Life More Abundantly

John 10:10 says, "I have come that they might have life, and life more abundantly."  I have to say, for almost five years, that verse seemed so far away from my reality.  We were struggling financially, struggling with our health, struggling to maintain a marriage when we barely had any time together.  In the middle of it, it all seemed insurmountable.  But now, looking back, I can see so many places where God was working... working on Derek, working on me, working on us.  We have not arrived yet, but we are beginning to see manifestation of God's plan for us.  It is an exciting, beautiful time.  I want to make note of that here, so that in the future, I can look back and say "Yes, I saw the beginnings of this way back then."

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.

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.

Take My Breath Away

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.”  But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. 
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away.  Beautiful moments. 

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me. 

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet.  I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church.  I kept looking at my daddy's face.  He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still.  And then mine would.  And then his would. 

And then I looked up and I saw my husband.  Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me.  Do you know how amazing that is?  To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate?  To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect?  It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma.  Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her.  Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong.  And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming.  Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors.  Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting.  Trying to be serious.  Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too.  Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing.  Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend.  That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing. 

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep.  All the tension gone from his face.  Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.  His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever.  And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever.  And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me.  Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away.  Not for long, but briefly.  Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter.  Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family.  Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped.  Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral.  Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven.  Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven.  Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could.  Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry.  Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him.  He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again." 

It took my breath away.  So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather.  Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight.  Hearing him tell her she was beautiful.  That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her.  Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop.  They've dropped further in the years since.  And when I look at him, it takes my breath away.  This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife?  "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back.  All you can see is the flowers around the coffin.  The middle of the pictures is completely white.  It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away.  Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish.  A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband.  Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter.  And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies.  Anna's flowers. 

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  And seeing no end in sight.  Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf.  And loving him so deeply that I would.  I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him.  Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up.  Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time.  Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger."  Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body.  Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you.  Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door.  But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day.  Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife.  Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories.  Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been.  And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here.  Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth.  And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven.  As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven.  Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate.  Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in.  "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn.  It will be beyond description.  But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate."  Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much.  And loving my life.  But wanting so much to just be done.  To go there, and be with my Jesus.  To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices.  I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there?  I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents?  I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

Top Secret Information

**If you have requested an invite to my fertility blog and have not received it, please check your junk-mail or request another invite.  I have over 30 open invitations right now, so I know not everyone has gotten theirs.**

First, if you want to read my fertility blog, you will have to either email me or leave a comment as it is now protected.  It will stay this way for at least the next few weeks, as we go through retrieval, fertilization, and get "the news."  It's not that I want to hide from the world... it's just that I want to have a way to update people, but not have the added stress of nay-sayers.

Now, on to the Top Secret Information I have for you. 

Truth is, I have been holding out on you guys big time.  There was a big thing that happened back in September, a thing that we didn't want anybody to hear about second-hand.  We also didn't want to tell certain people until we had a resolution to said thing.

Derek was working, and he made a statement to a customer that seemed perfectly acceptable at the time - both to Derek and to the customer.  However, the manager monitoring the call felt that Derek was trying to avoid helping the customer and chose to terminate his employment.  We were truthfully terrified.  Especially me.  He was more ashamed than afraid, I think.

But over the days and weeks following, I was prouder of him than I've maybe ever been.  Like me, he's still imperfect.  Because he's still human and trapped on earth.  In the past, I've ached for him to step up and be the leader I believe God has called him to be.  For him to be decisive, firm.  To lead our family.  And it hasn't always happened (don't get me wrong - there have also been times I've chosen not to follow or submit, which is in my opinion probably more dangerous).  But this time, he didn't back down. 

He told me what we were going to do.  He stuck to his word.  He worked so hard to get a new job - and had one 3 days after he was informed that he was fired.  Not a great job - not the best fit for him, poor wages and no benefits.  But better than starving, right?  He worked at that job diligently, all the while searching for an alternative (I helped, but the spotlight here is on Derek).  He's applied at so many locations, but as many of you know, the job market just isn't the best right now.  There was one job he was promised that never came to fruition.  He was so disappointed when the date he should have started came and went.  He wanted to work for that company - still does.

Then, last week, he got a phone call informing him of a different, unexpected opening at that company.  It pays $3.60 more per hour than the job he originally wanted, and is in the IT field (something Derek really wanted to break into).  His position right now is officially temporary, but will hopefully be made permanent in January.  Meanwhile, at the other job he was working, he asked if he could go part time.  They were disappointed - they were planning on promoting him very shortly after he completed training.  They said yes though.  So he is staying there part time, with the knowledge that if he were to return to full time, the promotion is waiting for him. 

Can I just say, I am proud of him?  I think he's acted very honorably and very much the "man" in all of this.  Thank you Derek, for leading our family, for loving me, and most of all, for loving God.

Are you sure??

On July 23rd, as you may remember, I had surgery.  To "treat" endometriosis.  There was a complication this time - the first time ever - that rendered my bladder defunct.  Or something similar.  Regardless, for 48 hours, it took a lot of work and pain and fluid to get my bladder to give up any of its contents.  ANY of it.  Never mind emptying.  That was entirely out of the question.  I literally begged the nurses to get the doctor to let me go home.  They did.  Not sure how, but they did.  Doctor called the next morning, and was unhappy with the fact that things were not working yet.  I was unhappy too - do you have any idea how much an overly-filled bladder hurts??

Sunday morning, I could barely move, it was so full and so sore.  I didn't really think three hours would make much difference in the grand scheme of bladder-life, so I sent my husband to church.  Asked him to have our Pastor wear a prayer-cloth and bring it home for me.  When my husband got home, I took the cloth, tucked it in my waist band and went back to sleep.  I did so with the expectation that I would wake up and have him take me to the hospital.  Very faith-filled thoughts, huh?

Regardless, I woke up two hours later and my bladder let loose.  It felt amazing.  As in I cannot begin to describe the relief.  I'm not sure how much fluid it takes to change the level of water in a toilette that much.  I do know that when I left the hospital, my final bladder scan showed about 1200 ml's of urine (the max in a healthy bladder is supposed to be between 200 and 600).  They didn't tell us this - I looked it up in my on-line health record.  I also know that there is no way it ever dropped below that.  The tiny amounts I could squeeze out were barely a drop in the bucket. 

All of that... and then the "miraculous urination."  And even with that... I hurt.  Really hurt.  My bladder, which is functioning at half-thickness in many locations after as much endo as could be removed, was.  My uterus, which was stuck to things and covered in endo.  My ovaries, which had worked their way into my peritoneum (abdominal lining) again.  My intestines.  Stomach.  Liver.  These are the things I can distinctly feel.

Why?  Why do we do this instead of choosing to remove my reproductive organs and hit the remaining endo with chemotherapy?  Which could actually let me live the rest of my life with much less pain?  Why are we trying to figure out a way to pay for expensive "reproductive assistance" this winter?  Why do I want to go through the pain that will be involved in conception, the discomfort of pregnancy, hours of labor... when adoption is right there in front of us?  Why am I not terrified of the possibility of my heart going completely nuts while pregnant?  (My chart, by the way, states that I have SVT and AV-Nodal Re-entrant Tachycardia.  Both.  Listed as separate problems.  I guess they still haven't really made up their minds).  Or of scar tissue impeding delivery and requiring a c-section?

A good friend asked this today.  Part of my answer isn't really fit to share here on this blog.  But part of it is.  The part that says... I want the opportunity to be part of that kind of miracle.  The miracle that takes two microscopic pieces of two totally separate people, and out of that, an entirely new person grows.  The miracle that places a soul and a spirit inside that body.  I want to hear the screaming that heralds new life - new life that came from within my womb.  I want to grow impatient, large, and clumsy while this new life grows inside of me.  I want to do this thing, this amazing, entirely unique, miraculous, unparalleled thing that is called giving birth.  I want to add life to this planet I live on.  To contribute.

And this is all just the reasons I want to actually give birth.  There are so many other reasons to be a parent.  Which is a separate post and, at least in my heart, a separate dream.  I mean, yes, giving birth does have a tendency to lead to parenthood... but parenthood can be reached without the birth part.  Well, at least without me doing the birth part. 

My Baby's Daddy.

Today is Father's Day.  The day set aside to honor every father in this country.  The day for maple syrup kisses and bear hugs, backwards letters and stick figures.  The day when I wish everyone could see my baby's daddy as that - a daddy.

But they don't see.  They don't know that his heart is hurting today.  He doesn't have a visible mark, doesn't get to hang pictures in his workspace, and has never had the joy of a tiny voice saying "I love you, daddy."  And yet, in spite of that... he is a daddy.  He has missed most of the "good parts" pertaining to fatherhood, but has known goodbye.  He's known "not enough time" and has thought to himself "no fair."  He is my baby's daddy.

I don't know exactly what is in his heart today... I only know what is in mine.  And I know what he has said... that he wishes he could have known her.  That she should be greeting him when he walks in the door after work.  That he cries when he knows I can't see.  That it hurts.

And I know that, regardless of what the "world" sees and knows... regardless of what tomorrow holds... he is, and will always be, my baby's daddy.

Happy Father's day, Derek.

My Husband Wrote A Song

A couple days a go, my husband went downstairs.  When he came back up, he informed me that he had come up with new and better lyrics to a popular song.  He sang it for me, and it made me laugh.  So for lack of something better to post just now, I'll share it with you.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider was hanging on the wall,
where he shouldn't be; he had a deadly fall.
The Itsy Bitsy Spider got crushed with pulped up wood
and the Itsy Bitsy Spider went down the drain for good.

Perhaps not the greatest song ever written, but I got a kick out of it, and hope you do too.

Tonight.

I love the night. The dark that wraps like a blanket. The quiet. The way every sound that pierces the quiet, is somehow amplified. I love the coolness. The stars. The moon. Usually.

Sometimes I hate it.

But not tonight. Tonight, my husband and I went out for Date Night. We have Date Night every Friday.

On our way home, we stopped at a model airplane club on top of a ridge. Parked in their driveway. And we let the peace, the quiet, the stillness envelop us. And then cherished the aliveness of it all as the night sounds filled the silence. Watched as the moon rose and seemed to shrink, turning from golden to silver.

I will post more soon, I promise.

1096 Days.

1096 days ago, at this time, I was in a car. A little red '95 neon that was somehow still on the road. (For those who are unaware, neons are commonly referred to as "disposable." They're not made to last.)

I was in said car with my wonderful husband. We'd been married for a whole three and a half hours. We were driving to Chicago to catch a plane to Mexico. Our marriage was still, in most ways, made up of dreams and expectations.

1096 days ago, we had no idea that within two years we'd see ourselves with five children in heaven. 1096 days ago, we had no idea that we'd only get to celebrate one anniversary with my grandmother, before she went on to heaven.

1096 days ago, we believed that we'd build our life together. We pictured ourselves restoring a home in which to raise the children we'd simply "believe and try for" and then have. We had no comprehension of the financial, emotional, spiritual and physical obstacles we'd face.

1096 days ago, we kissed for the first time. 1096 days ago, we were eagerly anticipating our "first time together." 1096 days ago, we had the worst sex we've ever had. That sounds awful, but it was. Ask any couple who were virgins when they married - that first time is a doozy.

1096 days ago, we were in love.

731 days ago, we celebrated our first anniversary. We rejoiced that we'd "made it" this far. We were mourning the still fresh loss of our child, and plunging ahead with fertility treatments. 731 days ago, we talked about maybe looking for a house to buy.

731 days ago, we were in love.

366 days ago, we celebrated our first anniversary "without her." We rejoiced in two years of marriage. We'd had 730 days together. We took a big vacation. We saw things too beautiful for words. We stood together dangerously close to a wild grizzly bear. We watched a coyote catch and reject as food some sort of small animal. We made a crazy dash back across the country for the funeral of a friend.

366 days ago, we were in love.

1 day ago, we celebrated our third anniversary over two hostess cupcakes. We rejoiced in three years of marriage. I marveled at how quickly time has gone. I felt a little sad that we've not had any "earth babies" yet. We went to church.

1 day ago, we were in love.

Today, we start our fourth year of marriage. I am still being amazed by the depths of God's love for me. I am almost as amazed by the depths of Derek's love. I am thankful for his patience, dependent on his patience. We're walking together on a journey I thought I'd never have to take. I tried when I was younger, and failed. But now, I've got someone by my side who gives me the courage and strength to do this. I am blessed to have the best husband on the planet. Sorry ladies, I know you think your man is great, but as far as I'm concerned - I got the best one, by far. :)

Today, we are in love.