A Few Things.

First, Lizzie asked who died on the 28th... and I'm not sure what she's referring to?  Lizzie, if you read this and would leave a comment as to why you asked that, I'd be happy to answer.
Second... a leg update.
It hurts.  The tibial plateau (or at least the soft tissue over it) is very inflamed.  And red.  And brown.  And purple.  And bruised.  And there is a bruising all the way up and down my tibia.  It hurts like you wouldn't believe to walk on it.  Which makes no sense, because there's no infection.  No internal damage.  Unless the infection was there before... which I had been wondering about.

Today, my friend called my doctor, to inform him (the doctor) that my leg was really sore and swollen and red and warm.  The doctor gave me a serious lecture about going to the emergency room right away.  Because my leg cannot be messed around with.  At all.  Can't take that kind of risk.  Apparently, it's still... "fragile" and isn't remotely healed enough to be able to handle any further damage.  Or something.  I grudgingly concluded the phone call with "Yes, sir" in response to his demands that I go to the ER "right away" and not wait even an hour.

And then my friend approached with a very well known (and very excellent) surgeon in tow.  He (the surgeon) just happens to be a black belt where I take martial arts.  He checked my leg.  His expert diagnosis?  "That looks like it hurts."  Ya think?!  He proceeded to say that it's an inflammatory response that is sort of creating a negative loop - more inflammation, irritates the tissues that were previously infected and irritated (i.e. muscle compartments, periosteum on my tibia, venous structures, lymphatics... which causes more swelling and more irritation. 

He also said it was an exceptionally beautiful graft, and insisted I tell him the name of the surgeon who did it.  And then he said it looked like a shark bite.  Totally un-prompted, I promise.
That's funny.  Because when nosy people who I don't know ask what happened, I say "Shark bite."  And then they say "Really?"  And I smile and say "What do you think?"  I make it pretty clear with my tone that it's not really a shark bite, but that I also won't entertain any further questions.
We're attempting to install a motion alarm in our stairway and door alarms on our doors.  Right now.  It's 11:00 PM.  It's not going well. 
I wish it was Sunday.  On Sunday, my Pastor is taking part of the service to answer some very important questions for us.  I think we might get rebuked a little bit, but I really want and need to know the answers, so it's all good.
I'm rambling.  Because I'm tired.  And the hydroxyzine has kicked in.  Which means it's time for the Ambien and the lorazapam.  Yes... that's three meds.  As opposed to four.  And we're looking to wean off the lorazapam within the next month or two.

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."

FIberglass, Part 2

So.

I have neglected this blog.  Not out of spite,b ut out of lack of time to write.  Lots of new, exciting, good things in life right now.

But also, something old.  The endometriosis has gotten bad again.  It hurts, every day, all day.  And some days, it hurts even more.  SO, surgery is scheduled for two weeks from today.  I'm glad, in a way.  I don't like surgery, and especially don't like recovery, but I DO like being in less pain.

The other issue is my thyroid.  It's sort of taken a vacation, or leave of absence, or however you'd like to put it.  The doctor is testing for certain autoimmune idsorders, and there's a good chance that a few particular tests will come back positive and if so, it will be an indication that we should no longer attempt to get pregnant.  Because my body, if those tests are positive, is not a good place for a baby to be.  At all.

At first, I was shocked.  And then heartbroken.  And then (very shortly after), I realized something.  If this pans out the way the doctor supects, and we indeed will never have a biological child, it's not a huge shock.  It's a possibility that has grown and been dealt with by us for years now.  And people WILL say "You can always adopt instead."  And I'll still get angry, and I'll still say to myself "Why can't you say 'you can adopt too'  Adoption isn't a replacement, it's not settling, it's not second best.  It is a way to become parents, and it isn't seomthing we would do if (and only if) we are unable to have kids 'of our own'.  It's something we will do whether we have biological children or not.  And by the way... any child we adopt WILL be a child 'of our own.'  So pfft." 

Yep, in my secret thought life, I really am that snarky.

So I got to thinking last night... what if all the time and energy and money we've spent pursuing biological children has been... well, has been like my cat licking fiberglass when we have really good cat food for her upstairs.  What if we've been trying to obtain something we think is going to be so good, and for us God has a different and better plan?  Maybe, just maybe, the chocolate cake is just around the next bend.  And who knows what that chocolate cake will look like.  It might look like Derek and/or I.  Or maybe it will have chocolate skin or almond eyes. 

Don't Lick Fiberglass.

I have a cat named Izzy.  She's a good kitty, and I like her.  But she has this unhealthy obsession... she will work ridiculously hard to fulfill it, too.  She'll dig and hunt and search, and finally... she'll succeed.  And she'll take her prize and lick it.  The object of her affection?  Fiberglass insulation.

I was talking to my daddy tonight, and told him that she'd just obtained and licked more fiberglass.  I then said I had no idea why any creature would do such a thing - think about how much it hurts when you put your HAND on fiberglass.  And then try to imagine licking it?! 

He paused, and said, "Well, I think that a lot of times, that's how God feels about us."

My dad sometimes says things that stop me in my tracks.

And now, I am thinking to myself... "How much fiberglass have I licked lately?"

Obviously (or it should be obvious, anyway) I haven't actually licked any.  But... what have I worked hard and long for?  What have I kept in the front of my mind, devoting my attention, affection, and energy to?  And of those things, how much is the equivalent of licking fiberglass?

I am quite certain there are things I find appealing, enjoyable, or for whatever other reason, I like to do.  Things that seem worthwhile to me.  Things that, from a heavenly, eternal perspective... well, they are like licking fiberglass.  God knows what could be and what I could have/do/experience... and He knows what I actually have/do/experience.  And I suspect my daddy is right.  God probably looks at a lot of it and feels the same way I do when I watch my cat lick fiberglass.

Because truthfully... there is better.

Drawing Anna.

My God, the Creator of the Universe, speaks to me.  Through His Word, every time I read it or hear it, He speaks.  I have had very few instances where I believe he has spoken to me that were anything else. 

One of those times was in December of 2006.  It was the day our daughter was due... the daughter we'd miscarried that summer.  I was so broken inside, longing so much for her... I prayed fervently, "Lord, give me peace.  I trust You.  I love You.  And right now, I desperately need You to do something inside me... something to make me okay again."

And then I went back to bed, since I really prefer NOT getting up that early.  And I had the most vivid, beautiful dream.  I saw my baby girl... she was laying in my lap, wrapped in a very pale purplish-pink blanket.  She was brand-new... still red and puffy eyed.  But she was so beautiful.  Smooth, soft skin.  Gently rounded cheeks.  A perfect little mouth that turned up at the corners like her daddy's.  A cute little chin that reminds me very much of her aunt Cari.  A nose that clearly came from daddy (or daddy's mom, however you want to look at it), but was still exquisitely formed.  Her eyes were shut, and she had one hand up by her face.  I picked her up carefully, and she settled against my chest.  I could feel her breath on my skin, smell her new-baby smell, I could feel her heart beating against me and the rise and fall of her chest.  I could feel her warmth and her weight, and in the dream, I thought to myself, "This is heaven."

I woke with a start... and could still feel her, almost.  It took a long time to fade, and I expected that eventually the dream would fade all together.  But then I noticed something... I didn't have the heaviness.  I didn't hurt quite so much.  I missed her just as strongly, but I knew she was okay.  

I believe without any hesitation, that dream was a gift from God.

I kept it to myself for a while - weeks, if I remember correctly.  Then I shared it with my husband.  And he wanted to know what she looked like.  All I could say was beautiful.  I tried to describe that mouth, her nose... the shape of her brows being the same as the shape of my Gramma's... her tiny hand that looked just like mine, her chin like Cari's... her complexion dark, like Daddy, with just a tiny bit of soft brown hair.  But words don't work for things like that.

So over the next few months, I drew her.  I drew her so many times... and each time, I ached to hold her, to have her, and I felt so much peace about where she was.  And then I'd finish the drawing, and I'd look at her, my daughter, and I couldn't stand it.  The picture would get tucked away into a box... a box I no longer know if we even have.

One year later, we mourned together the fact that our daughter was not turning one.  And that night, I saw her.  Wobbly, chunky baby legs.  Sparkling brown eyes, that mouth that turned up just a little at the corners, soft, dark hair that was almost black.  That perfectly adorable little chin.  In the dream, she was standing across the room, and I called out her name... "Anna, come to mommy" and she did.  She ran to me, and I felt her slam against me and wrap her pudgy arms around my neck and it was so beautiful.

2008, I dreamt of her again.  She was obviously two.  She told me "I can do it" when I offered to help her get up into a rocking chair.  I asked if I could sit with her... she said "Yes mama.  I like snuggles."  She looked even more like her daddy, and seemed even more beautiful.  I held her, and rocked with her in that chair, and it was glorious.  I woke aching for her, but filled with joy.  I thanked my God.

2009, she would have been three.  This last year, she would have been four.

I keep dreaming of her... on her due date.  On Mother's day the last couple of years.  They are the most vivid dreams I have ever had, and they leave me with so much peace.  I miss her, I long to be with her, I long to just... stay with her, always.  But I have a life to live here and now, and I have to focus on that. 

And I keep drawing Anna.  I keep drawing and it feels so good to get it down on paper, and then I look at her face, and it's a reminder of what is not here, of what is missing... and I can't keep the drawing.

But this year, I want to share her with Derek.  I want to show him.  I want to draw Anna for my husband, and I need God's help and strength to do it.

I know this may not make sense, but... it is where I am at today.

Hurting... It's Mother's Day Tomorrow.

Mothers' Day is so hard for me, in so many ways.  I want my own mommy, I want my Gramma, and my Grandmother.  I want my babies - I want Annaliah and I want the two sets of twins and I want the other two, too.
But I don't have them.

And tonight, today... I feel like the storm has sent so many waves and they are crashing all around me.  So I am ending this post with a quote in a great book I read.  By the way... if you have not yet, please read Mary Beth Chapman's book, "Choosing to See."  You can download free kindle-for-pc software, and purchase her book here at Amazon.com.  It is the most raw, honest look at grief tempered by hope of forever that I have ever seen, and has meant so much to me in the last weeks as I've poured over the book time and again. 

The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.
Jerry Sittner

When I Get Where I'm Going

Brad Paisley and Dolly Parton.  It's not that I actively dislike them, it's just... well, you won't normally find anything from either one of them on any of my play lists.

But there is one song... one song that I just plain like.  I know it's not 100% scripturally correct.  But.  It IS accurate in its message and outlook.  Focus on what is yet to come, what we cannot see, what we have not felt or heard or breathed.  Focus on when we get where we are going.

I am going to heaven.  Maybe this very same hour, maybe 80 years from now, or maybe anywhere in between.  I do not know.  All I know, is I am going there, and when I do... when I do, I will see my Jesus face to face.  I will worship without end.  I will love without fear.  I will be made perfect.  I will meet my daughter Annaliah, and all of her siblings.  I will see my Gramma's shining face, and I will walk beside my Great Grampa Max, and I will see my Grampa Jean.  I will meet David, and Peter, and I will meet Paul.  I will meet so many I've never heard of.  And we will all be there forever.  And we will all be there because God loves us. 

So for now, when things get rough and I have a hard time just living day to day, I have been listening to this song and letting it get my mind back where it needs to be.

When I Get Where I'm Going.

When I get where I'm going
On the far side of the sky
The first thing that I'm gonna do
Is spread my wings and fly

I'm gonna land beside a Lion
And run my fingers through His mane
Or I might find out what it's like
To ride a drop of rain

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

I'm gonna walk with my grand daddy
And he'll match me step for step
And I'll tell him how I've missed him
Every minute since he left
And then I'll hug his neck

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years
And I'll leave my heart wide open
I will love and have no fear
Yeah when I get where I'm going
Don't cry for me down here

So much pain and so much darkness
In this world we stumble through
All these questions I can't answer
So much work to do

But when I get where I'm going
And I see my Maker's face
I'll stand forever in the light
Of His amazing grace

Yeah when I get where I'm goin'
Oh when I get where' I'm goin'
They'll be only happy tears
Hallelujah
I will love and have no fear
When I get where I'm going
Yeah when I get where I'm going

No Words. Just Tears.

Heavy heart this past week, and it's not for me.  So much going so wrong for those I love...

SO tonight, I am going to share so much going so RIGHT for so many. 

And I freely admit, this makes me bawl my eyes out.

Driving Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's April 17th.

Today is April 17th.  When I woke up this morning, my phone was blinking.  It was telling me something. 

I let myself think about him... about Roy.  And his wife, Carman.  And their three children.  And about how Carman is still living life and having joy.  I prayed for her, and the children, that they'd know the strength and hope that only our Father gives us.  That they'd never lose sight of the fact that the day is coming when they'll be reunited with Roy.  And that they'd live life to the fullest, today and tomorrow and every day until our Lord returns for us.

You see, today is Roy's birthday.

He went to heaven in 2007.  I remember that phone call so clearly.  It was Sunday morning, and Derek and I were standing outside our tent in that early-morning mist, half a country away from home.  And we got that call... our 'brother' died.  It ripped at our hearts and we knew we had to get home.  Get home and be with our 'family.'  There may not be any legal relationship to these people, but they are blood-brothers, having chosen Christ as Lord.  We drove, and drove, and drove... it was a long, rough trip, but we did it. 

It wasn't that long after my Gramma died.  I feel like we (Roy's legal and biological family, and I) have grieved together.  And I pray that today, they are where I am.  I pray that they can think of him and smile, even though their hearts are a little sad.  I pray that there is peace and hope, not sorrow.  I pray that they feel whole again.

1 Thessalonians 4:15-18


For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord will by no means precede those who are asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

Happy Heaven Day.

I know I haven't posted much (okay, not at all) in the last months.  It's not for lack of words or motivation, it's... well, trutfully, it's because I've been using up my words in otherplaces, before I make it here to write.  This post is two years old now, but I want to bring it back... for a special anniversary.

Original Post - April 9, 2009
This post is one that I feel ill equipped to write. It needs to be written - deserves to be. But I don't think I'm in a position to actually write it the way it should be written. It's something I don't know anything about. It's something I've never experienced. And yet... I do know something about it. I have experienced it. Or rather, something like it.

You see, today is special. It is special to a mother and a father. It is special to sisters. It is special to an aunt and an uncle. Two cousins. Countless others I've never even heard of. And it is special to me.

Today is an anniversary. Not the sort of anniversary that is usually associated with happiness, balloons, cakes, or cards. Not the sort that everyone dreams of one day "celebrating." You see, this is an anniversary of sorrow. On this day, too many and yet not enough years ago, an earthly life was ended.

It was unexpected. I have been to the place of unexpected death. I have felt the very breath I need to live knocked out of me. I have felt so shocked, so... unprepared. I have whispered into the darkness, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." I have forgotten, upon awakening, that my lived one was no longer "with us." And I have been crushed all over again when I remembered the truth.

It was tragic. This was not a gentle death at the end of a long life. It was fast. It was violent. IT was traumatic. It was unfair. Many would say it shouldn't have happened. I have been there. I have listened as my grandfather whispered from his hospital bed, "this never should have happened." I have felt the sting of unfairness. I have known death that wasn't just a fact of life, death that was the result of tragedy. A single terrible event, which stilled the beating of a beautiful heart.

It was deliberate. This is the part that really gets me. It's one thing to keep living in the wake of an accident. Something that we had no control over. But in this case... there was no accident. There was nobody left on earth to blame. This deliberate, tragic, unexpected death - suicide - leaves nobody behind to take the blame. Yes, this particular suicide left a mother behind, believing that if her faith had been just a little stronger, she'd still have her son. It left a scared young girl who tearfully named her firstborn son after her brother. It left a particular twinkle in the eyes of children, a twinkle that reminds his loved ones that he was here. And it left, truly, nobody to blame. But it was deliberate.

To that end - he is not to blame, either. Not really. Yes, he made the choice. He took the actions that took a life - his own life. But he had help. A demon, perhaps several, whispering to him. Convincing him that if he just ended things, all would be well. Striving to keep him from living, from doing what God had planned for him. I have heard those voices. Felt compelled to obey them. I am ashamed to say, I even tried to listen to them. I failed - and I am thankful. He did not fail. I wish he had. But he didn't. I've heard people say that suicide leads inevitably and instantly to an eternity in Hell. I don't see this in my Bible. I see that there is nothing - neither life NOR death, nor height nor depth, nor anything in all creation (see Romans 8) can separated us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus. I see that salvation can't be earned, nor can it be accidentally "lost." Given up, walked away from, and declined, but not lost. And I believe that the young man I am writing about is in heaven. I believe that this act, this decision, was not a choice to turn his back on God. I believe it was a lost battle with temptation. We've all lost battles with temptation. We've all sinned. The difference here? There are so many left here trying to sort the results of this sin out. I believe that this young man's parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... family... classmates... they can see him again. And I... well, I will meet him for the first time.

You see, I never knew this young man. At least not while he was here. I feel like maybe I know him a little, now. Now that he has changed my life. Permanently. His death shook so many. But they kept living. In their sorrow, they looked around. They saw me. For whatever reason, they took compassion on me. They took me with them to church. They, in many ways, made me a part of their family. And in knowing them over the last seven years, I feel like I have gotten to know this young man. I am thankful to him. I am grateful that he lived. And I look forward to meeting him.

Today is not about me though. It is about them - his family. His friends. So, today, I want to say this to them:
I remember. I am glad he lived. Glad he was loved. I won't say who I am writing about... but those of you who knew this young man, know who you are. You don't need a reminder of what happened on this day years ago. You don't need me to say he is missed, and you don't need me to remind you of the pain. But one thing you do need... is for me to remember. For me to say, "It matters to me. I won't forget. I know it hurts. And because I love you, on this day, I hurt with you."

I remember. It matters. I won't forget. I know it hurts. I love you. And I hurt with you.

And on this day, I celebrate. Will you celebrate with me? Will you celebrate the fact that this one life has touched so many? The fact that even cut off prematurely, his presence on this earth made an impact that we can't begin to fathom? Will you celebrate the fact that on this day, years ago, a young man shook off the chains of this life and stepped into his eternity? But most of all, will you celebrate the truth? The truth that like us, he was a sinner SAVED BY GRACE. The truth that not even death can separate him from his God? Because that is something to celebrate. Even in the midst of tears and sorrow.

Quick One

I've got my splint on for the night, so this is going to be fast and probably full of errors.

I am no longer taking the Cipro, Augmentin, and Bactrim.  The cephadroxyl is out too, along with the gati amd the vancomyacin and rocephin.  Only one kind of antibiotic left and it is the cream I have to apply to all open owies for... um... a long time.

Still needing the Vicodin two or three times most days.

Still taking 900mg of Gabapentin three times a day to deal with the nerve pain.

Faith.  Holding onto that as I fight to stay awake.

______________________________________

In other news, I get a periodical emailed to my inbox each morning, and I skim the headlines and call it good enough.  I know that the format sometimes cuts off words at the end, but this one was just too great not to share with you:

"Occupation of the WI Capitol protestors fighting efforts to strip public workers carried on Sunday after police decided not to forcibly remove demons."

Also, I pass a sign that boasts of "Pre-need burial plans."  Well... um.... how do you plan for something after the fact?  And when someone is "post-need" of burial, well... how far post-need can one get before friends and family start to hide?

Dreaming of Aiden

I have a confession to make.

For the last three and a half years, I have been dreaming.  Not day-dreams.  Night dreams.  Vivid, hard-to-pull-away-from dreams.

It started with dreaming about a tiny baby boy with soft blond fuzz on his head and ordinary blue eyes.  A softly rounded face, a perfect chin and a rose-bud mouth.  The first dream had no sound.

A few months later, I dreamt about a bigger baby boy.  More blond fuzz.  Blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled.  A dimple in his left cheek.  A soft, warm, typical baby boy.

A few months later, I dreamt of him again.  He was sitting up, and would rock forward to his hands and knees and crawl.  I dreamt of him many nights in a row.  It was in these dreams that I started hearing sounds.  His gurgly laughter and his squeals.  My own voice, calling him Aiden.

A few months later, I watched him walk in my dream.  I called his name, and he toddled toward me.  And then he simply vanished.  I woke with tears in my eyes and a tight ache in my chest, and what seemed almost like left-over warmth in my arms.

I went over a year without dreaming of him at all.  I would have forgotten if I hadn't written it here, in posts I never published.

Then it went back to the intermittent, random dreams for about a year.  Lately, it's gotten more frequent.

In these dreams, I've watched him grow physically.  I've interacted with him.  And he's shown all the signs of a child without parents.  A child without attachments, without hope, without a home.  In my last dream, my husband and I went to see him in an orphanage.  He was there among beautiful babies.  A lanky 3.5 year old, laying in a bed with a blank face.  Large blue eyes with no expression, that dimpled left cheek and perfect chin.  Freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks.  His hair was sandy blond, coarse and cut shaggily.  We played with him, and at first he seemed so normal.  As the day (dream) progressed, he showed more and more of the signs, and my heart broke more and more.  This one had tears streaming when I awoke, and a heart that ached.  And the name of this made-up child rolling through my head.  Aiden.  It means little fire, in case you wondered.

I have no idea what it's all about.  None at all.  It's certainly not a wish of mine for ANY child to be that way - to hurt, and cry, and struggle, and grow to need intervention more desperately each day.  I have never intended to name any child of mine Aiden, so it's not a sub-conscious fulfillment of a name I fear I'll never get to use (trust me, I have those dreams too, but they aren't like this one).  I don't work with kids with attachment disorder anymore, so it's not a work life carry-over.  In fact, I have known two children with the disorder that were younger than age 8, ever.  They were both African, and I had no special feelings for them, so it's not because of THEM. 

Maybe it's frustrated maternal instinct.  Maybe I feel like my children (or the hopes I have for them and of them) are slipping away and  coming apart.  Maybe it's a real child that will some day come into our lives.  Maybe I'm just a weirdo who has a set of serial dreams that depict an accurate progression of time and development, that aren't based on anything at all.

Just curious.  I get a lot of good feed-back from you guys.  I'm curious what you all will have to say.  As always, if you want your comment/question to remain private, just say so and I won't hit "publish."

It's Not Me - It's Him

It seems like most of the time, life involves trying to prove something to someone.  There are tests, requirements, standards which must be met or exceeded.  We go to first grade and our efforts begin to be graded - not based on our actual abilities, but on the way our performance adheres to certain standards. 

Truth is, it's exhausting.  And it contaminates our thinking and beliefs regarding our God.  At least, it contaminates mine, and I've seen the contamination in the words and actions of so many others that I've lost count.  Maybe it doesn't impact you.  Maybe it doesn't carry over into your faith, into the one thing that will matter for eternity.

It seems like we look at our lives, and see the short-comings, and think either one of two things:

 -"I have to try hard, do more, be better, or I will never make heaven and God will never accept me."
 -"I cannot possibly succeed, cannot possibly be good enough... I've already messed up so much, what is the point of even attempting to do any better?"

Okay.  I know what a lot of you are saying:  "No, it's not that black and white."

And you are right.  It isn't that clear-cut.  At least not on the surface.  We rationalize.  We tell ourselves we aren't being extreme so it must be right.  Do any of these thoughts sound familiar?

 -"I know He forgave me for lying yesterday, but today I did it again.  I'm out of chances."
 -"I am worthless."
 -"I won't actually make it to heaven."
 -"I cannot continue this way.  I am done."
 -"I can't do this.  What is the point of even trying?"
 -"I know this is wrong, but I am already condemned so why does it matter?"
 -"I give up."
 -"I will never win."
 -"I am captive."
 -"I am not really saved.  If I was, I wouldn't really (insert the thing you battle most)."
 -"I have to do (insert ideal that you hold in your mind and/or heart) so that I can be accepted by Him."

I don't know.  Maybe the emails, the questions, the comments that I have received represent a dramatic minority of those who trust Christ for their salvation.  I doubt it though. 

Read Colossians 2, verses 11-14 with me:

Entering into this fullness is not something you figure out or achieve.  It's not a matter of being circumcised or keeping a long list of laws.  No, you're already in - insiders - not through some secretive initiation right but rather through what Christ has already gone through for you, destroying the power of sin.  If it's an initiation ritual you're after, you've already been through it by being baptised.  Going under the water was a burial of your old life; coming up out of it was a resurrection, God raising you from the dead as He did Christ.  When you were stuck in your old sin-dead life, you were incapable of responding to God.  God brought you alive - right along with Christ!  Think of it!  All sins forgiven, the slate wiped clean, that old arrest warrant cancelled and nailed to Christ's cross.

Look at these words.  Just look.  Do you know what they mean?

They mean it isn't up to you to earn salvation.  You don't have to earn your way into favor with God.  There isn't a test or a set of standards that you have to conform to before He will love you, before you can become part of His kingdom.  It's already been taken care of.

It isn't you.  It's Him.

**Disclaimer: I am not suggesting, not even remotely, that sin in our lives does not need to be addressed.  Our actions and thoughts are to conform with the Word of God, and we are to try our hardest to make that happen.  What I am saying is that our failure to be perfect isn't what we're going to be judged or charged by.  The thing that will determine our guilt or innocence for eternity is Him and what He did.  Not us and what we did.**

But what about those things that consume us?  What about the sin that we vow every day to never repeat, and then the next day, it happens again?  What about the thoughts we can't seem to capture.  The intentions that are not pure, the fear, the anger, the hurt? 

What do we do with the things that our adversary, the devil, has stacked against us?

Colossians 2:15:
God disarmed the principalities and powers that were ranged against us and made a bold display and public example of them, in triumphing over them in Him and in the cross.

Did you catch that?  The devil, and his minions, those powers and principalities that are out to destroy us, have lost their ammunition.  They are disarmed.  No war can be won if one side is armed and the other is not. 

But wait.  Yes, this says the other side is disarmed but if we have no weapons, then how can we win?

Read Ephesians 6:17
Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

The principalities and powers get disarmed, and we get a sword.  Seems like we will win.  It may take us a while to figure out how to actually use the sword.  We might not remember we even have it sometimes.  But we do.  We are armed; they (it, he, etc.) are not.

We win. 

The fight is hard.  We take hits.  We fall down.  We fall short.  Our technique is flawed and our courage sometimes fails.  We may wave our white flags and we may fall to our knees, believing we are defeated.  It can hurt, it can be overwhelming, it can be terrible and frightening sometimes. 

But He (Jesus) said to me, "My grace, my favor and loving-kindness and mercy is enough for you; it is sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully (successfully and with strength).  For my strength and power are made perfect, fulfilled, and completed, and show themselves most effective in your weakness.
(2 Corinthians 12:7a)

He can handle our weakness.  He planned for it.  He paid for it.  It's already been dealt with.  Those areas where we simply can not, He can.

It's not us.  It is Him.

So what do we have to do about it?  What's is expected of us in response?

Hebrews 4:14-16 answers that:

Now that we know what we have - Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God - let's not let it slip through our fingers.  We don't have a priest who is out of touch with our reality.  He's been through weakness and testing, experienced it all - all but the sin.  So let's walk right up to Him and get what He is so ready to give.  Take the mercy, accept the help.

I'm running out of steam for tonight.  So I leave you with this final statement:

Yes, I believe we are required to act upon what He did.  I believe our faith isn't truly faith without actions to back it up.  I believe we should live the best lives we can and strive to be free of sin.  But I also believe that when we stand before God Himself, the thing that matters most isn't going to be us, but Him.

Because it's not me.  It's Him.

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.

Chronology of an Owie

In pictures, here is what my hand has done over the last three weeks.  This is all the result of having blood drawn from one of the veins in my hand for a routine test.  It formed a clot and for whatever reason, the clot didn't dissolve.  Over time, the bacteria introduced by the blood draw multiplied and formed an abcess inside the vein.  They then spread to surrounding tissue, including my skin.  Officially, it is septic thrombophlebitis.  The two pictures that are NOT of my hand mark the start of each hospitalization.  One showing the three IV bags and PCA meds I had, one showing the goofiness of my doctor and his and my mutual friend. 

The pictures are low quality because they are all from my cell phone.

This post is brought to you in response to some requests I've gotten.

3 Times Crazy

Third admission is behind me.  If there is a fourth, it will be in a city about two hours from here, a city filled with world-famous really good doctors.

The last admission went badly from the moment we walked in to the emergency room.  Strike that, it went badly in the hours prior, too.  Lots of anger and fear and irrational outbursting on my part.  Plus going into shock, which involved six blankets in a 70 degree building, with one of the stronger space heaters I've ever "known" blasting full-tilt in my face while I still got colder and colder and colder (my temp in the ER was under 96).  And me whining about the cold and the fact that the heater "didn't work."  And a spectacular and very mis-placed, poorly timed, and inappropriate display of anger. 

In the ER, we found out that the orthopedics doctor on call was the one that I would never let touch me, ever.  Not even with a ten-foot spaghetti noodle.  She wanted to attempt to aspirate the fluid out of every joint that was swollen, to make sure it wasn't infected.  That means nine joints on one hand.  Nuh-uh no way, not a chance.  Stab through skin and the deeper tissue that we already know is infected and full of bacteria, and into joints that may or may not be infected?  Many times over?  No way.  Especially not her.  We told her that - including the not her part.  She yelled.  Derek yelled.  The ER doc yelled.  I yelled.  She refused to call a hand specialist (she most definitely is NOT) because "they work all day and have lives, too."  The ER doc refused to call because she did.  He refused to call my regular doctor.  Refused to allow us to have a second opinion.

They took me to a room that, well... let me just say it triggered some massively bad memories.  Bad enough that I cried and vomited uncontrollably for the two hours we sat in it.  With grumbling and "harrumphing" from the nurses on the floor they then moved me to, it was off to a different floor, different unit, different room.  I refused to "make a decision" about the aspiration until after the timeline the surgeon set forth, since she had to go home because a full day of surgery awaited the next morning.  Score.  If she was in surgery, I wouldn't have HER anywhere near me with a needle, right?

Not so right.  I consented at about 10:15 PM, too late for the night and I knew it.  But that consent kept me from having to sign an AMA form.

The next morning at 6 AM, my nurse mentioned that this doctor would be in to talk to me about the aspiration and figure out when she could squeeze it into her schedule.  Ahem.  This is not what I planned.  So I told the nurse that I was refusing to see the doctor, at all.  That she could not touch me or have contact for the remainder of the stay.  The nurse said that since I was admitted under that doc, I couldn't get rid of her completely.  And I said I didn't care if she managed things from afar, so long as she didn't get near me.

They informed me later in the morning that I'd be going to interventional radiology, and the radiologist would be doing the aspiration - of one joint.  Seemed much more reasonable, but I've had needles in joints before and knew it would hurt.  Probably a lot, given the amount of inflammation.

My regular doctor came up to see me.  I was freaking out about the procedure for reasons only partly related to the procedure (this is one of those deliberate withholding of information things).  He stayed with me.  Tried to get me to squeeze his hand.  I don't squeeze hands in pain.  Especially hands of people I don't want to hurt.  The procedure itself didn't hurt terribly.  Meaning it didn't make me scream or cry or pull my arm away.  No, they didn't have it restrained in any way.  Just draped and laying on a foam thing.  The grating sound followed by a crunch was the worst, both audibly and feeling-wise.  It was when he was pushing through the joint capsule.  The capsule is very, very inflamed - it looks kind of cool on ultrasound, actually.  Fluid came back clear initially, but the bacteria in my hand are gram-negative so they don't pick up a gram stain.  The culture was taken Wednesday, and since day 5 is Sunday, won't actually be checked until Monday. 

They discharged me yesterday.  Said if the culture grows anything, then they'll call me and I'll have to be readmitted for I.V. antibiotics for a week.  Again.  Meanwhile, that joint is so big and hard and massively swollen and hot, as are the two next to it and the one above it.  The redness on my hand is accented quite well by the purple marker they used to mark the edges (which have expanded well past the marker). 
As I told my doctor when he said "just hold on a while longer, Jenn," - I am all done.  I am out of hold on.  I am out of gritting my teeth and tolerating.  I am out of being patient.  I am all done.  All done.  Maybe in the next couple days I'll get some fight back, but for today, I just don't have any left.

Wow.

Sorry to have left you all hanging.

I stayed home from the hospital for ALMOST 36 hours.  Almost.

When I was readmitted, my temp had gone from 96.8 when I was discharged to 103.9 when I showed up back in the emergency room.  Seven degrees doesn't matter much in weather but inside a human body, it's a really big deal.  Hot stuff. 

Okay, that was across the lame line.  But it made you either smirk or groan, right?

Reality is, I first mentioned my hand to a nurse at the end of December.  I had the fertility doctor check it on January 5th.

I made my first trip to urgent care on January 12th.  No labs were drawn and the only advice was "use lots of heat.  If it weren't for your leg, I'd say this wasn't infected at all.  But it looks similar to how that did, so I'm going to prescribe this particular antibiotic for you for seven days."  I dutifully soaked my hand many times a day, making sure to move it and use it and get it good and toasty.

Nine days later, on the 21st, I was back in the ER with a temp of 100.9 (normally run 96.5-96.8) and my hand looked... rough.  Bad.  Not so good.  Swollen and red and pretty sore.  I had thought I was getting the flu Wednesday night (24 hours after the last dose of antibiotics), and it proceeded to worsen along with the appearance of my hand.  That doctor said that since the first course of antibiotics worked so well (It did?  Really?  How'd I miss that?) he thought I must be one of those "rare people where seven days isn't long enough" and he was going to prescribe the exact same medicine, at the exact same dose, but this time for ten days.  He said that if the heat helped, I should continue it but it didn't really matter.

My husband and I both felt very uncomfortable with the hasty exam (more just a glance than actual exam), the lack of blood work, and the lack of follow up.  Especially since at that point my hand was acting exactly the same as my leg did last year - and the doctor was acting exactly the same as the doctors did last year.  We kept insisting we were uncomfortable and the doctor got more and more irritated, until he finally offered a referral to the wound clinic.  We knew that the 48 hours until I'd be able to see them (if seen immediately) could see things go south really quickly, but at least we also knew that the wound clinic is home to a bunch of very smart, talented, experienced infectious disease doctors and surgeons.

Wound clinic called Monday morning, offering me an appointment less than 30 minutes later.  It's a 40 minute trip in this weather, minimum.  I asked for a later appointment and was put off until the next afternoon.  That night, I did not sleep.  I used heat, I tried ice, I tried compression, I took Advil, I took Zofran, I took Vicodin 7.5 (two of them).  I finally fell asleep at 7:30 A.M.  I slept until noon, and when I woke up I knew I would be admitted.  For what started out as a simple skin infection of the hand, and even Friday night, could have been handled on an outpatient basis if it had been done correctly.  But now my hand was so swollen that it looked fake.  The skin was shiny and tight and deep, dark red.  It was very hot to touch, and I could no longer move my pinkie, ring, or middle fingers.  The pinkie and outside edge of the ring finger were numb.  And I felt generally sick.  Achy, sweats, chills, fever jumping between 99 and 102.9, unable to keep anything down.  I packed some books and clean underwear and socks and a stocking cap along with my favorite pillow, and off I went to the wound clinic.  My appointment was at 2 PM, my blood was drawn and x-rays taken by 2:30, husband got there at 3:00 just in time to watch the orthopedics consult jab an insanely large, thick needle into my hand in an effort to "aspirate" the pus.  By 4:00 I was getting settled into my room and waiting for IV therapy to come get things started.  After five days of high-dose Rocephin and Vancomyacin, with a Fentanyl PCA pump and frequent IV Zofran, I was sent home with Bactrim, Vicodin, Zofran, and Neurontin for the pain in my now-damaged nerves.  I'd been seen by infectious disease, orthopedics, plain internal medicine, neurology, OT and PT, an intensivist, and about a million interns and 500,000 residents. 

I was thrilled to be going home.  Finally, healing and doing well.

I lasted from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning.

When I was readmitted, my hand was blowing back up, I now had no sensation or reflexes below the wrist in my ulnar nerve and limited sensation and reflexes in the others, and my temperature went from 101 when we left home to 103.9 when the admitting nurse took my temperature. 

More Vancomyacin and Rocephin, more Vicodin ans Neurontin, more days on the Fentanyl PCA pump, More Zofran, more doctors, and an operation to remove the abscessed vein (yes, apparently a not-quite-sterile blood draw can lead to the development of not only phlebitis and cellulitis, but also abscesses inside of your veins) and the necrotic (i.e. dead) tissue that was around it, and I was sent home.  After finding out that the infection I was fighting was directly linked with human saliva.  Eeeeewwww.  There is only one person who could have introduced the germs, and that is the technician who drew my blood in December when all of this started.  I was actually asked this past week, by one of the infectious disease doctors, if this infection was self-inflicted.  Um... no flipping way. Besides, how would I have done it?  "Excuse me, Ms. Lab Tech person, before you stab my hand with that needle, would you mind letting me lick it first?"  Seems unlikely.

Now here I am, halfway through February and two months out from the original offending blood draw, and I am struggling hard to stay out of the hospital.  Three admissions might just send me over the deep end.  Well, not so much the admissions... it's the need for the admissions and the fact that this can all be traced to one person and the fact that we aren't ever going to even be apologized to for any of it, plus the fact that I have long-term, likely permanent, damage and loss of function in a previously healthy hand.

I know, I'll let go of the anger and sadness, and I will learn ways of making my hand do what I need it to do, but right now, tonight, I am so very ticked.

MRSA

So, the hand?

It was MRSA.

It snowballed, big time.  It got worse throughout the day on Friday the 21st.  Went to the ER that night when Derek got home from work.

The doctor frustrated me... not because he was a bad doctor, but because he didn't listen to what I was saying.  He felt a second course of antibiotics was the best choice.  That is pretty standard when an infection recurs.  He also felt that since the first course did impact it, he'd use the same kind again.  I disagreed, but he is the doctor, not me.  I repeatedly voiced my concern that this was eerily similar to the progression my leg initially followed this past spring, but he assured me this was very different.  However, he did refer me to the wound clinic.

Monday, things were not any better but hadn't worsened drastically, either.  Talked to my doctor, told him how I felt, and he told me I needed to be seen that day.  I told him they'd refused to work me in until Tuesday.  He called them, and then called me and said that the infectious disease doctors said it would be fine to wait.  He told me to go in if things got worse quickly or significantly. 

Overnight Monday, my fever went back up to 102.3, which is not the 103.9 that it had been.  I didn't sleep at all, until about 4:30 or 5:00 AM.  I slept through until noon, then got up to get ready to go to the wound clinic.  I freaked out when I looked at my hand - it had grown a lot in the 7.5 hours or so I'd been sleeping, and I felt super crummy.  I knew they'd probably admit me or at least run a dose of IV antibiotics, so I brought my backpack with my phone and charger, my favorite pillow, and books to read.

The doctor initially seemed very calm - rude, but calm.  He sent me for blood work and x-rays - I've never walked into the lab with red-edged orders before.  It gets you to the front of the line.  (Note to self - if ever in a hurry, bring a red sharpie for lab appointments.  Kidding.  Mostly.)  In the 30 minutes it took to do those things, the redness visibly darkened and the swelling increased.

My appointment was at 2:00.  At 4:00, I was getting settled into my hospital bed after having seen the infectious disease doctor and the orthopedic/hand surgeon and having had really big, long, painful needles jabbed into my hand in an attempt to aspirate "infectious matter" for pressure relief and culture.

It got worse throughout the evening Tuesday.  Wednesday, the put me on a PCA pump (pain control) with fentanyl, and I was getting pushes of tordal and taking hydrocodone by mouth.  My hand was so swollen that the skin started getting dark red lines where it was starting to tear.  My temperature was fluctuating up to 103.  They had me on rocephin and vancomyacin.  Plus the zofran and benadryl and pepcid to control the effects of the vanc. 

Yesterday, things started to pick up pace improvement-wise, but the pain changed and worsened - the smaller my hand got as the swelling went down (and the bigger my forearm and elbow got as they continued to sell), the worse it hurt.  The doctor on call was a fairly new resident, who insisted that there was no reason for the pain and chose to discontinue the PCA pump and cut the amount of pain-relievers down to 1/16th of what I'd been getting right up until she made rounds.  Talk about a loooooong night.

This morning, the regular attending came in, took one look, and got me some hefty doses of the meds I'd been given previously, and they didn't really help.  I saw my hopes of going home slipping out the window, and slipping fast.

Neurology came in and found that my ulnar nerve is very displeased with all that's gone on and has ceased proper function starting just above my wrist.  I was told it will recover, but it'll take "up to two months."  Two months... I can handle two months.  I don't like two months, but it's better than forever.  Besides, I have a God who is bigger than one tiny little nerve.  And they gave me... something... for which I can't remember the name.  It's a medication that was made to treat seizures, but didn't work for that, but someone noticed that in people with nerve damage, it really helps that sort of pain.  That medicine, paired up with hydrocodone and ibuprofen (and zofran) got things under control.  I went to occupational therapy, got to sit with my arm in a whirlpool and then get a thorough massage, and then they gave in and let me go HOME.

It feels so good to be here, in my house with my cats and ready to crawl into my very own bed. 

And it turns out, the infection was MRSA.  I've got five more days of oral antibiotics and then in a week I follow up with infectious disease.

Moral of the story?  Apparently, it's that you should go to the hospital every time a blood draw results in more than a super-tiny bruise.

Okay, not really.  The actual moral is that if you jump on top of infections early, like was done this time, and you get proper and prompt treatment... you may still spend hospital time, but they don't have to start chopping chunks of flesh out of your body.  I'm thankful for my friend being pushy and not letting me shrug it off or say "oh, it can wait."  Thankful for my doctor being mean and riding me about getting it rechecked sooner, and calling infectious disease to make them get me in sooner (they were going to give me an appointment Friday, i.e. yesterday).  If not for those two, I'd have crawled into bed and gutted it out until Wednesday or maybe even Thursday before going to the emergency room, and it'd have been a much longer road to recovery, probably involving surgery and permanent damage.

Also, if not for those two, the information board by my bed wouldn't have had the following on it:  APPTS (supposed to be an abbreviation for appointments) - No, she lives in a house.  Get it?  I know, I know... apartments only has one P, but it was funny at the time.  The doctor and friend thought so, especially.

Pray?

So these are low-quality pictures off my cell phone.  Sorry for that.  But here's the deal:

December 17th, I had my blood drawn for a simple test.  They only needed ONE tube.  They stuck me a LOT of times in my left hand, and then a lot of times in the right, before they met with success.

Three days later, my left hand had bruised and swelled and looked like this:

After about a week, it looked like this:

Then it almost disappeared, and then came back and got red and hot, and about the second week of this month, I ended up in the emergency room (because urgent care wouldn't see me... grr...) for antibiotics.  After 7 days, it was better and looked like this again:

24 hours after my last dose of antibiotics, I got what I thought was the flu.  As in, not a cold, but influenza.  Super achy, headache, throat was kind of sore, and I had a nasty fever (103+).  Still have that, by the way.  After a day in bed, I noticed my hand getting more painful.  Friday, over the course of 8 hours, it went from looking pretty decent to looking like this:

I know this isn't my typical post.  But I'm asking, will you pray?  This is exactly, EXACTLY, how things were initially with my leg last year.  I'm back on antibiotics (was on cepholexin last week, this week I'm on cephadroxil; not sure what the difference is, if any).  I feel a tiny bit better today, almost 48 hours after starting this new course of antibiotics (plus the loading dose I got in the ER) and it's supposed to be "a lot better" within three days.  I can NOT go through the surgeries and the wound vacs and hospital stays and skin grafts and all of that again.  I WILL not.  My God IS bigger and better than all this. 

I see the wound clinic (staffed by surgeons and infectious disease docs) tomorrow since the infection recurred so promptly, and also since it's the second significant infection I've had in less than a year.