May All Who Come Behind Us Find Us Faithful

When I was a kid, my grandma was in the church choir.  One year, one of the songs they did really stuck with me.  Especially the chorus.  The song is Find Us Faithful, by Steve Green.  The chorus has the following lyrics:

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey

It is important to me, that when others look at me, they see Him.  I want to reflect His love and live His grace and walk His way.  I fail, often, but I get back up every time.  I have to.  He has done so much for me, and loves me so flawlessly, that I want to do nothing short of my very best.

With Hope

Grief.  That thing we feel when someone dear to us, steps into eternity.  That empty, hollow, overflowing feeling.  The way the world looks gray and dull when picturing it without our loved one there.  Most of us know the ache of waking that first morning, knowing it's your first full day without him or her.  Most of us know what it is to stand there in the cemetery, waiting for them to lower someone precious into the ground for a final time. 

But not all of us know hope.  Not all of us believe in heaven and eternal life.  That is the part I don't understand.  How does a person who has no hope, grieve and then move on?  Where do they draw their strength from?  How do they reconcile the death with the eternal nature of our spirits - something we know deep inside regardless of creed?

I believe in eternity.  I believe in Heaven.  I believe that my daughter and my other children are all there waiting for me.  I believe my Gramma is there, and that as we always talked about when I was growing up, she will meet me at the Eastern Gate.  I believe my great-grandpa Max is there.  My great-uncle Elmer.  My brother.

And it fills me with hope and anticipation.  The day is coming when I'll be reunited with them all, and I will never have to say goodbye again.

So I grieve, but with hope.

The Better Men

It isn't easy, life.  We struggle and fight for so much, and sometimes it seems worthwhile.  Sometimes it doesn't. 

I'm here to say, fight on. 

This life we lead, the freedom we enjoy, it wasn't cheap.  It didn't come easy... it didn't even come hard.  It came at the highest cost possible - human lives.  Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, husbands and wives and lovers and friends.   Heroes, all.

I stand free because of them, and for that, I am truly thankful. 

Are you?

Without You

Dear Doctor F. and Nurses T., M., and D.:

I am writing to inform you that I intend to progress forward mostly without you.  My leg has no visible ulcerations and there is in fact no need for a dressing on it.  I am without fever, my white count is within acceptable limits, and I don't feel "punky."

So while I understand that this may be temporary and that setbacks are a very real possibility, perhaps even probability, for now... adios.

Thank you for the time and energy you've poured into me in the last five months (yes, five MONTHS of biweekly appointments, at a minimum; several of those months were three or more appointments weekly, and there was a large chunk of time where they were daily necessities).  I won't forget about it or you.

It's just that now, it's time to get back to the business of living.

It Makes Me Ache For Heaven

A lot of the time, I'm really genuinely grateful for my earthly life.  I like it.  It's beautiful.  Some times, my attitude isn't so good.  Always, I know that my life is a gift - as is every life. 

And some lives.... some lives have touched me in a way that makes me ache for heaven.  In a way that changes my decisions because I think, "No, I have to make it.  I have to see this person again."  I know my motivation for following God is supposed to not just be about what I'll get out of it, but if I am being genuinely honest... sometimes, it is.  Sometimes all I have left is what I know will happen when I get where I'm going.

And seeing Jim... means more to me than I'd have ever imagined it would.  It's a big, important deal.  Just having the hope of seeing him again, is enough to change my actions sometimes.  He's not the only person I miss... but today, he is the one I miss the most. 

It's been a year.  It feels like forever has passed and it feels as fresh as if it was yesterday.

Tonight I pause to remember not one of the Better Men, but one of the Best Men.

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.

Where Honor Lives

July 4th, in our nation, is a special day.

We celebrate freedom.  Families gather, we eat food that tastes yummy but probably isn't so good for us, we spend time laughing and running barefoot through the yard.  Together.  Then we gather to watch various substances that have been crammed into little vessels get flung into the air where they explode in bursts of color and light.

And it's all very nice.

But it's not what is inside me on this day.  Today I don't think about exuberant displays of freedom.  I don't think about living in a country that has so many little "perks" that we are forced to complain about the little stuff because the "big stuff" just isn't a present problem here. 

I think about honor.

In my head, I think about Independence Day when I was maybe ten or twelve.  My best friend and I were with my grandparents on their boat, watching the fireworks display surrounded by other boats as we floated in the Mississippi.  The light and sound from the fireworks was bouncing off the bluffs that surrounded us.  It was loud and bright and you could feel the energy in the air.  Excitement and exhilaration.

I looked down from my perch, with my legs dangling high above the water and my arms resting on the rail around the roof of the boat.  There was a small bass boat tied to our boat - nobody we knew.  But for the first time in the hours we'd spent so close together, I looked at them.  A young boy - maybe five years old.  His little life jacket stood out against the dark floor of the boat where he sat, leaning on the legs of an older man.  He was probably seventy, maybe more.  He wore a navy blue shirt and his gray hair was thinning.  His face had "the look" - you know, the expression that says "I love my life, I love who I am with, and this moment is beautiful" at the same time it says "I have seen and heard and lived through things most of the world can't even imagine.  I have seen the darkest parts of the world."  And I could see in his eyes, that the darkness he had seen was what let him really appreciate the light around him now.

Usually, after the pyrotechnics are completed, it is a rush to get every boat started and compete to be the first to leave that stretch of river.  But before that rush starts, there is always about two minutes of silence, where people are waiting to see if it is really over.  And that night, the silence was pierced after about thirty seconds.  Somewhere in the darkness, on a boat or perhaps standing somewhere on shore, two people had and played bagpipes.  The familiar sound of our national anthem was almost haunting as it rolled and echoed across the water.  Most people silently stayed where they were; unsure whether they should respond or not.  But the old man in the boat next to ours?  He stood tall and straight, his hand raised in a sharp solute, eyes fixed on the flag displayed on the front of our boat.  In that moment, I saw honor alive and well in him.  But it doesn't end there.  The small boy was almost asleep in the bottom of the boat.  He watched the man stand, watched him solute, and struggled to his feet.  He did his best to emulate the man he clearly admired; feet together, knobby little-boy knees straight, shoulders back, and his best attempt at a solute. 

As the anthem faded away, some people started to move.  And then slowly, softly, the first strains of Amazing Grace floated through the darkness.  The man continued staring at our flag as tears rolled down his face.  The young boy looked up at him, and then took his hand.

"Gwampah, I wuv you.  I wepect you.  Fank you for pwotecting us.  I wemembew.  And I wemembew yoah fwends too.  I won't evah fowget."

And that, my friends, is where honor lives.  In the heart of the child who saw, recognized, and embraced that which was worth honoring.

Yesterday was Father's Day.

Usually, on Father's Day, I write something for my husband.  Something to the effect of "You're the one I love and you have children who live in heaven and you're still a daddy."

And that's all true.

But this year, I'm doing something a little different.

I left yesterday noticeably not mentioned.  Because the truth is, it doesn't matter what words I use.  It doesn't matter how heartfelt or true or poignant they are.  Nothing I can say is going to change the fact that when my husband walks in the door after work, there are no tiny feet or sticky fingers or shining eyes to greet him.  There aren't any words that can fill that void in his heart and in his life.  And there isn't anything I can do to change that.

It is hard to know where the balance is.  When does "living life anyway" become "denial of reality?"  How do you know if it's "healthy grief" or "abnormal fixation?" 

What do you say when you love someone and you are literally willing to offer up your body in an effort to make his dream come true?  How do I show him how much I really would fight to change this, when no amount of fighting actually will change anything at all?

And what should a person say when words seem only to muddy the waters? 

Is saying "Happy Father's Day" really the best thing for my husband?

I have thought about it a lot this year.  Mother's Day came and went.  I was told "Happy Mother's Day" and I spent time thinking about Annaliah and when my husband gave me the beautiful card he got me, I was touched.  But I haven't looked at the card since; because it hurts.  And I know for him, it hurts when something reminds him.

So rather than trying to use words to put a band aid on the hole in his heart that was made the day our daughter stepped into eternity, I am just saying this:

"I love you.  I am in this with you.  And we'll see her soon."

And I am reminding him of the one thing that He has spoken softly, many times:
Be still and know, that He is God.

What If?

It seems like the longer I live, the more chances I get to ask myself "What if?"

What if June 1, 2006 had gone differently?  What if that ultrasound had shown a healthy, living fourteen week baby?  What if my deep-rooted fear and sinking feeling had been unfounded?

I'd have a child now; she'd be about five and a half.  I'd be thanking God for the time with her and mourning how quickly it had passed.  And she'd have had five and a half years of experiences to shape her into who she is. 

Instead, my baby went to heaven before I got to meet her.  Instead, my husband and I saw that still, silent ultrasound and spent the next day begging and praying and trying to hope that things weren't as they seemed.  Instead, we chose her name with tears and longing.  Instead, we watched her due date come and go and our arms stayed achingly empty.

What if on January 31, 2007 I had let my Gramma stay at my house to take care of me after my knee surgery?  What if she had not been in the van during that crash?  What if the van hadn't been there?  What if the driver of that milk truck hadn't chosen to use his cell phone?  What if the road crews had done a better job of spreading salt on that particular stretch?

Would that mean that today, I'd be able to ask my Gramma how to love my dying friend?  Would it mean that I'd have someone to give me the push I need to love without reservation?  Would it mean I'd have fewer nights filled with empty, silent tears?  Would my heart hurt a little less?

What if I had chosen to ignore the growing attachment and attraction I felt toward Derek nine years ago?

I'd have loved and perhaps married someone else.  And I'd have missed out on so much.  I'd have missed the laughter and the joy and the tender moments.  I'd have missed the frustration and fear and uncertainty.  I'd never have stood in disbelief as I watched my new relatives dance in a circle to weird Greek music.  I wouldn't have found myself having to choose between what I wanted and what was right as I responded to certain situations.  I wouldn't be laying on the couch with my leg in the air, knowing that tonight my husband will come home and I will be proud of how well he did today as he works a job that he is not "naturally gifted" to do.

What if in September of 1999, the person visiting me in the hospital had simply said "That is sad and I am sorry" when I told him I had to find a new home?  What if his wife had said she didn't want to start again with yet another teenager?  What if my dad hadn't been agreeable?  What if the doctors had said no?

I wouldn't have learned to love.  I wouldn't have learned to laugh, or to trust, or to be honest.  I wouldn't have experienced unconditional acceptance into a family that loved me just because they wanted to.  I wouldn't have had the foundation I needed to go out into the world and build a life.  And truthfully, I probably wouldn't have survived.

What if my childhood had been easier?  What if I'd never been betrayed, abandoned, or abused?  What if I hadn't survived things that are almost unspeakable?

I would have been closer to "normal."  I wouldn't have been living with PTSD for as long as I can remember.  I would have had less fear, less anger, less pain.  I wouldn't have had to be as strong or as brave.  I wouldn't have learned to lie about everything.  I could have "just been me."  But I wouldn't have had a reason to develop the compassion I have today.  I wouldn't have such a personal motivation to drive so much of what I do.  I wouldn't know how profoundly forgiveness changes a person.  I would never have seen the amazing transformation that happens when someone literally turns from evil and surrenders to Christ.  I probably wouldn't be as accepting of others and I am certain that I'd have less wisdom, less strength, and less hope. 

I could go on, and on, and on.  Because there are hundreds, no, thousands, of "what ifs" in my life.  In every life.  There are so many things that change the course of our lives from that moment on.  Sometimes, we get the better option.  Sometimes, we don't.  Always, we can choose to look back and ask "What if?"  Sometimes, doing so can help us.  It can give us insight, it can give us wisdom, help us make better choices in the future.  It can give us a chance to be grateful and an opportunity to embrace peace and acceptance.  But it can also hurt us.  It can make us regret things we cannot change.  It can make us grieve, it can make us angry and uncertain and afraid.  We can look back and feel slighted and compel us to make decisions that are hurtful to us now.

I have one final "what if" that I would like to ask.  One question that I think we all need to answer for ourselves, in our own hearts and minds.  One thing that needs to be settled permanently within each of us.

What if I choose to look back at my life from time to time, and ask myself how things could have been different, and then I take that perspective and use it to answer the 'what ifs' that face me every day, so that I can face tomorrow without regret?

Leg Time

1st Peter 2:24:
Who His own self [meaning Christ] bore our sins in His own body on the cross, so that we, being dead to sin, should live righteously:  By His stripes you were healed.

Healed.  It is with joy and excitement and hope and thanksgiving that I speak that word.  Healed.

For years, I attacked my own body.  I kept it hidden from most of the world, but not from the doctors who worked so hard to help me heal from those attacks.  I received compassionate, skilled medical care; many who admit to self injury are not so fortunate.

But medicine and time can only heal so much.

My right leg has been hurt quite badly, many times.  A few years back, it caught up to me.  Requiring yet another set of sutures landed me in the hospital.  Hospitals are good places to go if you are sick.  Hospitals are also good places to go if one wishes to be exposed to a plethora of hurtful bacteria.  My leg got infected, and for the first time in my life, the medical care I received was sub-par.  It festered and deteriorated for months before I had the first of too many emergency procedures.  At that time, it was found that the years of injury had caused significant vascular impairment.  In other words, you can only wreck so many arteries (big and small) before your foot simply doesn't get enough blood.  Because of the circulation problems and the effects of stress on my immune system and the unfortunate combination of resistant bacteria, it has been a rocky road since then.  I have spent more days either in a walking boot or on crutches, than I have spent walking normally.  I've got very limited sensation.  Lasting muscle weakness.  Pain, all the time.  And when stuff happens - little stuff, like a scuff on my heal from the stairs or a scratch from one of the cats - it doesn't heal like it should.  It can't. 

Last fall, things cascaded downhill really quickly. 

I am proud to say, though, that I have not done anything to deliberately harm myself in any way since the beginning of 2010.  I've been taking care of my body; seeing it as a gift from God.  It has been a fight.  A difficult, frustrating fight that has been worth it every second of the way. 

But it is in my medical record that I used to hurt myself, deliberately.  Every time a professional has entered the picture to try to help with my leg, it has been assumed b y them that I am still doing things to hurt myself.  It's led to ineffective and unprofessional treatment.

I am now three months into a process of trying to heal the ulcers that broke through the surface of my skin graft and proceeded to worsen and deepen for weeks as wound care specialists treated me for infection.  Infection that isn't present.  And it has been three and a half weeks of daily (yes, every day) appointments with my family doctor.  Three and a half weeks of finally having someone acknowledge that this is not something within my control, and it is not something I have caused.  Three and a half weeks of compassion and the best medical care that my doctor and the nurses working with him can provide. 
And healing is happening.  All the fancy solutions and ointments have been abandoned in favor of simplicity.  Pain relief has been not only provided but encouraged.  Nobody is wasting time trying to place blame.  And the wound that physically should not be able to do so, is healing.  Rapidly and well.  Skin is growing where skin can't grow.  I am completely without signs of systemic infection, and there is also no evidence of bacterial colonization.  Some of the defects that were present even after reconstruction and grafting surgeries have been filled in with healthy tissue.

It is nothing short of amazing.  Even miraculous.

And instead of a future full of continuous appointments and frustration and pain, there is an end in sight.  The day is not so far off when I will be able to leave the clinic and know that I don't have to go back any time soon.  Don't get me wrong; my doctor and the nurses and even the receptionists are wonderful people.  People I care about, people who are uplifting and kind, who are the sort of people I would choose to spend time with simply for the sake of their company.  It's just that the daily appointments, the constant need for said appointments, and the amount of energy, time, and attention being devoted to me, feels suffocating.  I'm the sort of person that prefers to fly under the radar.  Solitude doesn't feel lonely to me - it feels peaceful.  There are times when I am not sure what I look forward to more - being healed or the simple reality of not needing and not receiving this sort of intervention every day. 

Eventually though, I will be well enough to just pack a bag and go stay with my dad and family without having to worry about making it to my next appointment.  Eventually, my time and energy will be put into something more, something better.  Eventually, I  won't require so much as an Advil or Tylenol for pain relief, let alone narcotics.  Eventually, I'll walk into that clinic on two feet with no crutches in my hands, and I will undergo the recommended yearly physical exam, and there won't be any problems.  I'll smile at the nice people and walk back out the door.

Random Things

In the 23 days since I last wrote, it feels like everything has changed.  And also like nothing has changed.

Most of my writing and "sorting" has been done in my journal.  My paper and glue, use-a-pen journal.  Rather than try to recap all of it, I'd prefer to just... share.  A little bit of two of the entries.  Enough to show you what's been on my heart, enough to illuminate the struggle and the fight and to show you that even in those things, there is beauty.

---

God,
I need you.  I need you to consume me like a fire, burning away everything that can be destroyed.  I need you to change my heart and renew my mind according to Your will.  My own will is sinful and imperfect.  I love with hesitation and with impurity.  I speak lies with ease and I am afraid of the truth.  But part of me still wants to bend to your will.  My soul is weak and my body is dying, but my spirit is alive and cries out for You.  So fill me, change me, consume me.  Rewrite my script, and make yourself the primary role.

Save me, oh God, and I will be saved for all eternity.

"I Have Eternal Life"
Truly, truly, I say to you:  Whoever hears my Word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life. 
~1John 5:24a

---

I need to go home.  To my family, to my Father, to my church.  I miss God.  I miss His Word.  I miss His love.  I miss His Presence.  And I miss my Pastor.  I miss his influence in my life.  I miss his protection.  God gives us so many people for so many things... but He only gives us one Pastor.  If something happens that makes it impossible for that Pastor to keep being our Pastor, God can give us another.  But it's not a matter of simple choice.  It's a matter of necessity and a gift born of love.

I have so much I am hiding.  So much shame.  But my Pastor loves me.  He really does.  He always will.  He loves me as a daughter.  And the pain of not being under his care, of not having a leader in my life, of choosing to walk away from that gift, is shredding my heart.

Today, I realized something.  If any of the kids in my class came to me, after being gone - regardless of how long they'd been gone or why they left or what they'd done while they were away - even if the things they'd said or done were so horrible that they hurt the deepest parts of me - I would run to them with open arms and hold them and tell them I never stopped loving them.  And my Pastor is better at love than I am.  So it is time to go home.

Lord, help me and give me the courage and strength that I need to do this.

I'm Alive

Alrighty then.  Sunday, November 27th, I felt FINE.  My leg was sore and looking icky, but the surgeon had SEEN it looking icky and didn't seem worried.  My husband and I spent the night talking and watching a few episodes online and then did some snuggling.  About four thirty, I went to sleep out on the couch, because it hurts my leg like crazy to be touched.  At six AM, I woke up and started throwing up more violently, and with more... substance... than I thought a person possibly could.  It lasted about ten minutes.  Derek helped me get cleaned up and then I went back to sleep, for about fifteen minutes.  I woke up again, feeling like I needed the bathroom - I knew things were going to come out both ends.  I stood up, and could hear blood rushing in my ears and feel my heart pounding.  I took about eight steps - enough to get me into the bedroom, next to the night stand.  Everything went black with sparkling lights, and I felt my body crumple, bouncing off the nightstand.  I heard myself vomiting... and then it was blissful, black, silence.

This part, is just what I've been told.  The ambulance was called, and I was loaded up into their stair-chair. 

Halfway down our stairs, I woke to someone digging their knuckle into my ribs and saying "Jenn, look at me.  Look me in the eyes."  I wanted to do so, wanted to be the obedient patient... but I could not see a thing.  Nothing.  Just blackness.  Then, silence. 

The next thing I remember is waking up with a paramedic on each side of me stabbing my arms.  They wanted to get an IV started, desperately, and so both were trying.  After many, many tries, Grumpy Lady finally got one in.  Nice Man retreated to the front to take me to the Little City hospital because I was so unstable.  Blood pressure was 48/25.  They put my feet way above my head and started pouring in fluids - heated fluids.  My temperature was 102.  Half way to the Little City Hospital, my vision cleared and I was able to start speaking.  When we got there, they had to put the stretcher flat to move me, and everything went black and quiet again.

By the time we left Little City Hospital to go to the Bigger City Hospital, my temperature was 104.8, my BP was only up to 60/30, and I'd had three liters of fluid.  As soon as they put me back in the ambulance, they angled my feet way up and I was awake again.  Each trip to flatness knocked me out as effectively as a hammer to the head would have.  On the way to the Bigger City, I started realizing just how sick I was.  I could feel different organs beginning to hurt - really hurt, like they were caught in clamps.  First was up under my ribs on the right.  Then it was all up and down my left side, too.  Then it was as if I'd been punched in the right kidney... the left followed a few minutes later.  I threw up again, and I could feel the sore spot on my ribs where I'd hit the nightstand.  I could also feel the scuff on the end of my chin where I'd hit... something.  My head started to pound loudly with every heart beat and was throbbing with pain.  My vision was coming and going.

I faded into nothingness again when they put the stretcher flat to wheel me into the emergency room.  I woke up on their bed with my feet way higher than my head was.  I had an IV in each arm and I was mumbling to Derek about who he should call.  Then they kicked him out, and drew blood cultures and ran two and a half more liters of fluid - putting my total up to 6 in 2 hours.  My BP stubbornly stayed down at 60/30, and my heart rate was steadily climbing.  My temperature was 105.  Blood work showed kidney and liver problems as well as the presence of extra-large platelets, which were clotting off and getting in the way of things.

Someone said "We need to get a central line in her."  Someone else said "We can't.  She can't be sedated right now.  Not at all.  And she's so feverish that lidocaine wouldn't be terribly effective."  "Well, we'll just do it right here.  Clear everyone else out."

And they did.  Not fun.  Not fun at ALL.  I get why people get sedated for it... I'd have given anything for some nitrous or even just some pain relief.  Halfway through, I hollered that they were hurting my neck, and the assured me that wasn't possible.  They got the line in, did a chest x-ray which showed fluid on my lungs and a central line that had flipped and gone up into my neck.  They needed to start the medications for my heart though, so they let it slide momentarily.  They came in and did an ultrasound to check blood flow in my major organs, and then I got an injection of something to break up clots.  Then things got quiet for a while, while they waited for the heart and blood pressure meds to start working.  My husband and my best friend both came in and were there.

I was so convinced that I was dying, that it took everything I had to resist the urge to say "Goodbye" to them.  Alarms were constantly going off.  We were just waiting around to get me down for a CT of my leg.



My friend came in, and held my hand and offered comfort and kept me from killing the surgeon, as the surgeon operated on my leg right there in my room.  There was no option for sedation, as I was far too sick and my lungs, especially, would have failed under anesthesia.  Because of how sick I was and how infected my leg was, the lidocaine was... useless.  Hurt like crazy going in, and offered no numbing effect at all.  He finished and packed a bunch of gauze into my leg, and then a different surgeon came in.  My friend left, and the new surgeon said "I'm here to re-do your central line" and I LOST.IT.  I was DONE.  I psyched myself up for this horrible repeat of earlier... instead, she put a wire through one of the catheters to hold her place in the artery, pulled the old line, threaded the new one over the wire, I felt a bunch of pressure, and then this crazy tickling sensation by my heart.  The next chest xray showed lungs even more filled with fluid, but the central line was in the right place.  It felt good to not get a burning, full feeling in my neck every time they gave an IV injection.

Respiratory therapy came up and did a breathing treatment to help get rid of the fluid...

and that's how I spent the night.  Nurses constantly doing things, monitors beeping and alarms grating and beginning to wonder if I had enough drugs in me to compensate for embalming procedures.  Yes, I still thought I was probably going to die.  My feet were still over my head and I still felt absolutely horrible.

About 24 hours after being admitted though, things started turning around... faster and faster and faster.  I even got a PCA for the leg pain (couldn't have it before because I was too sick).  I was getting a lot of heparin shots, and there were never fewer than five IV bags hanging and dripping various things into my central line.  And every 30 minutes someone would come in with yet another syringe full of medication for me.

By Thursday afternoon, I was well enough that the doctor said "Okay, you may as well go home."

That kind of recovery, after that kind of sick, is nothing short of miraculous in my book.  I have found out since then, that the doctors were quite certain I would not make it through the first night. 

To GOD be the glory - I want to go to heaven, but I don't want to go so soon that it tears at the hearts of those I love.

Happy Birthday, my Beloved

Today, my sweet, wonderful husband had his birthday.  I am so proud of who he is becoming and the ways he has grown.

Together with him, I have laughed and cried and sang and danced. 

He shows me the beauty around me when I get so wrapped up with myself that I can't even see.  He never responds to my griping or moaning or meanness in kind - he is gentle and compassionate.

He supports our family financially (for a variety reasons, none of which are on the table for discussion tonight).

He is better than he knows.

I am so very thankful that he chose to marry me... and even more thankful that he was born and lives. 

WOW.

So I actually DO have a reason for having neglected this blog so thoroughly.

Starting mid-September, my leg (the one that had the graft in May of 2010) started hurting more than usual, and getting more warm and swollen.  I had xrays and blood tests and even a bone scan.  Nothing indicated an infection of the bone, but nothing was entirely "normal" either.  We were in the middle of investigating possible causes, while I fought increasing pain.  The following bullet list is a short summary of what transpired after the bone scan.

• Sunday, 10/30/2011
  At some point before this, I acquired a small, innocuous looking scratch on my graft, close to the edge that is stuck to the front of my tibia.  It didn't hurt, didn't look infected, didn't cause a fever... and I have no idea where or when or how I got it, because I can't FEEL the skin where the graft is.  Not sharp pain, that is.  I can feel pressure, sure, and heat, but no sharp sensations.  On Sunday, Derek and I noted and commented on the scratch and what appeared to be a bruise beneath it.  Just a little pink, and a little warm.  I already had an appointment scheduled for Monday, to discuss pain control options.

• Monday, 10/31/2011
  By Monday morning, my shin was huge and hot and red, I felt like I'd been run over by a Mac Truck, I had a fever, and was genuinely sick.  Sick enough that after drawing cultures and other labs, my doctor tucked me into an ambulance and sent me away to the City.  By this point, every breath made my leg feel like it was being smashed.  I was in tears, shaking and sweating.  I will pause here to say this:  Whoever decided that paramedics can start IV's and administer Fentanyl at their discretion... they are something along the lines of "hero" to me.
  
  We got to the Hospital, and I was taken straight to a room.  NO ER, no triage, nothing.  Just up to a room.  More cultures were drawn, another IV line was started, and a circle was drawn on my leg marking the edges of the red, swollen, hot skin.  I was then sent for an X-Ray, which I assumed would come back normal - the last one had.  But no, it did NOT.  It showed fluid and air building up in the deeper tissues, indicative of a fast-moving infection.
  
  Then I met my surgeon, Dr. J.  I had him and his resident assigned to me, another surgeon, Dr. A, as well as Dr. M, Dr. C, Dr. M and Dr. F, plus their interns.  It was a herd.  I wish it could have all been done by just one person.  Less intrusive that way.
  
  7:30 that night I was in surgery.  The operation went fast.  They didn't have to remove anything terribly important, and left the incision (about 6 inches long) open and packed.  I woke up in recover at about 9:00 and I swear, I had NEVER been so miserable in my life.  My temp was up over 104, I was pouring sweat, covered in goosebumps, shivering so hard it was more like convulsions, crying so hard, throwing up, and my leg felt like a combination of fire and being crushed, more intensely than I could comprehend.  It was almost midnight before I was in good enough shape to see my hubby.  They said I was septic, and that's why I was so miserable.  I had a great night nurse who kept my double room just for me, and took care of me so well.  Next morning my roommate arrived and I could. not. do. it.
  
  I don't like PTSD.  I don't like that an other's simple presence when I'm not feeling well or perceive that I am vulnerable, is enough to send me into full-on flashbacks and panic attacks and terror and my brain goes into lock down mode.  There is no reasoning to make it stop, there's no gentle tones or persuasive words.  I spazz out in a world-class manner.  So my good ol' nurse got me moved to a private room in a different unit.  The staff THERE were great too.

• Tuesday, 11/1/2011Tuesday morning, I found out that I was now on Vancomyacin, Rocephin, merepenem, and flagyl.  And I got my PCA pump.  Oh that wonderful device with the stupid nose flap.  Hospital brought me in a laptop to use... mostly it just sat there playing music or shows off of Hulu.    That afternoon, I went back into surgery for more debridement and dressing change.  Late that night, I was taken to a procedure room and sedated for a dressing change.

• Wednesday, 11/2/2011 I continued to complain of pain on the inside of my shin bone - not where the abscess was.  And in my ankle.  It kept getting dismissed.  Temp was staying mostly normal.  They told us the organism was susceptible to the meds I was getting (e. Coli - and NO, I don't know how anyone gets e. coli in their leg, but apparently it's not as far fetched as I thought).  I pointed out a second area of possible infection.  They agreed.
  
  They wanted to unpack, debride, use pressurized water to cleans, and then repack my wound.  And I flipped again.  NO WAY.  Not with me awake!!!  They ran around and around with me about it, until Dr. J finally asked what the real problem was.  I explained the flashback it was conjuring.  And from then forward, it was sleep-city.

• Thursday, 11/3/2011 Thursday morning, I went to a procedure room and was given conscious sedation for my dressing change.  I kept complaining about the area near my tibia that hurt, so they ordered an ultrasound to look for free fluid... and boy howdy, did they find it.  Nice little abscess under the skin but mostly fluid buildup around the bone.  The took me to the OR, knocked me out completely, did a needle aspiration on the new abscess and tried to get the deeper fluid, and then aggressively cleaned the initial incision and performed a delayed closure.  They left a lot of drain tubing in place.

• Friday, 11/4/2011 Was still on the Fentanyl PCA.  Dr. M wanted me to go home... I knew I wasn't ready.  Dr. F, from infectious disease made a plan with my husband - I would go 24 hours with IV fluids but all meds would be oral, unless things escalated, before I would be allowed home.  Surgery liked the plan, but said we should wait till Sunday, so they could pull the drain before I left.  So we left THAT as our plan.

• Saturday, 11/5/2011 1/2 of the drain was removed.  I was taught how to do my own dressing changes, shown what to watch for.  There was some iffy blood work, but they decided it was contaminated by skin, not by actual blood-borne pathogens.  I was off the PCA.  Miserable, but off the pump and ready to go.

• Sunday, 11/6/2011 Sunday, they pulled the rest of the drain, said what to watch for, how to care for things.  At that time, a secondary abscess just medial of my tibia was noted.  It was felt to be small enough that antibiotics alone would address the problem.  After much waiting around, I got to LEAVE.  To go to MY HOME.

• Monday, 11/7/2011 I did my dressing change as ordered - I even filmed it for documentation. The rest of the day, I spent sleeping.

• Tuesday, 11/8/2011
  Because I was uncomfortable waiting a week to see my surgeon for a recheck, my family doc agreed to take a look.  He did so, and called the surgeon.  They had me go NPO immediately in preparation for seeing the surgeon on Wednesday.
  
  Unfortunately, that night, I took a shower.  My first since the surgery.  They had finally given permission and it felt SO SOOO GOOD.  A sponge bath just can't even compare.  About 7:50 PM I was all relaxed and sleepy and fell asleep on the couch.  I woke up screaming at the TOP of my lungs at 8:05.  My head was the WORST pain I can imagine.  Searing and pressure and throbbing with my heart beat and made worse by sound and light and trying to lay flat and turning my head or moving or coughing or talking.I was screaming too much to call 911, and my husband was at work.  They got there though.  I rode lights and sirens (and lots of IV meds pushed and some crazy EKG monitors - finally a nicely documented run of SVT). 
  
  Doctors started talking meningitis, encephalitis, and big scary bad words.
  
  They still don't know what caused it.  Spinal fluid came back indicative of SOMETHING, but non-specific.  CT didn't show any large abnormalities.  So I got me a room with a room mate and the pain and the PTSD fed off each other until they ended up moving me up to the cardio floor, into the only private room left in the hospital. 
  
  They had me on Vanc, Rocephin, and Merepenim.  They switched the Rocephin to Timentin, and the merepenim to Erdepenim.  They also added in Acyclovir.  I had to have two lines again, because the meds couldn't mix together outside the body.

• Wednesday, 11/9/2011
  Finally, things under control enough that I SLEPT.  And SLEPT.  And then SLEPT some more.

• Thursday, 11/10/2011 Home sweet home.

• Wednesday, 11/16/2011 Recheck with the surgeon.  He informed me I needed my secondary abscess drained.  He recommended a standard I&D, under anesthesia.  I consented, and planned for Thursday to be a nightmare.

• Thursday, 11/17/2011 So much for a nightmare.  The day went well.  Operation was really fast and smooth, recovery was smooth, they are hopeful that maybe this could be my last trip to the OR for this problem.
   
• The weekend went well, but the defect was growing worse.  And today, my surgeon has prescribed honey.  Like from bees.  That's what I put in the wound.  I thought he was crazy.  But it turns out it's more widely known than I thought.

So THAT, is where I've been.  If folks have an interest, I'll put together a picture tour similar to what I did with my hand for you all that time.  But right now?  I am going to SLEEP.

NICIAW - Endometriosis

My name is Jenn.

The invisible, chronic illness I live with is Endometriosis, stage IV.  Endometriosis, for me, is a disease in which tissue similar to the tissue that normally lines a uterus, grows elsewhere.  In my case, that means my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, my bladder (inside and outside), my large intestine, my small intestine, all the spaces between pelvic structures, as well as my kidneys, ureters, my liver, spleen, diaphragm, and right lung.  Each time my body cycles, those abnormal growths, which cause pain and problems by simply being there, start to bleed (just like having a period).  Only they bleed heavily and intensely, and it drains me of all energy and makes me very ill.  Not to mention the pain.  The bleeding causes inflammatory responses which cause the formation of adhesions and scar tissue, which then creates more places for the endometriosis to grow, and causes pain and problems of its own.  I also get cysts within my ovaries and what's left of my tubes, that get very very large and then rupture, causing loss of blood and bodily fluids, abdominal swelling, and sheer agony.  The adhesions that formed prior to my last surgery effectively turned my abdominal cavity into a solid mass.  There were new arteries that had grown and the adhesions weren't the typical filmy bits of scar tissue, but were thick, meaty tubes of tissue.  My last surgery could not be completed in one procedure, and the second half had to be completed two months later.

I was officially diagnosed following a laporoscopy on March 23, 2007. 
But I started having symptoms when I was 13 and had my first ruptured ovarian cyst.  The ultrasound revealed that the cyst was denser than typical "luteal or hemorrhagic" cysts, and the word "endometriosis came up in conversation.  It was dismissed as I was far too young.  At the age of 18, I had my appendix removed as well as a large ovarian cyst that I was told was called a "chocolate cyst."  At the age of 21, I had to have a biopsy done on my bladder due to the endometriosis that was growing there.  And yet, no diagnosis was offered.

The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is realizing I face life-long pain and knowing that conceiving without medical assistance is no longer possible, and that at the age of 27, I have reached the end of my ability to bear children.

Most people assume that I still have time to have children, but the endometriosis has destroyed so much of my body that I am out of time.  If we get an opportunity this year to try, it might work.  Otherwise... we are done.  I am young, but that doesn't mean I have time.  They also assume that Endometrios just means I have painful periods and probably sore ovaries and tubes.

The hardest part about mornings are not knowing if I will be able to stand up when I get out of bed.  Will the pain be so severe that I cannot stand up?  Will I throw up?  If I do, will it be vomit or blood?  What about my lung?  Am I going to cough up blood?  And the adhesions - will one tear free today, causing intense pain and bleeding, possibly even landing me in the hospital?

A gadget I couldn’t live without is my electric blanket.  Sometimes, when I'm bleeding internally, I get anemic.  And so very, very cold.  The electric blanket helps me stay warm, and keeps me from shivering (which hurts even more).

The hardest part about nights are when I am so tired but I am in so much pain that I can hardly make myself breathe, never mind fall asleep.

Each day I take hydrocodone, naproxen, and elmiron pills, and at night I need ambien and ativan to help me sleep.  I also take prenatal vitamins, fishoil, and evening of primrose oil. (No comments, please)

Regarding alternative treatments I have tried so many.  Supplements, dietary changes, visualization for pain management, faith... all of those things have come into play, and have helped... a little.  Also, I have done an experimental run of chemotherapy, which was effective in causing me to loose about 1/2 of my hair and while the disease did not progress, there was no remission.  And as soon as the regiment was over, it started growing even faster than before.

If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose invisible.  I don't like sympathy, I don't like being the center of attention, I don't like "Aw... you look awful."  But at the same time... there are days when I feel like I am being shredded from the inside out and someone will say "You look really great" and I will think to myself "NOT.POSSIBLE.GO.AWAY."

Regarding working and career, it has destroyed my career.  Do you know people don't seem to hire you when you openly admit that there are days you can't get out of bed, unpredictably.  And you have surgery 2-3 times each year, and each time could mean up to 1 month away from work, plus if you get a period you'll be missing at least a week for that, and if you ovulate, you might get a cyst requiring up to two weeks in bed.... they say they are equal opportunity employers, but.... how can anyone expect to be hired after disclosing such information?  And I feel like it is the opposite of integrity to withhold it.

People would be surprised to know how much this disease really, really hurts.  And how discouraging it can be.  But life is still beautiful, still a gift, still something to cherish and live as fully as possible.

The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been admitting that I really do hurt.  I really am in pain, and I really could use your help.

Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was... well, we're still working on this one.  I want to have a baby.  I want to wait, but I can't.  If I'm going to do it, it's got to be now.  We will see if this happens.

The commercials about my illness... there are commercials about endometriosis?  I've never seen any.

Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is dreaming about future babies - about finding out that we'd gotten pregnant this month.  And I miss being able to be intimate with my husband without pain.

It was really hard to have to give up the idea that our children could be conceived, carried, and birthed 100% naturally.

A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is blogging, actually.

If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would spar until my legs quit working, and then lay on my stomach on the beach and trace designs into the sand.  To end the day, I'd be painlessly intimate with the person I love most.

My illness has taught me to take care of myself.  To not say "I can" when I can NOT.  To ask for help, and to not be ashamed when I need a time out.

Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is "If it's God's will for you to have a baby, you will... at just the right time."

But I love it when people give me a big hug and say "I remember" on December 17th, which is the day our little girl was supposed to have been born back in 2006.

My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is,
   "O Lord, My God, when I in awesome wonder
    Consider all the works Thy hands have made
    I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
    I see Thy pow'r throughout the universe displayed...

    Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
    How great Thou art, how great Thou art!"

When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them, it's a tough road.  But not a hopeless one.  Look for the beauty in your life... because it is still there.  And now, it can mean even more than it ever did.

Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is how easy it is to get depressed and self-centered because of it.

The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was tell me to lay back down and rest.

I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because I support others who have "invisible illnesses."  I know many people who silently suffer, and I want to give them a chance here to be heard.

The fact that you read this list makes me hope maybe it touched something in you that will help either you or someone you love.

The Highground.

In Exodus 3, Moses was out in the desert and God spoke to him from within a bush that burned, but didn't burn up.   God spoke to him.  And Moses was instructed to take off his shoes, because he was on holy ground.

I grew up believing that if God was speaking to people (or a person) somewhere, that place became holy ground.  It wasn't the fact that there was a burning bush, it wasn't the miraculous lack of consumption in the fire, it wasn't even the fact that God was there - because God is everywhere.  It was the fact that God was deliberately revealing Himself and speaking to Moses. 

Saturday, we chose to skip our planned trip to the zoo, and we instead visited a couple veterans memorials.  The first was what I expected - lots of plaques, statues, a tank, a jet.  Those things are sort of... standard.  They are important.  They are meaningful.  And I really, genuinely enjoy going to them.  And I feel honored, and privileged, and so incredibly thankful for all that's been done on our behalf.  We took a lot of pictures for a project we are doing, and spent some time reading the plaques and some time being silent in respect and in memory of what had to be done to purchase our freedom here in the United States.

Then we started driving to the second one. 

As we slowed to turn off the highway, there was something very... different about it.  It felt... well, it felt special.  Spiritual, even.  I was very strongly impressed, inside, to not wear my shoes.

I walked barefoot down the walkway.  It was paved with square stones, each bearing the name of someone who had served our country, who had given the ultimate sacrifice.  I could feel the heat of the sun in each stone.  And I read the names.  All of them.  And the heavy, serious, "God is here" feeling stayed, and grew stronger still.

At one end of the memorial is the memorial that is pictured here:

What you can't see in this picture, is what that memorial was truly like to stand before. 

I don't know if you've spent a lot of time around statues that generate tears in the people who view them, but I have.  Tears leave salt rings after they dry.  Sometimes people will wipe the tears away with their hands, and leave a white-rimmed hand print.  It washes away as soon as it gets wet, but for just a while, it stays.  This memorial, had tear rings.  It had a hand print on the side of one of the faces, faint.  And then I noticed... the dog tags.  The dog tags were hanging off the soldiers' hands, they were around their necks, they were suspended with the many metal rods bearing the names of fallen soldiers.

And it hit me, hard and fast.  The "different feeling" and the fact that I couldn't get myself to wear my shoes, and the sadness and peace that were both prevalent... this was holy ground.  Here, at this memorial, God speaks to people.  Hurting, broken people go there and He ministers hope to them.  He ministers life.  They leave dog tags, they leave watches and medals, and with these little bits of material, they lay down some of their grief.  Because God meets them there, and he takes some of their grief, and gives them what they desperately need. 

During the time we spent there, I found myself in tears.  The changing of the guards at the tomb of the unknown soldier is more emotional.  The rows and rows and rows of silent, white crosses in Arlington cemetery are more somber and are enough to drive me to my knees.

But they are the closest things I've ever felt, to what was at the Highground on Saturday.  I read the names on the dog tags.  I saw the medals hanging among the chimes.  I saw the picture propped by one of the statues, with the words "I miss you and I will always love you" on it.  I did not photograph that picture. 

My words are failing me tonight.  Failing me miserably.

The gist of it all is this:  I went to the Highground.  It is a place where God meets people.  It is holy ground.  And it is truly a beautiful, sad place... and also a place of evident hope and faith.

Just One Picture.

This image combines three photos I took today.  And a watermark.  And I really, really like it.

Honey, I Love You

Six years ago today, I married my beloved Derek.  People then told us we weren't ready, said to wait, said to slow down... but we knew deep down, that waiting wouldn't change things... just prolong the "hard part" unnecessarily.  Yep.  We were that smart and also very mature.

But the thing is... when we married, we each had a secret.  A big secret, that we hadn't shared with the other.  Not in full.  For the first several years of our marriage, those secrets would rear their ugly heads and we'd beat them back down.  Quickly.  Before the other person noticed.

And then they started to be known.  Right around the time we had our third, fourth, and fifth miscarriages.  And my Gramma was killed in a senseless accident.  And I was trying to rebuild a relationship - a new relationship - with a part of my family I hadn't so much as spoken to in years.  And then I had my first endometriosis surgery.  We did some fertility treatments.  I had another surgery.  Then we did some more treatments.  I got depressed.  Derek got depressed.  I finally let my secret out, and it shook us until we were barely standing - and that, only by the grace of God.  And not long after, Derek let his out, and we were shaken again.  And then we tried another fertility treatment and more surgery, and it didn't work.

Derek stood helpless as I spiraled out of control, caught in the snares of PTSD and depression.  I was battling not just in my mind, but physically, too.  So much - SO much - had to be conquered.  The people we'd worked so hard to bring back into our lives ended up sort of being let back out. Not because we didn't love them, but because at the time, our focus needed to be exclusively on our God and our relationship... and any added stress could have caused this house to wash away the next time rain fell or the wind blew.  But we held on. 

And we've grown closer and stronger, and stronger, and stronger.  Two days ago, we were meeting with my counselor (yes, I see one.  No, it's not a secret.)  Derek had to handle some pretty rough stuff... and I have been noticing that the healthier I get, the more emotional my responses to him are.  Not out of control emotional... but emotional as in I feel things now, instead of just being numb.  I got angry.  I felt hurt.  And I told him.  And he didn't attack it.  He has never, ever, that I can recall, verbally (or physically or in any other way) attacked or put me down.  Ever.

And through it all?  He is mine.  I am his.  We are Christ's.  Do you know how truly beautiful, and rare this gift is?

And now that I've told you vaguely about the hard stuff, I will tell you some of my favorite parts of the last six years:

Laying in the dark talking until the sun starts coming up.  After going to bed early so we can "get lots of sleep."

Laughing so hard we cry, at silly, stupid jokes shared between us.

Having a chance to show love and honor and support to someone who forgives me when I don't do so well at it.  And someone who genuinely appreciates everything I do get right.

Having someone irrevocably, unwaveringly on my side.  In everything.

Swimming with dolphins. 

Being honored and privileged and fortunate enough to know the hopes and dreams of another, intimately.

Seeing my six foot tall, two hundred plus pound husband holding a 24-hour-old kitten, patiently feeding it a bottle and smiling.  In the middle of the night.

Watching our five cats light up and swarm around him when he gets home - and watching how happy he gets.

Growing and changing with someone I love.

Discounted admission to the zoo for our anniversary, because they were closing.  But let us in anyway and we didn't leave till almost two hours after closing time.  And it was okay, because there was a kids' overnight thing and I think the staff thought we were part of that.

Being safe and loved enough to be able to say "I am angry" or "I am sad" and not be afraid of the consequences.

APAP (automatic positive airway pressure) machine.  Like a C-PAP only it's not a constant pressure - it varies with his breathing.  The little black machine has done more for our marriage than any other possession we have.

Most of all, I am thankful that we have been married for six years.  We no longer get "You're so young and you aren't ready for marriage."  We no longer get called newly-weds.  We haven't heard "be married longer before kids" in quite some time.  And yet... it is still just as much work, just as hard, just as beautiful, just as amazing, and just as much an adventure as it was six years ago.

I'm ready for... hmm... about 83 more years?  I don't think I want to live to be older than 100.

In 10 Days...

In 10 days, I travel to The City.  I will go to the Hospital. 

And the Surgeon will cut into my body yet again (this will be the tenth time).  She will remove the remnants of my scarred and painful and fluid-filled, useless fallopian tubes.  She will separate organs that have fused into random solid masses.  She will use cautery and wire loops and blades and lasers to obliterate as much endometriosis as she can do safely.  Then she'll use InnerCede (a mesh that is body-friendly and dissolves after several months) and stitches to wrap things up and hold them in place and try to prevent scar tissue from going this crazy again.  And she has assured me that I will wake up in a lot of pain.

And I believe my God will deliver me.

I believe that His promise is one of children.  I believe some day, some how, it will happen.  I don't care if it has to involve doctors and embryologists and In-Vitro.  That's fine.  Because any way you look at it, conception, pregnancy, and then birth - it is all one massive miracle.  I will be honest - I used to be bitter.  I used to be jealous. I used to feel that it was so unfair that so many people were fertile and I was not.  It used to bother me that at a minimum, we required shots and steroids and anticoagulants to conceive.  It still bothers me that all nine of my children live in Heaven.  Not that they are there, but that they are not here.

But today?  If you conceive your babies with ease - I am delighted for you.  If you struggle, but it still happens "the old fashioned way" I am relieved that your struggles were rewarded.  If you used medication, I am thankful that your body responded correctly.  If you used IUI, I am thankful for technology and for your willingness to go beyond "just the basics" in your quest to have a child.  If you conceived with IVF, I am amazed by your strength and tenacity (and willingness to stab yourself with needles on a daily basis).  And if you conceived by an obvious miracle, when it was not possible for it to happen - it makes my heart swell with joy. 

I simply do not care how God works in my life.  I know He will, I know He is.  I know that if I die without ever once giving birth... my God is still God and still good.  I know I do not need biological motherhood to be happy, to feel complete.  I want it more than any other earthly desire, but I will be fine if it never happens.  My pity party was long and pathetic, but it's over now.  It's been over for quite some time.  If you were part of it - I apologize.  If you missed it, I'm glad. 

Some day, someone is going to call me mom.  And it's not going to be a slip of the tongue.  That someone will be a child.  I do not know who will carry and deliver that child.  I do not know what that child's biological or legal relationship to me will be.  But I believe completely that I will be a mother.  And I am fine with whatever it takes for that to happen.  When I talk about the fact that to conceive, we will need physicians and needles and procedures and laboratories, and we will call it In-Vitro Fertilization... don't be sad for me.  Rejoice with me because there is an answer to our situation.  If the day comes when I say we are completely out of the race for a biological child... don't mourn.  Rejoice with me because my name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life.  When I tell you we are adopting (we aren't, yet), don't tell yourself that it's second best.  It has never been second best in our eyes.  It is a dream, a separate dream.  A dream that is on hold for now, because for now, I still have ovaries.  Did you know that you don't need ovaries or a uterus or the ability to support a pregnancy for a successful adoption?

Anyway, I rarely write about fertility issues here.  But I wanted to today, because I want people to know that even if my dreams of being a biological mother never come true, I still love my God.  I am still thankful.  I still thank God for the gift of life.  I will not fall out or back away over this.  And I am not afraid, not ashamed, and not destroyed.

Rain

It's raining outside today.  Big, round drops of precious water.  The air smells of earth and rain and of the crops that are maturing nearby.  It is cool and the sound is quiet, steady... soothing.  The cloud-shadow makes things look a little flatter, a little less distracting, a little less harsh.

I love the rain, love to stand outside with my arms open to the heavens, letting it wash over my face.  Years ago, I was given a key to one of the churches on our town.  The pastor has since retired, so I no longer use that key.  But, especially during the 18 months of serious trial and hurt and fear that I've so recently come out of, that key was so important to me.  The moments of peace were almost impossible to find then, but sometimes... sometimes they were there.  Late at night, when the rest of the town was sleeping, I would go to that church.  That Pastor and his wife were my "parents" in high school.  I know their church as well as I know their home.  I would silently open and close the door, locking it behind me.  I'd walk on soft carpet through the darkness, up the stairs and through the narrow hallway, out into the sanctuary.  I'd turn the sound system off, and I would sit down at the piano.  The light from streetlamps or the moon always made just enough light to see by, filtered through the stained glass and gentle.  I would play softly, listening as the music resonated and grew around me. 

I would pray, I would cry for mercy, for hope, for healing.  Mostly for forgiveness.  And in the darkness, in the quiet, He would touch my heart.

And then I'd hear the sound of rain.  It would start imperceptibly quiet and slowly build until it was a rushing roar that surrounded me like air.

In the Old Testament, when the people really, really messed things up, God withheld the rain.  If you want examples, I would be happy to send you a list.  They are there though - Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Samuel, and so on.  When the people sinned and God was angry, it did not rain.

But in Genesis, chapter 49, verse 25, it says "Your father's God helps you.  God Almighty blesses you.  He blesses you with rain from above..."  Psalm 68, verses seven and eight:  "When you, God, went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness, the earth shook, the heavens poured down rain, before God, the one of Sinai, before God, the God of Israel."

And as the rain fell, I knew He was near.  As close to me as the air I was breathing, and mightier than every storm on the earth, My God was there. 

For me, when the rain comes down, it reminds me of God's love.  Of His mercy, His forgiveness, His grace.  It reminds me that even when I've done wrong, He is ready and mighty to save.  And my heartfelt cries, they do not go unanswered and unheard.  The Lord of All hears and answers.

And the rain falls down.