What I Am Proudest Of

This is what I am proudest of.  Out of every thing God has given me the ability to do, everything I have accomplished, every drop of sweat and blood and every tear, nothing has meant as much to me as this. 

When I was twelve, I was just a scrawny, insecure, abused little girl with no hope and no concept of "future."  All I had was the present, and the present was nothing I wanted.  But one afternoon, my dad came home from his new job and handed me a newsletter put out by a local hospital.  He said "read the class list - see if there is anything in there that you would like to do together."  My eyes landed on "Karate for adults and children aged eight and up.  Maximum 25 students."  Dad and I made 23.  All of us white belts, with one lone black belt as the instructor.  That man became first an instructor and then a mentor and then my doctor and then my friend, as years passed.  And it turned out not to be Karate - it was Tae Kwan Do, but with some Judo and Hapkido mixed in. 

At our school, earning a black belt is no easy feat.  It takes years, and it takes everything you have to give - and then more.  At age twelve, I saw that and suddenly, I had something in my future.  Something I wanted - needed even.  Something that I could do. I knew I could.  It literally changed everything about who I was.  Not dramatically, especially at first.  But a subtle shift from hopeless to hopeful, from lost to found, from broken to healed. 

There has not been a day since, that I have questioned whether God used martial arts to save my life.  He did.  He still is. 

And that is why this is what I am proudest of.

Driving Home

The other night was a "tough" night for me.  You know how sometimes, things just pile up inside and you feel like you're going to explode (emotionally)?  Well, whether you can relate or not, that's what it was.  I went to Martial Arts class, and that helped but only a little.  So after, I stayed.  I kicked, and kicked, and kicked.  My leg gave out in front of everyone still there, and it was really embarrassing.  But I got up and kicked some more.  Then I did forms and quizzed Derek about everything I could think of related to Martial Arts at the same time.  And then he left and I finished something on the computer there for my instructor.  And then I talked with him a while, and it ended up getting late. 

And then I drove home.  Usually, when you're half way through the month of April, a week after 60 degree weather that included tornado warnings and vicious thunderstorms, you don't expect snow.  But snow we had, and a fair bit.  Enough that NOBODY was on the road as I drove home.  Solitude.  I turned the brightness almost all the way down on my display lights, used only low beams as the world was glowing from the fresh snow, and drove in wonder.

If you've read here for long, you know tears don't come easy.  But that night... tears came.  It was that beautiful.  Still.  Perfectly serene.

I think that must be what it was like when Silent Night was written.  So beautiful that a timeless song could be written about it.

And I thanked my God, with tears in my eyes and voice failing me, for the beauty.  For the peace.  For the gentle whisper "I will will never leave or forsake you."

For my God is with me always, even to the end of the age.  And it's actually really, really easy to know that on a night like that.

An Un-Finished Product.

So, right now, my leg is almost a finished product. At least as far as my plastic surgeon is concerned. The graft has taken very well, and that's what his job was. He's proud of his work. And really, he did do a good job. The Hole, as I call it, is completely covered with skin/scar tissue.

But, and this is a big one... it's not finished. I am currently able to walk on it, but not very well. No proprioception (the ability to tell where it is at) and no feeling in most of it. Medically, there is nothing that can be done. According to medicine, I will always have The Hole, and it will always be super sensitive. I will always have a nerve deficit, and will be unable to regain a lot of the function that's been lost.

But there's something even bigger than that. I refer to Him as God. You know, the Creator of the universe? He amazes me with His love and His faithfulness. He is my provider. My healer. And with Him? Exceedingly above and beyond that which I could ask or even dare to imagine. That's what He'll do for me.

I can't honestly tell you what my leg will be like when He is done doing what He's doing. I don't know how much I'll feel, or what I will be able to do. I don't know if He will get rid of The Hole (He can, you know - He can do anything), or minimize it, or if it will always be as ugly as it is now.

But I DO know this: His mercy, shown to me in spite of the fact that I picked up the blade, I made the cuts, and I ignored His pleading voice... His mercy has left me standing. Do you get that? STANDING. I can stand up. I have two legs. Both of them work well enough that I can stand. And I can walk.

Today, I visited a friend who was working in the long-term care unit of a local hospital. The people there can't say what I can. Many of them will never walk again, this side of heaven. It wasn't all that long ago that I lay in a hospital bed, my leg feeling like it was on fire, and wondered if I'd still have two legs the next evening. It wasn't that long ago that a physician advised me I should be prepared, because a lot of the bacteria that grew in my wound culture was completely resistant to treatment. It wasn't that long ago that I quietly pleaded for my life. So in a way, I do get what those people are going through.

But in a much bigger way, I don't. The reality is, "The Worst Case" has already happened to them. For me, it was a future possibility. At times, I was told it was a future likelihood. But, I have received MERCY. I cannot complain. Yes, my leg is hard to use. Yes, my knee keeps getting wrenched because my foot floats to some some absurd angle mid-stride. Yes, I lay awake at night unable to sleep because my leg is covered in goosebumps and quivering and shaking and jerking.

But there's more. Because I can stand on my own two feet. I can walk down the long hallway of a rehab unit to visit a friend. I can get in my car and drive. My foot has a pulse despite significant arterial damage. My skin graft took, the first try. 100% of it. I stood in front of a Martial Arts class last Thursday, and taught. Next week, I'll stand in front of a group of women and endeavor to give to them what's been given to me.

I'm not ready, yet, to share what is left of my leg. It isn't pretty. It isn't completely healed. I still have a huge red rectangle where the doctor took skin for the graft. I still have to have it wrapped all of the time, to try and prevent swelling. But you know what? I am ready to share that my God has preserved my leg. I still have it. It is still useful. And, despite so many emotions saying otherwise, so am I.

So am I.

Leap of Faith. Again.

A year and a half ago, I said here that I was going to be taking a leap of faith. Back then, I was terrified. Afraid it would hurt, be uncomfortable. Drag me down. Be difficult. Challenge me more than I wanted. Be too much to handle. And tonight, if I am going to be completely honest, all of those things I was so afraid of have happened.

I've wrestled with what to post here for so long... and instead of doing anything with it, I've stared at a blank text box wondering what to write.

Tonight, I am taking a leap of faith. I have been talking a lot lately (in "real life") about how much I admire those who are totally transparent. The people who let their lives - faults and all - shine for Him. Those who are raw and honest, and want God glorified more than they want to protect their own reputation.

So instead of just talking about those people, I am going to try it myself. Take a radical leap of faith, so to speak. Do what I believe God would have me do - and be real. Be raw. Be honest.

Truth is folks, I've been so close to falling completely apart. I've been struggling with the symptoms and manifestations of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the constant "hyper vigilance." The inability to fall asleep, and after I finally do, waking up easily and then being unable to go back to sleep. Unexplainable rage. Irrational fear. Inappropriately intense emotion some days, and some days no emotion at all. And that is just the tip of the ice burg. I am no longer employed by my previous (amazing) employer, as I was hospitalized for quite some time.

Just admitting that is so hard to do. Fear is telling me that "my readers" will judge me. That some will say I'm making it up. That there will be nay-sayers and put-downs. I can't really share details pertaining to the cause of this disorder, other than to say it stems from multiple childhood events. This diagnosis is new, but the problem has been persistent for the last twenty years. I'm twenty six. Do the math - I can't remember ever being any different than I am now. The symptoms have been mild, and I have been able to hide them, up until last year. And things didn't get out of control until this past December.

I am not crazy, by the way.

Since coming home, I'm almost never home. I have Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) for two hours every week. I also meet with a private therapist once a week, who is taking a two pronged approach as he supports the DBT as well as works in the realm of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). I underwent EMDR for nearly five months. It helped immensely in some areas, and in other areas, it stirred up things that probably should have been left alone. Once a week I see a different therapist to address one very specific issue. I can't really share that here - legally, not allowed. I also work with a psychiatrist, who is helping to figure out if we can use medication to control some of the issues.

Lest this all seem gloom-and-doom... I do have some good news. First, a new heart med (new to me, not new to the world) has been working really well to control my heart rate. Second, one of the meds from the psychiatrist has enabled me to get an average of 4.5 - 5 hours of sleep every night. I was previously getting between 1 and 3. No exaggeration. I am quite sure that the lack of sleep contributed very much to the major increase in symptoms. Also, I have been blessed with a husband who stands by me through all of this - even when he has no idea what to do. My church has been unspeakably helpful. Always there. Always helping. Always good. My dad, my step mom, friends... so many people have shown themselves so faithful. God has provided financially as well. He just never stops blessing us.

I have gotten back into Martial Arts. I never stopped being a Martial Artist, but I had been skipping class for years. And now, my husband happens to be hooked as well. Which is of course fantastic. :) It's great for the soul (mind and emotions) and helps the body as well. One of my best friends is the head instructor there. It has been such an amazing gift to spend more time with him. I first met him almost 15 years ago. He has been one of my closest friends for 14 of those years. It is amazing how much one single person can do for another, by merely existing. But that's a whole other post.

Now... if you have read all of this, I expect you to have questions. Please feel free to use the "E-mail Me" button over on the left-hand side of the screen. I will do my best to respond to every question, even if that means letting you know that I can't give you an answer.