Through my own good/hard story, and the suffering I have walked with family and friends, there have been some important nuggets I have learned along the way that I have tucked away in my heart to help me be a better friend/sister/daughter when I am with others who are really going through it. For a long time I have mulled over sharing these, even entertaining publishing a booklet something along the lines of “How to Help Someone You Love Through Grief.” Because truly, there are many things that unless you have walked through it you simply just don’t know, and that’s not always your fault.
I decided with the help of some of my closest people who have or are walking a hard road to share some of these bits of wisdom. And please, if you have had an experience you feel is worth adding; send me a message about it! I would love to broaden my perspective and help prepare others to respond with kindness and compassion.
What not to say…
When my friend and pastor’s wife was dying of breast cancer we had many honest conversations in the inviting safety of her cozy bed. One day one of the things she said to me was, “it’s so weird when people say to me ‘well you look good!’ As if somehow looking good negates the fact that this cancer is growing rampantly throughout the corners of my body daily.”
At the time I shared empathy with her, but in years following as I have been down the road of my own hard diagnosis, I have come to understand this even more than I could have imagined. It happens to me all. the. time. Especially true following hospitalizations or when experiencing down ticks in my level of functioning.
Two things come to mind when people exclaim to me, “well you sure *look* great!” in the midst of me feeling anything but. The first is that it somehow diminishes the validity of the illness I deal with every day, as well as the ever-impending life expectancy. When I hear people say this it feels like, “well it can’t that bad,” or “you must not really be /that/ sick,” or “you look good, so you must be ok!” Hearing how amazing I look the Sunday after a hospital discharge also manages to plant a tiny seed of self-consciousness… “well goodness, if I look so good now gracious knows how awful I must have looked three days ago when I didn’t have makeup on.”
The other thing to know is that when it is possible, the days I feel the worst are often the days I try my hardest to look my best, because you know, we all have this insecurity about gut-level honesty and just showing up unshowered or unkempt, in the comfy clothes that give our hurting bodies permission to feel however they are feeling.
The way I look on the outside is typically not a great representation of how I’m feeling on the inside, so keep that in mind when you’re having interactions with people who are battling illness for the long haul.
Not to say don’t give a compliment… I appreciate a good compliment as much as the next person! However, instead of a statement that lumps together how I look in spite of my illness, try to separate the two, like: “your hair sure looks good done that way,” or “your eyes really light up when you wear that color!” Approaching things this way removes the impression for a sick person that people’s barometer for how sick we must be is related to how put-together we look.
A friend of mine who has ALS invited my family and I to accompany her to the zoo recently. When she met up with us she looked amazing. She was pushing her wheelchair as a walker; fighting for each step while she is able, but understanding she would likely need help as the day wore on.
I commented on how good she looked; I told her how pretty she was in dangly silver earrings, and I gushed over how the lipstick she chose was the perfect vibrant shade for her brilliant smile. I knew, however, from our conversations the evening prior that she was fighting for energy and rest, and likely didn’t feel as perky as she looked. I chose my words carefully to compliment and encourage her without diminishing the elephant in the room- that despite her beauty, she is in the fight for her life.
Maybe that all sounds ridiculous, but I promise you it’s a whole thing. I’ve heard it from others, and I’ve experienced it myself.
Now you know a little something that will help grow your empathy and sensitivity to someone living with an ongoing illness! What are your thoughts?
January 10th had been a good day. I had a few visitors, which always lifts my spirits, I had been working on a few orders for my Etsy shop, and we were getting back into a routine again after Christmas break. I went to bed a little early because I had worn myself out a bit.
A few hours later I woke unable to use my muscles to get a big enough breath. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breath, and knew I needed help fast. I quickly woke Mark, and motioned for help, and then got far away from our sleeping littlest hoping not to frighten him awake. That was about all I had left, and I collapsed on the floor, trying to conserve energy. It wasn’t long before everything faded to gray and I could hardly hear.
I was vaguely aware of the paramedic boots that tromped across the floor and scooped me up, carrying me into the night air. The next thing I was aware of as the stretcher bounced across the potholes of town was the excruciating pain and sickness that crept over me as the paramedic pushed a full dose of Narcan, throwing my body into instant withdrawal from my chronic pain medications, bringing on a slew of muscle spasms, and constant vomiting. My fight to breathe became more desperate as I choked on my own vomit gasping for each breath.
After some agonizing time in the ER, I lost all touch with reality, and woke later the next day in the ICU, biting and choking on the hard breathing tube that was down my throat, my hair a mess of blood and vomit. My respiratory muscles had weakened to the point that I could not breathe as deeply as my body needed me to, and I had been sedated and intubated.
We had already been having conversations with my pulmonologist and met with the surgeon to discuss it being time for a tracheostomy, so it was natural for these topics to surface again. They actually had time to do the surgery for me the next day. At first I objected, panicked at the rush of it all, and the lack of having my mind wrapped around it. After some reassuring conversations with friends who are doctors though, it was clear this timing was divine, and it was time to go ahead. I asked to be further sedated until surgery, so I didn’t have to spend the long hours fighting the tube.
Along with my wingman, my “Mama Sandy” was there with me to encourage and read scripture with me, and despite the embarrassing state of myself, I welcomed the presence of my dear pastor as he came to pray with me.
Despite the rush of it all, I felt peace; held in my fear and my questions, and comforted that God was walking every step along with me.
The wait for surgery felt long, but finally it was time, and I smooched my hubby as they rolled me away for a new airway. I was immediately more comfortable upon waking; the tubes removed from my mouth and throat, and now just one directly into my airway through the front of my neck.
A few days later I was transferred to a rehabilitation hospital, where I have remained for the past two weeks. It has been steps forward and steps back, and a tremendous amount of boredom and missing my babies, but each day is one day closer to home and this new way of life. My trach and vent have provided me much more relaxation with my breathing, and as we learn the routines it brings us more confidence managing this ourselves at home.
I cannot wait to get back to my family and my tribe… that comes next!
Most of you that see me see a small snapshot of me as a whole – usually on the best days- when I’m able to get out to church or to my kiddos’ performances. Because I’ve always been a kind of a private person, and I also fear being a burden to others, there are very few that have seen me at my most vulnerable as this awful disease has ravaged my body.
Maybe because the hard days are starting to outnumber the easier, or maybe because I am desperate for others to understand the depth of my need for help and prayers, or maybe because it’s so extremely isolating to live in this place of putting my best face forward, I am going to give you a glimpse of what it looks like and feels like to wake up and do battle against a body that is trying to kill me.
***I gave my husband permission to take some pictures of some of the hard moments***
A morning snapshot:
5:40 am. My alarm goes off. This gives me time to swallow a few pills to try to ease some of the pain searing through my body before I have to get out of bed. Snooze button a few times while the meds start to work, and then it is time to wake my littlest to start his morning routine.
Fatigue starts early, filling my arms and legs with wet cement as I go about fixing him breakfast and snuggling in on the couch to read our devotion together and watch part of a show.
7:00 am. My little is getting ready for the bus and I have to excuse myself as I’m dry heaving- my body rejecting the fact that I put pills and a sip of water into a digestive tract that has little function left.
7:29am. Last kisses and hugs before my little man heads outside to catch the bus. Worry creases his forehead. “Are you sure Mom? I can stay home from school and take care of you. All I’m going to do is worry about you all day.” I force a smile and convince him I am fine, that I’m just going to rest today. Reluctantly he walks out to the bus, stopping at least four times to look back and blow kisses and throw I love you signs. My heart could melt.
7:32am. I limp for my hospital bed that is set up in our den where I can be closer to the family. This is where I spend the majority of my time.
When you see me out and about at church or one of my children’s games or concerts it is because I have saved every bit of my energy that day and probably the day before in order to attend that event. It takes everything out of me, and I usually make it home and collapse for the remainder of the day, every bit of me used up on the best things.
8:00am. Through the shower and ready for work, Mark comes in to check on me and gives me any medicine I need, makes sure I am on enough breathing support, and starts a tube feeding if I’m not too nauseous. Then he goes around the corner to where his desk sits conveniently close to where he can hear me if I need help.
If I have no appointments, this is where the bulk of my day is spent. Resting and saving every drop of energy to be present for my family when they are all home in the evening. I have had to choose between the things I enjoy and feel like I should be doing- like keeping house and meal planning and grocery shopping- and instead spend time napping, writing letters for the futures of my loves, reading and sketching in my Bible, writing some works I hope to see published some day. This conserving of my limited strength allows me to be awake and upright to ask about the stories of my childrens’ days, and share a meal around the table, or attend their concerts or sporting events.
………………………………………
Tucked in the binder that holds all my important medical papers, behind the copy of my DNR is a sheet that documents most of the complications that I am affected by as a result of my disease. It is a spiderweb of symptoms, doctors, and treatments that all fall under the same central header; Multiple System Atrophy. Some of these ailments are very visible, like having to use a wheelchair, or needing support for my lungs to breathe, but many of them are tucked beneath the privacy of my roof; wrestled with far from the view of my family and friends.
Pain and spasticity are big ones near the top. They are managed by a team of two of my kindest doctors who do their best to relieve my discomfort and keep me moving. It is a never-ending battle, trying to calm the muscle spasms and ease the pain that they create. One of the big guns I have for this battle is an implanted medication pump that sits in my lower abdomen and delivers antispastic medication directly into the fluid of my spinal canal.
Some of the worst spasms I experience are from my esophagus. These come on as crushing chest pain, making it nearly impossible to talk or swallow. The only relief is small tablets that dissolve under my tongue, and then I wait for the spasm to cease.
Gastroparesis is a fancy word that means the contractions of my digestive muscles are too weak to adequately push food through in the way it should go. This has resulted in a lot of weight loss and malnutrition, and frequent nausea and vomiting.
I have two feeding tubes currently. One that goes to my stomach that I can “vent” when I’m feeling sick, and one that goes directly into my lower intestinal tract where my feedings have the best chance of being absorbed. This means often not having an appetite, or if I do eat it sometimes comes right back up.
Another consequence of my digestive malabsorption is that the nutrient deficiencies cause anemia. This has resulted in the need for blood transfusions and iron infusions.
Not being able to eat enough to maintain my nutrition also means being chronically dehydrated, so I have a port implanted in my chest for receiving fluids throughout the week. This has to be accessed once a week by a sterile process of introducing a special needle that stays in the port for the week before changing it again. Fortunately this was one of the easier things I had to learn, and my previous medical career was a big help.
Impaired balance, weakness, and muscle wasting is a result of my nerves not communicating with their assigned muscles. Weakness and balance issues causes a lot of falls, and some embarrassing situations like squatting down in the grocery store and then not having the strength to stand back up. Some of these things I’ve learned to compensate for, and some of them just mean adapting to a new normal which involves a lot more frustration than used to be.
POTS is another result of having MSA. It stands for Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, and it means that when I go from lying or sitting to standing, my heart gets significantly less blood return than it needs, which causes extreme lightheadedness and fainting. My heart speeds up to try to compensate, but without the blood return it turns to a losing situation. I’ve gotten to where I can usually tell when I’m going to faint (so can Mark), and sometimes I’m able to sit safely before falling, but other times it results in goose eggs, an assortment of cuts and bruises, and an occasional broken bone.
Since this illness first took hold I have had to go under for 10 different surgeries. Feeding tubes, medication pump, port implants, repairing damaged joints, and some involving my brain. My body is a roadmap of scars, boasting of the battles I’ve won.
When I had a series of seizures after my second brain surgery I sustained damage to the part of my brain that allows for short term memory. When my memory was tested following this event, it was described as severe and profound memory loss. Daily it’s a frustrating struggle as I repeat myself and ask the same questions over and over.
The disruptions in my ability to think and concentrate makes it difficult to control my emotions, leading to bouts of depression and anxiety.
Neurogenic bowel and bladder means I can’t just hop up and use the restroom; I’m confined to making sure I have urinary catheters with me at all times in case I need to empty my bladder.
Fatigue. There are probably a hundred different reasons why I feel utterly drained most of the time. Pain is tiring. Sleep apnea is not restful. Using so much energy to breathe and fight spasticity every minute of the day is simply exhausting. The combination of all of these things leaves me feeling like I could crawl into bed and hibernate for months.
The most disruptive and serious of the symptoms of MSA for me is chronic respiratory failure. This started with me having low oxygen saturation and needing extra oxygen through a nasal cannula, and wearing CPAP and eventually BIPAP at night.
It has progressed as my breathing muscles have gotten weaker and weaker, and now I have to use a ventilator with a mask throughout the night and most of the day. My doctors have had to continue turning up the pressure of how hard my vent has to blow, which is not only uncomfortable, but it makes it difficult to hear and speak. At this point even with the higher support I’m still struggling to get a good breath, and the side effects of using my vent are becoming more bothersome. My doctors are working on the next steps I need to be able to breathe better and conserve my energy.
As the muscles in my legs have grown tighter and weaker it has gotten harder and harder to walk any distance. That coupled with the extreme shortness of breath that even a short walking distance involves have left me no choice but to use my wheelchair for getting around. As much as I would prefer to walk hand in hand with my people, I am nothing short of grateful that insurance worked so kindly with us to provide a chair that gets me around and provides comfort for my tender places.
These are the hills and valleys I battle on the daily. Some days it is easier for me than others, but on all of the days I have found myself constantly held and loved and comforted by my Heavenly Father, even in the pain and uncertainty. He has given me the privilege of being able to give him all the glory, and he sustains me and provides for me whether anyone else shows up or not. He is a good, good Father.
I have not had much strength to write as of late. I do often in my mind; if only my brain came with dictation so I could get it written down. 😊
I am here still warrioring on with each of you who bravely get up each morning and embrace the good and the hard of your own stories.
One small treasure that I have been reminded of in this string of hard-fought days is that thankfulness if the key to peace. When my mind wants to run with with worry, I am practicing replacing those anxieties with thanking my Savior for the miraculous as well as the mundane, and He has been faithful to pour into me a peace too thick, too rich with the serenity of it all that it can only come from Him.
Is the roar of worry drowning out your thoughts? Try it. When anxiety creeps in, start listing the graces of your every day, and you too will find peace.
Last night I was in bed not sleeping for various reasons and in my idle fidgeting I slapped a photo of my face-meltingly adorable son and puppy sleeping next to me up on social media. They truly are the cutest in all the land.
It did not take long before my phone made a little blip saying I had a message from one of my dear friends on the West Coast, undoubtedly seeing my post while going about normal evening activities because it is three hours earlier there. The time difference has often proven a welcome chasm between us during those long hours of insomnia.
For the better part of an hour my friend and I messaged back and forth, her asking about what’s new in my life and me divulging all the things. After a lull in our conversation she said that she was going to sign off and get some sleep. It came crushing down on me like a stack of cement bricks. I had not even asked her one thing about herself. How she was doing. What she was up to. If she was even ok. I was mortified and devastated. I felt so out of character, so disgustingly selfish, and then while I stammered my apologies I remembered why I had not asked. I had not asked because I forgot.
I did not forget because I was so anxious to blab about my hardly new life updates or because I was distracted multitasking. I forgot because my mind did not remember to remember. It is slipping.
Friends, when I do not call your children by their names that I’ve known for so long, it is because I am afraid I am going to say the wrong name. I was not so busy or distracted that I did not have the time to wish you a happy birthday or ask you how your cold was feeling or if you had gotten the call you were waiting for. You did not hear from me because I forgot. That laughter did sound forced as we reminisced over a funny memory; it really was nervous laughter because I was dashing through places in my mind trying to find that memory and I could not. And it’s terrifying.
Please know that my heart is still first and foremost for my God, my family, and my people. When I come across as rude or insensitive or dismissive, it is not for lack of not cherishing you as I always have— I simply cannot seem to string together all the pieces to remind myself of everything I am proud to be. Please remind me.
Tell me stories again and again for as long as it does not drive you insane, because when you take the time to remind me it allows me to relive that moment of joy with you once again for a short moment. The joy of learning your name. The joy of realizing all we have in common. The joy of knowing how deeply valued and seen and absolutely loved you are to me. Even if I cannot remember to say it, it is still there. Somewhere.
Blow up my phone. Grab me if you see me out and say hi. Remind me who you are and why I’m the luckiest to know you and then please keep being part of my tribe! Remind me of who I am and what I love and be relentless, because the forgotten space is a really lonely place to be.
Several weeks ago it became apparent that my gallbladder is the next thing that has fallen victim to my MSA. With it no longer communicating with my brain about what to do I started experiencing some really painful complications. I was sent to see a surgeon about taking my gallbladder out, unfortunately my pulmonologist was not on board with clearing me for surgery. His concern over the weak state of my lungs is that if I am put to sleep and given a breathing tube, it will be likely that they won’t be able to wean me off of the tube, and I’ll end up with a tracheostomy.
A trach has already been on the table for some now as we watch and wait, so a part of me has already come to terms with that, but I also feel like it’s not time yet, and I know God is bigger than any complication.
A few weeks down the road and I am now admitted to the hospital because the pain and other symptoms from my gallbladder became too much to bear. I have a large team of doctors talking and working together, and the general consensus is to move forward with surgery, likely today now that it is an urgent situation.
I am completely at peace with what the Lord has for my future, but would you pray with me that my lungs will stand strong and I will be able to tolerate surgery and wake without a breathing tube or trach? I believe God wants the best for me, and I know He delights in showing His power when we ask. Regardless of the outcome, I know my God is good and there is no shortage of his goodness and grace in my life. For as many days as He gives me, I will live my moments for Him.
Thank you for walking along side me and helping sustain me and my family through these twists and turns. Your love and support are priceless in our lives. ♥️
Smoke mingled with the clean scent of antiseptic as the ambulance doors were thrown open. A woman’s voice crackled through the radio following the long beeps of the station tones. “We have a call!” My partner’s eyes were wide with anticipation as she repeated what I was already hearing. We had been working on a training exercise at the fire station, practicing rescue of a downed firefighter in the midst of a woodsy blaze. The large rubber manikin that was our pretend victim lay heavily on the stretcher that was now needed for an actual patient; the victim of a horrific vehicle collision. Wasting no time, I jerked the straps off of our lifeless dummy and heaved him over my shoulder, all 165 pounds of him. Nudging wider the ambulance door, the whole battalion had eyes on me as the scene played out that would be retold for years to come. I, the tiniest on the department standing at 5 feet 2 inches and a hundred and five pounds marched with that dummy over my shoulder and chucked him into the empty garage bay of the station. Spinning back around I crunched through the gravel and hopped up in the passenger seat of our rig and we barreled down the road to my first trauma call.
That was the day I earned my nickname; Mighty Mouse. The story would be grinned about for years to come; the department’s smallest firefighter who manhandled the Rescue Randy dummy because she got her first real patient. A mix of adrenaline, excitement, and the hard work I had put in to keep up with everybody else had enabled me to perform that amusing feat that day.
Fast forward to a cold April day in 2022. My arms shake and spasm as I lift a stack of dinner plates toward the open kitchen cabinet. Overpowering my waning muscle strength, the stack of plates comes crashing to the counter, shattering the bottom plate. I bite my lip to hold back the moisture that pools in my eyes, and gingerly start gathering the shards while feeling like I am picking up broken pieces of my hope.
It is endlessly humbling and frustrating not to be able to accomplish menial tasks when I once let nothing stand in my way. My pride stings when I have to ask for help instead of being the strongest. It hurts.
I can only surmise that this is one of the greatest lessons I need to learn; that alone I am powerless, and need the unending strength that God in his loving kindness offers to me. So many times as I call out for someone to help me lift or move something I am reminded of my desperate need to call on my Heavenly Father for help. Do I always remember? Definitely not. But he is gentle in reminding me that I do not need to rely on my own strength, that he’s got me and all I need to do is rest in the power of his might.
When I was given a terminal diagnosis I chose to fight for life. For time, for moments, for memories. Some days it is easy to do, and sometimes I am clawing and grasping at something that seems so pointless and out of reach.
Yesterday put me in a dark place. I had a doctor appointment about an issue that is fixable. Any healthy person would have walked in that office and been given hope for healing and a better quality of life. My third time in this office to plead for relief was met with the same disconcerted answers as before, even with the new information I brought. A doctor I have seen 3 times now, and he has not even laid a finger on me to understand what I’m going through because it is obvious he has already made up his mind that it is not worth it. I am not worth it. My condition is too advanced, there is not enough life to live to make it worth his time to help me. That tore me apart in ways I cannot describe.
I am weary. Every single day is so much fight, and sometimes it is hard to remember what I am fighting for. The memory loss from my brain surgery continues to torment me. It frustrates my family to the point of anger, and then leaves me feeling like I have done something wrong when really my mind is just tricking me into believing something different than everyone else. More and more I hold my tongue to avoid the embarrassment and the conflict of not remembering things. I nod my head and pretend to remember when I really have no idea, but it is the more peaceful path. That is not me. I do not hide.
My body is tired of the battle. My mind is tired of the battle. Some weeks that propels me to fight harder. This week it finds me burrowed under my blankets, hot tears burning scars down my cheeks. I do not know what the rest of my days look like. The only thing I know for certain is I have Jesus, and he is the one who has given me these days, so through my tears I pray he helps me to use them well. Feeling myself fading is frightening, and I don’t feel like I am courageous enough for the path ahead of me. I do know I am held though. Held on the easy days, and held on the days that seem impossible. Held in my determination and my hope, and held in my fear and my disappointment. He promises to carry me through the deep waters, so I pray he will carry me further than I can even imagine.
Tired in the marrow of my bones and to the bottom of my weary and tattered heart.
I feel beaten by the daily battle of fighting for life and time. Battling the indescribable pain that ravages my muscles and bones. Battling against the constant nausea that the pain brings. Battling to feed a body that usually has no appetite. Battling to take breaths when even while awake my body forgets to.
I am tired of seeing the grief my children carry over watching me become so different from the mom they knew. I am tired of watching my husband grieve over the things we used to do but no longer can. I am tired of feeling like a failure because of the things I can’t accomplish anymore.
And then I flip open my journal and there, taped inside the cover is the reminder I left for myself…
And I look at their faces and feel my weary heart swell with the uncontainable love I have for them and the bottomless joy that they bring.
And I pull myself up and don my armor and push through each battle with renewed determination. Because no matter how tired I am they will always be worth the war.
I have been bedridden since February. Not exactly how I hoped this year would start. I feel like I miss so much when I’m tucked away in the corner of my bedroom. Weeks tick by and I keep hoping to put the worst of this year behind me.
Enter Covid-19. Suddenly my babies are home all day every day, and I’m a first grade teacher lying flat on my back in bed. He hasn’t complained; each day he climbs up onto the bed next to me and we do math, reading, writing, science… nestled among the pillows. But my heart is sad, disappointed. I’ve been given this incredible opportunity to have my littlest boy by my side for weeks on end, and the reel of my mind spins fast thinking of all the creative and memorable things I could be doing with him during this most intimate season of learning. Instead I feel trapped; bound to the square corners of my king-sized bed and quickly losing my son’s interest in the monotony of the same assignments day after day.
My husband works overtime; committed to his full-time job while also managing all of the meals, the laundry, the errands, the breaking up of fights as the tension of this season wears on everyone. I see the overwhelm and worry in the lines of his face and in the soft hunch of his shoulders. He’s married 18 years, but acting the role of single parent to the children and caregiver to his young wife. It silently breaks me.
Like most people during these unprecedented times, I am grieving many losses. Cancelled trips, time spent with friends and family, going to my little’s viola concert, attending my firstborn’s high school graduation. All of the little daily comings and goings that make life seem “normal.” Add to that my inability to be up and around occupying myself, and my heart has felt heavy and anxious. I have intensely missed gardening. For years as the winter months dissolve I have started seeds in my windows that have grown to beautiful plants cradled in the warm earth and bearing armloads of delicious produce and extraordinary joy. During these months that I have spent studying the ceiling from my place in bed I have grown more and more sad that the therapeutic tending of a small vegetable garden won’t be happening for me this year.
Wood. Saws. Screws. Measuring and cutting and pounding and smoothing, and a triumphant grin from my big-hearted husband as he shows me the hearty garden bed he has built to coax me out into the sunshine. Since I hadn’t been able to start seeds this year, he brought home small potted stalks of green life, ready to place in the fertile plot of sunshine. Oh how my soul sang as I gave thanks for the opportunity to tend something so special to me.
It took days of reaching for strength, of practicing standing without being overcome by the pain and vomiting that has plagued my body, but one cool gray day it happened. I was gifted with a period of strength and calm in my body, and along with a first grader who was growing wiggly with math and phonics in my big bed, I grabbed my garden gloves and we made a dash for the large box of deep earth. Together with chilled fingers and dusty knees, my little and I carefully tucked the robust plants and some dry seeds into the well-worked soil. It took all of my portion of strength for the day, but when we finished I had such peace and an exuberant sense of anticipation to watch my garden grow. It was such a gift.
I love his face SO much!
But, 2020.
As I was closing the shades of my bedroom window that overlooks the garden, I peeked out at the neat rows of leaves and plant markers that I had finished a few hours earlier. I involuntarily sucked air in fast, sharp. My garden was in a state of upheaval. Plants toppled. Leaves torn. Stakes scattered. Ragged holes dug in the once smooth dark earth. After many days of not giving the raised box any notice, apparently our dog had decided today was the day to climb into it and go tearing around in circles, digging holes and trampling plants.
And I cracked.
In that moment, the future felt empty of all the things to look forward to. While I burrowed under my quilt and felt the hollow in my chest and the sting in my eyes, I thought to myself how absolutely minuscule it was in the big scheme of things. A garden. There are so many huge battles people are fighting around the world; cancer, unemployment, divorce, death of loved ones… the list is endless. My family is safe, employed, fed, and sheltered, and yet the toppling of my vegetable garden is what undid me. I started to feel a little embarrassed at my ungratefulness.
The more I thought about it though, the more I realized maybe we all are a little like that right now. Maybe we are all just one more thing from screaming at the sky and cussing out the dog for just being well, a dog. Let’s face it ya’ll, 2020 has been a loop-thrower for all of us. We are all faced with stress and change and uncertainty unlike any we have experienced. It’s not just the pandemic, it’s the pandemic plus all of the other little hiccups we normally experience as we go through life. For me it’s been surgery upon more surgery and complications that simply won’t go away and a flooded basement and a broken into camper and sick kid and a bunch of tiny little things that each on their own aren’t such a big deal, but when you throw them all on top of each other and then ice them with a global pandemic and sprinkle them with a life-altering illness, it’s enough to make a person crack. Cry uncle. Beg for mercy. Tell 2020 that we aren’t friends anymore, and maybe we never really were friends, and it should go straight back where it came from and take all of this crap with it.
Are you with me? I feel like there are a lot of yesses. We are in it together, so let’s get through it together. Let’s be gentle with each other. Let’s check in on each other even when we are the one that wants to be checked in on. Let’s look for ways to cheer each other on and hold each other’s arms up and scream our battle cry so loud and brave that it drowns out the fear and frustration and helplessness we feel and replaces it with the rising up of all the people who choose to believe that something better is coming, and that hope is worth grasping for.
Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!
Choosing Hope 