NPM Day 10 {Clutching}

--This one still hits me in the gut. Every. Single. Day.

Clutching
November 24, 2016

It was this time last year,
my hands thick with flour,
lungs swelling with cinnamon,
wondering how
I could have said such things.

Here I wait at a precipice,
no longer looking down
but gazing out,
wondering,
with this clutching feeling
at my collarbone
where my body filled with rage,
and I forsook you.

How did I collect such feelings
without anyone else seeing?
How did the world turn
while I held on and on and on,
but you had let go
when we were young?

No one ever stopped us.
No one ever said
to love more softly,
to give you up freely,
to succumb to the emptiness of loss.
No one told you
to love more fiercely,
to hold onto my dearly,
to understand how we
needed each other.

And then no one let me grieve.

Until this time last year.
I poured my regrets
and stirred my tears
in with the spices,
waking up with the sunlight,
wondering
alone in the kitchen,
wondering how
could I have said those things,
how did my bitterness taste
in your mouth,
how could I go on like this,
how could I,
how could I love,
how
could I love you less.

I Gotta Feeling

As I'm sure some of you have already discovered at this point in your lives, there is no rule book for feelings. There are unwritten, unspoken rules, unclear rules like "don't make mountains out of molehills" and "don't cry over spilled milk." The problem is, even unwritten and unspoken those rules are more about what you do with your feelings that how to have them. The Bible tells us a lot about actions--don't steal, don't kill, don't sleep with your neighbor's wife--things we should or should not do when we feel certain things. We should act on our forgiveness, and not on our lust. We are commanded to love, which might seem like a feeling, but we know it isn't. It also falls under the "behavior" or action category. The Bible doesn't say, "Always be happy" or "Never be angry" or "Stop being such a grumpy pants."

This leads to a life full of questions about the way we feel. Feelings are these complex, intangible things that prompt us to speak out of turn or behave in bizarre ways. If we happen to understand the Bible a little bit we know that certain feelings should not make us act--our most passionate anger should not cause us to kill someone or act violently. It's also true that even if we never follow the directions about how to act, we do know where to look for those rules, and even if we don't feel the Bible will lead us to the answers, they are still prevalent in most societies. Don't kill. Don't steal. Respect other human beings. These are commonplace rules about what to do or not do with our feelings. But there is still a chasm of uncertainty about how to simply have feelings in the first place.

To some this might seem like God doesn't care about our feelings, that he put them out there for us to use without any proper guidelines--but it's the opposite. If he didn't care, he wouldn't allow us to have them, wouldn't give us opportunities to let our feelings push us in one direction or another. He wants us to have them, to some degree. And we certainly have them. We have them often, inappropriately, unnecessarily, abundantly, intensely, and sometimes they come out of nowhere. But the problem with feelings, even after you've figured out how to have them, is that most of the time that's not enough. We want to do things with our feelings, and that's why the rules about actions are so much clearer than the rules about possession (so to speak) of feelings.

This is why we have thirteen-year-old Katie professing her "love" for a thirteen-year-old boy. (Granted, my friends convinced me that I had to tell him, but they were also thirteen.) 

This is why people bite their nails and smash things and flip people off in the car.

This is why we have dating sites and music therapy and talk shows and... drugs?

See, in spite of the fact that there aren't really any rules about your feelings, you can still expect to have them, and you can still expect the world to tell you what you should do with them. Nobody on earth really knows what you should do, but they'll tell you anyways. They'll tell you to go after that girl/guy you are hopelessly in love with, and to let go of your anger because it leads nowhere good (which is a bold-faced lie, fyi). These are the same people who believe "happiness" is the end-all be-all in life and that you can choose it, therefore your clinical depression is a mind-over-matter issue and that, of course, all your other feelings are also dictated by your attitude.

All. Lies.

I firmly believe that all of our feelings and emotions are valid, and by that I mean we are entitled to feel things even if we got to that feeling by mistake. For example, I once had a delicious cup of coffee I had been saving and I left it on the table while I went to the bathroom. When I returned it was half gone, and I was irritated because I thought my husband had done it. It was actually the dog. My irritation was valid, simply because something important to me (my cup of coffee) had been violated or compromised. If I had punched my husband in the face in my irritation, I would be in the wrong. However, simply feeling irritated because something went wrong is completely reasonable. I would have had the same emotion if I had spilled my own coffee. You can see how this would apply to other situations. The actions which our emotions lead us to are not always valid, but the way we possess our feelings is justifiable. 

I mentioned the other day the tiny bottle brimming with ibuprofen that I was prescribed after my surgery. At first glance, I thought, "Well, I'm gonna be needing those!" They wouldn't give me so many if I wasn't going to need them, right? I will be feeling pain and therefore I should want to get rid of it. 

And at first I told myself I didn't need them. And then I did. And I do right now.

But if I had wanted to, I could have said, "Nope. No pills for me! I'm invincible!" I didn't say that, because I don't actually enjoy pain, but I could have. I could have chosen to fully feel the pain--I would have been choosing pain over all other feelings. I would have chosen pain over the joy of reading a good book, over the relaxation of a hot shower, over restful sleep and being able to eat without feeling nauseated, over laughter and long conversations and coherent thoughts.

What I'm really trying to say is that in the face of different feelings, we get to choose which one to focus on. It doesn't mean the pain is gone, or that I am completely at ease with all of this post-surgery nonsense. I am not. I am quite suddenly bombarded with the confusing burden of "pre-cancer" and there is definitely a part of me that just wants to panic and be sad. And yet, there is this other part of me, this resilient part that is absorbing the support of all my beloved friends and this part of me feels unstoppable, unshakable, unafraid. There is something so uplifting about knowing that if I wanted to scream and cry there would be support all around me. If I want to do the opposite, if I want to find joy and beauty in the midst of the pain, I find support there as well.

So I am taking those painful feelings and I'm going to put them in my pocket for a little while. I'm going to take a break from being sad and just let myself be at peace.

The pain and fear and panic are present, but only among so many other things to feel, and to do. I'm about to have an incredible weekend, during which I will get to support some wonderful people and in turn be supported. I'm going to work hard, and in that space if I find myself sad or anxious or joyful or excited, the support will still be there.  I'm going to feel all my feelings and it's going to be beautiful.  Nobody else gets to tell me how to feel. If doing this makes me feel fulfilled, joyful, encouraged, loved, precious, exhilarated, invigorated, or whatever... nothing is going to stop me.  I might hurt at the end of it, but it will be worth every second. This is my pain, and this is what I'm doing with it. 

And so I just want to encourage anyone reading this that you should own your feelings too. Owning them doesn't mean you're going to run people over with your car when you're angry, or call your ex-boyfriend when you're sad, or buy an expensive and unnecessary trampoline when you're really excited about life. (Even though that sounds really awesome, and if anybody actually goes and buys a trampoline, please invite me over to play on it.) You just get to hold your feelings, and look at them, figure out why you have them, and then... you get to decide if you want to something with them. And what sort of thing you might do with them. Or not.

Today I choose to do, to behave fearlessly, and I'm going to feel incredible about every moment... because that's what I've decided.

Recovery, Results, Requests

They gave me this bottle of high-dosage ibuprofen. This little tiny bottle was literally brimming with pills, as if to say, "You're really gonna need these!" My first couple of days home I took them as a precaution, just to ward off the pain I feared would come. Even though I was mostly just sore, they helped, and made me more comfortable if nothing else. By Sunday I was actually feeling some significant pain, so I took them as a necessity. I have a very high pain threshold, but everything is a bit overwhelming right now and the added sensation of sharp stabbies and hard pokies made me very anxious.

Overall I was feeling pretty good about everything. Even the minimal pain I felt was tolerable, the cramping had subsided, and my limbs stopped aching every time I breathed. I knew I was well on the road to healing when I could sneeze without any trouble. I was under the impression that things would soon go back to normal, I would have my post-op appointment with my doctor, and I could begin the process of making tiny humans.

Then yesterday my obgyn called me with the results of the surgery.

This part is hard because I feel like nobody wants to hear it. Nobody really wants to read a blog about my uterus. (Even writing it is weird. It shouldn't be.) It's hard to blur the lines of me vs. my body because I know I'm not writing about my body... I'm writing about me. This story is about me, not my body, not my organs, not my cells. Me.

And I could write all the fancy medical terms to explain what's wrong, except that wouldn't cover it either, since it doesn't really answer much. It doesn't tell us what's wrong overall. It's just a piece of what's wrong, another jot or tittle in the story I'm telling.

So here's the gist of it: I have pre-cancer. There are 4 stages of this particular kind of pre-cancer and I have stage 2. I'm looking at 3-9 months of therapy, the details of which are not yet clear. I also have to have regular colposcopies and biopsies.

If I wasn't clear the other day, the one colposcopy I had back in December was the singularly most painful experience of my entire life. I'm sure that my brain lights up like a Christmas tree when I think about the trauma endured during that procedure. It was not only painful physically, but mentally as well. I felt messed with--I was told I would have a local anesthetic, and I didn't. I was told it would be "relatively painless," and it wasn't.

The fact that I have to go through the same thing regularly is devastating.

Thus, I am here again, asking you all to pray with me. In the face of this painful and confusing situation, I am not about to doubt God. I know he hears me. I don't know why any of this is happening, but I know he hears me. He hears us. So please continue to pray for me and with me. Pray that the therapy is only required for a short time. Pray that the colposcopies and biopsies would be quick, short, and that I would be provided with anesthetic or (even better!) that they would just put me out for the procedure. Pray that this entire thing is merely a detour... and that soon I can move on to the process of becoming a mother.

As a side note... in the spirit of honesty, I want to express how thankful I am for the people who were so indescribably supportive last week after my surgery. It was such a blessing to be able to tell my story on my blog. You not only read my words but you shared your feelings with me afterward. I am grateful for your time and your friendship, and hope you'll stick around as I continue this journey. You are all incredible.

Side note #2... my blog got a makeover. :)

Surgery, Part 2: What the Heart Wants

**Read Part 1 HERE.**

I'll begin by saying I don't like being asked personal questions on somebody else's watch. I'm a pretty open person and I'll give anybody details as long as I'm comfortable with that person, but even from close friends and family I don't like the suddenness of "What are you having surgery for?" It doesn't mean I "don't like you" if I don't answer... it's just a very personal issue. It's my story, and I get to choose when it's told. That time is now.

You've already been informed that the fancy hospital socks were not the highlight of yesterday. But this was. 

So Tim the chaplain was holding my hand. He had kind eyes and a sincere smile as he asked me if there was anything or anyone else I'd like him to pray for. I looked up at Joey, and up at Tim, back and forth until I look back down at my own hands. I told him what I was there for, why I was having the surgery, and what I hoped would happen next. My answer for him was brief, and included some awkward hand motions because I felt so incredibly overwhelmed, but this is the back story for all of you:

I want to have kids. For reasons unknown to me, it just hasn't happened yet. We've been trying for three years, not knowing what to do, or if it's anyone's fault. When we finally got health insurance last summer I knew the time had come to figure all this out. So first I got the surface stuff out of the way--allergies, vitamin deficiencies, physicals and all the basics. Then I did the hard stuff like "lady doctor" visits. I was reprimanded for not having a ob/gyn visit sooner, but I wasn't "active" (yeah, I went there) until I was married. So, yes, I went 6 extra years without one because I didn't need one. I'm not sure if making that appointment sooner in my life would have solved anything, but it's too late now to make a difference. 

It was after that appointment that the adventure really started. They discovered I had "abnormal cells" and I spent a month worrying that I had cancer. I scheduled a colposcopy, which they rescheduled three times for various reasons. It was an anxiety-filled month. When the colposcopy finally happened they did seven biopsies (you can look colposcopy up, if you want to. Just understand it was the most painful experience of my life, even worse than this surgery [so far] and it's a pretty gross concept. So do your research, but you have been warned.)

My doctor called with the results of the colposcopy about a week later and said there was some polyp tissue. Polyps are pretty harmless, in general--except that they take up space. She said it was possibly the polyp, if it really was there, was simply taking up space and inhibiting fertility. So I went in for an ultrasound, but they couldn't see anything because my uterus was too flat. Yes, that's right, too flat. The layers were all stuck together. My doctor said I could do a secondary ultrasound during which they would dilate the uterus, if I wanted to, but if they saw the polyp they would end up doing surgery no matter what. She gave me the option going straight to surgery, and I said yes. 

It was one of those moments where I knew the answer right away. It was imperative for me to answer right away. My husband was in the shower, and I briefly thought about calling my mother to ask her advice, but it only took a second to realize this was my decision. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest, but I said yes.

So that brings us back to Thursday, February 26th around 1pm. Tim the chaplain is holding my hand and I'm telling him that I hope this procedure will allow me to have kids. He thanked me, because it was very personal information, and he began to pray.

He prayed that Joey and I would have peace and comfort, that I would heal quickly. He prayed for a successful procedure and a smooth recovery. He started to pray about having children, and he began with my least favorite words: Lord, let your will be done.

Even if you haven't been reading my blog for long you know that I find this prayer pointless. God's will is going to be done, even if we don't ask for it, even if we don't want it. While he does want us to seek his will, he also wants us to communicate with him, to tell him what we want. Even if he says no, he always hears us.

Tim the chaplain was in the middle of those blithe, careless prayers about the will of God and I had started thinking, "Wow, what a disappointing prayer," because I had hoped his words would be encouraging. As he started to ask God to help us understand if children weren't in our future, I began to feel immensely depressed. 

And then Tim laughed and said, "But we know you better than that." He quoted Matthew 18:19-20, which says, "Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them." I could hear the joy in his voice as he spoke about God hearing us, and as he prayed that God would bring us children.

My tired eyes were filled with tears as Tim gripped my hand tightly, smiling down at me, and then he left. Joey and I were speechless for a minute or two, sharing in the joy of what has just happened. 

He hears us. He is with us. He hears our hearts and I believe can grant us those desires. I believe my heart wants what it wants because he put it there, and he doesn't do anything without a reason. 

It wasn't long before another crowd of nurses and doctors came in, asking me more questions and I had to tell one more person I didn't have PCOS. I was given a dose of something to lay the foundation for the anesthesia, and became very sleepy as my surgeon informed me I couldn't take a bath for two weeks after the surgery. (This is literally the most difficult part about the whole ordeal. Taking a bath is like therapy. I can't live without it.) I handed Joey my glasses and he kissed me goodbye, and as they wheeled me into the operating room some part of my sleepy brain had this song stuck in my head.

 To Be Continued...

Surgery, Part 1: All of the Questions and None of the Answers

I'm going on an adventure!

It's about 3:30, just a little more than 24 hours after my surgery. Apparently it's the norm to schedule a surgery at one time but not have it until a much, much later time. In my case it was only an hour and a half later, and I didn't even notice--I was that overwhelmed. And if you're interested, you can read all about it below. A new experience calls for a new story, and I'm not letting this one go to waste.

We got to the hospital at 11:15 and a friendly old man told us to go up the elevator. I was greeted by three good-humored grandma-type nurses who seemed to be wearing an exorbitant amount of sparkly brooches and pins on their scrubs. They sent me over to Kris, the registration nurse, who kindly made jokes with my nervous husband and then put on my ID bracelet.

Less than five minutes later we were ushered through some enormous doors to the pre-op area. I put all my stuff in a locker--immediately regretting that I left my chapstick behind--and then got to step onto the industrial-sized scale. It gently beeped out my weight in kilograms, which was very kind of it, because I don't know what those numbers translate to in pounds. I also got to tell the pre-op nurse my height, which has become really fun for me since I recently realized I'm actually 5'3 and not 5'2.

Once in "my room" I was asked to put on the "gown" (aka "high-necked bag dress designed to choke you AND show the world your bum at all times"). I asked if I could keep my socks on and she said, "Oh, we've provided you with fancy socks." I actually clapped and said, "Oh, yay!" In retrospect, I think I was just excited about being able to wear socks, but it definitely sounded like the "fancy" hospital socks were the highlight of my day.

They weren't. But I'll get there.

So I put on the gown and the fancy socks and got into the bed with the pre-heated blankets from heaven. (I haven't mentioned it in a while, but it's winter here in Chicago. That means it's 16 degrees outside, before the hellish windchill.) I sat there fiddling on my Kindle and talking to Joey for about thirty minutes before there began a constant barrage of nurses, anesthesiologists, more nurses, surgical nurses, and more nurses asking me the same questions over and over again. They put two more paper bracelets on my wrists indicating I had seasonal allergies and was a fall risk because I would be put under general anesthesia.

During most of those questions there was one unfortunate nurse trying to get my IV in. Because I had the blood tests done just yesterday she had a lot of trouble, ended up poking me twice, and had to sit on the floor to get the right angle because there were so many people in my room. 

But that wasn't the most annoying thing. I'm accustomed to my difficult veins. What I'm not used to is being ignored by the people who are supposedly listening to me and writing down my answers. I told four people today that I did not have diabetes or PCOS. (Look it up, I'm not wasting time explaining it.) You would think that by this point, if I had diabetes, I would have told someone. I would have told my surgeon, the nurse that called me on Monday, and the first nurse to check me in. Doctors and other medical professionals tend to assume I'm diabetic because of one of my medications, and because--well, I'm not exactly a runway model. The medication is often used for the 'betes and PCOS, but those are not the reasons I take it!!! I actually laughed when one of the nurses assumed I had it and she became haughty and offended, like she knew better than me.

So, for the rest of the world, let me be abundantly clear: I do not have diabetes of any kind, even the ridiculous "pre-diabetes" and I am not "in danger" of having diabetes. You can look at me and make assumptions based on my size, but you will be wrong. I'm actually a pretty healthy person, despite your judgments. The next time a medical professional assumes that I have it (or PCOS) I may actually flip a lid--or maybe I'll just eat a cookie to prove them wrong, or something.

Anyways. Between all the nurses and technicians coming in we were also visited by the hospital chaplain so that we could sign the POA (Power of Attorney) papers.

The first good sign: His name was Tim, and he had a daughter named Katherine.

Obviously he introduced himself, and asked for our names. My first job was to name "an agent" to make decisions for me. I'm sure you can all guess who I picked. After that we had to talk about what I wanted to happen if I was put on life support for any reason. I'm not going to tell you what I decided because, well, first of all it's weird, and second of all it's none of your business. This conversation was daunting and surreal, in spite of the fact that Joey and I have had it before. It's just different, when you're there, with the IV in one arm and the other hand signing away your life, essentially.

The chaplain got to know us a little bit. We talked about Trinity and why we were in Illinois (people always ask that after they realize our phone numbers are from Washington) and I mentioned how ironic it was that he was a pastor named Timothy with a daughter named Katherine, when I'm named Katherine and have a pastor/father named Timothy.

And then the chaplain asked if he could pray for me. I had been hoping he would. He told us the basics of the prayer--for peace and comfort, safety and success in the procedure and all that. Then he asked if there were any other people or issues I'd like him to pray for.

So, this is the part where I get to tell you the back story while continuing to tell this story. This is the part when I tell you why I was there, why I had the surgery, did the blood work, endured the torture of answering five questions a million different ways for an hour, why I wore the "gown" and actually let a crazy nurse MEASURE how much I peed before I was allowed to leave the hospital.

But you'll just have to wait until the next post to find out. :)