This year's Thankgsiving isn't going to be quite what I had intended.
J's parents are in Salt Lake City, en route to Cali, where we will meet up with them in December. His brother is celebrating elsewhere.
Initially, my side of the family was going to have big get together. But then my cousin found out he was shipping out to Hawaii the day after Thanksgiving...so it was a no go. So, we decided to have an early Thankgsiving. Then, neither uncle could get off of work.
So, we moved on to Plan B: Thankgsiving at my mom's. It would be small, but fun.
Then, my grandpa died. Yesterday. Today, my mom and uncles are in route to Cali to settle his estate. I was unable to go--which has frustrated me beyond articulation.
It's been a rough day. I haven't felt overly thankful as I struggle with the grief over the circumstances surrounding his death, with the frustration of being left behind, with the damper that threatens to crush the plans I had for this week.
I lugged home the turkey and the festive napkins my mom bought, but the idea of three people sharing Thanksgiving didn't seem so appealing to me. So, when our pastor's wife invited us over, I agreed.
So, it'll be a different type of Thankgsiving. I will my my mom fiercely, but we will still smile. I will make rolls and pie, and we will eat an astonishing amount of food. There will be different faces around the table, but, really...it is just a reminder of the many, many things I have to be grateful for....
So blessed.
Count your blessings this Thanksgiving. We have so much to be grateful for.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Two years ago today...
....I was wheeled into the operating room. And two years ago today, God performed a miracle.
The following is a non-fiction piece I wrote this summer that will be published in an anthology soon.
Most of the time people don’t remember coming out of anesthesia. They tell me that you really come to in the operating room, but you don’t consciously remember anything until recovery. Even then, the memories are sketchy. Most of the time.
The last time I had surgery, I remember emerging from the fog of anesthesia, squinting through the haze, struggling to orient myself. With a sense of panic, I fought to emit the words that resisted my wooden tongue, wrestling with the dryness stifling the words, desperate…
“Did they…Were they able to…?”
The words came out hoarse, thick, clumsy. But the nurse came. She knew.
“ No.”
“What?” Grief tinged my voice. “No? Are you sure? They took both?” The desperation was clear as I reached for an alternative, grasping. It simply couldn’t be. No. But the answer was clear.
“Yes. They took both.”
Pushing away the ice chips, I sank back into the pillow, exhausted. Rather than fighting the fog, I welcomed it. I covered my face, wishing for the complete numbness to come and envelop me.
I would never hold a child of my own. I was only 21. The sentence was crushing.
It had only been two weeks earlier when I had entered yet another doctor’s office. A chronic illness had begun to inch its way through my body, baffling doctors and slowly eating away at my health. After four months of medications, E.R. visits, and countless tests, I had succumbed to my mother’s pleas to visit another doctor to rule out some other possible health issues. I endured the test like many others, but, this time, it was different.
After I dressed, the technician left me alone for a long time. When she came back, her smile was forced. “We’re going to take you to see the doctor…right now, okay?” Four months of being immersed in medical terminology clued me in immediately. Something was wrong.
I sat there in the cold examining room for an eternity. The nurse took my blood pressure, raising her eyebrows at the elevated number. Patting my shoulder, she questioned, “Are you okay?” I nodded numbly. But I wasn’t. I knew something was wrong. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out what it was.
Finally, the doctor bustled in. He was calm and clinical. I knew he saw a case…not the form huddled on the table. I listened as he rattled off medical terms, grasping for familiar words.
Cysts. Okay. I could deal with cysts.
Surgery. Well…okay.
Wait…Did you just say…?
“Excuse me…..” I stammered. “You can’t possibly mean that you might take both ovaries?” “Well, we certainly would try to avoid that, but…”
I remember nothing else he said. I stumbled out to the parking lot, fumbled with my phone, and called my mother. My voice cracked as I relayed the news. We were silent. Nothing had prepared us for this.
Over the next two weeks, I would process the information and recite it duly for people. I had two tumors, also known as durmoid cysts. Filled with foreign substances created from my embryonic cells, they had rested dormant since my conception, slowly growing, slowly overtaking. They had to be removed immediately. And there were no guarantees. None at all.
I spent days trying to prepare myself for the worst. But I could not. I would not. Surely, God would not allow me to become barren at 21.
As I lay there in the hospital bed, my nightmare had become my reality. Eventually, the nurses came to take me to my room. I refused to show my face. “Are you okay?” Silence. A barely perceptible nod. “Just upset?” Another nod. “Okay.” Sympathy cloaked her voice. What do you say to a 21 year old who would never be a mother? Nothing. She gave me her gift of silence.
The silence was broken as my family greeted me. My mother rushed to my bed, touching my foot. “Aren’t you glad?”
“GLAD?” I rolled over in disbelief, my words infused with grief and anger. “They TOOK THEM BOTH. How can I be GLAD about that?”
Horror, then confusion, set in. “No. Oh no. That’s not right…”Commotion settled in as she reacted to the news and ran out the door, grabbing a nurse and demanding the surgeon be paged. Shortly after, the recovery nurse came in with an apology. It was all a mistake. A paperwork error.
While two tumors and an ovary were in route to the laboratory, one was still nestled securely inside. The surgeon later warned me that its position was…is…precarious. I would have to spend my remaining childbearing years constantly watching, guarding, protecting, knowing it could be snatched away at any moment.
It’s been a year and half since those fifteen minutes. Sometimes I forget…but not for very long. As I cradle a friend’s little one, breathing in the baby scent, or listen to the frequent teasing as to when we will start our family, I remember. A slight pang always resounds through me, and I silently plead for my body to give me the gift of time.
But somehow, even though biological parenthood is uncertain, I have the peace that was elusive then. Somehow, those fifteen minutes of horror and the resulting surge of relief erased my worries of the future. I have a peace that I will be a mother to a child that was meant to be—biologically or not.
I do not know what path my husband and I will travel before parenthood. It may take us to another continent before I cradle our child in my arms. Our children may mirror our features…or carry the expressions of another.
Regardless, I will be a mother. And I will treasure it, never forgetting those fifteen minutes when I thought I would never be.
The following is a non-fiction piece I wrote this summer that will be published in an anthology soon.
Most of the time people don’t remember coming out of anesthesia. They tell me that you really come to in the operating room, but you don’t consciously remember anything until recovery. Even then, the memories are sketchy. Most of the time.
The last time I had surgery, I remember emerging from the fog of anesthesia, squinting through the haze, struggling to orient myself. With a sense of panic, I fought to emit the words that resisted my wooden tongue, wrestling with the dryness stifling the words, desperate…
“Did they…Were they able to…?”
The words came out hoarse, thick, clumsy. But the nurse came. She knew.
“ No.”
“What?” Grief tinged my voice. “No? Are you sure? They took both?” The desperation was clear as I reached for an alternative, grasping. It simply couldn’t be. No. But the answer was clear.
“Yes. They took both.”
Pushing away the ice chips, I sank back into the pillow, exhausted. Rather than fighting the fog, I welcomed it. I covered my face, wishing for the complete numbness to come and envelop me.
I would never hold a child of my own. I was only 21. The sentence was crushing.
It had only been two weeks earlier when I had entered yet another doctor’s office. A chronic illness had begun to inch its way through my body, baffling doctors and slowly eating away at my health. After four months of medications, E.R. visits, and countless tests, I had succumbed to my mother’s pleas to visit another doctor to rule out some other possible health issues. I endured the test like many others, but, this time, it was different.
After I dressed, the technician left me alone for a long time. When she came back, her smile was forced. “We’re going to take you to see the doctor…right now, okay?” Four months of being immersed in medical terminology clued me in immediately. Something was wrong.
I sat there in the cold examining room for an eternity. The nurse took my blood pressure, raising her eyebrows at the elevated number. Patting my shoulder, she questioned, “Are you okay?” I nodded numbly. But I wasn’t. I knew something was wrong. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out what it was.
Finally, the doctor bustled in. He was calm and clinical. I knew he saw a case…not the form huddled on the table. I listened as he rattled off medical terms, grasping for familiar words.
Cysts. Okay. I could deal with cysts.
Surgery. Well…okay.
Wait…Did you just say…?
“Excuse me…..” I stammered. “You can’t possibly mean that you might take both ovaries?” “Well, we certainly would try to avoid that, but…”
I remember nothing else he said. I stumbled out to the parking lot, fumbled with my phone, and called my mother. My voice cracked as I relayed the news. We were silent. Nothing had prepared us for this.
Over the next two weeks, I would process the information and recite it duly for people. I had two tumors, also known as durmoid cysts. Filled with foreign substances created from my embryonic cells, they had rested dormant since my conception, slowly growing, slowly overtaking. They had to be removed immediately. And there were no guarantees. None at all.
I spent days trying to prepare myself for the worst. But I could not. I would not. Surely, God would not allow me to become barren at 21.
As I lay there in the hospital bed, my nightmare had become my reality. Eventually, the nurses came to take me to my room. I refused to show my face. “Are you okay?” Silence. A barely perceptible nod. “Just upset?” Another nod. “Okay.” Sympathy cloaked her voice. What do you say to a 21 year old who would never be a mother? Nothing. She gave me her gift of silence.
The silence was broken as my family greeted me. My mother rushed to my bed, touching my foot. “Aren’t you glad?”
“GLAD?” I rolled over in disbelief, my words infused with grief and anger. “They TOOK THEM BOTH. How can I be GLAD about that?”
Horror, then confusion, set in. “No. Oh no. That’s not right…”Commotion settled in as she reacted to the news and ran out the door, grabbing a nurse and demanding the surgeon be paged. Shortly after, the recovery nurse came in with an apology. It was all a mistake. A paperwork error.
While two tumors and an ovary were in route to the laboratory, one was still nestled securely inside. The surgeon later warned me that its position was…is…precarious. I would have to spend my remaining childbearing years constantly watching, guarding, protecting, knowing it could be snatched away at any moment.
It’s been a year and half since those fifteen minutes. Sometimes I forget…but not for very long. As I cradle a friend’s little one, breathing in the baby scent, or listen to the frequent teasing as to when we will start our family, I remember. A slight pang always resounds through me, and I silently plead for my body to give me the gift of time.
But somehow, even though biological parenthood is uncertain, I have the peace that was elusive then. Somehow, those fifteen minutes of horror and the resulting surge of relief erased my worries of the future. I have a peace that I will be a mother to a child that was meant to be—biologically or not.
I do not know what path my husband and I will travel before parenthood. It may take us to another continent before I cradle our child in my arms. Our children may mirror our features…or carry the expressions of another.
Regardless, I will be a mother. And I will treasure it, never forgetting those fifteen minutes when I thought I would never be.
Friday, November 20, 2009
My thankfulness post for the day
While I clearly did not pull of the thankful-post-every-day, I'm still trying to post a few things here and there. =)
Today, I'm thankful for THIS post.
I'm thankful for what God revealed to me that day--that there are seasons...and that they DO change. I was in a very chaotic and troublesome season at the time. It was painful...but it didn't last forever.
That time was necessary. It was needed. It had to happen for the next season to occur; God used that time to move me into another place where He could continue to work in my life. During that time, I learned so much about faith...and trust...and hope.
I learned that sometimes the storms rage...and Jesus doesn't always stop them. Sometimes, He lets them rage until you've learned what you need to learn, and then, when you think you can't take the barrage one more moment, He steps on the scene and banishes the storm with a simple phrase, "Peace be still."
And the peace that follows means more than the peace before the storm...because now you know that He can and He will...and the next storm isn't quite as scary.
I am so thankful...for the storm...and for the peace.
Today, I'm thankful for THIS post.
I'm thankful for what God revealed to me that day--that there are seasons...and that they DO change. I was in a very chaotic and troublesome season at the time. It was painful...but it didn't last forever.
That time was necessary. It was needed. It had to happen for the next season to occur; God used that time to move me into another place where He could continue to work in my life. During that time, I learned so much about faith...and trust...and hope.
I learned that sometimes the storms rage...and Jesus doesn't always stop them. Sometimes, He lets them rage until you've learned what you need to learn, and then, when you think you can't take the barrage one more moment, He steps on the scene and banishes the storm with a simple phrase, "Peace be still."
And the peace that follows means more than the peace before the storm...because now you know that He can and He will...and the next storm isn't quite as scary.
I am so thankful...for the storm...and for the peace.
When you thought they weren't watching...
During prayer meeting and altar calls at church, I rarely kneel. My legs fall asleep quickly, and I also think its a bad thing to bury one's face in a chair and close your eyes when you are sleep deprived. Just sayin'. Anyway, I usually sit and cover my face with one hand and pray. I've never thought much about it; it's just what I do.
Tonight, one of my friends was telling us that her little girl (2.5) has started mimicking how I pray. She'll go get her purse, sit in her stroller, set her purse on the ground, deliberately cross her legs, and cover her face with her hand and pray.
It's cute, but it's a little sobering, too. Unbeknownst to me, as I go through my activities at church, there are little eyes watching and little hands mimicking. And I wonder what all she sees? I squirm, thinking of the services where I've let exhaustion take over and allowed myself to simply go through the motions. Did she see that, too? What kind of example am I giving her--and silent others who may be watching? I think of what I want for her--for her to grow up and be a vibrant saint of God--and realize that I am going to be part of that circle of adults that she will look up to.
Am I worth looking up to?
It's sobering--and pushes me to not only move forward for my sake, but for the sake of those little eyes that are constantly watching.
Tonight, one of my friends was telling us that her little girl (2.5) has started mimicking how I pray. She'll go get her purse, sit in her stroller, set her purse on the ground, deliberately cross her legs, and cover her face with her hand and pray.
It's cute, but it's a little sobering, too. Unbeknownst to me, as I go through my activities at church, there are little eyes watching and little hands mimicking. And I wonder what all she sees? I squirm, thinking of the services where I've let exhaustion take over and allowed myself to simply go through the motions. Did she see that, too? What kind of example am I giving her--and silent others who may be watching? I think of what I want for her--for her to grow up and be a vibrant saint of God--and realize that I am going to be part of that circle of adults that she will look up to.
Am I worth looking up to?
It's sobering--and pushes me to not only move forward for my sake, but for the sake of those little eyes that are constantly watching.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Check. Check. Check.
Book Review: DONE
(Email to the publisher discussing possible publication date: NOT done)
(Research paper for same class: SO NOT done)
Conference paper/8 pages of thesis argument: DONE
(Email to thesis chair weedling out my argument as to why they should let me attempt to write AND defend next semester: NOT done)
(Abstract for second conference paper: NOT done)
(Portfolio for same class: Sorta done)
Last remaining observation hours for my teaching license: DONE (YAY for an extra 8 hrs/week!)
(Decision on student teaching: NOT done)
Grading: (NOT DONE) *laughter* I graded all morning and actually caught up in one class. Then I taught that same class and brought home 20 more papers. Not funny.
Much, much more to do, but I do see a bit of a light at the end of the tunnel. Be it a true light or an oncoming train, there IS light. :D
(Email to the publisher discussing possible publication date: NOT done)
(Research paper for same class: SO NOT done)
Conference paper/8 pages of thesis argument: DONE
(Email to thesis chair weedling out my argument as to why they should let me attempt to write AND defend next semester: NOT done)
(Abstract for second conference paper: NOT done)
(Portfolio for same class: Sorta done)
Last remaining observation hours for my teaching license: DONE (YAY for an extra 8 hrs/week!)
(Decision on student teaching: NOT done)
Grading: (NOT DONE) *laughter* I graded all morning and actually caught up in one class. Then I taught that same class and brought home 20 more papers. Not funny.
Much, much more to do, but I do see a bit of a light at the end of the tunnel. Be it a true light or an oncoming train, there IS light. :D
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Day 3...
No pictures today, thanks to a finicky internet forcing me to post at school.
Today, I'm incredibly thankful for our pastor and his wife. Last Friday night, my great-uncle died in a car accident. Today, we found out that my cousin is in the hospital in a coma. While I did not know either very well, my grandmother has been devastated with the news. Watching them surround our family with love and prayers has been incredible. I am very, very blessed.
Today, I'm incredibly thankful for our pastor and his wife. Last Friday night, my great-uncle died in a car accident. Today, we found out that my cousin is in the hospital in a coma. While I did not know either very well, my grandmother has been devastated with the news. Watching them surround our family with love and prayers has been incredible. I am very, very blessed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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