Disease

It's the night time, and the kids are in bed. Glass of wine, fire crackling, me alone on the couch. My fingers are clicking away on the computer. I'm enjoying the quiet, but for the occasional cracking of the fire.

I'm not looking over at anyone on their cell phones, or listening to dogs battling unseen enemies. I'm not navigating fighting children, or making phone calls. It's just me and this laptop.

I'm exhausted. It's such a dramatic word, but it doesn't even scratch the surface of the reality behind it. I feel more tired now than I ever have. I feel more sad and angry.

Feelings can be so conflicting. They can mean so much and so little all at once. I can feel a thousand feelings that mean nothing in regards to knowing things. I know all will be okay. I know I am loved. I know this is not a death sentence. I know God has a plan.

I still feel overwhelmed by it all. I still feel like my whole world is coming crashing down. The glimmer of "hope" has been blown out. The belief that everything-will-be-as-I-want is gone. What's left is the aftermath of a diagnosis I neither expected, saw on my radar, or believed would ever come.

For we walk by faith, not by sight. 2 Cor 5.7

This has been my theme verse throughout the years. Now it seems to be oh so relevant. The loss of the "seen" is staring us in the face. But the walk will continue. It has to. We don't get to stand frozen in space because our eyes are covered over. We don't get to stand still and pretend like everything is gone, because what we want to be there, isn't. We don't get to give in to disease and decay and destruction. We walk by faith...not by sight...

The guilt of the gift of my genes overwhelms me. The guilt of my only son having this aggravating disease. The guilt of the knowledge that it came from me, despite all my good intentions, all my understandings, all my hopes and dreams.

I'm exhausted.

I have to be brave. He's watching me. Every time I cry at the doctor's offices, every time I sob in his father's arms, every time I break down... he's watching. He's looking to me to see how he should feel about this. He's waiting to get his cues about how devastating this all will be, from me. He needs me to be confident, assured, and clear that he will be okay. And he will. Even as my nine year old watches his dreams fade away, he will be okay.

He asked me a question the other night, searching for hope in me.

I told him You can do almost anything that anyone else can. You don't have to give everything up. There will be things you won't be able to do. But most things are just problems, waiting for you to solve. 

He said Problems? 

I said Yes. They're just puzzles for you to solve. How can I do this? How can I be successful at this? And you're the best at solving puzzles. I know you will be able to solve them all.

With those few words, he bounded upstairs and back to life.

It's a lot of pressure, holding the confidence of someone so small, in your hands...

Angry

It's after seven in the morning, America, and I've been awake for over two hours. I've done laundry, cooked breakfast, played with the dog, prayed, and talked with my G.A. I've got twenty minutes until my children come down stairs and join me.

Talidu is currently begging me for a bite of my eggs, onions, spinach, and sweet potato hash. She's whining because she can smell it "so bad" and she "needs it!" I find such comfort in how easily my four legged friend communicates what she wants. I find such sorrow that I am the complete opposite.

I'm angry, America. I shouldn't be. I am so blessed to live where I live, have what I have, to love and be loved in return. I'm blessed beyond what I deserve, and I know it. So many, in other places, are struggling underneath burdens that are miles wider and mountains higher than mine. I know all of this, and I am immensely grateful for what I have. I'm still angry.

My priest says anger is about growth. We can't move beyond our weaknesses, or expose our struggles, if they're never tested. Muscles have to be exercised, in order to become strong. Challenges have to come, in order to learn to overcome. I've got refining to do.

I can't say exactly what needs refined. Peace? Joy? Self control? Gentleness? Goodness? I'm so tired. I'm tired of fighting children. I'm tired of a messy house, that is never clean. I'm tired of rudeness. I'm tired of unending noise. I'm tired of illnesses I can't solve.

Maybe that's the straw that broke the camel's back. I hate what is and I desperately don't want it to be.  The "is" could be so much worse. It could be death. It's not death, at least not in a heart-beat type of way. It is a death of dreams, a death of the picture of what was ahead. And in its "death" new life will develop. I know these things. I believe them. I look forward to being able to see how it comes about. I'm still angry.

Trainees

They sit there staring at me, with pleading eyes.

What's it all really like?
What's your favorite duty station?
Are you happily married? They say you can't be and be in the Army.
Do you care about us?

Every time I see them, something in me is changed. Every time I drive past, my heart aches. I love seeing how they change around their families, the version of them that I am blessed to spend time with disappears, confidence swells and joy overwhelms. America, I wish you could see how these boys are brave. They have a courage that I can't define, and it's simultaneously wrapped up in what-the-heck-have-I-done???

I tell them how much I admire them. They joined knowing that we are at war. There are no illusions in their minds about what they are facing. They know that a fight is ahead of them: fights against their fears, their drill sergeants, their desire to sleep, the enemy...

My husband asked me why it impacts me so. I told him it's because I know what's ahead. I've been to too many funerals and hospitals. I've had a front row seat for too many divorces, and fears. I know the enormity of the task before them, and I know that the vast majority of them will have an extremely difficult time handling it. I know that they will desperately look for someone to comfort them, and then make it almost impossible for them to come anywhere near to their heart. I know the walls that will exist, and I know the effort it takes to tear them down. So I feel compelled. I feel burdened. Pour in as much Love, as much courage, and as much Goodness as I humanly can, in the few hours I spend with them, as those walls are being built up. And I hope that it will stay there, with them, forever.

To know is to Love

When I was younger, I hungered for information. I wanted wisdom desperately. I watched, I listened, I asked, I learned as much as I possibly could. I challenged everyone on practically everything. I had no desire to please my peers, or to seek out their approval. Where I turned to approval from, were people who had achieved, as far as my young person's brain could process: joyful marriages, joyful parenting, PHD's, doctors, etc etc etc. If you were joyfully succeeding in the world, I wanted your approval. Perhaps that's still true today.

My priest asked me who I turn to when I'm in need. The honest answer was no one. The conversation was striking, as I heard myself acknowledging, out loud, that simple truth. My children asked me a similar question that evening (a sign that the lesson really needed to be driven home) Mommy? Who knows you best? "I don't know.... No one."

I don't talk about myself. I like to make people laugh, and I love to listen, but there is oh so little to share, and oh so much at the exact same time, and words are solid. They're concrete. They can't be unspoken. For every opinion I have, there's an opposite. How can I speak words that are evolving? How can I formulate thoughts that are changing? How can I declare anything to anyone when what I "think" might be different in the next moment?

About the only concrete I have is Love. God's Love, and the love I hold in my heart for others. It's the solid foundation that exists, in my brain, in a verbal context. I can Love, clearly, because it's been firmly resolved. It isn't a question, but an action. I do it with the fiercest energy I have in my bones. I hope I do it well.

Atheism

Nature is violent. I don't mean human nature, I mean nature, collective. It is destructive, selfish, and wipes out the weak. Even plants function this way. Nature holds no mercy. A vine does not approach a tree and think This tree is old and beautiful, I will not wrap myself around it until it suffocates. Rather, it destroys it all the same.

Stronger plants destroy the weaker. Most entangle their root structures, others steal all of the resources, and some (like the vine, strangle the plant externally).

Animals are no different. Predators hold no mercy for the elderly, the weak, the injured. The strong prey on the weak. They dominate, destroy, kill.

I don't understand how anyone can believe in human goodness with out God. When we look at the realm of all nature, it is inherently destructive. If we truly deny the existence of God, then we must believe in the natural order of things: the strong dominate the weak. It is the belief in God that turns that perspective on its head. Because we believe in God, we advocate for the weak (I make no blind attempts to pretend as if some people have not gone around using their belief in God to go along wit the natural order of things. Obviously this has happened in the past, and continues to do so today).

I mean absolutely no bashing on those who choose to believe in no God. I simply wish to understand a school of thought that makes no sense to me.

Nuggets,

You're all sitting around the kitchen table playing a game. You're talking, laughing, being passionate, and having a blast. Don't forget this.

Life is going to keep coming (as it is intent on doing), and you're going to fight, argue, and have all sorts of things come up in your lives, but don't forget each other.

Fights

America,

We got in a fight at two AM. The doors slammed, the yelling began, and it was game.on. I'm not afraid of a moment of disagreement. I don't fear his anger, or mine. Why? For starters, it is not often that we come to a point of non communication where it becomes angry. Secondly, because I am thankful that I am safe enough to be angry. I don't take for granted the blessing that I can be unreasonable, or unloving, and the entire foundation of our relationship does not disintegrate. My "happiness" is not the platform on which everything stands. 

I love that we can fight, and the words stay on topic (we have finally learned not to slip-and-slide in to: Why don't we just get a divorce then!?!?! -- Come on, America, are we the only ones to have ever done that!?! ...Bueller??). I'm grateful that I can apologize and have it be accepted. I'm grateful that he can apologize, and I can get a new opportunity to show grace.

Disagreements are beautiful. Out of them spawns so many opportunities for personal growth. They expose and reveal our own flaws and weaknesses in magnificent ways. Last night, as I stewed and raged in my brain to Jesus, my King flipped the anger switch and exposed my own errors. My husband, took responsibility for his wrongdoing, and didn't say a word about mine. What mercy! What might! That the God of the universe fought his battles for him, while he stayed silent. WOW!

I don't like apologizing, America. But I will. Truth is, last night, it was 90% me, and 10% Chief. Truth is, sin still permeates my heart, and destruction still flows out of my mouth. Truth is, that Love is both easy and insanely difficult over and over again.

I am thankful for these moments. I am thankful that it's a new day, with a new opportunity to Love and be loved.

America,

Pray for wisdom. Seek out wisdom in all situations. Find someone wise and then learn all you can from them. Run away from fools' advice/suggestions.

Be smart about whom you choose to associate with. Choose your inner circle carefully.

Never stop asking God for wisdom.

Growth

America,

Today I don't feel Jesus in me. I feel angry, exhausted, frustrated, irritated, ready-to-punch-someone-in-the-face-that-pushes-the-wrong-buttons, grateful, and with a full understanding that my life really is not "bad". The reality here is this: there are no quick fixes in growth. Let me repeat that for emphasis: there are no quick fixes in growth.

My Maker is a Master Craftsman. He has this tool called a chisel, and he uses it to hammer away all of the granite and quartz surrounding me. The thing is, breaking away such hard stone, hurts. Transformation, hurts. We don't move forward to what "is" from what "was" with no battle scars and no challenges. St Paul says: "It is necessary for us to undergo many hardships to enter the kingdom of God." (Acts 22b) I can certainly say that in my own life, St Paul has not been made out to be a liar.

God answers prayer. It's miraculous and utterly impossible to explain, but He does. There isn't a trick to it, or a way to manipulate Him in to giving us what we want. But He answers prayer. In my own life, it is often in ways that hurt.

Last night, I was reminded about how quickly life goes away. It's been so many years since the daily fight-for-life battles with the triplets that kept my brain living in the moment. My child became very sick, very suddenly, and my brain replayed the sudden decline of my Mom, as she battled a similar infection. In my daughter's case, it turned out to be different from my Mom, but the imagery was intense. I was afraid.

As suddenly as the illness came on, her disposition changed (within minutes of prayer). So did mine. The thing with my children is this: they know I know a lot about medical stuff, and if I get scared, then they panic. I asked God to help my child, and to also give me courage, to make me brave, so that I could get her the help she needed, and keep her from being afraid. I was sobbing, and then calm. She was fevered and lethargic, then a chatterbox. We found growth in the few clarified moments that illness can bring.

America, I don't feel Jesus. Right now I feel the pain of the Master Craftsman chiseling away the stone. I feel exhausted, but grateful.

Phase

America,

I was prepared for their birth. I knew it was going to be incredibly difficult. I knew I would be exhausted. I was geared up for the emotional toil of three babies that would have incredible needs, coming at once.

If you follow along with the stories that my letters present, then you know I have triplets. You also have probably read a gazillion times that I don't think having one baby is any less difficult than caring for three. Yes, there are differences. Obviously there are greater demands, physically and financially, but the emotional drain, the self doubt, the constant questioning about whether or not you are ruining your infant's life is the same. Parenting is challenging.

When I think of something as "hard" it usually pertains to emotion. Physical demands simply are, and my body generally adapts to them. Mothering them as littles was not emotionally challenging like I envisioned it would be, but it was very much so physically demanding (exactly what I had prepared for). Yes, they were on death's door so many times I can't even remember them all, but the busy-ness of everything kept my mind preoccupied. The constant physical needs kept me always relying on Jesus for one more minute of energy, one more second of snuggles, one more cup of coffee.

America, I am currently in the "hardest" stage ever. I wish I could wrap it all up and make it look pretty, but it isn't. I wish I could tell all you ladies who've had babies close together "so it's almost like having had a set of twins!" to shut the frick up. Why? Because it isn't. Cut, paste, go to print.

I suppose I was blindsided by this, to some degree. The physical demands of them as infants and little ones was so Everestish that I never could have anticipated the emotional, patience trying, frustration making, aggravation of this phase: three children entering in to pre-teen hood, together. There's no staggering in slowly, one by one, while the oldest starts to slowly phase out. There's no gradually paying for braces. There's no easing in to boys and girls liking boys and girls, and all of the emotional demands that those conversations entail. They're all in it together and I have to be real with you, America, I freaking hate it.

The past four weeks, my house has been filled with children struggling through overwhelming emotions, which causes screaming and yelling and me having a headache. They are learning that they have their own opinions about things, and that often times those opinions are very different from the other ones' opinions, and that doesn't feel "nice" (Why? Because triplets grow as a set of "three" even though they've been encouraged to have their own sense of selves. They want to belong to each other, be similar to each other and they have a unique heartache when they don't. This is not to say that singletons don't struggle with this idea of wanting to belong. My oldest is a singleton and that is reality, but I have to be clear here: it is no where near the same.). They are recognizing cliques and how it feels to be in the clique or excluded from it. They are having acne, and smells, and changes, that are all rushing upon them like an avalanche. I'm here in its path, America. I've got myself anchored into the mountain, because I've been on this sucker for a lot of years now, but the pounding of this wave is battering me. 

This is the hardest phase I've navigated yet.

As they grow and change, my mind replays over and over what was. It remembers their NICU days, it re plays their tiny bodies. My mind recalls the miracles, and the fears. My brain reminisces the snuggles and the closeness. My heart aches, because the reality of the world is coming in and it sucks.

I adore these people! They are such cool human beings. They're so thoughtful and kind. They're helpful and respectful. They are extremely intelligent, determined, driven. They are strong and resilient, but also fragile and sensitive. They're my nuggets, and every day I get to spend with them is beautiful (especially the annoying ones). 

I wasn't prepared, America. I didn't prep myself for this phase, because quite honestly, I didn't expect it to come so soon. I'm reeling a bit. And I'm also afraid for it to end. That last sentence was a bit bizarre, right? Why the heck is she afraid for this awful phase to end!? Because when it ends, they're grown up. That's the ugly truth of it. When it ends, they'll be gone, and the reality of that hurts.

Growing up is strangely painful, for the parents. I hate this phase.

Present

Time keeps on ticking. It keeps on pummeling through, slow and steady. Sometimes it drags and drags, sometimes you can't slow it down. Funny how our feelings make the steady rhythm of time feel different.

People tell parents not to take it for granted, the snuggles the tiredness, the littleness of the babies. They tell you to cherish the tears and all of the ugliness because one day it will be gone. The truth is, America, you won't know it when it is. You will not realize it's your last time giving them a bath, or washing their hair. You won't know the last time that they climb in your lap and squeeze your cheeks in their hands. You won't know the last time they wobble over to you and fall in to your arms. You won't know the last time you feed them their food, or need to clean up their face after dinner. You won't know the last time a question like "Would you like me to hold your hand" no longer is answered with YES! Please be with me Mommy! but instead will get a casual shoulder shrug and a If you want to. You won't realize it until it happens, and that's when you'll feel sad.

We are raising independence. It's one of the most beautiful actions I have ever made. It very well could be the best thing I've ever done. Not in terms of their life choices, or who they grow up to be, but in the very act of raising independence. Their choices, careers, spouses, etc are their own. I will not wear a badge of honor or dishonor in regards to them. But their independence? That's all us (and Jesus. Always Jesus.).

From the moment of my oldest's birth, independence has been the goal, and the heartache. When she left my body, I remember sobbing to her Daddy This is her first step of not needing me anymore. He kind of chuckled and told me I was ridiculous. We were caring for a newborn baby, she clearly was not independent, but her physical life was no longer dependent on mine. Her heart beat did not need mine to keep going. Her lungs did not need mine to keep breathing. Her body was on its own now. We were no longer one flesh, but now two, and it hurt my heart.

These days, my first born looks closer and closer to an adult. Her demeanor and attitude is very serious and intense. The little girl who used to giggle and laugh is still in there, but the complexities of growing up are moving in. I remember her telling me just a few years ago that she didn't want to grow up, because she always wanted me to take care of her. I remember telling her that it happens gradually, she probably won't notice until one day she'll look back and realize it's happened. I told her Don't take any moment for granted. In the blink of an eye, you will be an adult.

I feel proud of her independence. But I would be a liar if I said I didn't miss the days when her needs from me were more pronounced and less cryptic. I long for the days when the demands were obvious. I miss the simplicity.

We have entered in to the dance of grey areas and hazy lines. It's as if the fog has rolled in and the ground is hidden. We know it's there, we know we're standing on it, but we can't see it.

I'm not confused, America. I know she needs me now just as much (if not more so) than she did then. I understand that our work is not complete. I grasp that as long as there is breath in my lungs, it never will be. I will always be advocating, educating, supporting, encouraging, correcting, and on and on.

When they tell you not to take it for granted, what they really mean is this: enjoy the exhausting simplicity. Enjoy the simple demands and questions. Revel in the child who calls for you, cries for you, looks to you.

As the mom of triplets, I completely grasp how exhausting it all is. Every single moment of parenting is daunting. Without Jesus, I don't think I could handle it. The sheer magnitude of the responsibility is enough to make any sane person's knees buckle. A person's whole life is dependent on you not being a selfish asshole (which happens to be exactly what I am). It's completely insane! But it's also beautiful. It's fantastically, painfully beautiful. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Failure To Choose What is Right

Nuggets,

I don't feel like being forgiving. I don't feel like hoping for the best and believing in the good. This morning I feel like feeling sorry for myself. I want to be a victim right now. I want to wallow and revel in all the oh-woe-is-me's that are dancing around in my brain. I want to spew hateful, unforgiving words that can never be taken back, and I want to not feel sorry about now they hurt. I want to say all of the things that I don't say, and dive head first in to the muddy water that is clouding up my brain. I want to throw sticks and stones and break bones. And I did.

Damn it, I did.

I screamed and hurled and said all of the unspoken disappointments out loud. I was hateful and cruel, and the Love of our Savior was nowhere in it. There is no ability for me to doctor it up. There is no defense. I unloaded a plethora of destruction at the heart of your Dad this morning. I didn't win anything. I lost.

Why am I telling you this, nuggets? You weren't even awake to hear any of it. You weren't present to witness the hideous components of my sinful, unforgiving heart. You didn't feel my desire for vengeance. You didn't experience the hate my veins were surging with.

I wish I could say that before he left, Love was restored to my wicked heart, but it wasn't. I sent him off to work in that hateful soup of words. I'm sitting here now flickering between good and evil... wanting to nurse the wounds of betrayal and heartbreak that I legitimately feel, and knowing that it serves no purpose but to destroy, both your father and myself.

I can't control your father's actions. I can't make him do the right things. I can't force him to be wise or discerning. I can't compel him to choose love instead of selfishness. I can't. I want to, but I can't. Your dad is amazing. He is gentle and patient. He is quiet and sincere. He is filled with many beautiful, beautiful attributes that I desire in myself. He is also filled with many, many flaws (just like me).

We have a beautiful love, your dad and I. It is something rare, that is valuable and enviable and I completely get how it could create an illusion of what Love is "supposed" to be. I suppose I'm telling you about the ugliness of my heart this morning, because I want you rooted in reality about marriage. It is hard. It hurts like hell. Sometimes you'll be the one doing the hurting, and sometimes you'll be the one hurt. Sometimes both.

Your father hurts me, a lot. I have done my fair share of damage to him. We don't live in an illusion of perfection. We're a mess. We do terrible things. We say terrible things. We are flawed.

I owe your father an apology. And I will do it. It's not about what he did to me, or failed to do. The apology is not about making him "see" or being afraid that he didn't grasp how much he hurt me. I will apologize because my behavior was wicked. I will apologize and seek forgiveness because Love demands mercy and forgiveness from my heart, over and over and over again. Love commands me to respond with gentleness. Love demands that I hope for the best, believe in the best, assume the best, of your father. Love commands me to persevere. It's not about him. It's about me.

Whomever you marry, is going to hurt you like hell. They're going to hurt you in ways you could never have imagined. You will evaluate and re evaluate over and over again what on earth you have gotten yourself in to. You will want vengeance. You will want to make them pay, because in your own hearts, you'll think, stupidly, that it will somehow make them grasp the blow that they've dealt you. It won't. It will only serve to make the wounds bigger... both in yourself and in your spouse.

I hate when I choose not to Love.

Stages of Grief

I suppose I thought I'd passed it by. The memories and the hurts of this day. I thought Maybe this will be the first year that it won't hurt. It won't anguish. I won't grieve...

We left church and were driving home, and I felt like a vacuum came and sucked all of the oxygen out of my chest. Emotions surged and washed and soared and I couldn't define it or describe it or psychoanalyze it, in that moment. I felt angry. Super angry. Angrier than I've ever felt before.

It was bizarre, because it was so completely unexpected. In the years past, February has been filled with the conflicted feelings of grief and joy all surrounding a day... the day my children were born. The day of loss. The day of death. The day that my physical body was free from the weight of them, and the day the psychological agony, the emotional strain, the intensity of it all began. Five years they were in and out of hospitals. Five years of never knowing if this sickness was going to be the one to take them for good. Five years of spending so much time in the PICU that the nurses recognized and knew us by name as we walked in. Five years of grief and guilt and sorrow.

Anger was new. But angry, I was. I asked my husband to keep driving. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to stop moving. I can't say why, it's just where I was at. I am angry. I'm angry about all of the grief and the loss. I'm angry about all of the years I worried and waited... waited for them to die, and waited for them to get better. I'm angry about not carrying them longer. I'm angry about not remembering to cherish each beautiful moment, because I was so overwhelmingly afraid all.the.time.

How can you love your own children in that atmosphere? You can't. Not really. Love is not fear.

I was so alone in that surgical room. I remember feeling so immensely alone, and the solitude of that weight is daunting. I remember the sobbing, the burden... so many things I can't define. I remember the nurse who held me, and I remember apologizing over and over again for crying so fiercely. I was so tired, nuggets. I was so tired and afraid, and exhausted. I just wanted it to be done, but I also wanted it to continue. I was torn between the death of myself and the death of you, and I felt lost. I didn't know if I would ever see you or hold you. I didn't know if I would ever hear you cry or see you smile. I didn't know anything, and in that moment the weight of the entire world crashed down on my exhausted, over-weighted body. I broke.

In the car tonight, I felt alone. A voice whispered in my brain: You're not alone now and you weren't alone then. I know that. I hold on to that with all the might that my fragile hands can. Truth is rooting. It anchors us to the earth while the waves wash over. I was not alone then, and I'm not alone now. Even if my feelings say otherwise.

I wish that this story could be defined in a beautiful way. I wish, my beloved nuggets that the deep and intense love I have for you will never be lost in the grief of that singular day. I hope that my lifetime of dying for you over and over again will be the foundation of love and affection that you hold on to when your own waves of loneliness wash over. I begged God over and over again for your lives. In every plea, he mercifully saw my grief and answered the call. He healed you and has kept you here, and I know His purpose for you is magnificent!

I hope you see mercy in these stories. I hope you understand, maybe just a little, why I've spent so many days afraid, and worked so hard to overcome this weakness in myself. I hope you never misinterpret this sorrow as your fault, or your burden to bear. It's not. The sorrow is my own. It's my own weakness, my own flaws, my own vulnerability. It's when my body broke, even though my will wanted something else. It is the singularly most powerful lesson where God showed me His divinity and my humanity and without it I would not be who I am.

You three, and your precious older sister, saved me. You saved me from the greatest lie the devil ever convinced me of: that I am running this show.

But tonight, I felt so angry. Tonight I feel so sad. Tonight I feel sorry. Sorry for what I wasn't able to do. Sorry for what didn't happen. Sorry that I didn't get to be awake to hear your first cries, and see your tiny bodies. Sorry that my stupid body wasn't numb, and sorry that I couldn't control the screams that surged out of my as they cut in, so that Dr. E knew I could feel it all. Sorry that you were taken away from me, and I was sent home with out you for 6 weeks. Sorry that you didn't get to breast feed, and that you were poked and prodded and pestered for years after your birth. I'm sorry that I didn't carry you longer so that you were stronger and more able to handle the germs that came at you.

I'm sorry for every IV you've had to get, every feeding tube, every blood draw, every PIC line... I'm sorry, because every time they did it to you all I felt in my heart is I'm a freaking asshole... if I had only carried them longer!

So I'm angry... maybe next year I'll reach acceptance?

pain

Sometimes the pain is so intense that I'm doubled over, trying not to throw up, sobbing. I have a mass, of some sort, growing on one of my ovaries. It became infected. We are hoping it's a cyst that will dissolve.

I have finished my antibiotics. I will go back for a follow up visit in several weeks to be re-scanned (this will be looking to see if it's grown, shrunk, or disappeared - yay for disappearing acts!). Why am I telling you this? A lot of reasons.

The first is that to attempt to define this pain to you is impossible. It comes in unpredictable waves, but always with the same level of intensity. It begins in my back, and then shoots throw my pelvis making labor seem like a walk in the park. Nothing helps (well, by "nothing" I mean ibuprofin doesn't help, because I don't take heavy duty painkillers as a general policy in regards to myself).

America, I am filled with blessings. Please don't read this as a complaint letter. It's not. I have health insurance. I have an amazing team of medical providers, who tell me when to be concerned and when not to be. I have a husband who rubs my shoulders and sits with me while I cry and breathe and wait it out. I have children who do their best to help out, and who have compassion and mercy in having to miss out on events we were planning to go to because one of those waves came crashing down on me. I am disgustingly fortunate. I do not take this for granted for one moment.

The second is because it has reminded me how often we carry burdens that we don't share. Very few people know what is going on here. Not because it's a secret, it's just not something that generally comes up in conversation. Hey guys! How are ya? I have an infected mess of something on my ovary! It hurts like a son of a motherless goat! How about them apples!?!! 

How many times have we come in to contact with someone particularly feisty or snippy, and assumed they were just a jerk? How many times have we made assessments and judgments about the people we encounter, when we don't have all the details? Why is it so difficult to assume the best in people? Why is it so easy to believe the worst?

Thirdly, prayer is powerful. I am terrified of cancer. I had court side tickets to my Mom's cancer. It wasn't glamorous or beautiful. It was fierce and awful. The devil knows this fear in me. He prods it and stokes those coals in my heart, trying to ignite a fire. If I'm paralyzed by fear, then I have forsaken Love.

This morning a wave came. I say "wave" because it really comes like that. It is sudden and uncontrollable. There will be no pain and then all of a sudden I feel like I can't catch my breath. Even if I'm sobbing, I still know how fortunate I am.

Dreams

Mommy...?
Yes?
Mommy???
Yes? I'm in here.
(panicked) MOMMY!?!?
(louder) I'm in here! You okay?
I dreamt that you died. 
(arms flew around this nugget, in a polar bear hug) I'm not dead. I'm here.

We stayed wrapped up for several minutes, until the fear washed away, until the assurance that I'm still here settled in. It was beautiful and magical. It was powerful. This kid has been difficult for me to reach lately. I know that phases come and go, but this one seemed to linger. In this single moment, it was like a light in the darkness rose up to say "Keep going. You're getting through. Even if it doesn't feel like it."

I told that child of mine I will never go away. Even when my body does, my heart will always be with you. Come what may. Because my heart beats in yours. My blood runs in yours. My breath inhales and exhales in yours. Even when the moment comes that you can't see me, put your hand on your chest and know that I'm there.

Oh how Love can heal our hurts and chase away our fears!

Illness

Legs bare, a sheet draped over, prodded and poked, tears falling. Falling like waterfalls that I couldn't stop.

Fear is the most powerful and dangerous of experiences. I have had my fair share, to be frank.

I have walked a path like this before. It's become familiar, how it winces and pulls. The angst is almost like an old friend, rising up out of a photo album saying well hello there!

I turn away because I'm not interested. I plug my ears and I hum my tunes and I cry because I just.can't.ignore you. I rationalize and I google search because it's all going to be nothing. I know this. I believe this.

But what if I'm wrong?

So.what. If I am then my body will die, and a phoenix will rise out of the ashes, just like the last time. I carried death around in my body, on my soul, in my uterus for seven and a half months. I sobbed unstoppable tears when death was taken out, and the alarms dinged and the crash cart came the night that baby left me for good. I died on that hospital table. I died over those seven months. I died in the aftermath of watching and grieving and aching and wondering what have I done? over and over again. Out of the ashes of that mother frenching nightmare rose three magnificent as all freaking might, phoenixes. They are my fire birds. They are my miracles. I died, so they could come.

Whatever this is, this infection, this war that my body may or may not be waging on itself, this source of pain... it will.not.win. So I say so what to it. I scream it and I cry it and I whisper it. Because the truth is, I'm afraid of it. Stupidly so. I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid of the silences that are bombarding me at every turn. I'm afraid of the imaginings dancing around in my brain. I'm embarrassed by my fear, my inability to control my imagination, my breakdown. but it's a part of my story so it must be shared.

We are all waiting. Eager for a phone call that we hope will say It's just a fluke infection and everything is good! I'm hunched over from the probing, dosed up on ibuprofen and heating pads just to get through my afternoon.

My body has been my "enemy" before. I survived. Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.