Hunger & Surprise

There's an old saying--be careful what you wish for, because it might just come true. So far in life this has not held any relevance for me. Nothing I've ever wished for has ever come back to bite me. (Although, as a child enamored with WWII fiction I romanticized the idea of a country at war. For a little while I thought the "War on Terror" might have been my fault. Don't judge me, I was 13.) 

In any case, I have seldom feared wishing or hoping for something simply because I feared receiving that thing might be bad. I have, however, feared hoping or wishing for something because the prolonged absence of my desire would be altogether too painful. When you hunger for something so deeply it consumes all your thoughts, being denied can bring only destruction. 

This is one of the truest sorrows in life. We dare not to hope, for fear our hopes will be crushed. We stuff our hope in pockets and hide it in closets and bury it in the backyard where it can't be found. Or worse, we hold our hope in shaking palms and then we crush it ourselves, just so someone else won't do it first. 

And yet, that thing we hope for, that thing we hunger for, cannot always be neglected.

And all of this was on my mind 2 weeks ago when I went to see my obgyn. 

It was  a routine supposed to be a routine visit. It had been rescheduled once already, like most of my visits to the obgyn. When I arrived I was informed I would need to get into a paper gown and wait, but the doctor wasn't sure what procedure she was doing yet. I brushed off my confusion and got into the paper gown, only for the nurse to come back and tell me they needed to do another test first and so I got out of the paper gown and back into my clothes. 

When I returned, the nurse had moved my belongings to a different exam room and said cheerfully, "The doctor wants to redo the EMB so I have some paperwork for you to sign. Then you can get back into the gown."

I was halfway through my signature when I realized EMB meant endometrial biopsy. 

Let me be honest: I had been hoping I was pregnant, and that I just didn't know it yet. I want motherhood so desperately that I am willing to suffer through a surprise at the doctor's office. I hate surprises, I am terrible at surprises, but I would welcome such a wonderful surprise if it meant my heart's desire would be satisfied. 

But they had already done that test. I was not pregnant. I could not be pregnant if they were doing a biopsy--a biopsy I had not prepared for. Usually I would take some painkillers beforehand and plan something relaxing afterwards to distract me from the pain. None of that happened.

The doctor came in, discussed the risks involved, completed the procedure, and all the while I lay there feeling completely enraged as my hope slowly died. 

Still, while I had hungered and hoped for a surprise pregnancy, there was another part of me, a logical part of me, that wanted to know if the abnormal cells would return. It had been almost a year since my last biopsy and as I continue to not be pregnant I can't help but wonder if there's a recurring problem with me.

There isn't, at least not a definitive one. The results were all negative--a blessing, for sure!--but they give me no answers about my unexplained infertility. 

So I have been pondering deeply, as introverted nerds like myself often do, about my hope and my expectations and how the element of surprise is so conflicting for me. 

I have never reacted badly to a surprise. Yes, I was full of anger in the doctor's office, but I didn't show it. I could have said I wouldn't do it, I could have thrown a fit and ripped apart that stupid paper gown, but I didn't. I simply signed my name and put on the gown and tossed the paper towel blanket over my knees. I cooperated. I said I was fine. I didn't ask any questions. 

I believe my fear of surprise is not in the surprise itself, but that I will have to be dishonest in response to the surprise. Kind of like when someone gives you a terrible gift. "Oh, thank you, I love sweaters with embroidered geese!" What I really hate is not the surprise, but the politeness required of me afterwards. 

In light of this realization, I have been thinking about other situations in which I claimed to be afraid of surprises, afraid of not being prepared or not getting what I hope for, when in reality I am simply afraid of who I will be in the middle of that surprise. The best and most recent example I have is my women's huddle.

My church calls Bible studies/small groups "Huddles." I think it's an endearing and intimate title. It brings to mind images of friends huddling together around a fire, or huddling together for protection, or huddling in order to share a secret and then giggle quietly about it. It covers all the different aspects that I often found so absent in other Bible studies--it gives space for vulnerability and intimacy and true connection with others. 

However, I loved the name first and the experience second. I completely avoided the first huddle that was available to me. It was nearby, and people offered me rides, and I was even part of the group-text sent out each week, but I didn't go even once. I have a combination of good reasons for why I never went, but mostly it just didn't feel right. 

And then a few months ago a women's huddle was going through a transition period, and I was asked to join their group. 

This was a transformative moment for me, for several reasons. To begin, I have sought and hoped and hungered so long for a church like mine that the mere existence of Christian Neighbors Church is truly an answer to prayer. Second, I was keenly reminded that I had beloved friends in this church, and they wanted me.

But I was still my introverted self. I was still afraid of being surprised. I was still uncertain about who I would be in that setting, that intimate and huddled environment that emotionally seemed warm and inviting but caused me mental anxiety. As the first meeting approached my enthusiasm waned and fear had its way with me. What if I came across too strong? What if I said too much? What if I said too little? What if it was boring? What if the thing I hope for is denied and I am crushed by disappointment?

The day we finally met I had been fighting the urge to cancel completely. My personal experiences were that tainted, and therefore my fear of the surprise--or who I would be in the wake of the surprise--was that much stronger. 

And then I didn't cancel. And then we met. And then we spent an evening devouring each other's words and stories. There was no awkwardness. There was no fear. I was not anxious, and I was not polite, and I didn't say with insincerity, "Oooh, I had a great time!" 

The last several months of our meetings have been such a rich blessing in my life. As we grow closer to God and to each other through our conversations, I am continually in awe. I believed I was hoping for a non-awkward Bible study group, but what I was truly hoping and hunger for what a deep connection with other women.

In the same way that I believed I was only hoping for a surprise pregnancy, but the surprise I received was also something I needed.

I am reminded that sometimes what we hope for is a surprise. And sometimes the surprise is what satisfies our hunger. 

Imperative

Last week when I asked for prayer and sort of announced I was having surgery, I don't know what I expected. But I was overwhelmed with love and support, and it was incredible. The prayers for the pre-surgery issues were at least a success. It's scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm all ready to go. But getting to this point was like climbing a mountain while wearing roller skates--clumsy, and uncomfortable to watch OR experience, and felt like I was getting nowhere most of the time.

I did get here, and that, at least, is a blessing. But it was so difficult I actually feel compelled to retell the last several days.

Friday was when I called the nurse hotline to ask about the blood tests I would need to get done, and it wasn't until this Monday I was informed I wouldn't be getting them done until the day of surgery. While on the phone I said, "Oh, okay," and moved on. 

On Monday night I felt differently. On Monday night and then again on Tuesday morning, I remembered some important details. 1. My veins literally move around after a phlebotomist finds them. In order to compensate for my sneaky veins I drink approximately 60 oz. of water before I donate blood or have blood tests taken. 2. The times I have tried to donate blood/have blood tests while not hydrated have been horribly painful and I end up looking like someone beat me up because my arms are covered in bruises. 3. I am not allowed to drink or eating anything after midnight tonight, therefore. 4. Getting blood tests done tomorrow morning before surgery, while hungry and dehydrated, would be a terrible experience.

I had two anxiety attacks thinking about how awful it would be. I was scared. And angry. The nurse had also told me that, despite the hospital's letter explaining I would need the tests done a week prior to surgery, my doctor "is new to this hospital" and "we're just getting used to the way she does things." It seemed backwards and nonsensical. 

Tuesday afternoon the nurse called me back to confirm my medications and other details. It was then that I told her about my concerns, and she said I could call my doctor's office to change the time for the blood tests. I did, gladly! And I went to get them done today.

Of course, it couldn't be that easy. I drank my 60 oz. of water and felt great when I got to the lab. They didn't immediately mention I needed a urine test, so when I asked to go to the bathroom they let me go. A few minutes later my nurse read the entire chart and, YES, I did need a urine test. AND... they needed to take blood from both arms.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that's right. Both arms. I didn't ask them why because all the explanations they were already giving were WAY over my head. I was tired (because I'm also not allowed to take my vitamins for a week prior to surgery) so I just told them how difficult it would be to use both arms, but they could try.

So here I am. I have cotton ball/masking tape bandages on my both arms. I am exhausted (because no vitamins) and stressed (because I'm at work and trying to get everything ready for my absence) and really, really... excited.

When I was teaching 6th grade language arts we had long discussions about the different types of sentences--declarative, interrogative, imperative. They could never remember the last one because it didn't have a matching word. Declarative sentences declare things, interrogative sentences interrogate, but imperative sentences don't imper... or perat... or anything. So they just had to memorize the facts: if it's imperative, it has to happen. It's a confusing word but it is so important. 

And this feels the same way that word must have felt to those 12-year-olds... It's so confusing. And it's hard to remember the facts. There are all these other things that make sense, all these other things I can remember and wrap my head around. And this is baffling, the process is making me tired and cranky, but it has to happen. 

When it's over, I can't wait to find out if everything was successful. I can't wait to hear the results of all this exhausting work. I can't wait for what comes next, the following step in this very incredible life I have been given. 

Thirty Thanks, Day 6: Those Friends

I have not always had wonderful friends. I have not always had the pleasure of knowing friends who would lay down their own life for mine, or give me their time and energy freely, or listen sincerely, or want only good for me. I have had them, my whole life, but never before so many at once.

This is partially caused by the hormonal chaos of high school. A friend today, a rival tomorrow. But it's also because I have high expectations for my friends. 

My parents always attempted to convince me that if only I lowered my expectations, I wouldn't end up so hurt or disappointed by my friendships. However, I didn't agree then, and I don't agree now. My expectations were not ridiculous. I was resolved to be a good friend, and wanted the same in return. 

A good friend, by my understanding, should never reject you, even temporarily. That is, they shouldn't end a friendship based on temporary emotions. A good friend also never rejects you based on the presence of "other" friends. A good friend is honest about their feelings--if they're angry, they should say so, even if it causes conflict within the friendship. A good friend listens, even if they don't "agree" with what's being said. (Unless, of course, they're listening to someone admit to murder or something horrible--then they should stop listening, and call the cops.) A good friend doesn't give unwanted advice. A good friend doesn't stop being your friend simply because they have a boyfriend/girlfriend. A good friend should want to spend time with you, even if it's inconvenient. A good friend should want to talk with you, even if you have a bad day and aren't very pleasant to be around. 

I say all of this because my experience was often the opposite, particularly in high school, and even more specifically when I was depressed. It seemed the more depressed I became, the less my friends wanted to spend time with me, or talk to me, or even acknowledge me. I often felt that my depression was inconvenient for them, and when I went to them for comfort (or just company!) they came across as irritated that I was "still depressed."

In a strange way, I was thankful for those friends. And there were other good friends that I could depend on, but I always hoped I would be able to depend on all the people who claimed to be my friend, and not just one or two. They all had their methods of supporting me, and I can give them all grace because we were teenagers. But they don't hold a candle to the friends I have now. 

I am so thankful for my friends. I am thankful for their  laughter and their smiles, how they not only brighten my days but allow me to brighten theirs. I am thankful for their genuine enjoyment of our friendship, and their sincere desire to spend time with me and talk with me. I am thankful for their support when I am in sorrow or joy. I am thankful for their acceptance. I am thankful that we belong together. I am thankful for the conversations we share and the endless amounts of coffee consumed in each others' presence. I am thankful for the ATLA marathons and the Star Wars parties and the snowball fights and the photos and the roadtrips and the weddings. I am thankful for their strength. I am thankful for the patience they have with me, for the comfort they offer to me, for the words shouted or whispered or sung. I am infinitely thankful for the abundant blessing of each and every friendship.

Thanks, friends. You're incredible. 

My Wildest Expectations

Not quite a year ago I blogged about my 25th birthday. It took me a whole week to write about it, because I was that exhausted. I am likely more exhausted this year but I cannot possibly contain my joy any longer.

I will start with this: Last night, in the final hours of my birthday, I lay in bed with a Kindle full of new books from my parents. Out in the living room sat two more books, gifts from my husband and a good friend, and an old sensation filled me. The joy of books. The joy of expectation, that there are words to be tasted and characters to be discovered and places to explore within the pages (tangible or digital). I only managed to read a few pages, because I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

The truth is that I am just now, on Thursday, coming off of a long "birthday weekend." This is a strange term for me to use. When I hear it, I envision girls (really women, who act like girls) wearing revealing clothing, traveling somewhere idiotic like Las Vegas and spending a lot of money on alcohol. Or maybe "birthday weekend" means camping on the beach and taking lots of Instagram photos. Either way, I think of people who want nothing more than to impress the world with their recreational activities. 

For me, my birthday weekend meant the company of friends. It was not impressive, but it was beautiful. 

Emily, one of my best and dearest friends came down on Friday, and helped us prepare for the "big" party on Saturday. She would stay the entire weekend. We bought party food and supplies, went to numerous thrift stores, and spent long hours coloring with crayons in the living room. On Saturday I had a total of 10 people in the apartment (12 if you count me and my husband, 13 if you count the dog who was locked in the bedroom.) We ate tacos and drank cider and played Apples to Apples. Sunday morning the hubby made bacon and eggs for everyone (another friend had been too tired to drive home the night before). That afternoon Joey, Emily and I took some gorgeous photos at a forest preserve. On Monday Emily and I did some craft store shopping, an old tradition of ours, before she went back home. 

It was the most "me" I had been in a very long time. There was an abundance of laughter and reminiscing. We talked about books and past loves and new loves. We walked in the pouring rain and cuddled with my dog and imagined that it would never end. Because that's friendship. 

By Wednesday morning, my actual birthday, I had finally recovered from the stimulating weekend. I love my friends, and in general I love people. But they also tire me out. I spent two whole days resting and doing nothing. I worked 6 hours on Tuesday and it was torturous because my body was still exhausted, my heart still sad that my Emily had gone home. And so on Wednesday I tired myself out again with a fancy dinner and bowling. 

This is the weariness I expect from all this activity. I am not surprised. Each night, as we stayed up later and later, I anticipated the coming migraine and fatigue which are testament to my socializing. But it was beautiful. I expected it to be beautiful because I trusted that we could make it so.