The Five Stages

*TMI WARNING: The following may contain more personal information than the average reader will want, more humor than the average situation would warrant, and more heretical ponderings than the average Presbyterian will allow.*

  I have no patience with people who are defined by their physical illnesses, so Almighty God has given me a full set. I roll my eyes at people who talk ceaselessly about their health problems, so I have been given my own 'thorn in the flesh'. And instead of developing a full-proof method for all who suffer to pull themselves up by their boot straps and deal with it, I have developed compassion and empathy. It wasn't what I expected. 

   I was supposed to see the doctor in January, so I finally showed up last Wednesday. I'm not particularly fond of doctors, their frowns over my list of symptoms, or their propensity to say, "Gee, I don't know what's wrong with you. You seem normal to me", which proves how little they understand about me.

   The lady said, "I remember you!" (It's been a tough two years.)
   I said, "Yes, I was here a lot last year. (You know, before I gave up hope and started living with the symptoms). You were very kind to me."
   The lady said, "Well, the good news is, we found something."
   I said, "Oh, THANK GOD! That means we can fix it! I have cysts?"
   "Oh, yes," she said. "But that isn't your problem."
   "Oh."
   "You also have fibroids," she said, "And that isn't your problem either."
    "Uh.... that can't be good....."
   "You need a hysterectomy. And I would recommend that it be very soon."
    

I. Denial

   "Oh buddy," my Person said. "I'm so sorry."
   "It's not a big deal," I said. "I'll have to go soon - I have to vacuum."
   "What for?"
   "I teach lessons in an hour."
   "Dude," my Person said. "You are NOT teaching lessons."
   "Why not?"
    "You're a wreck!"
    "Am not. It's not a big deal."
    "Cancel the lessons," she said in her very-effective-firm-mother voice.
    "Why?"
    "Cancel the lessons. You wouldn't let me teach after a shock."
    "It's not a big shock."
    "Are you listening?"
    "Fine." I cancelled the lessons.  
     And then it hit me.
    "Why am I crying?" I sobbed over the phone.
    "Because it is a big deal," she said. "It's taking a huge option away from you."
    "I thought I had more time!" I cried. "I didn't expect the door to be shut for me. And then the hinges torn off! And now it will just be a weird breezeway that wasn't in the original architectural plans!" (My Person doesn't mind my babbling.)

   I went home and did a web search for "I Don't Need A Hysterectomy". And I found several helpful websites claiming organic all-natural therapy healing. And then they would get to my particular diagnosis and say, "In this case, hysterectomy is the only cure." So much for that.

   My husband came home and said, "Are we sure you need a hysterectomy?"
   And I said, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?! Who cares??? What good am I if I cannot produce a full quiver of sons for you?"
   And he said, "Come here and let me hold you. I couldn't care less about that. I'm terrified that you need another surgery."
    I should have stayed away from his loving embrace, because as soon as he held me, I started to cry again. "Don't you hate me?" I sniffled. (I am not a pretty cryer. Imagine a large, tomato colored face with a German nose crumpling into blotches and you'll get the idea. He loves me anyway, dear man.)
    "Uh... no."
    "But I hate me."
    "Dearest," my husband said patiently. "You and your uterus are not the same thing."
    "Oh." I hiccuped. "So... we can just resent my uterus?"
    "Sure. We'll resent it together."



II. Anger

   Adenomyosis - Most cases of adenomyosis, which depends on estrogen, are found in women in their 40s and 50s, with a low incidence after menopause. (Mayo Clinic)

   I am twenty nine. 

   My grandfather has always patted me on the shoulder and espoused the glory of my German heritage. "You are a German woman," he says. "Pull plow, have many sons!" I stopped sighing over my enormous hips because at least they were good for birthing. And sure, I can never find jeans, but my unreasonably curvaceous figure is built for nursing, balancing babies, and simultaneously ruling the world. Brunhilde and I are cut from the same cloth.
   I confess to being outraged that I will now be forced to spend hours shopping for a dress that fits correctly without the comfort of my old-school fertility.
    Don't worry, I completely understand that I am blessed. I already have two gorgeous babies, and it's not like I have cancer, and this happens to lots of women, etc. etc. But I'm not really raging about the health issue so much as its effect on my schedule. I have piano lessons to teach. I have children to raise, VBS to teach, and a house to sell before kindergarten begins in August. My life was already planned to the fullest, and now I must find six weeks to do nothing?!?
   
   Whatever it is I'm supposed to be learning about convalescence, I haven't learned it yet. This will be my fourth surgery in four years, because I have a varied and ironic form of luck. I have finally decided that somewhere in my past, an ancestor of mine offered to carry a gypsy up the mountain and dropped her halfway, whereupon she rolled back down screaming curses all the way.

III. Bargaining

      "This won't be so bad," I told my dear husband. "After all, I'm kind of an enormous manatee when I'm pregnant. Who wants to see that again?"
   "You are no such thing," he said diplomatically. "But you do seem to be unhappy and unhealthy during pregnancy. Besides, we've always wanted to adopt."
   "But don't you want more biological children?" I asked. "I love having babies with your pretty blue eyes."
   "I think I'll be fine with the two we have," he said. (In the background, one caused the other to screech in outrage. We ignored them).
   "Wait! I've got it!" I said. "My defunct system is no reason that you can't have more children."
   "Uh...."
    I smiled wickedly at him. "After all, I believe in the biblical model of marriage."
   "Where is this going?"
   "I'll get a maid servant!" I said proudly. "And she can have sons for me!"
   "Uh.... No."
     I frowned. "I suppose it would be nearly impossible to find someone named Bilhah in today's world."


IV. Depression
   
   I used to think that depression meant being sad. I am not sad. I am panicked.
   How will I get everything done if I'm recovering? Should I try to get it all done first and put off the surgery?    
   I've boxed up all the baby things and marked them for friends who need the stuff more than my attic does. Why does that make me sad when I know that a newborn means waking up every 90 minutes?
    
   "How will I do it all when I'm so tired?" I asked the ceiling. 
  
    I've stared at the ceiling a lot this week. At 3:30 a.m. one night, I found that my sister-in-law was on Skype. She lives in England and was happy to talk. How providential is that?
   "I can't sleep," I told her.
   "Do you remember," she said, "when you got pregnant with Spiderman? He was completely unexpected. You didn't want children so early in your marriage. But he appeared, despite all the birth control, and you decided to give him another to play with, and now have two beautiful babies."
    "He was a shock. I thought I had all the time in the world," I mused. 
    "I'm not saying you can't grieve," she said sagely. "I'm just reminded how gracious is our God, that he planned your children in His own time."
     And what other glories are in the making, I wonder?


V. Acceptance

    I am almost there.
    I have no trouble with acceptance of the surgery - I'm perfectly ready to start getting well and living without fatigue and anemia.
    I am almost able to accept that I will have to ask for help. Gulp. Because I can't do it all. The horror.

   (My best friend has answered my calls a dozen times this week. She's let me cry and talk in circles and rage and then she's sent me to take a nap - which is what I needed. And she helps me plan all the things I will do while I'm resting, because she knows me well enough not to assume that I will actually rest.) 

   My real task will be the acceptance that I cannot control all things. I have hated my varied health problems because I cannot defeat them through sheer will power. My mind is my own, or so I like to think, and I am able to bend it to tasks as I choose. But in this physical body, God has more control than I do in a way that I cannot escape. He keeps my heart beating when I can't even manage to shave more than one leg (look - I've been distracted this week, all right?) 
   
   Thus, I am waking each morning now and learning to await the next challenge without dread. For whatever the day brings, whether I feel prepared or not, I can only be certain of one thing - that I will be given grace for it. I won't be able to do all of it myself, and that is the beauty of the mortal veil. 






   

What It Means to be Female

  The Princess, aged two, discovered my high heels yesterday.
  She is usually content with my flats, since they are "RED"!
  (My daughter only speaks in shouted, capital letters, because life is apparently too short to be anything less than overwhelmingly enthusiastic. Most of the time, this is utterly adorable. "MOMMY!" "KITTY!" "I'S-GOT-A-DUCK!" And then there's 7:45 a.m. "MOMMY!" I'S-A-CEREAL!" "YOU'S-A-COFFEEE!" But I digress - )

    My little Princess found my black heels, and proceeded to put them on - on the wrong feet, of course. Then she frowned, and looked at me with a pout of pure, innocent, bewilderment. "OUCH!"
   "Yes, they are ouch," I agreed. "It is the nature of high heels."
   She took a step. "OUCH!"
   "You needn't wear them," I pointed out. "You could wear Mommy's red shoes."
   She stubbornly took another step. "OUCH!"
   "Child," I said, "you could just take them off."
   She stared at me, uncomprehending.
  "Why don't you take the shoes off?" I asked.
   "OUCH!"
   "Do you want to take them off???" I asked (in a voice perfectly calm and not at all exasperated).
   She was miffed. "NO!" Then she toddled off, wobbling in pain.
   "Very good, my daughter!" I called after her. "Embrace the pain, because they are fantastically beautiful shoes! This is what it means to be female!"

All in a Mother's Day

    I woke to the sound of shrieking children. But it was Sunday, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. On Sunday morning, they are not my children until 8:30 a.m.
    I woke again with that jolt that all parents know - wait-what-time-is-it -- and remembered. It was Mother's Day. I absolved myself of the guilt of waking at nine (sloth!) and instead breathed a sigh of relief. From below, the smell of breakfast that wasn't my responsibility wafted up the stairs. No smell is quite so heavenly.
    I heard the sound of Handsome's footsteps on the stairs and arranged myself beautifully in bed (managed my Medusa-like bedhead out of my eyes). As he opened the door, the sound of weeping rose from below.
    "Good morning," he said cheerily.
    "Good morning!" I said, awed by the site of hot french toast topped with fresh strawberries. "What ails the offspring on this fine day?"
    "Well, I cooked toast," he said, offering it to me. "And then I brought it to you."
     I blinked. "Wait, these are the first two pieces of toast?"
    "Yes."
    "Are you mad?!?" I gulped. "I mean, thank you. Thank you, my love."
    "You're welcome. Happy Mother's Day." He kissed my forehead. "And now I'm going to feed them before the hysterics are irreversible."
   I ate breakfast, while it was hot, and drank my coffee, while it was hot. And my dear husband brought seconds.
   "By the way," he said, "you're not to concern yourself with anything this morning in the getting-ready-for-church department. You're only responsibility is yourself. You can just read and get dressed whenever."
   I did not quite burst into tears of gratitude, but it was a very near thing. And I took a shower, a looong shower, and I had time to blow dry my hair. A dear friend at church informed me that I looked "beautiful" and I both thanked and believed her.
   It was a lovely morning, and the two children were pictures of adorableness at church. At least, they were angelic until it was time to leave. Church, you understand, is a magical place full of people who love and adore them. To leave church is a difficult thing, and my son was quick to point out the great injustice of this life while being dragged to the car.
    "But-I-wanted-da-playground!"
    "Not now, sweet pea," I said gently. "It's time to go home."
    "Don't-wanna-g-g-go-home!" he sobbed.
    "We're going to have lunch, dearest," I said, placing a firm hand on his back and propelling him across the grass.
    "I don't want lunch!"
    "That can be arranged, my love," I said through gritted teeth as I helped him into his carseat.
    "I want the playground! I don't want a nap!" he wailed. "I want Chik-Fil-A!"
     Bending down to finish securing his straps, I said very firmly, "Beware my son. You need to think very carefully before you open your mouth again. Are you listening to me?" He sniffled and pouted. "If you speak disrespectfully one moment more, you will be very, very, very sorry."
    He hiccuped and fell silent.
    I stood up - and came face to face with one of the young women in our church. I had been blocking her  way with the open door and my enormous backside. "Hi...." I said, smiling. "I was just... you know...."
    She smiled.
    "And now you know that I threaten my children," I said brightly.
   The dear husband found this enormously funny as we drove away.

   After the dreaded Nap, I found my son to be much more charming. He had received $5 from his great-grandparents for Easter, and this treasured bill had been the topic of much conversation between us. He had waited eagerly for a day when we could go get ice cream together. And as I was growing tired of  laundering the said bill twice a week, I thought we could use the afternoon for a Mother-Son date. So Spiderman and I went off to the mall, with the bill safely in his pocket. Periodically, he would pull it out to assure himself of its existence.

   We fitted him for shoes, and told the sales lady that we were getting ice cream.

   We bought shoes for him and his sister and checked the status of the dollar bill. It was still in his pocket.
 
  When we approached the play area, he held out the $5. "Mommy, you hold this," he said. "You keep it in your pocket."
    "Sure," I said, immediately forgetting about it. "Are you sure you want to play here?"
    "Yes," he said.
    "All right. Go, be free, gather viruses," I said, resigned. I watched as he touched every possible surface, and mentally calculated the chances of our family sharing a cold for the next two weeks. After twenty minutes of sharing germs with the local populace, I told Jack that it was time for ice cream. We arrived at the Dairy Queen and ordered ice cream with M&Ms in it (bliss!)
    "That will be $3.47," the cashier said.
    "Would you like to pay?" I asked Jack.
    He reached into his pocket and frowned. He checked the other pocket. "Mommy!" he cried. "My dollar! It's gone!" He turned out his pockets in cartoon fashion and looked forlorn.
    "Oh, buddy, that's okay," I said quickly. "I will pay for it, all right?"
    He nodded, relieved, and far less distressed than I had anticipated. "Okay, Mommy. You pay for it."
    I handed over the plastic and the cashier swiped it.
    Instantly, Spiderman turned to me and said, "Mommy, my dollar is in your pocket." He pointed.
    I had completely forgotten! "Oh," I said. "Okay, here it is - "
    He grabbed it and stuffed it safely back into his pocket with a grin. "Thanks."
   The brilliance of his timing suddenly hit me. "You are a very clever boy, mister."
    He grinned. "Yeah."

 


   Happy Mother's Day to me - my son is an adorable charlatan. And my daughter is too pretty for her own good. But my Mother-in-Law thanked me for providing grandchildren, so I'm feeling vindicated in my career choice. After all, the long-term benefits package may not have a 401K, but it includes the chance to grow old, get crazy(ier), and surround myself with offspring that I can terrorize.
    I can see me now, in an enormous purple hat, causing trouble at reunions, saying the things no one else will say out loud, being their rock during the tough times, and embarrassing them in public.

  Yup. Totally worth it.

The Scent of Water

Excerpt from a character's journal. The entry may be fictional, but for anyone who has stared at the monster known as Insomnia, the thoughts are not:


  "There was the bad thing, fear and darkness pressing in, and there was the glad singing of love, the 'Yes, I will," that is my song. I had not known before that love is obedience. You want to love, and you can't, and you hate yourself because you can't, and all the time love is not some marvelous thing that you feel but some hard thing that you do. And this in a way is easier because with God's help you can command your will when you can't command your feelings. With us, feelings seem to be important, but He doesn't appear to agree with us...
   ... But the light, that seemed such a small beam in comparison with that infinity of blackness, kept the channel open and I fled down it. There was room now to run. I ran and ran and come out into the light."

- Elizabeth Goudge, The Scent of Water

Tattle-Tale

   I was engaged in something very useful (certainly not cruising Facebook to research why everyone I know has a better, happier, prettier life) when I heard the distinct sound of chewing.

   Smack, smack.   Little lips at work.

   I turned abruptly from my extremely useful endeavor of, let's say, Diligent Housewifery - 

         - and I found my two year old daughter standing behind me.

 "Monkey Two," I said, "What are you eating?"

  With a perfectly straight face, she declared, "Nouffin'."

  "I can see it in your hand," I said. "And don't talk with your mouth full. And don't lie. And don't eat over the carpet. And -- what do you mean, 'nothing'? I can SEE that you're eating!"

   Frozen in place, she maintained a face of stoic denial. Any defense lawyer would have proud.

   Then Spiderman entered, stage right. "Mommy!" he declared, running up and pointing. "She has candy!"

   "Thank you, Captain Obvious. I can see that. I wonder who gave it to her, hmm?"

   Fie on you again, Harris Teeter field trip and your bags of free candy. You have brought nothing but woe.