Making a Way
Yesterday hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe I should have seen it coming. Last week, I stayed home from church because I wasn't feeling well. Actually, I've missed out on several activities lately because of my health. On the other hand, I'd had a lot of good days too. I walked around at a fall festival and even worked for two hours with Henry selling pork rinds last weekend. I'd expected to pay a heavy price for it the next day, but I didn't.
So when yesterday happened, I was a little caught off guard. Dealing with my health has been an ongoing, daily element for two years. Some days are good, some are bad. Over time, most of the bad days have become predictable. Almost like a math equation: over-do it on Tuesday, pay some of the price on Wednesday, and the full price on Thursday. It's often hard to know in the moment exactly when I've "overdone" it, but I always know in hindsight.
What made this week unusual is that there was no Tuesday or Wednesday to predict Thursday. Just a full-on relapse and one of the worst days I've had in a while. Every inch of my body ached. I was so tired I could barely lift my head off the pillow. My brain was completely in a fog (making my plans to write a paper for my graduate class a no-go). My muscles felt like jelly, and moving felt like wading through deep water. I spent most of the day in bed or on the couch.
Early in the afternoon, I walked slowly down to meet Henry at his bus stop. When we got home, I laid down on the couch to rest up and talk to him as he worked on homework. I must have dozed off, because a while later I woke to find him standing over me. "Here, Mom, lift your head. I brought your pillow down from your room. Let me tuck a blanket around you. Are you hurting?" I nodded, beginning to shrug it off. He held up his hand. "I'm going to get you some ibuprofen and a glass of water. You rest."
I was torn between an overwhelming feeling of pride, and an equally overwhelming sense of grief. This isn't how it's meant to be! I should be the one gently leaning over him, tucking blankets around him, taking care of him when he's sick. I should be the one listening to him talk about his day, offering comfort and perspective. It shouldn't be this way!
Today was marginally better. By that I mean I only slept about three hours. My brain was clear enough that I got up and wrote the paper for class. And I took a quick shower. But that was the extent of my day. It took all I had to do that much.
Meanwhile, Henry emailed from school to say he was having a horrible day. He'd had a miscommunication with a teacher, forgotten his homework at home, and gotten a notice that his library books were over-due. His conscientious, hard-working personality was struggling with feeling he'd disappointed his teachers and himself. Cora emailed a little later and said she was having a terrible day too, and asked if I'd come pick her up right after school. I didn't have a car, but promised I'd be waiting with hugs and a listening ear when she got home. Micah runs a marathon tomorrow, and we'll be out on the sidelines cheering for him. We have family events, school plays, church, get-togethers, and a host of other wonderful moments planned for the next several days.
I came back to the question I've asked so many times in the last two years: how do I fit within my own life? How do I find the energy and strength to be a wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend on days like this?
These days mean calculating every move. I wear shoes that are lightweight and secure on my feet, because the exertion of gripping with my toes or lifting my feet to keep my shoes on means the difference between having energy for something else and using it up on footwear. These days mean eating food that's easy to chew and swallow so I can conserve energy for other things. They mean sitting on the couch for half an hour working up the steam to get up and go to the bathroom.
I found myself bracing today for everyone to come home from school. I need to be Mom. I need to be the supportive wife on the sidelines of the marathon. I need to still participate in my own life, even when every ounce of my body screams that it'd rather be curled up deep under a pile of blankets.
I've tried throughout all of this to be vulnerable and transparent. As I wrestled through the layers of the past two days, I found myself wanting to write, to share what this journey is like in the less polished moments. But always there was a part of me that argued back, "give it some time. Write in another week when you feel better about things and can reflect back on them from a safe distance." And maybe writing today runs the risk of sounding whiny or complaining. But I think we all face our moments like this: moments when we aren't sure how, or if, we can move forward. Moments when reality comes face to face with our own inability, and we come up empty. My particular context may be unique, but my experience is not.
So I think it's important to write. To tell you you're not alone. I won't pretend to have answers or give trite advice. I'm not sure what it looks like for you or for me. It may mean that we have to make accommodations in our lives that allow for our limitations. Maybe some things have to be let go to make space for others. Maybe we have to get creative about what "showing up" means just now. Maybe we have to pray for a "five loaves and two fish"-type miracle, the kind that multiplies what little we have to give and makes it enough. But I know there is always a way through. I've learned it over and over in the past couple of years.
There is a way through today, too. I met Henry at the bus stop. We talked through his day. I'll be waiting eagerly for Cora when she comes home, ready with the hug I promised her. And you'd better believe I'll be on the side of the race course tomorrow, cheering for Micah for all I'm worth (though you may find me in a camping chair).
It doesn't minimize the mess. It doesn't undo the limitations. But it means I can make a way to fit in this life in spite of them.
So when yesterday happened, I was a little caught off guard. Dealing with my health has been an ongoing, daily element for two years. Some days are good, some are bad. Over time, most of the bad days have become predictable. Almost like a math equation: over-do it on Tuesday, pay some of the price on Wednesday, and the full price on Thursday. It's often hard to know in the moment exactly when I've "overdone" it, but I always know in hindsight.
What made this week unusual is that there was no Tuesday or Wednesday to predict Thursday. Just a full-on relapse and one of the worst days I've had in a while. Every inch of my body ached. I was so tired I could barely lift my head off the pillow. My brain was completely in a fog (making my plans to write a paper for my graduate class a no-go). My muscles felt like jelly, and moving felt like wading through deep water. I spent most of the day in bed or on the couch.
Early in the afternoon, I walked slowly down to meet Henry at his bus stop. When we got home, I laid down on the couch to rest up and talk to him as he worked on homework. I must have dozed off, because a while later I woke to find him standing over me. "Here, Mom, lift your head. I brought your pillow down from your room. Let me tuck a blanket around you. Are you hurting?" I nodded, beginning to shrug it off. He held up his hand. "I'm going to get you some ibuprofen and a glass of water. You rest."
I was torn between an overwhelming feeling of pride, and an equally overwhelming sense of grief. This isn't how it's meant to be! I should be the one gently leaning over him, tucking blankets around him, taking care of him when he's sick. I should be the one listening to him talk about his day, offering comfort and perspective. It shouldn't be this way!
Today was marginally better. By that I mean I only slept about three hours. My brain was clear enough that I got up and wrote the paper for class. And I took a quick shower. But that was the extent of my day. It took all I had to do that much.
Meanwhile, Henry emailed from school to say he was having a horrible day. He'd had a miscommunication with a teacher, forgotten his homework at home, and gotten a notice that his library books were over-due. His conscientious, hard-working personality was struggling with feeling he'd disappointed his teachers and himself. Cora emailed a little later and said she was having a terrible day too, and asked if I'd come pick her up right after school. I didn't have a car, but promised I'd be waiting with hugs and a listening ear when she got home. Micah runs a marathon tomorrow, and we'll be out on the sidelines cheering for him. We have family events, school plays, church, get-togethers, and a host of other wonderful moments planned for the next several days.
I came back to the question I've asked so many times in the last two years: how do I fit within my own life? How do I find the energy and strength to be a wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend on days like this?
These days mean calculating every move. I wear shoes that are lightweight and secure on my feet, because the exertion of gripping with my toes or lifting my feet to keep my shoes on means the difference between having energy for something else and using it up on footwear. These days mean eating food that's easy to chew and swallow so I can conserve energy for other things. They mean sitting on the couch for half an hour working up the steam to get up and go to the bathroom.
I found myself bracing today for everyone to come home from school. I need to be Mom. I need to be the supportive wife on the sidelines of the marathon. I need to still participate in my own life, even when every ounce of my body screams that it'd rather be curled up deep under a pile of blankets.
I've tried throughout all of this to be vulnerable and transparent. As I wrestled through the layers of the past two days, I found myself wanting to write, to share what this journey is like in the less polished moments. But always there was a part of me that argued back, "give it some time. Write in another week when you feel better about things and can reflect back on them from a safe distance." And maybe writing today runs the risk of sounding whiny or complaining. But I think we all face our moments like this: moments when we aren't sure how, or if, we can move forward. Moments when reality comes face to face with our own inability, and we come up empty. My particular context may be unique, but my experience is not.
So I think it's important to write. To tell you you're not alone. I won't pretend to have answers or give trite advice. I'm not sure what it looks like for you or for me. It may mean that we have to make accommodations in our lives that allow for our limitations. Maybe some things have to be let go to make space for others. Maybe we have to get creative about what "showing up" means just now. Maybe we have to pray for a "five loaves and two fish"-type miracle, the kind that multiplies what little we have to give and makes it enough. But I know there is always a way through. I've learned it over and over in the past couple of years.
There is a way through today, too. I met Henry at the bus stop. We talked through his day. I'll be waiting eagerly for Cora when she comes home, ready with the hug I promised her. And you'd better believe I'll be on the side of the race course tomorrow, cheering for Micah for all I'm worth (though you may find me in a camping chair).
It doesn't minimize the mess. It doesn't undo the limitations. But it means I can make a way to fit in this life in spite of them.
