to shake. To name it, I unknowingly had post traumatic stress disorder from childhood and had been treading very carefully around it, managing to keep the wolf from the door. My subconscious however, had an agenda of its own, keeping matters in check by evoking old feelings with my present reality. Instantly, I understood why the nightmare had come to me tonight, of all nights – only 2 days from now I’d be going under the knife.

Months earlier, at the end of March 2020, I’d seriously damaged my right shoulder. Simultaneously, I’d also hit a deadlock in my personal and professional life. For longer than I could remember, everything felt more wrong than right, the injury being the end of the road. Figuring the pain would pass, I tried to tough it out. Then, out of nowhere, Covid-19 hit, causing lockdowns and closing businesses everywhere, including my massage therapy practice. Being off work gave my shoulder plenty of space to rest - healing would be a breeze, or so I thought. Eight weeks later, my arm remained in a twisted mess. Swiftly, the hands on the clock circled faster. By May, I conceded calling the doctor. In a succession of appointments, I was assessed, given an MRI and a diagnosis, connected to a surgeon, and lined up with a surgery date. The specialist informed me that the damaged tissue was on the verge of turning from muscle to fat. Two of the four rotator cuffs muscles and my biceps were completely torn. I’d let it go too long and if I didn’t do the procedure, I risked never being able to use the shoulder properly again. This wasn’t some minor operation; the shoulder was complicated, and repairing it meant cutting through the connective tissue capsule, severing and reattaching the torn muscles, and sewing the capsule back together again.

Lying there, I glanced around the room, perspiration now cold on my skin. The aftershock of the bad dream and my subsequent realizations rendering me impotent. Attempting to abate the thoughts thundering towards me I tried to relax. Unequivocally, this subliminal nod attested to my deepest fears, those of helplessness and vulnerability. In two days my carefully connected pieces would be splintered into shards.

***

Surgery day July 14, 2020.

Trees whipped by the window as the operation raced towards me. I looked at the clock - twenty-five minutes until we were at the hospital. Periodically, my sister glanced at me, but my sight stayed glued on the scenery. She knew me in ways I sometimes didn’t even know myself and could always see through me. Making contact with her worry would strike at my center, sending me barrelling downwards, scattering every ounce of bravery I’d rallied that morning and I couldn’t afford to crumple. My hands dampened as my mouth went dry.

Determinately, I’d been hard wired for moments like these. After all, I’d grown up at the end of an era where the adage; ‘children are to be seen and not heard’ defined generations. Pats on the head, being shushed and reminders that “there’s no use crying over spilled milk”, serving as reinforced cues to fall in line. Thirty years ago, stringent societal values meant compliance was a given, not an option. Stifling emotions, adhering to the rules, and minding manners made ‘good girls and boys.’ Inherently, the ‘good girl’ still resided in me. Soldiering on was the order of the day.

The drive went faster than I expected, in a blink of the eye the hospital came into view. Pulling into the drop-off zone, I gripped the bulky black sling. Tears coursed at the surface; I didn’t want to be here.

My sister reached out, and for a second, I wallowed in her embrace. Quickly, I pulled back, afraid of breaking down as if a toddler torn from their mother’s arms.

Affixing my mask, I slunk out.

“You’ve got this, you’re going to be fine.” She called.

Of course, I was always fine, even when I wasn’t. One foot in front of the other I made my way inside; left, right, left, right.

The foyer was staged by an uncomfortable edge, a somber energy polluting the air. Joining the registration line I searched the others faces. Most stared at their phones or straight ahead. Gnawingly, a sense of separation welled inside, the same inkling I’d known forever. Naturally empathic, I’d spent much of my life weighted down by these big incomprehensible emotions – ones which left me feeling irreversibly flawed. Often, the world came at me in micro details, grating against my introspective nature. People had been labeling me as “sensitive” as long as I could remember; a tittle I’d grown to hate. Even in this very moment like a whale song only other marine animals could hear, I was fine tuned to it all; from the defeat of the kid behind me in line whose mom had just revoked her phone privileges, to the tension of attendant handing out new masks, to the false bravado of the patient ahead of me facing a heart procedure. Scrolling social media, I tried distracting myself.

Eventually, the lady behind the plexiglass window worked her way to me.

“I have a scheduled surgery for 8 am with Dr. Kar.”

Barely looking up, she went about the required script of running through the covid questionnaire. I nodded. Who actually listened to this spiel? After attaching a plastic bracelet to my wrist, she directed me to day surgery.

Following the long orange line, I made my way to the elevators and second floor. Immediately when the doors slid open, I met a series of other entries. A man in scrubs recognized my confusion assisting me. There was a tiny murmur of relief in his attention; someone could see me.

Left, right, left, right. Pushing through a door, I came upon a line of chairs and a large flat-screen tv affixed to the wall showcasing the daily news. I made a beeline to the nurse’s station.

“Good morning. I’m Kristen Dobson, here for my 8:00 am surgery.”

A middle-aged nurse looked up. “Hi, dear. We spoke yesterday on the phone. We’re still waiting on your covid test results and should get word anytime. Have a seat, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

Shortly morphed into hours, the delay excruciating. One by one, patients who had arrived after me were called. Game face intact, I chased the what-ifs with reasoning. For all I knew, the test results had gotten lost, and they’d have to postpone the surgery. A tear wiggled loose blotting my cheek.

You’re attracting attention - sit still and stop feeling sorry for yourself.

All at once, Paul Pearson, a boy who attended my grade school, popped into my head. The kid was straight off a horse farm and getting paired with him on the class seating rooster meant the stench of manure was a daily assault. Smells aside, he was nice yet annoying; always getting up and down in his chair, fidgeting, or acting out. Looking back, I’m sure he must have had ADHD but that condition wasn’t even named then. Mr. Tulip, our teacher, had no patience for Paul so he dealt with him by bringing in a cardboard box (a huge one, which must have come off of a large appliance), and attached it with duct tape around Paul’s desk. Paul was then the boy in the box, the shut-in and shut-out, the kid no other kid wanted to be.

What happened to Paul back then had left me with cold feet. Consequently, I made myself a deal; under no circumstances would I be a standout, under no circumstances would I ever be a Paul.

My phone suddenly lit up; a message flashed from one of the therapists who worked with me. Her cat had an emergency and she couldn’t make it in. Anger torched my innards. Seriously? I was about to have my shoulder ripped apart! Suppressing the urge to throw the device, I powered off. I couldn’t do a damn thing from my vantage point. Today of all days I didn’t want to be in charge. My mistake for relying on people, I knew better.

Finally, the nurse reappeared; “All clear, Kristen. The results came in, and you are negative. Let’s get you prepped - Dr. Kar has been asking where his shoulder repair is.”

In less than 20 minutes, I was clad in a gown and wheeled into the operating room. Suddenly things were moving fast, uneasiness stuffed me like a pig on a spit.

“There she is. How are you doing, Kristen? I’m your anesthesiologist. It’s surprising to see such a young woman have this kind of injury.”

“I’m not feeling so young,” I replied. A few of the nurses chuckled.

“We’re going to administer the nerve block now. Soon, you won’t be able to feel from the shoulder downwards, at least for the next 12 hours or so.”

I looked away as the shiny silver needle pierced my neck several times over. The room vibrated; people swirled around embracing their particular role like I didn’t even exist.

My mind hummed. I’d been pushing the limits, overusing and abusing my body, and for what? Here I’d hurt myself, and all in the name of giving more than I had to offer. A rabbit hole raged inside sucking me downwards. I should have known better. Plodding along, ignoring my needs, ironically the very notion I’d spent my career advocating clients not to do. How could I have been so stupid?

“Ok, Kristen, time to get to work. We’ll see you soon in recovery.” Securing my arm, the doctor administered the anesthesia. Medicine trickled through my veins causing the room to go fuzzy and collapse. Voices echoed, getting farther away, and then all at once everything faded to black.