I miss blogging, but at the same time I don't want to put my whole life story out there anymore. I was very raw in sharing my Fibromyalgia experience for a long while, but eventually judgments and harsh words reminded me why I always wore my emotions close to the chest.
It is scary to trust people. Terrifying to be vulnerable at the risk of being rejected. Yet, that is what makes relationships worth it. What gives them meaning. The sharing and growing, crying, laughing, being gut deep real.
I feel lonely. Even surrounded by people, I feel alone. Being sick is not exactly crowd friendly. It is a solitary thing. A burden. One thing I can say with glee is that juicing for almost 2 months now has been a blessed thing. The miracle in wonderful fresh greens and slivers of fruit! It has made my skin hydrated, my energy levels are up, and I notice that although I still very obviously have pain and fatigue on the daily, I also seem to recoup faster. It has been so glorious to feel as if my insides are singing as I sip that nightly glass of juice. I have also cut out refined sugars and my stomach continues to reshape itself. I've lost inches and that progress has been very victorious.
Yesterday I had a random nosebleed while using the restroom at a Mexican restaurant. I cannot even remember when that happened last. Years and years ago for sure. I've stopped writing down my daily symptoms. There isn't really a purpose anymore. It's always some variation of the same symptoms that have debilitated me these last 4-5 years.
One thing that has been pleasant is the lift in depression. I did go through a very angry spell at the beginning of this year. The rage attacks were happening again, and it was quite discouraging. I thought I had it mastered, but it came flying out of nowhere. But, although I have my moods (of course), I haven't felt the stormy blackness in my soul for awhile now.
I hope eventually I can work again. I hope I can go to church regularly. I hope I can have social interactions. Looking back on these few years, it has all been layer after layer of progress. 2010 was darkness, and thinking I was crazy because I had no idea what was happening. 2011 was about letting go of my old life, and literally moving away from everything. 2012 was about rediscovering myself apart from ministry, church, being a spiritual mama and mentor. That was the year I started to get my groove back a bit. I started reading a lot more, going outside more... allowing myself to grieve and unearth buried pleasures in my spirit. I started to accept my "new" lifestyle. 2013 was the deepest depression, until Jeremy passed away and I flew by myself to California. That was a MAJOR accomplishment and gave me fresh hope. More acceptance. I don't know how many times I have went through the stages of grief!
Layer by layer God has been generous in showing me who I am apart from who I used to be, and apart from my illness. He is revealing who I am becoming. Who He has called me to be.
I am not certain what this year brings, but I am starting to believe in good things again. For a very long time it was consistent bad news. It was hard to climb out of that pit when more junk kept adding to the debris.
Lord, I give you my heart again.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Dorothy
A fellow fibro friend told me about a Golden Girls episode (it's called Sick & Tired and has two parts) where Dorothy has chronic fatigue, but before she is diagnosed the doctor keeps telling her she is fine, even though she's felt sick for 5 months.
I'm only 10 minutes in and I'm
already crying. It reminds me so much of what we go through and where we've been. Not being believed, belittled, treated like we are crazy, and even being told it's all in our heads.
Though I watched Golden Girls growing up, I don't remember this episode at all. It aired in 1989, and I just have to wonder when we will finally be taken 100% seriously by medical "professionals" and by society in general.
We've got to stay strong & stay educated about what is happening to us. We cannot let anyone shame us into silence or into downplaying our conditions.
We are strong. We are ill, but man oh man are we strong!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
There's always something new about our illness, and who knows what the actual REAL cause is... But I think it's important to know what's up in case there is any truth to it.
Last I read it was supposedly blood vessels in our hands, before that I read about brain scans showing possible differences between a normal brain and a brain of someone with Fibro.
Here's to hoping one day there is a definitive answer, and please please please a cure!
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Cooking eggs with Fibromyalgia
Lift the heavy milk…
Crack the eggs…
Mix them up…
Butter…
Scramble…
Back aching, aching, stabbing after 2 minutes…
Bad mood creeping in after 5…
Right leg spasm…
Put the clothes in the dryer real fast in an attempt to multitask…
Left arm groaning from the movement after a bout of maybe tendinitis the last two weeks…
Earplugs on to ward off unfriendly (ANY) noise…
Irritation that ALL and everything is THIS hard and just shouldn’t be…
Dish the finished eggs onto a paper plate,
Salt and pepper,
Go to the bedroom to eat, but feel exhausted after just that brief activity.
The eggs sit untouched,
Appetite ruined by the reminder of sickness.
Feet aching from standing.
Crack the eggs…
Mix them up…
Butter…
Scramble…
Back aching, aching, stabbing after 2 minutes…
Bad mood creeping in after 5…
Right leg spasm…
Put the clothes in the dryer real fast in an attempt to multitask…
Left arm groaning from the movement after a bout of maybe tendinitis the last two weeks…
Earplugs on to ward off unfriendly (ANY) noise…
Irritation that ALL and everything is THIS hard and just shouldn’t be…
Dish the finished eggs onto a paper plate,
Salt and pepper,
Go to the bedroom to eat, but feel exhausted after just that brief activity.
The eggs sit untouched,
Appetite ruined by the reminder of sickness.
Feet aching from standing.
Today
Appointments are never fun when you have a chronic illness… let alone several. I can count on one hand the number of positive experiences I’ve had with medical professionals in the last 5 years. So when we find a passable doctor it is definitely one less thing to stress about.
Since moving here 2 years ago I have been getting free care at a clinic. Back in CA I was covered by CMSP, which paid for all emergency room visits, all prescriptions were free, and all the specialists (except for the Fibromyalgia Center which was out of pocket) -I cultivated after 2 years of being shuttled to all kinds of different doctors and being treated like I was imagining my illnesses-were covered. I was set. Here, I am grateful to be able to go to the clinic for free, but specialists are out of pocket and so are prescriptions. There is no doctor, but I see a nurse on a regular basis and over the last year we have come to a familiarity and she is very kind, albeit obviously very annoyed and frustrated at her job.
Today I went in and a different medical assistant took my vitals. I’d never met him before and as he was inputting my reason for the visit, he was asking what my conditions are. I started rattling off the list… and he told me to pick the 2 that were most of a problem. Um… all… but I did and we were chatting away, when he asked what the origin of my Fibro is. “What do you mean?” I asked. He then proceeded to tell ME about MY illness and how it is brought on by a car accident or trauma (you know, the stuff it says in textbooks or on the internet. The blanket “reasons” we have this disease.), so I told him about how I went on a missions trip to the Philippines and I got sick and never fully recovered, mentioned the kidney infection I got later that same year and how after that my body just started falling apart… skin, bleeding, bursitis, osteoarthritis, psorasis, dyshodritic eczema, frequent infections, viral infections, etc. Immediately he told me that it was all a spiritual attack.
Now, I am a believer, and I am not opposed to the fact that some conditions might be spiritual, however, reflecting on it now, I feel it takes a very real, debilitating illness and makes it seem like we are just not spiritual enough or that we have some sin that is allowing for this stronghold. It’s the same mind frame that was prevalent in my old home church. If we aren’t healed then we must be having an attack, or we are in sin, or we just don’t have enough faith. It’s our fault we are sick.
It’s bullshit.
He tells me he is a youth pastor and that starting today we are going to pray in agreement to get rid of these illnesses. He wrote down his website address and TOLD me to friend him on Facebook (I didn’t bother to mention I no longer have one), and here’s the part that I felt God speaking fresh into my spirit: he told me I need to write a book.
Whoa. That’s been my dream ever since I was a little girl. There’s no way for him to have known that, and many people have spoken that over me in the last few years. I told him that and he said “someone out there needs to read your story.” Talk about a timely word! I’ve been feeling discouraged lately and that totally refueled my spirit.
Then he mentions a nutrition class, and tells me since I don’t work that I could go tomorrow. Talk about assumptions! He was a nice guy, but again, upon reflection, I feel the judgment. Not against me personally. He was very nice, and we had a good chat, but against those of us with illness. The stigma that if we are unable to work that we have all the time in the world, that we aren’t proactive, that he knows more about my illness than I do because he read about it somewhere. As if we just sit around all day eating bon bons, instead of using every ounce of energy and willpower to get through each agonizing minute. I get that it’s hard for people to look at our exterior and not realize that being sick is a FULL TIME JOB. There is no break. EVER. It’s not some little flu bug that’s going to go away in a day or two. We’ve still got to wash our laundry, vacuum, fix the bed, shower, and do everything else a healthy person does… we just have to do it sick, day in and day out. And not being able to work is a killer for the spirit. I would LOVE to get a job! I would LOVE to have an income! I would LOVE to not be confined to the house everyday, with little field trips out into the real world. If it were so easy to just go to a nutrition class when I so desire, I would do a whole heck of a lot more things I crave and ache for.
Anyway, on to my appointment: my nurse and I are talking and catching up on my health. I tell her about my trip and my hearing in August, about family visiting, about going to VA twice and how accomplished I felt! How August was a good month for me, despite the pain and fatigue. Then In September I got normal people sick (flu/head cold) and had family issues and my body just slid into recovery mode, and that the heavy blanket of fatigue only started lifting a bit last week. We discussed other things too, among them the whole pain killers thing. She is wanting to ween me off, because they are cracking down on her and the other staff for prescribing them. Since I only get 30 pills per month, she wants me to get to a point where they are only prescribed episodically (like a trip or a bad pain month) versus regularly. She said she only prescribes to two patients- me and someone else. I get what she is saying, and I don’t take them everyday so it’s not the end of the world. I usually only take them on supremely bad days or during travel, or times when I know I will have a lot of activity. It’s annoying that people don’t realize that we aren’t junkies, but that we have pain that is literally 24/7. Maybe if I just had one condition, but I have several that are incredibly painful- hip bursitis, osteoarthritis, and tendinitis being just a few of them, on top of Fibro.
She was pleased at my weight loss. I’ve lost about 30lbs. since March (I credit the pau’ d arco tea I drink nightly to get rid of the candida), and she said I seem better. Writing that makes me laugh. Literally. That’s the thing about people who don’t have Fibro… they can’t seem to grasp that just because we smile and have a personality doesn’t mean we aren’t sick. It just means we are strong, that we fight through the pain and judgments, that we do what we need to do when most people would curl up in a ball and cry about how terrible it feels. I admit, I do that sometimes… though far less than when this all started and I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I smile more frequently now, I don’t feel super depressed right now, but I am all too aware that could flip like a light switch at any moment. My attitude is contingent on how I feel. The more my pain is amped, the more likely I am to be moody or lose my temper. The more fatigue presses, the more likely I am to cry and feel like I will never get better. Good days are just that: good days. It doesn’t mean I’m cured or fixed- though that would be spiffy.
All in all it was a satisfactory visit. They got new computers at the clinic and today she was having to input all of my ailments again… as she hit the 8th or 9th one, I felt that old feeling (which I haven’t felt in awhile) of shame creep over me. As if it is my fault for being sick. Like I asked for this. People get so impatient. I feel like saying as they sigh, “if you feel that way just typing it into the computer how do you think it feels to live it?” I dread knowing I have to apply for this Obamacare and will have to find a new doctor at some point. Fellow sickies will understand. When we are all settled with a doctor/nurse, and our medications and then we have to start all over we run the risk of being told yet again that we are too young, that we can’t possibly have all of these problems, that we just have to change our diet or exercise or twirl in a magical circle 12x and we will be cured. It’s such a soul crushing experience to hear that. And going to a new doctor is always a gamble.
Both conversations today were nice, but they held the undercurrent of prejudice against Fibromyalgia. The push to be better, feel better, be cured. Whether it be cured by modern medicine & determination, or prayer. It frustrates me. Saying it’s all spiritual is another way of saying it is all in our heads.
It’s invalidating.
I just wish there was more understanding in the medical community, or that there would be a cure, or that it would just cease to exist. I swear. Fibromyalgia is so misrepresented and misunderstood. Damn you, every Lyrica commericial.
Since moving here 2 years ago I have been getting free care at a clinic. Back in CA I was covered by CMSP, which paid for all emergency room visits, all prescriptions were free, and all the specialists (except for the Fibromyalgia Center which was out of pocket) -I cultivated after 2 years of being shuttled to all kinds of different doctors and being treated like I was imagining my illnesses-were covered. I was set. Here, I am grateful to be able to go to the clinic for free, but specialists are out of pocket and so are prescriptions. There is no doctor, but I see a nurse on a regular basis and over the last year we have come to a familiarity and she is very kind, albeit obviously very annoyed and frustrated at her job.
Today I went in and a different medical assistant took my vitals. I’d never met him before and as he was inputting my reason for the visit, he was asking what my conditions are. I started rattling off the list… and he told me to pick the 2 that were most of a problem. Um… all… but I did and we were chatting away, when he asked what the origin of my Fibro is. “What do you mean?” I asked. He then proceeded to tell ME about MY illness and how it is brought on by a car accident or trauma (you know, the stuff it says in textbooks or on the internet. The blanket “reasons” we have this disease.), so I told him about how I went on a missions trip to the Philippines and I got sick and never fully recovered, mentioned the kidney infection I got later that same year and how after that my body just started falling apart… skin, bleeding, bursitis, osteoarthritis, psorasis, dyshodritic eczema, frequent infections, viral infections, etc. Immediately he told me that it was all a spiritual attack.
Now, I am a believer, and I am not opposed to the fact that some conditions might be spiritual, however, reflecting on it now, I feel it takes a very real, debilitating illness and makes it seem like we are just not spiritual enough or that we have some sin that is allowing for this stronghold. It’s the same mind frame that was prevalent in my old home church. If we aren’t healed then we must be having an attack, or we are in sin, or we just don’t have enough faith. It’s our fault we are sick.
It’s bullshit.
He tells me he is a youth pastor and that starting today we are going to pray in agreement to get rid of these illnesses. He wrote down his website address and TOLD me to friend him on Facebook (I didn’t bother to mention I no longer have one), and here’s the part that I felt God speaking fresh into my spirit: he told me I need to write a book.
Whoa. That’s been my dream ever since I was a little girl. There’s no way for him to have known that, and many people have spoken that over me in the last few years. I told him that and he said “someone out there needs to read your story.” Talk about a timely word! I’ve been feeling discouraged lately and that totally refueled my spirit.
Then he mentions a nutrition class, and tells me since I don’t work that I could go tomorrow. Talk about assumptions! He was a nice guy, but again, upon reflection, I feel the judgment. Not against me personally. He was very nice, and we had a good chat, but against those of us with illness. The stigma that if we are unable to work that we have all the time in the world, that we aren’t proactive, that he knows more about my illness than I do because he read about it somewhere. As if we just sit around all day eating bon bons, instead of using every ounce of energy and willpower to get through each agonizing minute. I get that it’s hard for people to look at our exterior and not realize that being sick is a FULL TIME JOB. There is no break. EVER. It’s not some little flu bug that’s going to go away in a day or two. We’ve still got to wash our laundry, vacuum, fix the bed, shower, and do everything else a healthy person does… we just have to do it sick, day in and day out. And not being able to work is a killer for the spirit. I would LOVE to get a job! I would LOVE to have an income! I would LOVE to not be confined to the house everyday, with little field trips out into the real world. If it were so easy to just go to a nutrition class when I so desire, I would do a whole heck of a lot more things I crave and ache for.
Anyway, on to my appointment: my nurse and I are talking and catching up on my health. I tell her about my trip and my hearing in August, about family visiting, about going to VA twice and how accomplished I felt! How August was a good month for me, despite the pain and fatigue. Then In September I got normal people sick (flu/head cold) and had family issues and my body just slid into recovery mode, and that the heavy blanket of fatigue only started lifting a bit last week. We discussed other things too, among them the whole pain killers thing. She is wanting to ween me off, because they are cracking down on her and the other staff for prescribing them. Since I only get 30 pills per month, she wants me to get to a point where they are only prescribed episodically (like a trip or a bad pain month) versus regularly. She said she only prescribes to two patients- me and someone else. I get what she is saying, and I don’t take them everyday so it’s not the end of the world. I usually only take them on supremely bad days or during travel, or times when I know I will have a lot of activity. It’s annoying that people don’t realize that we aren’t junkies, but that we have pain that is literally 24/7. Maybe if I just had one condition, but I have several that are incredibly painful- hip bursitis, osteoarthritis, and tendinitis being just a few of them, on top of Fibro.
She was pleased at my weight loss. I’ve lost about 30lbs. since March (I credit the pau’ d arco tea I drink nightly to get rid of the candida), and she said I seem better. Writing that makes me laugh. Literally. That’s the thing about people who don’t have Fibro… they can’t seem to grasp that just because we smile and have a personality doesn’t mean we aren’t sick. It just means we are strong, that we fight through the pain and judgments, that we do what we need to do when most people would curl up in a ball and cry about how terrible it feels. I admit, I do that sometimes… though far less than when this all started and I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I smile more frequently now, I don’t feel super depressed right now, but I am all too aware that could flip like a light switch at any moment. My attitude is contingent on how I feel. The more my pain is amped, the more likely I am to be moody or lose my temper. The more fatigue presses, the more likely I am to cry and feel like I will never get better. Good days are just that: good days. It doesn’t mean I’m cured or fixed- though that would be spiffy.
All in all it was a satisfactory visit. They got new computers at the clinic and today she was having to input all of my ailments again… as she hit the 8th or 9th one, I felt that old feeling (which I haven’t felt in awhile) of shame creep over me. As if it is my fault for being sick. Like I asked for this. People get so impatient. I feel like saying as they sigh, “if you feel that way just typing it into the computer how do you think it feels to live it?” I dread knowing I have to apply for this Obamacare and will have to find a new doctor at some point. Fellow sickies will understand. When we are all settled with a doctor/nurse, and our medications and then we have to start all over we run the risk of being told yet again that we are too young, that we can’t possibly have all of these problems, that we just have to change our diet or exercise or twirl in a magical circle 12x and we will be cured. It’s such a soul crushing experience to hear that. And going to a new doctor is always a gamble.
Both conversations today were nice, but they held the undercurrent of prejudice against Fibromyalgia. The push to be better, feel better, be cured. Whether it be cured by modern medicine & determination, or prayer. It frustrates me. Saying it’s all spiritual is another way of saying it is all in our heads.
It’s invalidating.
I just wish there was more understanding in the medical community, or that there would be a cure, or that it would just cease to exist. I swear. Fibromyalgia is so misrepresented and misunderstood. Damn you, every Lyrica commericial.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Boundaries
"We’re not called to make everyone happy. Happiness is each individual’s responsibility and you can’t fix them, only God can!
Who are you trying to please and make happy today that will get angry if you don’t continue to keep them “fixed”?
Listen friends, if someone is getting upset with you because you won’t borrow or give them money, a ride, bail them out of jail, etc. they’re not your friend—they’re you’re manipulator.
Yes, we can help people when they’re down, lift them up when they need an encouraging hug or word, bless them with food or our time—and there is nothing wrong with that—that’s real love. But if people are expecting you to always be there for them at their every beck and call—you’re becoming their enabler to NOT face the truths about themselves.
Because the truth is this: You are not their answer, Jesus is. And if you continue to attempt to keep them happy, you will eventually get frustrated, angry and burnt out. Their vacuum of unhappiness was never meant to be put on your shoulders as a burden for you to carry, because last time I checked, that’s what Jesus came for:
Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden and overburdened, and I will cause you to rest. [I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls.] (Matthew 11:28 AMP)
We can’t continually give to others who aren’t appreciative—especially if they’re using us. But what we CAN do is communicate that we will no longer be doormats in their every life crisis.
Because real love doesn’t use others, it isn’t abusive or exploitive—it gives back. Real love takes responsibility and pulls up it’s bootstraps to partner with God and trust Him for our every need, not people.
At the end of the day, God is who truly makes us happy! We can’t show the real and loving God we know to others if we are their enabler—for it makes us a “god” in their lives!
He who deals wisely and heeds [God’s] word and counsel shall find good, and whoever leans on, trusts in, and is confident in the Lord–happy, blessed, and fortunate is he. (Proverbs 16:20 AMP)
Did you read what that says? HE who deals wisely—and HEEDS God’s word and counsel shall find good—-and WHOEVER leans on and trusts God shall be happy. It doesn’t say “He who is a continuous crutch for someone else shall make them happy.”
Friends, it’s not our job to keep other’s fixed! It’s high time to cut the puppet strings of codependency so you can be free to be happy yourself!
Sure, others might be mad at you when you decide to cut those strings. They may even try to use guilt into manipulating you to help them again, and then even slander or gossip about you behind your back because you’re no longer enabling them. But you need to stand strong against those feelings and NOT bow down!
For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ. (Galatians 1:10 ESV)
Trust that God will show them that YOU aren’t their answer for everything—He is!
Now go and BE blessed, free and happy. Love you my friends”~Annie
-Annie Lobert”
—Hookers For Jesus
Who are you trying to please and make happy today that will get angry if you don’t continue to keep them “fixed”?
Listen friends, if someone is getting upset with you because you won’t borrow or give them money, a ride, bail them out of jail, etc. they’re not your friend—they’re you’re manipulator.
Yes, we can help people when they’re down, lift them up when they need an encouraging hug or word, bless them with food or our time—and there is nothing wrong with that—that’s real love. But if people are expecting you to always be there for them at their every beck and call—you’re becoming their enabler to NOT face the truths about themselves.
Because the truth is this: You are not their answer, Jesus is. And if you continue to attempt to keep them happy, you will eventually get frustrated, angry and burnt out. Their vacuum of unhappiness was never meant to be put on your shoulders as a burden for you to carry, because last time I checked, that’s what Jesus came for:
Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden and overburdened, and I will cause you to rest. [I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls.] (Matthew 11:28 AMP)
We can’t continually give to others who aren’t appreciative—especially if they’re using us. But what we CAN do is communicate that we will no longer be doormats in their every life crisis.
Because real love doesn’t use others, it isn’t abusive or exploitive—it gives back. Real love takes responsibility and pulls up it’s bootstraps to partner with God and trust Him for our every need, not people.
At the end of the day, God is who truly makes us happy! We can’t show the real and loving God we know to others if we are their enabler—for it makes us a “god” in their lives!
He who deals wisely and heeds [God’s] word and counsel shall find good, and whoever leans on, trusts in, and is confident in the Lord–happy, blessed, and fortunate is he. (Proverbs 16:20 AMP)
Did you read what that says? HE who deals wisely—and HEEDS God’s word and counsel shall find good—-and WHOEVER leans on and trusts God shall be happy. It doesn’t say “He who is a continuous crutch for someone else shall make them happy.”
Friends, it’s not our job to keep other’s fixed! It’s high time to cut the puppet strings of codependency so you can be free to be happy yourself!
Sure, others might be mad at you when you decide to cut those strings. They may even try to use guilt into manipulating you to help them again, and then even slander or gossip about you behind your back because you’re no longer enabling them. But you need to stand strong against those feelings and NOT bow down!
For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ. (Galatians 1:10 ESV)
Trust that God will show them that YOU aren’t their answer for everything—He is!
Now go and BE blessed, free and happy. Love you my friends”~Annie
-Annie Lobert”
—Hookers For Jesus
Saturday, October 12, 2013
"A lot of illnesses involve one part of the body, or one system. Fibromyalgia, however, involves the entire body and throws all kinds of things out of whack. As bizarre and confusing as the varied symptoms may be, they're tied to very real physical causes.
Fibromyalgia can take someone who is educated, ambitious, hardworking and tireless, and rob them of their ability to work, clean house, exercise, think clearly and ever feel awake or healthy.
It's NOT psychological "burn out" or depression.
It's NOT laziness.
It's NOT whining or malingering.
It IS the result of widespread dysfunction in the body and the brain that's hard to understand, difficult to treat, and, so far, impossible to cure.
The hardest thing for patients, however, is having to live with it. Having the support and understanding of people in their lives can make it a lot easier."
-Adrienne Dellwo
Fibromyalgia can take someone who is educated, ambitious, hardworking and tireless, and rob them of their ability to work, clean house, exercise, think clearly and ever feel awake or healthy.
It's NOT psychological "burn out" or depression.
It's NOT laziness.
It's NOT whining or malingering.
It IS the result of widespread dysfunction in the body and the brain that's hard to understand, difficult to treat, and, so far, impossible to cure.
The hardest thing for patients, however, is having to live with it. Having the support and understanding of people in their lives can make it a lot easier."
-Adrienne Dellwo
Because it is important....
To share our real experiences with this illness...
To not be bullied by people who doubt us or judge us or treat us like crap simply because they do not understand...
Our words in this Fibromyalgia community are important, and they help one another.
I needed to take a break from the blogging community. There was a lot of emotional healing that needed to take place and for a season Abba was asking me to abstain from sharing my heart online. I resisted quite a bit, and suddenly I couldn't anymore. There was a reason He was asking this of me, and I am grateful for the revelations and encouragement downloaded into my spirit during this time.
It can be all too seductive to hide away. With illness there is a lot of shame, especially when people are so quick to roll their eyes or belittle us.
But that is precisely why we must share. That is part of our fight.
We have absolutely no reason to be ashamed, or any reason to hide.
This is MY story, and I intend to share it as God continues to work in my life.
Namaste.
To share our real experiences with this illness...
To not be bullied by people who doubt us or judge us or treat us like crap simply because they do not understand...
Our words in this Fibromyalgia community are important, and they help one another.
I needed to take a break from the blogging community. There was a lot of emotional healing that needed to take place and for a season Abba was asking me to abstain from sharing my heart online. I resisted quite a bit, and suddenly I couldn't anymore. There was a reason He was asking this of me, and I am grateful for the revelations and encouragement downloaded into my spirit during this time.
It can be all too seductive to hide away. With illness there is a lot of shame, especially when people are so quick to roll their eyes or belittle us.
But that is precisely why we must share. That is part of our fight.
We have absolutely no reason to be ashamed, or any reason to hide.
This is MY story, and I intend to share it as God continues to work in my life.
Namaste.
Friday, September 13, 2013
The Longest Road
"I may have Fibromyalgia, but it doesn't have me."
I used to read that quote... way back in those early days, sitting on the floor (back when I still could!;), searching and searching on dear ol' Google, desperate to figure out what the heck to do with myself and this sudden information that I was sick. And not just sick, but sick sick. The kind that wasn't going to go away.
I sit here thinking back (and it is so true what our parents have always told us: the older we get, the more time seems to speed up. Something that happened 7 years ago blends just as seamlessly with a memory from 2 or 3 years ago)and so many things have changed, even though it feels like yesterday.
(I have changed)
I really lost myself there for a really good long while. Four years can feel like four years, but it can also feel like 100. When you are vibrant and young and busy and ignorant of real, true hardship, you honestly do get thrown into wonderland at this kind of news. Because credit card debt is real, the dramas of our own lifetimes- family, jobs, relationships- are real. Having cancer scares, and miscarriages, and being in an abusive relationships- all of that is very real. But...
But...
When a doctor looks you in your face and tells you that you are never, ever going to get better....
You discover very quickly that all of those other burdens were child's play.
It is true: “When you have your health, you have everything. When you do not have your health, nothing else matters at all.”- Augusten Burroughs
You suddenly get thrown into this dark and confusing, oh so ugly pit. You are sick, and many more doctors are going to diagnose you with even more illnesses, or else belittle you and tell you it is all in your head, "you are just way too young to have these problems." You are going to look the same on the outside, and you are going to try to be normal, even though the sickness is inside of you- already changing things, already settling in, already shoving you around like the bully on the playground. You will try to keep other things as a matter of importance- social events, routines, basic living. You will try and try and try to ignore that you are slowly losing the war against your own vessel. For each day of chronic fatigue, for each stab or pull or bruise of pain, for each emotional outburst.
You will think you have finally (a-ha!) mastered this thing, right before it knocks you on your bum again, and the cycle continues on repeat like a record skipping on the player.You will feel isolated, and want to hide, and delete social media, and not be able to handle the massive stress of simply enduring each day. There will be days, maybe months of feeling triumphant, and others where you will be in denial, or be so depressed you cannot fathom another moment like this one. Every day will be the same- the only difference being where and how the pain is going to manifest that day. There will be so many appointments, so many treatments, so many people who will not believe you are actually ill. They will actually think you are faking it! Like it's some fun thing. And you won't be able to laugh about that for a long, long time. But one of these days, you will. You will realize that it really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. You will think back to those times you threw potato chip bags, or snapped at the clerk at Safeway, or were freaking out by all the noise. You will chuckle a little and be grateful for ear plugs, and bathrooms to actually rest in when you need a break from all the sensory input. You will get only mildly annoyed at all the unwarranted advice from friends & family, instead of wanting to wring their necks (as if you are not proactive about your own health!), and you will realize how much of a champion you really are. You have done this! You are still doing it! You have Fibromyalgia, and you have gone and are going through the ugliest, worst time of your entire life, and you are still breathing, and trying, and fighting back.
You are strong, and brave. So very brave. '
You will still be sick, you will still get overwhelmed or stressed, but you will learn that it will pass, and that it doesn't signify the actual end of the world. You will stop needing to prove your illness. You will stop linking yourself to it like some definition of who you are. It will become separate from you, even as it is one with you. You will no longer have to announce you have Fibromyalgia, unless it serves a purpose. You will no longer need to explain every ache or pain. You will start to be able to be compassionate to other people again when they complain about headaches, or one night of lousy sleep. You might still be a tiny pinch bitter on your very worst days, but you'll learn how to put yourself second again some of the time... though now you know you must be first when it comes to taking care of yourself. Old facets of your personality will start to reappear like a shy, long lost friend. You will enjoy activities you used to love- because you will have learned to modify them, or say no to what you actually cannot handle anymore. You will realize that even though Fibromyalgia took away choices, it has also given you some. Like when to say no, and how to assert yourself in a less arrogant way, or how to be humbled by needing help with so many simple things. One night you may even laugh at trying to open that bottle of water instead of wanting to cry. You will find some kind of balance- not A balance or THE balance (sick is still sick and the journey is continual), but some kind of balance. That constant feeling of being a disappointment, that fear of bad news will ebb and flow, but eventually you will anticipate good news too. When an anxiety attack bristles in your chest, you will take deep breaths and pray, or talk yourself into trust. It may persist anyway, but you still try to relax instead of freaking out.
And now, looking back, I can see that girl in my mind. Scared, lonely, and not even knowing which way was up.
Sometimes I still marvel: is this my life? Do I really take all of this medication every day? When did it become just as normal as brushing my teeth or going to the bathroom? It seems impossible. I still remember coming back from the appointments where I got all the injections, I remember bleeding and throwing up in the movie theatre, and finally getting treatment at the Fibro clinic- sitting on the bed with all those prescriptions and supplements, getting all the test results-all of this and so much more, and it all feels like yesterday.
See, I don't say this because I have it figured out. I most certainly do not. I'm still learning, still deadly desirous to know what causes all of this, how much do my other viruses and conditions contribute to the Fibromyalgia? Its all still this big mystery. And I have my moments.
Those feelings of isolation,
fear,
all of it.
Yet here's the thing...
Recently I went home again (where my roots are, where "the me" became and grew and thrived)and it was like I suddenly stepped into who I am now. Not just from going back in order to move forward, but in everything. In remembering where I came from, I realized just how very far I had come.
And it feels beautiful.
It feels like standing in cold, delicious water after being drenched in sweat. It feels like that joy in your chest when you watch your baby girl laugh at something. It feels like
freedom.
Like the hardest part of the climb has been done,
the part you thought would never end,
the part that almost killed you as it broke you from the inside out.
And now...
now you are standing on a higher point. Not quite the top, but almost, almost... maybe if you strain a little you might be able to see where the steep incline smooths out up so high.
I went home, and I felt all of my lives. My youth, and my 20's, and my now- and I fell in love with God in a deeper way. I listened when He reminded me of my worth. I leaned in deeper when I felt my heart laugh and lift and hang so light. I remembered that I am still me. I am still worthy. I am still wonderfully made.
Sickness has robbed me of so much- my lifestyle, my friends, my dignity, my everything. Never would I have imagined it could also give me things too...
Things I thought it took, but God was merely refining...
like compassion, and hope, and happiness found in the simple. Like soap, and hot water, and the taste of tea when its not too hot, and not lukewarm.
This just right place.
Not knowing everything, yet knowing so much more than that girl 4 years ago.
For the first time in years, I feel like Janet. Not the old me, but NOW.
Not ashamed to use the motor carts at the store,
not worried what people think of me,
not in need to prove the validity of my sicknesses,
not afraid to erect boundaries and feel no guilt,
not concerned with trying to be someone I no longer am.
I am sick. That's a fact. I am disabled, but I am also strong in spirit. I can still talk, move my hands, take a hot shower, eat food. I am blessed. I am lucky. I recently lost a dear friend. He was in a wheelchair and had muscular dystrophy. But that isn't what I remember about him. I remember his laugh. How his eyes would close and he would get the most delighted grin on his face. I remember how we listened to 80's music in his van, his sense of humor, and how he didn't pity himself because of his limitations. I remember his chivalrous attitude, and his kindness. I miss him every day. But his death taught me how to live again. That was the start, and ever since that day I learned of his death, it seems the climb has intensified, and now I am standing on the edge, arms wide up, and a smile on my face.
I went home. To California. To myself.
And I know I still have limitations. I know it is still hard, and this fatigue pressing on my eyes, and shutting down my body is real. I know I am still sick.
But now I also know that I am more than this.
I am still of value. I am lucky. I have people in my life who have learned with me, who believe in me, who cheer me on, and remind me to rest and take care of myself. I can't even fully articulate what changed in my spirit. It feels like it happened overnight, but in reality it took literal years.
We have to go through it. When we are happy, we have to be happy. When we are frustrated, we have to be frustrated. When we get depressed, we have to be depressed. In feeling these things, in facing our demons, that is where we are fully stripped to the bare bones. Who are we beneath our clothes, our homes, our jobs, our marriages, our friendships, our religion, our likes and dislikes? There is nothing like sickness that will reveal the ugliest parts of our character. And then we have a choice- are we going to stay in the dark place or are we going to allow it to break us for the better instead of the worst?
A lot of discouragement comes the way with sickness. But so do many more opportunities to sit and feel the breeze on our skin, taste the sunshine as it kisses our face. We must be still, and in that stillness, He comes and pours into us. He reminds us who He made us to be, that He sees us not as we are today, but as we will be. He is still beside us- even when He seems so quiet.
I feel alive, and I feel grateful. My life is not perfect, and things happen that get me down, make me mad. I say fleshy things, I make mistakes, and the more I walk this road with Jesus, the more I realize that His love is simply mad crazy and there is nothing He won't do for His.
My heart is happy. I feel accomplished and victorious. 4 years of walking in a tunnel- dark, dark, dark with the occasional light. And now...
Now its open air, and it feels
fantastic.
I know full well that this battle is not over, but I know now that I can do battle.
And I will not let it destroy me.
Here's a quote that I read recently that really imprinted on my soul. It is truly beautiful:
"There’s a lake in Australia that looks like it’s full of pink lemonade. There’s a salt flat in Bolivia that reflects the sky and makes it look like you’re walking on clouds. There are redwood trees in California that have been around since before your grandparents. There’s a cave in Mexico with crystals bigger than your car. There are places in this world that cannot be destroyed, because they are so beautiful, and so sacred. There are places that remind us that we are more precious than we ever knew. Remember these places. Remember that we are a part of the earth, that we have that same beauty, that same magic, that same wonder and untouched innocence inside of us, breathing quietly and steadily. This world is so big, we forget that we carry it around inside as much as it does us.
You are allowed to be sad, but you can be other things, too. Be vast. Be everything. Be the sky. Be the pink lake, or the salt flat, or the crystal cave. Bask in how immaculate and astounding and deliberate you are."-Unknown
And this song pretty much sums up how I'm feeling about Fibromyalgia. About life in general.
*Currently listening to the Paradise Valley album by John Mayer.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Loss
Adrian
It takes strength to raise a child, but it takes a different kind of strength to lose one.
There was the fear. The panic of what will we do. Conversations about an abortion that I knew I could never have. It wasn’t a serious consideration. I think we both knew from the moment that pink line made itself visible on the strip, that we were going to go through with the pregnancy. We were going to become parents.
One test wasn’t enough. There were 4 in total. 2 at home, 1 at Planned Parenthood, and still 1 more at Kaiser. It was official.
It was summer, and there was young love. It was the kind of love forged in a shared crisis, made fast and intense by teenage hormones and no idea what paths life offered beyond the sheltered protection of being young.
I had just turned 17.
Promises were whispered, a marriage proposal for when we were older, made sweet by the gaudy plastic ring from a bubblegum machine. It was huge and yellow and ugly, but I said yes, sure- so sure-of this person before me. We knew absolutely nothing beyond our summer love. We couldn't predict the turmoil and toxicity that would one day become our relationship. We couldn't know that this wasn't a valuable love, it was the selfish kind. The kind that drags you in deep and tries to drown you. That day his mom said we could end up hating each other down the road, we looked at one another across that table and smirked. It was impossible. Our love, this heady, intoxicating, I will do anything for you love… it was ours. It wasn’t ever going to disappear into hatred or distance or regret. It was tender and delicate. Passionate enough to have created a life. I was terrified, but I was also hopeful. I held his hand, I allowed him to love away the fear.
The fighting started. Little things. Rooted in the impractical reality of carrying a child at 17. A human being, nestled deep inside of me. We circled things in that JCPenney’s catalog and looked at baby books at the mall. On my lunch break I would window shop for baby things, not really sure this was happening, but propelled forward by daily life. It didn’t feel real, except late at night, when I lay awake, wondering, daydreaming. I wanted to be a mom. No matter that I had broken my parents’ hearts. No matter how scared I was or how unreal it all felt at the moment. Already I knew my child. No bigger then a poppy seed, my baby.
There was that fourth of July night. I sat on the hood of my little blueberry colored car, his arms wrapped tight around me. I watched the fireworks blaze the night sky, realizing it was my first ever fourth of July spent away from my mom and dad, another symbol of how I was being thrust into adulthood. I was sad, and scared, and unsure of how to handle this budding independence.
I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting on a lazy weekend on my friend’s couch. I took naps, and had mood swings, and felt my back ache. But life went on. I listened when my mom said she was coming around and was getting excited at the idea of little pitter-patter feet to come. My dad stopped speaking to me. There was silence and disappointment, and I had no way to bridge back. No way to be a little girl anymore. He wanted us to get married, have an abortion, keep the baby. My mom told me I broke his heart and that he had cried when she told him. I had never seen my dad cry.
There was the night before my first prenatal appointment. I lay awake all night, writing in my journal, too excited to sleep. I drew a diagram of how to rearrange my bedroom. I thought silly, girlish things, like how I would carry my pink comb in the diaper bag. We named our baby, not yet knowing the sex.
That morning he brought me my favorite orange juice, and we went with my mom to the appointment. They waited in the other room, while I went in with a bunch of other women, and watched videos and filled out paperwork. My due date had not been written on the sheet given back, so I went up and asked. March 2, 1998 they said. I had blood drawn.
I was spotting. Had been since early that morning. I had thrown on a pad and was told it was normal. After the appointment, my mom went to work and he and I drove to Arby’s and then back to his house. The blood was increasing, and so was the pain. Cramps at first, and then the dull ache spread to my legs.
Denial brought us to the bookstore. There was no internet, no quick Google search to provide answers. We both thought it, but we did not utter it. Not one word of it. The pain in my body came on swiftly. Walking through the mall became almost impossible. We drove across the street to his mom’s office. She had me call Kaiser, who told me to come in just to be on the safe side.
Hope. Hope. Hope.
I would not believe I was losing my baby. Not when the pain became so very unbearable... When it felt like my back was being ripped apart. The cramps were sensational. It felt like I was riding a bucking bronco or like the dirt deep in the earth was cracking and splitting and being reborn through my very body. That was the day I realized how strong my physical body could be. We made it to the hospital emergency room in ten minutes, which included a stop at a nearby gas station when it felt like I was going to explode. As we stood in line, I felt the release of something thick and final in my womb, as tissue slid out from me.
I knew. With sickening finality, I knew.
Still, we said nothing about it. We let this woman go on ahead. She looked like she was very ill. We were polite in our desperation. Too naive to know that heartache could come to those so young. Death and loss still belonged to old people. Not to us. Not to newly cemented love and precious life growing inside of me. We did not yet know the harsh truth of life- that loss can happen to anyone, at any time.
We waited for about an hour in the waiting room, and then another hour in the examining room. I wore a hospital gown and my school bus socks, reading a book. He sat in a chair and we waited… and waited… and waited. Blood stained my thighs. When the doctor came in, he slipped out to call my parents.
I lay back, counted the cracks in the ceiling, tears pooling in my eyes. I blinked them fast away. Cold fingers pried me apart. “You had a miscarriage.” No emotion in the doctors voice. Words, words, more words. I felt myself crumble so I forced myself to look up, don’t cry, be strong. He showed me the clumpy, gray tissue that had once been my baby.
My baby.
My baby.
Gone.
When he came back in the room, I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him and he knew. He cried. Maybe we hugged. I don’t remember. My parents arrived. My dad, wearing that straw hat he used to wear a lot that year. My mom. They were frantic, angry.
I was put to sleep for the D&C. Before that, I was smiling. I was swallowing all of my hurt, so that I could be strong for the three sad faces looking at me. I remember looking down at those school bus socks. It hadn't hit me yet, what this loss was and how it would change my very core. I was still very much a child.
During the D&C I woke up during the procedure. Groggy and half asleep, but I felt the pain and it was the most intense pain I had ever experienced. It felt as if my every fiber was being sucked out of me. It didn’t last long, but I gripped the hand of the person next to me- I don’t know if it was a nurse or a medical assistant- but I clung and squeezed and cried until it was over and the sedation took back over.
The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. It was very, very quiet. There was no one around me. I made a decision. I remember it, in that grainy way we can recall an event from long ago. I decided to act fine. I didn’t want my hurt to fall and melt and drown anyone else. Perhaps I just didn’t know how to grieve yet. I wouldn’t know how to for years.I needed to be strong. That is all I knew at the moment.
Afterwards, I ate a quick dinner and fell fast asleep in my own bed. I didn't think about the fact that I had to go in to work the next day. I forgot until they called the house and my mom had to tell them what had happened.
The following day we went to Ocean Beach with our friends. I still wore the hospital bracelet. They didn’t believe we had lost the baby. I was forcing myself to move on, to just deal with it, not to think about it.
But we had.
The loss wouldn’t hit until later.
And when it did come, it engulfed me. I stayed quiet in my pain.
Stayed quiet when I saw my pregnant friends at school.
Stayed quiet when I drove to pick him up from school, imagining the car seat that was supposed to be in that car with me.
Stayed quiet when my pregnant cousin let me feel her growing stomach. We were due around the same time.
Stayed quiet when I started to skip classes, and sleep in my car. When I stopped connecting with my friends. Stopped caring about grades and school and going to college.
Stayed quiet when my dad accused me of doing drugs.
Stayed quiet when he cheated on me, broke up with me, pulled me back again.
Stayed quiet, stayed quiet, stayed quiet.
My grief was an ocean
And his mom had been right.
She had known what we hadn’t learned yet…
That life is never constant and change comes in one moment that rocks entire foundations.
That loss is an ugly thing, and that we were too young to handle that kind of monster.
That sometimes even love cannot be held still in the face of loss.
That hatred can be born just as quickly as love can.
That day I bled.
I bled my baby.
I bled my heart.
We lost. All 3 of us. Father, mother, child.
We lost each other and there was no one to tell us how to get past that.
Written on February 06, 2013
It takes strength to raise a child, but it takes a different kind of strength to lose one.
There was the fear. The panic of what will we do. Conversations about an abortion that I knew I could never have. It wasn’t a serious consideration. I think we both knew from the moment that pink line made itself visible on the strip, that we were going to go through with the pregnancy. We were going to become parents.
One test wasn’t enough. There were 4 in total. 2 at home, 1 at Planned Parenthood, and still 1 more at Kaiser. It was official.
It was summer, and there was young love. It was the kind of love forged in a shared crisis, made fast and intense by teenage hormones and no idea what paths life offered beyond the sheltered protection of being young.
I had just turned 17.
Promises were whispered, a marriage proposal for when we were older, made sweet by the gaudy plastic ring from a bubblegum machine. It was huge and yellow and ugly, but I said yes, sure- so sure-of this person before me. We knew absolutely nothing beyond our summer love. We couldn't predict the turmoil and toxicity that would one day become our relationship. We couldn't know that this wasn't a valuable love, it was the selfish kind. The kind that drags you in deep and tries to drown you. That day his mom said we could end up hating each other down the road, we looked at one another across that table and smirked. It was impossible. Our love, this heady, intoxicating, I will do anything for you love… it was ours. It wasn’t ever going to disappear into hatred or distance or regret. It was tender and delicate. Passionate enough to have created a life. I was terrified, but I was also hopeful. I held his hand, I allowed him to love away the fear.
The fighting started. Little things. Rooted in the impractical reality of carrying a child at 17. A human being, nestled deep inside of me. We circled things in that JCPenney’s catalog and looked at baby books at the mall. On my lunch break I would window shop for baby things, not really sure this was happening, but propelled forward by daily life. It didn’t feel real, except late at night, when I lay awake, wondering, daydreaming. I wanted to be a mom. No matter that I had broken my parents’ hearts. No matter how scared I was or how unreal it all felt at the moment. Already I knew my child. No bigger then a poppy seed, my baby.
There was that fourth of July night. I sat on the hood of my little blueberry colored car, his arms wrapped tight around me. I watched the fireworks blaze the night sky, realizing it was my first ever fourth of July spent away from my mom and dad, another symbol of how I was being thrust into adulthood. I was sad, and scared, and unsure of how to handle this budding independence.
I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting on a lazy weekend on my friend’s couch. I took naps, and had mood swings, and felt my back ache. But life went on. I listened when my mom said she was coming around and was getting excited at the idea of little pitter-patter feet to come. My dad stopped speaking to me. There was silence and disappointment, and I had no way to bridge back. No way to be a little girl anymore. He wanted us to get married, have an abortion, keep the baby. My mom told me I broke his heart and that he had cried when she told him. I had never seen my dad cry.
There was the night before my first prenatal appointment. I lay awake all night, writing in my journal, too excited to sleep. I drew a diagram of how to rearrange my bedroom. I thought silly, girlish things, like how I would carry my pink comb in the diaper bag. We named our baby, not yet knowing the sex.
That morning he brought me my favorite orange juice, and we went with my mom to the appointment. They waited in the other room, while I went in with a bunch of other women, and watched videos and filled out paperwork. My due date had not been written on the sheet given back, so I went up and asked. March 2, 1998 they said. I had blood drawn.
I was spotting. Had been since early that morning. I had thrown on a pad and was told it was normal. After the appointment, my mom went to work and he and I drove to Arby’s and then back to his house. The blood was increasing, and so was the pain. Cramps at first, and then the dull ache spread to my legs.
Denial brought us to the bookstore. There was no internet, no quick Google search to provide answers. We both thought it, but we did not utter it. Not one word of it. The pain in my body came on swiftly. Walking through the mall became almost impossible. We drove across the street to his mom’s office. She had me call Kaiser, who told me to come in just to be on the safe side.
Hope. Hope. Hope.
I would not believe I was losing my baby. Not when the pain became so very unbearable... When it felt like my back was being ripped apart. The cramps were sensational. It felt like I was riding a bucking bronco or like the dirt deep in the earth was cracking and splitting and being reborn through my very body. That was the day I realized how strong my physical body could be. We made it to the hospital emergency room in ten minutes, which included a stop at a nearby gas station when it felt like I was going to explode. As we stood in line, I felt the release of something thick and final in my womb, as tissue slid out from me.
I knew. With sickening finality, I knew.
Still, we said nothing about it. We let this woman go on ahead. She looked like she was very ill. We were polite in our desperation. Too naive to know that heartache could come to those so young. Death and loss still belonged to old people. Not to us. Not to newly cemented love and precious life growing inside of me. We did not yet know the harsh truth of life- that loss can happen to anyone, at any time.
We waited for about an hour in the waiting room, and then another hour in the examining room. I wore a hospital gown and my school bus socks, reading a book. He sat in a chair and we waited… and waited… and waited. Blood stained my thighs. When the doctor came in, he slipped out to call my parents.
I lay back, counted the cracks in the ceiling, tears pooling in my eyes. I blinked them fast away. Cold fingers pried me apart. “You had a miscarriage.” No emotion in the doctors voice. Words, words, more words. I felt myself crumble so I forced myself to look up, don’t cry, be strong. He showed me the clumpy, gray tissue that had once been my baby.
My baby.
My baby.
Gone.
When he came back in the room, I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him and he knew. He cried. Maybe we hugged. I don’t remember. My parents arrived. My dad, wearing that straw hat he used to wear a lot that year. My mom. They were frantic, angry.
I was put to sleep for the D&C. Before that, I was smiling. I was swallowing all of my hurt, so that I could be strong for the three sad faces looking at me. I remember looking down at those school bus socks. It hadn't hit me yet, what this loss was and how it would change my very core. I was still very much a child.
During the D&C I woke up during the procedure. Groggy and half asleep, but I felt the pain and it was the most intense pain I had ever experienced. It felt as if my every fiber was being sucked out of me. It didn’t last long, but I gripped the hand of the person next to me- I don’t know if it was a nurse or a medical assistant- but I clung and squeezed and cried until it was over and the sedation took back over.
The next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. It was very, very quiet. There was no one around me. I made a decision. I remember it, in that grainy way we can recall an event from long ago. I decided to act fine. I didn’t want my hurt to fall and melt and drown anyone else. Perhaps I just didn’t know how to grieve yet. I wouldn’t know how to for years.I needed to be strong. That is all I knew at the moment.
Afterwards, I ate a quick dinner and fell fast asleep in my own bed. I didn't think about the fact that I had to go in to work the next day. I forgot until they called the house and my mom had to tell them what had happened.
The following day we went to Ocean Beach with our friends. I still wore the hospital bracelet. They didn’t believe we had lost the baby. I was forcing myself to move on, to just deal with it, not to think about it.
But we had.
The loss wouldn’t hit until later.
And when it did come, it engulfed me. I stayed quiet in my pain.
Stayed quiet when I saw my pregnant friends at school.
Stayed quiet when I drove to pick him up from school, imagining the car seat that was supposed to be in that car with me.
Stayed quiet when my pregnant cousin let me feel her growing stomach. We were due around the same time.
Stayed quiet when I started to skip classes, and sleep in my car. When I stopped connecting with my friends. Stopped caring about grades and school and going to college.
Stayed quiet when my dad accused me of doing drugs.
Stayed quiet when he cheated on me, broke up with me, pulled me back again.
Stayed quiet, stayed quiet, stayed quiet.
My grief was an ocean
And his mom had been right.
She had known what we hadn’t learned yet…
That life is never constant and change comes in one moment that rocks entire foundations.
That loss is an ugly thing, and that we were too young to handle that kind of monster.
That sometimes even love cannot be held still in the face of loss.
That hatred can be born just as quickly as love can.
That day I bled.
I bled my baby.
I bled my heart.
We lost. All 3 of us. Father, mother, child.
We lost each other and there was no one to tell us how to get past that.
Written on February 06, 2013
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