I laid awake far past a wise hour for me to go to bed. I knew I would pay for it the next day, when I would barely be able to function. The piper had to be paid sometime, but for now, my mind didn't seem to care about that. The only thing it could focus on was the tumult of thoughts rolling over and over, coming in rapid succession like waves crashing on the sand. Relentless. I felt a fat, lone tear make its way down the side of my cheek and find its way into my hair. I rolled over on my side and was grateful once again that my husband was out cold next to me.
I still couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that the person I was closest to in this whole world, the one I knew inside and out and had grown with for longer than I could remember was gone. I ran over and over in my mind the vision of her youthful energy. It seemed as if she never had to take a break. Her body had been strong, capable of feats of endurance and strength. She was the one that had made life fun and easy. It just didn't seem possible that I had lost her.
Lost her.
She had passed relatively quietly, with only her closest confidants ever knowing that she was truly gone. There was never a funeral or memorial, no celebration of the full life she had lived. One day she was here, and the next day she was just....gone.
Gone.
The single tear gave way to a constant stream that blurred my vision. It was 9 months since I had lost her, and I still struggled on a daily basis to come to terms with the void. When others asked me about her, it was as if they expected her to be miraculously resurrected. They would ask with a sincere smile and heartfelt interest, and I had to practice all my restraint not to dive into a sarcastic soliloquy about how she was never coming back. But that wouldn't do. That was misguided frustration, too much information, and just a sign of the grief that pulled on me like quicksand, always threatening to pull me under.
Grief.
It's a feeling I know well. I can recognize it coming from a mile away. In fact, it's almost like an old friend. Not the kind of friend who's presence you enjoy, but the kind that is annoying as hell, but you are so used to her that things don't seem normal if she isn't around. I often find myself looking over my shoulder, just waiting for her to show up again.
It's the feeling I have had ever since I sat in that doctor's office and they told me I had a "mass" in my spinal cord. The feeling intensified when I awoke from my surgery and realized that I had severe pain and limitations I would have to work to overcome. It continued to climb like a roller coaster heading for the top of a steep hill before it plummets as I realized over the last couple of months that I had peaked. I had reached the point where I was told that I shouldn't expect many more improvements, and to just consider myself lucky if I saw any more.
I wanted to scream, "But wait! I'm not better yet! The old me is still gone! This can't be right!" She is still gone. It's like I went out for a walk one day and simply lost her. I miss her with an ache in my stomach when I think of her strong body and all I can feel is intense pain in my arms, shoulders, and neck all of the time. I miss her when I think of the life sentence of medications I am on just so I can feel "ok". I mourn for her each day I wake up feeling like someone has beaten me with a baseball bat. I curse her absence as I try to perform tasks with my hands that used to be done without a thought, but that now require intense concentration and leave me with a headache. I remember her fondly, probably exaggerating her abilities and virtues, as I can't seem to scrape myself off of the couch to do simple daily tasks because most of my energy has been whisked away, never to return.
I know what it feels like to mourn the death of a person I am very close to and this is it. It feels exactly the same. One day I was there, and then someone dug a big hole and buried me and replaced me with a shell of my former self. And it is so....sad. I just feel so sad. I look forward to the future, the one I had mapped out for myself in my mind as a girl. Its constantly being erased and rewritten until it's just a gray, unintelligible smudge with a big hole in the middle where the paper has just given up.
I am sad that what I had thought would be, will never be. Unfulfilled expectations.
I believe it's the same with every unfulfilled expectation I have ever faced. The friend that couldn't play, the boy that never paid any attention to me, the scholarship I didn't receive, the job I couldn't keep, the home I envied but could never afford, the pregnancy that took its time to happen, the husband who couldn't stay, and the body that broke down before its time. Etcetera. It's the same with each unfulfilled expectation bourn in the heart of every person that has walked on this earth.
But here's the thing I am learning. It's ok to be sad. Its okay to look with longing on my expectations and mourn their loss. It's okay to take the time that I need to recover from the blow.
But here is the other thing I am learning. Eventually, I have a very important question to ask myself (and I say this is in the present tense because I am still in the process of answering the question). Am I going to choose to be happy with the destination that I have found myself in? I don't mean "Am I willing to resign myself, but always continue to live in the past, and reside in a state of bad attitude, self pity, and regret?" Will I be happy and choose to really LIVE in this place where I have found myself, because the truth is, it has its charms. I may not be able to run errands on a list a mile long, but I am finding more time to read to my children. I am learning to pay more attention to my body. I can feel my empathy for those who struggle with debilitating mental and physical problems growing day by day. I have more patience with my children's growing bodies that don't yet have the speed and capacity of a capable adult. I have learned that I can still serve others, I just need to pace myself. I have learned to ask for help when I need it, and I am learning, against every instinct in my body, that it is okay to appear weak. I have been humbled to the dust, and from the ashes of humility always rises increased strength.
I'm going to be okay. No. Better than okay.
Friday, March 31, 2017
Friday, October 28, 2016
Now is Not Forever
I walked the halls of the rehabilitation facility, trying to put my finger on the emotions that flooded over me. The smells of sterility and medicine, the bed alarms and squeaking of the nurse's carts, and the open doors showcasing the elderly as they stared blankly at their t.v. screens combined to create a feeling of sadness and a slight pit in my stomach. I weaved in and out of the different hallways, walking slowly and attempting to focus equally on my outward senses and my inward feelings.
I stopped in front of room 208. The nameplate said Roderick. I knew nothing about her other than that she looked to be about 80 years old. She sat quietly in her chair, probably seeking much needed rest between therapy sessions. Or maybe she was waiting for a nurse to come and wheel her to the dining hall for lunch. I wondered what type of pie they would be serving today. That's the best thing about lunch. Though the differences between us were huge and obvious, I could see myself in her posture, her eyes, and the expression on her face. I felt connected to her. I wanted to go in and tell her a story, a story that had happened in that room.
*************************************************************************************
I watched my husband and babies walk out of my room to head home for the night. I already felt guilty for the relief that washed over me with their departure. It had been a nightmare of a day, and ending it with 4 small children cooped up in a 10x10 room and crawling all over my hypersensitive, aching body as I sat in my wheelchair was a recipe for disaster.
I was struggling to acclimate to my new home at Health South Rehabilitation facility. When I arrived on a gurney at 9:00 p.m. a couple of nights before, the on-duty nurse's assistant gave me the run down in a far too cheerful and upbeat voice. I would have an ultrasound each time I went to the bathroom to ensure I was emptying my bladder completely. Standard procedure. An alarm was set on my bed any time I was in it, day or night. If I wanted to get out without triggering a panic, I had to ring for help. Standard procedure. I would attend 6 sessions of physical and occupational therapy everyday. Standard procedure. As she attached a neon bracelet that said "fall risk" to my wrist, she told me about my schedule for the next day. Dawn, my occupational therapist, and her student Kelly would be by in the morning to observe and grade me on my showering and dressing abilities. Standard procedure. Oh good, I thought. That will be a nice opportunity for me to get to know them. Though she didn't say it, I also learned that she or the nurse would come in approximately every 30 minutes throughout each night to administer drugs, assess vitals, take out the trash, or offer me string cheese. Standard procedure. For the love!
After my family left, I only had the energy to stare at the wall for quite some time. I had pushed myself very hard during the many hours of therapy that day. I figured that was the only way I was going to get out of this place. It was amazing how much energy it required to lift 1 pound weights and pick small objects out of a mixing bowl filled with rice. On top of that, I had had 9 hours of amazing, self-less visitors that day. I was grateful to them from the bottom of my heart, but the energy required to be cheerful and converse for that long had brought me to the edge. I eventually summoned the energy to call for my nurse, but I couldn't do much more. She had to help me to the bathroom, into my pajamas, and into my bed for the night. She filled my requests for an ice pack, a yogurt, more drugs, .....and a suppository. I decided to forgive her for coming in to my room so much each night. Nurses are angels in disguise.
Once in bed, I took stock of myself and my situation. Though I was more physically tired than I had ever been in my entire life, that was just the beginning. I had looked forward to my surgery as the welcome end to a year of weakness, numbness, and excruciating neck pain. But this I had not bargained for. No one had told me. I couldn't turn my head even a few degrees in any direction. My neck and shoulders hurt so badly that I was sure the neurosurgeon had left a surgical instrument behind when he sewed me up. The entire left side of my body was just off. I have no better way to explain it. It seemed that during the surgery, they took my old left side and replaced it with something that belonged to someone far less fortunate than myself. It didn't work, and I couldn't feel it. Well, I couldn't feel it except for the intense burning that constantly plagued my hand and foot. Tasks that were once routine now took a monumental effort, or were completely impossible. This was hard. So very, very, very hard.
Each day when Ryan visited, he would ask sweetly and hopefully "So, is it feeling any better? Is your function coming back? Do you feel like you're getting back to normal?" And each day when I answered him, I felt like a small child who is sure she is falling short of her parents expectations. "No. It still feels the same. There still isn't much I can do with that side." I felt like a walking disappointment. I knew that our goal was to get me out of here, to get me healthy, and back to a functioning lifestyle. I knew that my husband was in the bishopric, working a full-time job, in school, struggling to keep a household running, and caring for 4 children while I sat and sorted beads from rice and tried to learn to put my bra on all by myself. I knew my children were being farmed out to various saints every single day. They filled my children's every need while I sat and watched HGTV at night and ate an unholy amount of peanut M&Ms. I could only come to one conclusion.
I was useless.
I felt the solid lump in my throat as I swallowed the truth I had been considering for several days, but wasn't able to digest until they took me off the morphine drip and anti-depressants. The truth hurt, like a punch to the gut. I had one job in this world, to take care of my family, and I couldn't do it. Not only couldn't I do it, but no one had any idea how many weeks, months, or maybe even years it would be until I could. My entire identity was wrapped up in this job, and at its loss I began to mourn like I would the death of a loved one. Sobs racked my body as I made my bed of mourning and pulled the blanket of self-pity over me. I paid no mind to the cracked door and the nurses outside who I was sure were audience to my tantrum.
I felt sorry for me, but mostly I felt sorry for my husband. I felt like he had been strapped to a bag of sand that he was going to have to carry around for a long time. I knew he was getting tired. I could see it in his eyes, and I knew it was only going to get worse. I wondered how much he regretted marrying me. This pathetic, messy, incapable baby was not the woman he had married. Was he sorry that I had pulled the bait and switch on him? I picked up my phone and fired off a hasty text:
I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be there for you when you need me to be. I'm sorry this is a months long process, and not days. I'm sorry that I might never be the same. I' sorry you have such a heavy load to bear and I can't do anything about it.
I was crying so hard that I couldn't breathe when my phone rang 30 seconds later. He told me I was beautiful. He told me that I was the only woman for him. He told me I was enough. Through his own tears, he told me I was being stupid. He told me that my role right now was to sort beads and that I was killing it. He told me that sometimes 100% effort looks different from a spouse in a marriage, but that doesn't mean they aren't pulling all the weight they are capable of, and that that is all that matters. I went to bed wanting to believe him.
I woke up in the morning to sun streaming through my window and onto my bedspread. I sat still for awhile, thinking about the night before. I realized how easy it was to feel sorry for myself, and that I probably deserved to feel sorry for myself, given my circumstances. I thought about other trials I had endured in my life, some that I was sure would take me under at the time. I had learned to endure mental and emotional struggling like a champ. I came away stronger, and even proud of my accomplishments. As time passed, the struggle sifted away, and all that remained were the lessons I had learned. It was like panning for gold in sand. And the gold I always came away with was priceless. I had been taught how to deal with the mental and emotional, now was the season to learn how to overcome the physical and to develop humility.
I made a call that morning to my good friend and asked her to make several signs for me, all saying the same thing: NOW IS NOT FOREVER. She hung them up all over my room where I would see them at all times. Everyone who came in my room commented on them, with varying levels of insight and sarcasm. No one truly understood what those words meant for me. They were a life preserver, thrown to a soul who was sure she would drown. A thin rope connection between her and life. They said simply, and unassumingly "I know you're going through hell right now, but hang on, because it won't last forever. When you get to the end, you'll look back with gratitude for what you learned".
Sometimes the lesson isn't in the overcoming, or the triumph. It's in the late night tantrum, or the lack of progress. It doesn't come at the end of a long road or lesson, but right smack in the middle when it's ugly and painful and perspective is the hardest. It doesn't come from choosing the higher road, but choosing the wrong road and learning from the bumps along the way. It comes from your only achievement being that you have acknowledged that you are a mess. This space can be holy, too.
**********************************************************************************
As all of this went through my head during the short second I stared into room 208 at Ms. Roderick, I wanted to step in and tell her the power of this room. But chances were, she already knew.
I stopped in front of room 208. The nameplate said Roderick. I knew nothing about her other than that she looked to be about 80 years old. She sat quietly in her chair, probably seeking much needed rest between therapy sessions. Or maybe she was waiting for a nurse to come and wheel her to the dining hall for lunch. I wondered what type of pie they would be serving today. That's the best thing about lunch. Though the differences between us were huge and obvious, I could see myself in her posture, her eyes, and the expression on her face. I felt connected to her. I wanted to go in and tell her a story, a story that had happened in that room.
*************************************************************************************
I watched my husband and babies walk out of my room to head home for the night. I already felt guilty for the relief that washed over me with their departure. It had been a nightmare of a day, and ending it with 4 small children cooped up in a 10x10 room and crawling all over my hypersensitive, aching body as I sat in my wheelchair was a recipe for disaster.
I was struggling to acclimate to my new home at Health South Rehabilitation facility. When I arrived on a gurney at 9:00 p.m. a couple of nights before, the on-duty nurse's assistant gave me the run down in a far too cheerful and upbeat voice. I would have an ultrasound each time I went to the bathroom to ensure I was emptying my bladder completely. Standard procedure. An alarm was set on my bed any time I was in it, day or night. If I wanted to get out without triggering a panic, I had to ring for help. Standard procedure. I would attend 6 sessions of physical and occupational therapy everyday. Standard procedure. As she attached a neon bracelet that said "fall risk" to my wrist, she told me about my schedule for the next day. Dawn, my occupational therapist, and her student Kelly would be by in the morning to observe and grade me on my showering and dressing abilities. Standard procedure. Oh good, I thought. That will be a nice opportunity for me to get to know them. Though she didn't say it, I also learned that she or the nurse would come in approximately every 30 minutes throughout each night to administer drugs, assess vitals, take out the trash, or offer me string cheese. Standard procedure. For the love!
After my family left, I only had the energy to stare at the wall for quite some time. I had pushed myself very hard during the many hours of therapy that day. I figured that was the only way I was going to get out of this place. It was amazing how much energy it required to lift 1 pound weights and pick small objects out of a mixing bowl filled with rice. On top of that, I had had 9 hours of amazing, self-less visitors that day. I was grateful to them from the bottom of my heart, but the energy required to be cheerful and converse for that long had brought me to the edge. I eventually summoned the energy to call for my nurse, but I couldn't do much more. She had to help me to the bathroom, into my pajamas, and into my bed for the night. She filled my requests for an ice pack, a yogurt, more drugs, .....and a suppository. I decided to forgive her for coming in to my room so much each night. Nurses are angels in disguise.
Once in bed, I took stock of myself and my situation. Though I was more physically tired than I had ever been in my entire life, that was just the beginning. I had looked forward to my surgery as the welcome end to a year of weakness, numbness, and excruciating neck pain. But this I had not bargained for. No one had told me. I couldn't turn my head even a few degrees in any direction. My neck and shoulders hurt so badly that I was sure the neurosurgeon had left a surgical instrument behind when he sewed me up. The entire left side of my body was just off. I have no better way to explain it. It seemed that during the surgery, they took my old left side and replaced it with something that belonged to someone far less fortunate than myself. It didn't work, and I couldn't feel it. Well, I couldn't feel it except for the intense burning that constantly plagued my hand and foot. Tasks that were once routine now took a monumental effort, or were completely impossible. This was hard. So very, very, very hard.
Each day when Ryan visited, he would ask sweetly and hopefully "So, is it feeling any better? Is your function coming back? Do you feel like you're getting back to normal?" And each day when I answered him, I felt like a small child who is sure she is falling short of her parents expectations. "No. It still feels the same. There still isn't much I can do with that side." I felt like a walking disappointment. I knew that our goal was to get me out of here, to get me healthy, and back to a functioning lifestyle. I knew that my husband was in the bishopric, working a full-time job, in school, struggling to keep a household running, and caring for 4 children while I sat and sorted beads from rice and tried to learn to put my bra on all by myself. I knew my children were being farmed out to various saints every single day. They filled my children's every need while I sat and watched HGTV at night and ate an unholy amount of peanut M&Ms. I could only come to one conclusion.
I was useless.
I felt the solid lump in my throat as I swallowed the truth I had been considering for several days, but wasn't able to digest until they took me off the morphine drip and anti-depressants. The truth hurt, like a punch to the gut. I had one job in this world, to take care of my family, and I couldn't do it. Not only couldn't I do it, but no one had any idea how many weeks, months, or maybe even years it would be until I could. My entire identity was wrapped up in this job, and at its loss I began to mourn like I would the death of a loved one. Sobs racked my body as I made my bed of mourning and pulled the blanket of self-pity over me. I paid no mind to the cracked door and the nurses outside who I was sure were audience to my tantrum.
I felt sorry for me, but mostly I felt sorry for my husband. I felt like he had been strapped to a bag of sand that he was going to have to carry around for a long time. I knew he was getting tired. I could see it in his eyes, and I knew it was only going to get worse. I wondered how much he regretted marrying me. This pathetic, messy, incapable baby was not the woman he had married. Was he sorry that I had pulled the bait and switch on him? I picked up my phone and fired off a hasty text:
I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be there for you when you need me to be. I'm sorry this is a months long process, and not days. I'm sorry that I might never be the same. I' sorry you have such a heavy load to bear and I can't do anything about it.
I was crying so hard that I couldn't breathe when my phone rang 30 seconds later. He told me I was beautiful. He told me that I was the only woman for him. He told me I was enough. Through his own tears, he told me I was being stupid. He told me that my role right now was to sort beads and that I was killing it. He told me that sometimes 100% effort looks different from a spouse in a marriage, but that doesn't mean they aren't pulling all the weight they are capable of, and that that is all that matters. I went to bed wanting to believe him.
I woke up in the morning to sun streaming through my window and onto my bedspread. I sat still for awhile, thinking about the night before. I realized how easy it was to feel sorry for myself, and that I probably deserved to feel sorry for myself, given my circumstances. I thought about other trials I had endured in my life, some that I was sure would take me under at the time. I had learned to endure mental and emotional struggling like a champ. I came away stronger, and even proud of my accomplishments. As time passed, the struggle sifted away, and all that remained were the lessons I had learned. It was like panning for gold in sand. And the gold I always came away with was priceless. I had been taught how to deal with the mental and emotional, now was the season to learn how to overcome the physical and to develop humility.
I made a call that morning to my good friend and asked her to make several signs for me, all saying the same thing: NOW IS NOT FOREVER. She hung them up all over my room where I would see them at all times. Everyone who came in my room commented on them, with varying levels of insight and sarcasm. No one truly understood what those words meant for me. They were a life preserver, thrown to a soul who was sure she would drown. A thin rope connection between her and life. They said simply, and unassumingly "I know you're going through hell right now, but hang on, because it won't last forever. When you get to the end, you'll look back with gratitude for what you learned".
Sometimes the lesson isn't in the overcoming, or the triumph. It's in the late night tantrum, or the lack of progress. It doesn't come at the end of a long road or lesson, but right smack in the middle when it's ugly and painful and perspective is the hardest. It doesn't come from choosing the higher road, but choosing the wrong road and learning from the bumps along the way. It comes from your only achievement being that you have acknowledged that you are a mess. This space can be holy, too.
**********************************************************************************
As all of this went through my head during the short second I stared into room 208 at Ms. Roderick, I wanted to step in and tell her the power of this room. But chances were, she already knew.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Preparing for Battle
"write hard and clear about what hurts"
-Ernest Hemingway
A few months ago, I was out for a run by myself. Despite the oldies rock n' roll beating through my ear buds, I was still able to do a good deal of thinking. I think about a lot of things while I run, most of it passing thoughts. But, on this particular occasion, I had a single thought that stuck with me till today. I reflected on how truly grateful I was for how fantastic my life was going at the time. I felt completely fulfilled in every aspect of my life. Though it kept me VERY busy, I loved my church calling as stake girls camp director. I had amazing friends that I knew I could count on for anything. I had children who were happy and healthy and brought me so much joy. I had a home that I loved and a ward that was friendly and inclusive. My marital relationship was stronger than it had ever been, and we were learning very important things together that blessed our family. In fact, if it wasn't for the pesky neck pain I had been experiencing for awhile, I would think I had died and gone to heaven.
The neck pain.
It always sat in the back of my thoughts, trying to peck its way to the forefront. I woke one day in July of 2015 with a bad crick in my neck. I didn't think anything of it, assuming I had slept on it wrong. A few days later, I awoke with the same pain. There were several intermittent days in the following month that I experienced the now familiar pain, but it always faded after I got up from my bed. I decided that I needed a new pillow, a new mattress, or possibly a new sleeping position. I experimented with all of those things, with little luck.
A few weeks later, I began to notice that my fingers on both hands were feeling very tingly, and often even numb. After a couple of weeks of this, I mentioned it to Ryan. He insisted that I see a doctor. I went to my primary care physician, who ordered blood tests and a nerve test on my hands and arms. Both came back completely negative. I figured I probably had mild carpal tunnel due to an increase in typing. I never connected the pain in my neck with the numbness in my fingers.
That fall and winter, the pain increased and spread. It seared through my muscles like a hot iron and was in my head, my neck, my back and shoulders, and down my right arm. It was no longer reserved for the night, though that was the most hellish time, and began to affect my functionality on a daily basis. The numbness traveled from my fingers into my hands and arms, and began to make its way down my torso. If I was being honest with myself, I was scared out of my mind. I was losing strength in my extremities. I could no longer pick up my 3 year old. My fine motor dexterity was going downhill fast. I could no longer type with any accuracy. This affected my very favorite thing to do, write and blog. So I stopped. I struggled to button up my own sweater, my handwriting reverted back to when I was 8 years old, and I was constantly dropping things.
I tried to figure out what was wrong. I really did. I visited multiple chiropractors, primary care doctors, did physical therapy, and got an x-ray. I felt like each new person I saw was just guessing at my problem, or putting a band-aid on it and showing me on my merry way. Eventually, I went on prescription pain relievers, something I had tried to avoid, but which ultimately saved me from going insane. By May, my pain was controlled with medication, but the weakness and numbness increased all the time. I knew I needed to do something different. So, I changed up my family doctor. I opted to got with a physician assistant in my ward. I needed someone who felt some accountability to me. Someone who would see me as a person, and not just something to be swept under a rug.
He ordered an MRI for me immediately. I could have kissed him. By this point, I had self-diagnosed my problems as a horrible herniated disk. I felt like I needed an MRI to show this so I could get it taken care of. My MRI was scheduled for Memorial Day, May 30th. I skipped into that office full of hope and happiness on a day that usually carries heavy emotional stress. I was on cloud nine, finally feeling like I was going to get somewhere. This was going to be the beginning of the end of my problems. The procedure went off without a hitch, and I moved on to my BBQ for the day. My greatest fear was that nothing would show up on the images, and that I would be labeled as crazy.
The next day was a Tuesday. I was going to girls camp the next day, something that was occupying every brain cell that I had. I got a call from the P.A.'s office late in the afternoon. She told me that they had received the results from my MRI and that they were going to need me to come in for a follow-up appointment the next day. I told her I was going out of town and wouldn't be available. She asked me what time I was heading out of town. Could I come in before? My stomach did a little flippity flop. I told her that I was going to be tied up from 6:15 a.m. She asked when I would be back. When I told her Saturday, she proceeded to make me an appointment for 7:30 a.m. on Monday morning. I was glad that they had found something, but I couldn't shake the feeling that her urgency gave me.
For the next four days, I was so busy that I could hardly think. I had to coordinate 250 people, give talks, teach classes, go on hikes, counsel, troubleshoot, play games, dance, learn, and laugh until I thought I would explode. It was a whirlwind gift from God that didn't allow me to think of myself for one minute. I felt true happiness and joy. On Friday night, I had the chance to sit for a minute with my journal and think. I wrote down the things that came to my mind, and what began to flow sent electricity down my spine. It wasn't in my voice, but another that I had come to rely on with even greater assurance. It told me about how much my Savior loved me. It told me about how strong I was. And then it told me that things were about to get really, really hard and that I needed to remember the feelings of love I had felt on that night. I was told that I needed to trust in the plan that had been laid out for me from the Beginning, and to remember that all things are consecrated for my good. And then I knew. I didn't KNOW, but I KNEW. I stuffed that feeling deep down inside of me and tried to keep it from welling up in my throat over and over again as I finished off my duties for girls camp.
The rest of that weekend was a blur. A new bishop was put in place in our ward, and Ryan was called to be in the bishopric. I tried to focus on the logistics, excitement, and increased load that placed on our family, but through all of that, I couldn't shake the feelings surrounding the knowledge I now had. I became withdrawn and sick to my stomach. I tried to sleep that night, but only managed a few hours as my mind raced a million miles an hour. Ryan planned to go in to work late so that I could go to my early doctors appointment. I had no appetite and left the house without eating. I arrived at the office 15 minutes before my appointment, and it was still locked up. I didn't like that at all. I walked to the gas station next door to buy myself a juice. My hands were shaking and I could feel my face contorting against my will. As I walked back to the medical complex, it came as clear as a bell. "I AM IN CONTROL. TRUST ME". Over and over again.
When I finally sat down with the physician assistant, the words he said brought no surprise.
"We found a mass on your MRI".
My immediate thought was that there was nothing in this world I wanted to do LESS than call my husband and tell him that. I broke down shaking and sobbing, but there was no fear for myself. Only for my family. A family that understands loss and uncertainty all to well. I had to gather up every ounce of strength I possessed to call him. And then we clung together for the rest of the day, shutting out the outside world and relying on each other and our understanding of God's plan to keep us from going to pieces.
We spent a good week and a half in no man's land. We waited impatiently for our appointment with a neurosurgeon to give us the details of what we faced. I didn't like it one bit. I am a fighter, by nature. But you cannot fight an enemy that you do not know. I struggled to eat, sleep, and accomplish anything of any value. It was pure torture, except for the part where we got back to what really matters. We sang to "The Gambler" on high volume in our van, eating chocolate chip cookies and laughing. We went to the park with our kids and let them feed the ducks for hours. I held my baby for an extra long time each night before I put him to bed. Our kisses were more sincere, less hurried. I cuddled in bed with my kids in the morning, stroking their hair and listening to their chatter. It was heaven.
We met with the neurosurgeon on Wednesday. I heard him say, "You have a tumor in your actual spinal cord, and its a big one. What took you so long to get in here? Its nothing short of a miracle that you are not completely incapacitated". We looked at images and talked statistics and procedures and risks. He performed tests on me. I learned a new word. Ependymoma. It is a rare cancerous tumor that shows up in the brain or spinal cord. Mine looks like a hot dog in a hose and has completely filled up my spinal cord. I learned that usually it is low grade and non-aggressive, and that, barring something unusual, they shouldn't have to follow surgery up with radiation or chemotherapy. I learned that the survival rate is high, but the risk comes from the surgery itself. They will open up the back of my neck, take off my vertebrae, and cut into my spinal cord to remove the tumor. This scares me. A lot. Then they will bolt and screw my spine back together and call it good. I learned that the odds are fairly small of sustained neurological damage due to surgery, but not small enough for me. I learned that I will probably never live a life free of numbness, pain, and weakness again. But I will be alive. I learned that past experiences that have required me to dig deep down inside of myself just to make it through the day have sufficiently prepared me for another test.
Knowledge is power.
I am ready.
He ordered an MRI for me immediately. I could have kissed him. By this point, I had self-diagnosed my problems as a horrible herniated disk. I felt like I needed an MRI to show this so I could get it taken care of. My MRI was scheduled for Memorial Day, May 30th. I skipped into that office full of hope and happiness on a day that usually carries heavy emotional stress. I was on cloud nine, finally feeling like I was going to get somewhere. This was going to be the beginning of the end of my problems. The procedure went off without a hitch, and I moved on to my BBQ for the day. My greatest fear was that nothing would show up on the images, and that I would be labeled as crazy.
The next day was a Tuesday. I was going to girls camp the next day, something that was occupying every brain cell that I had. I got a call from the P.A.'s office late in the afternoon. She told me that they had received the results from my MRI and that they were going to need me to come in for a follow-up appointment the next day. I told her I was going out of town and wouldn't be available. She asked me what time I was heading out of town. Could I come in before? My stomach did a little flippity flop. I told her that I was going to be tied up from 6:15 a.m. She asked when I would be back. When I told her Saturday, she proceeded to make me an appointment for 7:30 a.m. on Monday morning. I was glad that they had found something, but I couldn't shake the feeling that her urgency gave me.
For the next four days, I was so busy that I could hardly think. I had to coordinate 250 people, give talks, teach classes, go on hikes, counsel, troubleshoot, play games, dance, learn, and laugh until I thought I would explode. It was a whirlwind gift from God that didn't allow me to think of myself for one minute. I felt true happiness and joy. On Friday night, I had the chance to sit for a minute with my journal and think. I wrote down the things that came to my mind, and what began to flow sent electricity down my spine. It wasn't in my voice, but another that I had come to rely on with even greater assurance. It told me about how much my Savior loved me. It told me about how strong I was. And then it told me that things were about to get really, really hard and that I needed to remember the feelings of love I had felt on that night. I was told that I needed to trust in the plan that had been laid out for me from the Beginning, and to remember that all things are consecrated for my good. And then I knew. I didn't KNOW, but I KNEW. I stuffed that feeling deep down inside of me and tried to keep it from welling up in my throat over and over again as I finished off my duties for girls camp.
The rest of that weekend was a blur. A new bishop was put in place in our ward, and Ryan was called to be in the bishopric. I tried to focus on the logistics, excitement, and increased load that placed on our family, but through all of that, I couldn't shake the feelings surrounding the knowledge I now had. I became withdrawn and sick to my stomach. I tried to sleep that night, but only managed a few hours as my mind raced a million miles an hour. Ryan planned to go in to work late so that I could go to my early doctors appointment. I had no appetite and left the house without eating. I arrived at the office 15 minutes before my appointment, and it was still locked up. I didn't like that at all. I walked to the gas station next door to buy myself a juice. My hands were shaking and I could feel my face contorting against my will. As I walked back to the medical complex, it came as clear as a bell. "I AM IN CONTROL. TRUST ME". Over and over again.
When I finally sat down with the physician assistant, the words he said brought no surprise.
"We found a mass on your MRI".
My immediate thought was that there was nothing in this world I wanted to do LESS than call my husband and tell him that. I broke down shaking and sobbing, but there was no fear for myself. Only for my family. A family that understands loss and uncertainty all to well. I had to gather up every ounce of strength I possessed to call him. And then we clung together for the rest of the day, shutting out the outside world and relying on each other and our understanding of God's plan to keep us from going to pieces.
We spent a good week and a half in no man's land. We waited impatiently for our appointment with a neurosurgeon to give us the details of what we faced. I didn't like it one bit. I am a fighter, by nature. But you cannot fight an enemy that you do not know. I struggled to eat, sleep, and accomplish anything of any value. It was pure torture, except for the part where we got back to what really matters. We sang to "The Gambler" on high volume in our van, eating chocolate chip cookies and laughing. We went to the park with our kids and let them feed the ducks for hours. I held my baby for an extra long time each night before I put him to bed. Our kisses were more sincere, less hurried. I cuddled in bed with my kids in the morning, stroking their hair and listening to their chatter. It was heaven.
We met with the neurosurgeon on Wednesday. I heard him say, "You have a tumor in your actual spinal cord, and its a big one. What took you so long to get in here? Its nothing short of a miracle that you are not completely incapacitated". We looked at images and talked statistics and procedures and risks. He performed tests on me. I learned a new word. Ependymoma. It is a rare cancerous tumor that shows up in the brain or spinal cord. Mine looks like a hot dog in a hose and has completely filled up my spinal cord. I learned that usually it is low grade and non-aggressive, and that, barring something unusual, they shouldn't have to follow surgery up with radiation or chemotherapy. I learned that the survival rate is high, but the risk comes from the surgery itself. They will open up the back of my neck, take off my vertebrae, and cut into my spinal cord to remove the tumor. This scares me. A lot. Then they will bolt and screw my spine back together and call it good. I learned that the odds are fairly small of sustained neurological damage due to surgery, but not small enough for me. I learned that I will probably never live a life free of numbness, pain, and weakness again. But I will be alive. I learned that past experiences that have required me to dig deep down inside of myself just to make it through the day have sufficiently prepared me for another test.
Knowledge is power.
I am ready.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Coming Clean in 2015
Over the years in my life, I have become a very skilled liar. I don't mean the kind of liar who looks you right in the face and fabricates scenarios, or embellishes details in order to fit the present need (though if you ask my mom, she will probably tell you I did my fair share of this as a little girl). I mean a very different kind of liar; the kind of liar that exists in some small way, in each of us. I had perfected into an art form the practice of lying to myself and of keeping truths to myself when they should have been shared with others. I would stuff these truths down into a dark corner of my soul, pretending that they didn't exist, and beating them over the head when they threatened to emerge. Looking them square in the face felt too threatening, too scary, or too risky.
Adversity in life is a funny thing. Whether it is self-inflicted or inflicted upon us, it creates the same reaction. It lights a fire in our soul that burns so hotly that it can feel like we are being consumed. But eventually, if we allow it to, it purifies whatever it touches. The bigger the adversity, the larger the flame, and the greater its capacity to purify. Though I am no Job, I have seen my share of adversity in my life. Some of it is readily obvious. You need only talk to me for 10 minutes to learn about the basic details of it. Other trials I have endured require a much more intimate relationship to be revealed. These are only shared with a very exclusive group of people. Finally, their are struggles that are so private that I do not trust them with anyone at all, only myself. Suffice it to say, I have seen my share. (To those who don't know me well, please don't take this is a "woe is me" pity party. To those who DO know me, well, you already know that I don't have a single pity party bone in my body. It is purely a statement of fact).
With each adversity that I have experienced in my life, the flame has grown larger and larger, catching on fire everything that it touches. There came a point when it had burned for so long that I stopped to look, and realized I could see straight through myself and out the other side. Not to say that I was perfectly pure, but the heat had taken the gritty, murky sand of my awareness and turned it into crystal clear glass. I could see my motivations, intentions, actions, and who I was with a clarity that took me aback. It was a terrifying experience, one that I had to introduce myself to in degrees, because as I looked through the new glass of my self-awareness, I saw the liar that I had become.
Dishonesty has more power than people give it credit for in our society of self advancement. Its power is one of destruction and separation. The power of dishonesty is that it takes the parties in a relationship and it separates them emotionally. The greater or more frequent the dishonesty, the further the separation. If we are dishonest with our significant others, a rift is created that can leave us feeling like islands when what we should feel is oneness. When we are dishonest with our friends and colleagues, it becomes impossible to feel close and lasting bonds with them. And finally, when we are dishonest with ourselves, we rob ourselves of the most valuable relationship we can have on this earth, the one that is with us every second of every minute of every day.
Inversely, the greater our honesty with ourselves and those around us, the stronger the bond that is formed in our relationships. We become welded together in associations that can transcend what we ever thought possible in this life. This is the feeling we have when our hearts feel like they could burst out of our chests when we consider someone that we love.
At the onset of 2015, I gathered the courage to take a good long look through the glass that is me. Having worked so hard at being a liar, I had created a distant little island, emotionally separated from all I had lied to, especially myself. I realized what I had known for a very long time, that I was lonely. The saddest part about it all was that I knew exactly why and I knew that the power to change it was completely within my control. I say sad, but really it was liberating. Deliciously, terrifyingly liberating. And so I made a New Year's Resolution. I resolved that 2015 would be a year of HONESTY. No more lying to myself. No more keeping truths from others.
This new honesty evolved and shifted, taking many different forms in my life. Though I had committed to speaking my truth, I was still the same girl that I had always been. A.big.fat.chicken. I discovered a tool early on in the year that saved my resolution from dying a sad and untimely death. I discovered that the truth flowed out of me like water when I used the written word.
I began to use this arrow in my quiver slowly and tentatively, realizing in layers the versatility that this voice gave me. I used it to blog about some of the most tender, sacred, or harrowing moments in my life. My goal was to share my truth so that others might benefit from a shared experience, but also because I knew it made me feel emotionally connected to my greater network of friends, family, and acquaintances. Each post that I wrote caused anxiety and several reconsiderations of whether to make myself that vulnerable to the outside world. As I was tempted to shrink from sharing, I remembered that vulnerability is one of the purist forms of honesty. Therefore, vulnerability, as terrifying as it inherently is, creates healthy emotional bonds. So, I shared.
I used my tool of writing to speak the truth inside of me to people who I was not yet friends with, but so sincerely wanted to be. Making friends has never come easily to me, and the dishonesty of keeping truths to myself that should have been shared had made it virtually impossible over the years. With my resolution, sometimes it was all I could muster to send a terrifying, child-like text that said "Hey. I think you are great. I want to be your friend". Other times I would write to tell someone a truth that I felt they needed to hear. These formed messages, texts, and notes filled with the amazing qualities I saw in the people around me. As I shared with them, I felt relationships grow stronger. Other times, the truth that needed to be spoken was an uncomfortable one. There were times when someone wronged me through insensitive or blatant words or acts. The old me would swallow this truth, holding it in my stomach until it made me feel physically sick. As I found the courage to say these truths to the appropriate party in a mature way, I felt the liberation of honesty. True to form, miraculously, these truths created stronger emotional relationships as well.
I learned to be more honest with my husband and my family, my most favorite relationships that I possess. I said the truths about how I felt about them as often as I could think of them. I allowed them to see me as I truly am, as difficult as that was at times. The discoveries we made along the way from being honest have taken us from the a place of futility and darkness to a place of light, hope, and progress.
Being honest with myself was the hardest skill to learn. I am human, and therefore, I am made up of many beautiful and weak parts. I took myself apart, piece by piece. I owned the weak parts so that I could understand them for what they were and learn to improve them if I could, or navigate my life within them if I must. The beautiful parts were as hard to face as the weak ones. Probably more so, actually. Statements of truth about my personal strengths left me with "Who do you think you are?" feelings. I decided to push through, so that I could hone the talents that God gave me. As I learned to analyze these beautiful and weak parts of me, and see them for what they really were, the emotional bond I felt with myself increased ten-fold. I felt more mercy for my weaknesses and more admiration for my strengths. It sounds funny to say, but I found a greater friend in myself than I found in anyone else during this year.
As 2015 draws to a close, I raise my glass of sparkling cider in a toast to the things I learned this year. Here's to vulnerability, and raw honesty. They are game changers. I look forward to the journey that 2016 has in store for me. One thing is for sure. Its going to be a wild ride.
Adversity in life is a funny thing. Whether it is self-inflicted or inflicted upon us, it creates the same reaction. It lights a fire in our soul that burns so hotly that it can feel like we are being consumed. But eventually, if we allow it to, it purifies whatever it touches. The bigger the adversity, the larger the flame, and the greater its capacity to purify. Though I am no Job, I have seen my share of adversity in my life. Some of it is readily obvious. You need only talk to me for 10 minutes to learn about the basic details of it. Other trials I have endured require a much more intimate relationship to be revealed. These are only shared with a very exclusive group of people. Finally, their are struggles that are so private that I do not trust them with anyone at all, only myself. Suffice it to say, I have seen my share. (To those who don't know me well, please don't take this is a "woe is me" pity party. To those who DO know me, well, you already know that I don't have a single pity party bone in my body. It is purely a statement of fact).
With each adversity that I have experienced in my life, the flame has grown larger and larger, catching on fire everything that it touches. There came a point when it had burned for so long that I stopped to look, and realized I could see straight through myself and out the other side. Not to say that I was perfectly pure, but the heat had taken the gritty, murky sand of my awareness and turned it into crystal clear glass. I could see my motivations, intentions, actions, and who I was with a clarity that took me aback. It was a terrifying experience, one that I had to introduce myself to in degrees, because as I looked through the new glass of my self-awareness, I saw the liar that I had become.
Dishonesty has more power than people give it credit for in our society of self advancement. Its power is one of destruction and separation. The power of dishonesty is that it takes the parties in a relationship and it separates them emotionally. The greater or more frequent the dishonesty, the further the separation. If we are dishonest with our significant others, a rift is created that can leave us feeling like islands when what we should feel is oneness. When we are dishonest with our friends and colleagues, it becomes impossible to feel close and lasting bonds with them. And finally, when we are dishonest with ourselves, we rob ourselves of the most valuable relationship we can have on this earth, the one that is with us every second of every minute of every day.
Inversely, the greater our honesty with ourselves and those around us, the stronger the bond that is formed in our relationships. We become welded together in associations that can transcend what we ever thought possible in this life. This is the feeling we have when our hearts feel like they could burst out of our chests when we consider someone that we love.
At the onset of 2015, I gathered the courage to take a good long look through the glass that is me. Having worked so hard at being a liar, I had created a distant little island, emotionally separated from all I had lied to, especially myself. I realized what I had known for a very long time, that I was lonely. The saddest part about it all was that I knew exactly why and I knew that the power to change it was completely within my control. I say sad, but really it was liberating. Deliciously, terrifyingly liberating. And so I made a New Year's Resolution. I resolved that 2015 would be a year of HONESTY. No more lying to myself. No more keeping truths from others.
This new honesty evolved and shifted, taking many different forms in my life. Though I had committed to speaking my truth, I was still the same girl that I had always been. A.big.fat.chicken. I discovered a tool early on in the year that saved my resolution from dying a sad and untimely death. I discovered that the truth flowed out of me like water when I used the written word.
I began to use this arrow in my quiver slowly and tentatively, realizing in layers the versatility that this voice gave me. I used it to blog about some of the most tender, sacred, or harrowing moments in my life. My goal was to share my truth so that others might benefit from a shared experience, but also because I knew it made me feel emotionally connected to my greater network of friends, family, and acquaintances. Each post that I wrote caused anxiety and several reconsiderations of whether to make myself that vulnerable to the outside world. As I was tempted to shrink from sharing, I remembered that vulnerability is one of the purist forms of honesty. Therefore, vulnerability, as terrifying as it inherently is, creates healthy emotional bonds. So, I shared.
I used my tool of writing to speak the truth inside of me to people who I was not yet friends with, but so sincerely wanted to be. Making friends has never come easily to me, and the dishonesty of keeping truths to myself that should have been shared had made it virtually impossible over the years. With my resolution, sometimes it was all I could muster to send a terrifying, child-like text that said "Hey. I think you are great. I want to be your friend". Other times I would write to tell someone a truth that I felt they needed to hear. These formed messages, texts, and notes filled with the amazing qualities I saw in the people around me. As I shared with them, I felt relationships grow stronger. Other times, the truth that needed to be spoken was an uncomfortable one. There were times when someone wronged me through insensitive or blatant words or acts. The old me would swallow this truth, holding it in my stomach until it made me feel physically sick. As I found the courage to say these truths to the appropriate party in a mature way, I felt the liberation of honesty. True to form, miraculously, these truths created stronger emotional relationships as well.
I learned to be more honest with my husband and my family, my most favorite relationships that I possess. I said the truths about how I felt about them as often as I could think of them. I allowed them to see me as I truly am, as difficult as that was at times. The discoveries we made along the way from being honest have taken us from the a place of futility and darkness to a place of light, hope, and progress.
Being honest with myself was the hardest skill to learn. I am human, and therefore, I am made up of many beautiful and weak parts. I took myself apart, piece by piece. I owned the weak parts so that I could understand them for what they were and learn to improve them if I could, or navigate my life within them if I must. The beautiful parts were as hard to face as the weak ones. Probably more so, actually. Statements of truth about my personal strengths left me with "Who do you think you are?" feelings. I decided to push through, so that I could hone the talents that God gave me. As I learned to analyze these beautiful and weak parts of me, and see them for what they really were, the emotional bond I felt with myself increased ten-fold. I felt more mercy for my weaknesses and more admiration for my strengths. It sounds funny to say, but I found a greater friend in myself than I found in anyone else during this year.
As 2015 draws to a close, I raise my glass of sparkling cider in a toast to the things I learned this year. Here's to vulnerability, and raw honesty. They are game changers. I look forward to the journey that 2016 has in store for me. One thing is for sure. Its going to be a wild ride.
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
Catching Up
Do you remember when we were dating and you took me on that date to Starbucks? You had to leave for Army Basic Training in San Antonio just a few days after we were engaged. We spent our entire engagement apart, only seeing each other a couple of times before our wedding. I thought I would die from the ache of being apart from you. You were so thoughtful when you called to tell me that you had come up with a way for us to continue to go on dates even though there were a 1000 miles between us. You told me you wanted to take me on a date to Starbucks. We both were deeply engrossed in a love affair with their Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino. You told me to go to the Starbucks in Mesa at 6pm and you would arrive at the same time at the one in San Antonio. We would both buy a drink, call each other, and then sit there and talk while we enjoyed our treat. I was convinced you were the most romantic boy on the face of this planet.
I spent the hour before our meeting time curling my hair, paying special attention to my makeup, and picking out an outfit that I felt complimented my "never carried a child", still super slim figure. Even though I knew you couldn't see me, I wanted to be in the right frame of mind to spend time with you. I arrived a couple of minutes early, ordered my drink, and settled into the modern sofa in the corner for our intimate date. We talked about your struggle to find your place in the Army, my cache of stories from my first year of teaching middle school, and plans for our upcoming wedding. After an hour had passed, I gave up the couch to the next customer and left feeling like I had connected with you on another level, despite the worlds between us.
We haven't gone on a date in a long time.
My mom randomly stopped by today and offered to watch the kids while I took Reagan to ballet. This gave me a 45 minute window during her class to spend however I wanted. I knew immediately what I wanted to do with this rare luxury. We were going on a date. I arrived at our Starbucks, ordered my Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino, and settled into the couch in the corner. I didn't touch my phone. This time was about you and me. I wanted to give you my undivided attention. I sipped slowly on my cold drink and thought about the differences in me since the last time we were in this place. I'm carrying 25 extra pounds, courtesy of 4 beautiful children. My hair was pulled into a messy pony tail, and I was wearing my mom uniform. Skinny Jeans. Black t-shirt. Tennis shoes. Nothing special here. I have several fine lines on my face that weren't there the last time we did this, and the little bit of makeup I put on this morning has since worn off. Instead of having a single solitaire diamond engagement ring on my left hand, I wear a wedding ring on the ring finger of both hands. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself.
I closed my eyes as we talked about Reagan, how I don't think about you as often as I would like, and how you don't talk to me nearly as often as I would like. I squeezed my eyes tight to hold back the tears that threatened to escape, feeling the ache from the distance that separates us. I sat there, just you and me, a million miles apart, but somehow together at the same time. It was good to catch up.
I spent the hour before our meeting time curling my hair, paying special attention to my makeup, and picking out an outfit that I felt complimented my "never carried a child", still super slim figure. Even though I knew you couldn't see me, I wanted to be in the right frame of mind to spend time with you. I arrived a couple of minutes early, ordered my drink, and settled into the modern sofa in the corner for our intimate date. We talked about your struggle to find your place in the Army, my cache of stories from my first year of teaching middle school, and plans for our upcoming wedding. After an hour had passed, I gave up the couch to the next customer and left feeling like I had connected with you on another level, despite the worlds between us.
We haven't gone on a date in a long time.
My mom randomly stopped by today and offered to watch the kids while I took Reagan to ballet. This gave me a 45 minute window during her class to spend however I wanted. I knew immediately what I wanted to do with this rare luxury. We were going on a date. I arrived at our Starbucks, ordered my Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino, and settled into the couch in the corner. I didn't touch my phone. This time was about you and me. I wanted to give you my undivided attention. I sipped slowly on my cold drink and thought about the differences in me since the last time we were in this place. I'm carrying 25 extra pounds, courtesy of 4 beautiful children. My hair was pulled into a messy pony tail, and I was wearing my mom uniform. Skinny Jeans. Black t-shirt. Tennis shoes. Nothing special here. I have several fine lines on my face that weren't there the last time we did this, and the little bit of makeup I put on this morning has since worn off. Instead of having a single solitaire diamond engagement ring on my left hand, I wear a wedding ring on the ring finger of both hands. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself.
I closed my eyes as we talked about Reagan, how I don't think about you as often as I would like, and how you don't talk to me nearly as often as I would like. I squeezed my eyes tight to hold back the tears that threatened to escape, feeling the ache from the distance that separates us. I sat there, just you and me, a million miles apart, but somehow together at the same time. It was good to catch up.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Life is Beautiful
I stole quietly into my 14 month old baby boy's room this morning. I normally go in with a big smile, singing a little song. He greets me with his 5 toothed grin and as much bedhead as he can muster with the modest amount of hair he is sporting these days. Today was a little different because he wasn't awake quite yet, and I wanted it to stay that way. I just needed a few moments to stare at him, to drink him in. Though he can be VERY loud during the day, reaching octaves I thought were reserved only for Pterodactyls, in this moment he was peaceful. I wanted to focus on his life and how in a seeming blink of a eye he had welded his soul to mine. His life holds infinite value for me. It held value before I ever felt those quiet butterfly motions that were the first tangible sign that he was really, really there.
I needed to start slow and thoughtful this morning. I had a rough night, to say the least. I spent hours tossing and turning. Left side, right side, on my back, and repeat. I searched in the darkness for the time on my non-illuminated clock for what seemed like the millionth time. I could hear Ryan's slow and steady breath next to me. It was comforting, and yet still didn't apply enough of the soothing balm necessary to take away the thoughts that assaulted me from every angle. Images and words tore through my brain like a jagged knife.
That's what I get for watching the GOP debate right before I go to bed. I know. I know. I have a few friends and family members that will be inclined to shove their phone back in their pocket or slam the laptop lid shut and not read another sentence. I totally understand. I've done the same to you before (wink wink). Though I am a fiercely political person, I do my very best to avoid politics in the social media world. It is far too easy to forget how much we love each other during a debate that uses such an impersonal medium. Besides that, anybody can post anything and people will take it for fact. Never mind that it was probably written by a chimpanzee in a dark basement with nothing better to do than stir up controversy. An actual chimpanzee.
But this post today, for me at least, isn't political. Some may take it as such, but that's not really my problem. This post is about something I heard last night that I may never be able to shake from my brain.
THIS..... (Warning. This is extremely graphic).
Obama fan? Clinton fan? Fiorina fan? I don't really care. Republican? Democrat? Independent? Purple Spotted Lizard? I don't care. Pro-Life? Pro-Choice? Caught somewhere in the middle? I DONT CARE. Try and listen to this woman's monologue without being moved. I dare you. You see, I have very purposefully avoided any details in the Planned Parenthood controversy out of selfish self-preservation. I know me, and I know that my stomach literally wages war against me when I hear details like this. I know it is the one thing in this world that makes me more MAD than any other. I myself am anti-abortion in most cases. But I understand that abortion is legal and that's not going anywhere. I get that. I understand that there are times when it is necessary. The option was given to the mother of the son I am raising when she found out at 20 weeks along that she had an extremely aggressive brain tumor, and they would not be able to start treatment until she either gave birth or aborted him. It gives me nightmares to think on it, but I wouldn't have blamed her if she chose that path. I understand that sometimes a woman is so scared, ashamed, or uneducated about her options that she truly feels this is the only way out. I get that. This isn't about those women for one hot second. It's not even about the women who are none of the above.
I had an experience earlier this year that I feel like changed the makeup of my character. My husband's brother and his wife struggled to get pregnant for years. When they announced at a family party that they were finally able to conceive, the electricity in the room was tangible. We rejoiced with them when they found out they were having a beautiful baby boy. I felt gripping fear when she was admitted to the hospital only a couple of weeks later with an incompetent cervix. Her body was struggling to hold their precious baby in, and at 21 weeks along, the prognosis was grim. As her body went into labor, they opted for a surgery that would give them a one in a million chance of saving him. But it was not to be, and I felt deep to the core despair as I witnessed his daddy come into a hospital room where we all sat and announce that the surgery had not been successful. His voice cracked and tears streamed down his face as he reported that she would deliver their precious baby Pratt sometime in the next hour.
After his parents and older sister had time to process and spend private time with him, family was invited into the room to share what I am sure will remain one of the most sacred experiences of my entire life. I was able to hold him for a few seconds, see his chest rise and fall, and kiss his smooth baby skin. I witnessed the time that he slipped from this world. During that short hour, my understanding of why we are here in this world and the intrinsic value of life, no matter how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years it has lasted deepened.
This post isn't about abortion. It isn't about politics. It isn't about choices. It isn't about healthcare, or government funding, or women's issues. It IS about what Ms. Fiorina mentioned here in this clip. CHARACTER. It's about RESPECT for living, breathing, kicking "outside of the womb" HUMAN life and the organizations and people that support it and those that do not. And a question. A question that has as many different answers as there are people to answer it. What do YOU support and what do YOU value?
Friday, September 11, 2015
Tipping Points
"It was one of those moments in which history splits, and we define the world as "before" and "after."
Unknown
-Editorial, September 12, 2001
Most days in my life plug along without much notice on my part. They are filled with the kinds of activities that I can do on autopilot. There isn't anything about them that causes me to take notice. Though they probably should, these days never make it into the journal of my life. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. It feels like the mantra of my life.
But there are some days when there is a different feeling in the air. It almost TASTES different. Sometimes these days are obvious, and sometimes, if I don't pay attention, I may totally miss that this is one of those days that will change my life forever. These days are my Tipping Points. They alter or set in motion the major events in my life. Some of my tipping points are beautiful, awe inspiring. Some of them are painful, even excruciating. But they are all sacred. I learned a long time ago that the root meaning of the word sacred was "to make holy". These days are holy to me because, whether beautiful or painful, they are woven together to make the tapestry of my life. I may be biased, but I feel like this tapestry, with all its bright colors and intricate designs, is breathtaking. At the very least it is one of a kind. It is a gift from God, The One Being who knows me more intimately than I know myself. He is helping me to design the tapestry of my life. Because of that, I wouldn't trade it for any other in the world.
September 11, 2001
September 8, 2003
January 22, 2009
August 25, 2009
November 11, 2011
These are not the only important dates in my life, or even the most important. These are simply the dates that have controlled the major course of my life. I find that these points are all interconnected. They are a few of my tipping points that have brought me to where I stand today, a place that I love.
***********************************************************************************
September 11, 2001
It started out normal. I was driving to my 7:00 am math class at Mesa Community College in my grosser than gross white 1989 Ford Crown Victoria. It had no air conditioning (feel sorry for me) so I had the windows down to catch the breeze. On the radio was one of the radio channels with the mindless prattle that I always listened to, but today was different. I could feel my brain switch from subconscious listening to very alert. New York. World Trade Center. Airplane. Horrifying accident. These were all words that sunk into my mind, but I fought to make sense of them. They were so foreign to me. As I parked my car and walked from the parking lot to class, I passed strangers who I knew were sharing the same feelings. We were all in the same boat together. Instead of learning math that day (would math ever be important again?), we all gathered around the one kid in class who had a portable radio with headphones. He relayed the information to us as he heard it. With each new bit of information, I became less and less sure of what I had felt was a very secure world only an hour before. I felt fear. Real, true, paralyzing fear.
That night, in an effort to steady my rocking world with a little bit of the familiar, I got together with my best friend. We talked about the events of the day and how we were feeling. I don't remember much from that conversation 14 years ago, but there is one thing that remains burned in my memory forever. We seemed to sense that that day was a tipping point. We each had 2 brothers, and we both felt fear for them. I was fiercely protective of these boys, only 11 and 15 years old. We feared that our brothers would be asked to fight in a war that was a response to the events of the day. I feared that they would be required to make the ultimate sacrifice. I felt like there wasn't any way possible I could handle that. I KNEW down into my bones that this would affect me in some way, I just didn't know exactly how on that night.
September 8, 2003
2 years later, I was 21 years old. I was fighting to recover, sometimes successfully, sometimes not so much, from the emotional and mental battle of my life. I had a boyfriend, but I already knew that it wasn't going anywhere. I went to the church that night for a ward activity, looking for a distraction. As I walked into the gym, I saw him. He was seated on the floor with his back against the wall. He had dark hair, green eyes (my weakness), and ears that stuck out just enough to keep things interesting. Even though he was seated, I could tell his lean frame was tall. Luckily, I had an excuse to talk to him. He was the little brother of a friend of mine, just home from finishing college. I can't say that I was overwhelmingly physically attracted to him, because I wasn't. Talking to him just felt like....home. And I KNEW. At some point, our paths would merge and would never be separated.
January 24, 2009
That boy. That goofy, kind hearted, adventure-seeking boy. We had been married for a little over a year. I was 4 months pregnant with our daughter, and he had been away from home for a couple of weeks trying to earn his "Expert Field Medical Badge". We had been stationed at Fort Lewis, Washington for a little over a year into his three years as an Army Physician Assistant. It was a Saturday, so I was home from work. I was finally starting to feel some relief from the constant nausea of the last few months. Things were looking up. The phone rang and I felt the twinge of excitement that comes when that's the only form of communication you have with your spouse for awhile. He was really excited. He had some news for me that he felt was a bright spot in his day. Newly inaugurated President Obama had announced that he would shift the focus of the War on Terror back to where he felt the original problem sprang from back in September of 2001. Afghanistan. He needed thousands upon thousands of troops to help fulfill his initiatives. Chess pieces in a strategic battle. Chess pieces with heartbeats. And personalities. And families. "Our brigade has been selected to help make the initial surge. Isn't that exciting?!" I knew it was a tipping point. The feeling in the air changed. Time slowed down. But he was just so damn excited. And so I said the words he wanted me to say. "Wow! Honey, that's really exciting". When our short conversation was over, I hauled my pregnant body into the shower, cranked up the heat all the way and then lay there curled up in a ball and sobbing until it ran to ice cold. It would be easy to blame this moment on pregnant hormones. But I KNEW.
August 25, 2009
Fast forward to 7 months later. Cory had been deployed for 5 weeks, and I was trying to settle into my new normal, a normal that consisted of mothering a 2 month old baby by myself in a state without a single relative. It was work, but I had found comfort in routine, and I was happy. One of our routines was to go on an afternoon walk. The Pacific Northwest air was already starting to chill, and I could feel the moisture coming off the Puget Sound a quarter mile from our house. We walked around the neighborhood, made a brief stop at the little library, and then headed home. We settled into the rocker in her nursery so I could feed her. Then a knock came at the door. I quickly put myself back together, rushed to the front door, and peeked through the side window. There were two men in green army dress uniforms. I should have known, but I was an ignorant, uninformed, brand new army wife. I must have known on some level, because as I let them in and chattered nervously with small talk, I felt an uneasiness and anxiety down into my soul that I just could not explain. I sat on the brown microfiber couch in our front room, painted red because I had a brain lapse one Saturday. I invited them to sit down as well, but only one of them did. The other stayed standing, not 3 feet from me. Poor boy. Captain Harmon. I had never met him before this day, but I will remember his name until the day I die. He couldn't have been more than 25 and he looked as scared as anyone I have ever seen in my life. Then in a broken voice, his face lined with tears, he said "The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that your husband, Captain Cory Jenkins, was killed in action........". I didn't hear the rest. All I could here was the sound of my own voice thundering in my ears "Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God"! Over and over and over again. I felt as helpless as the baby I clung to. There was something deep down inside of me that split in two during that moment and I KNEW that I would never be the same.
November 11, 2011
It's an amazing, and beautiful, and complicated thing to understand how someone can become whole again after they have been broken. Somehow, mercifully, if we let it, it happens. There usually isn't a defined moment. It heals slowly, like a cut that is growing layers upon layers of new, pink skin in place of the old. There may always be a scar to remind us of the trauma, but we really can be whole again. That "whole" looks different for each person. I had grown many layers of new skin before I ever met Ryan Walters. He was the opposite in almost every way of Cory. Yet somehow, this opposite felt like HOME, too. Funny how that works. We held hands across a beautiful white alter in a temple designed to be a House of God, surrounded by loved ones, both seen and unseen. I don't remember many of the words of the ceremony, but I do remember the feeling that I had. It was peace, and contentment, and gratitude, and awe, and love, ..... and pain. Pain because healing always, always hurts. If we aren't feeling brave enough to face it head on, we end up running the opposite direction. It was a beautiful hurt, because I KNEW that things would never be the same.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)