i am broken.
It’s become a popular churchy-phrase recently right? “We are a broken people. We are all in need of Jesus.”
I am certainly in need of Jesus. Aren't we all? And it’s true I suppose, we are all broken. But when I say it, I mean literally, I am broken. I have a wound you see. Several wounds in fact, in my perineal area, from the twelve surgeries I underwent almost 11 weeks ago during which talented nurses and doctors worked to remove the invasive infection that wracked my body. I know that this occurred exactly 11 weeks ago, because that is the age of my sweet baby girl.
Healthy, vivacious, and beautiful, like the meaning of her name “Zoe.” It means new life. Right after she was brought out to begin her new life, Zoe would become my encouragement. Just what my body needed to survive the crazy infection that was attacking it.
As I write this, I want you to know-I am not writing this for myself. Well, ok…that’s not completely true. Of course I am writing it for myself. On the seventy-sixth day of my recovery, I finally decided that I have to let out the avalanche of emotions I am carrying around with me-under which I just keep waiting to be buried. But I also feel the Holy Spirit strongly encouraging me to share these thoughts not only with those I know personally, but with the world. How scary! Almost as scary for me as what I have experienced these last few months is the thought of friends, family, and complete strangers knowing the details of what occurred--and my very human thoughts about it! I simply just know that God is nudging me to be vulnerable, to allow others the very same opportunity.
I am certainly in need of Jesus. Aren't we all? And it’s true I suppose, we are all broken. But when I say it, I mean literally, I am broken. I have a wound you see. Several wounds in fact, in my perineal area, from the twelve surgeries I underwent almost 11 weeks ago during which talented nurses and doctors worked to remove the invasive infection that wracked my body. I know that this occurred exactly 11 weeks ago, because that is the age of my sweet baby girl.
Healthy, vivacious, and beautiful, like the meaning of her name “Zoe.” It means new life. Right after she was brought out to begin her new life, Zoe would become my encouragement. Just what my body needed to survive the crazy infection that was attacking it.
As I write this, I want you to know-I am not writing this for myself. Well, ok…that’s not completely true. Of course I am writing it for myself. On the seventy-sixth day of my recovery, I finally decided that I have to let out the avalanche of emotions I am carrying around with me-under which I just keep waiting to be buried. But I also feel the Holy Spirit strongly encouraging me to share these thoughts not only with those I know personally, but with the world. How scary! Almost as scary for me as what I have experienced these last few months is the thought of friends, family, and complete strangers knowing the details of what occurred--and my very human thoughts about it! I simply just know that God is nudging me to be vulnerable, to allow others the very same opportunity.
over emotional.
You might think me over emotional. That I need to simply accept that my life has changed, but that I will probably get better and that I should count my blessings. Well my friend, this writing is just not for you. I believe in Jesus, and the goodness of the Lord. I believe that He will heal me…but sometimes I have doubt. Sometimes I just need to complain. Sometimes I am angry with Him. And the beauty of my faith is that He allows me to do this. If you think I am making a mountain from a molehill, I respect your opinion, but you simply don’t need to read on.
You might want to feel sorry for me, or want to send me an encouraging note. I so appreciate your kindness, but please don’t. Instead I want to hear about you. Tell me your story. Yep, you have one, even if you think you don’t. I am not seeking pity. I ask only that you read on with an open mind and a compassionate heart.
You see it is a newfound empathy that has driven me to open myself to the judgment of others by writing this testimony. If you’re like me, you can’t help but make judgments about others as you move about your day. Working, scrolling through your facebook newsfeed, working out, or however it is you spend your time, establishing opinions about others is part of our human existence--as natural as breathing. But my small foray into a world that was previously unknown: the wilderness that I am currently walking through…that gray area where you are alive but know you almost met death… or that place where your loved one has died and you simply don’t know how to say what you feel…or the new place you moved to where it seems no one knows who you truly are, what you have been through…it is in this place that I find myself now. Wanting desperately to heal but not wanting time to pass so that I do not miss the precious moments I am presented with each day. It is from this place of empathy that I wish to write my story—-fully understanding that there are those experiencing more difficult, more painful trials than me. And that there are those who are living in a season of blessing, with “smaller” waves crashing at their feet. It is this idea that I want to challenge—-as a wise counselor once told me: We all have problems. Some are greater than others, but that doesn’t invalidate the ones that we have.
I am hoping that as I tell you about the challenges I faced, you too will find some truth, some morsel of connection to the feelings I am feeling. I hope that you will not pity me, or think my experiences “smaller” than yours. I know I am opening myself up for criticism, perhaps most deservedly from those experiencing a terminal illness, or a terrible divorce; those with a baby in the NICU, or a spouse who has lost their job—a litany of awful things I cannot explain or imagine. But I assure you that it is realness that I seek. Lest you think my life a sequence of perfectly Instagrammed moments, I write for the sake of empathy in all of us, for our biggest, and our littlest experiences.
You might want to feel sorry for me, or want to send me an encouraging note. I so appreciate your kindness, but please don’t. Instead I want to hear about you. Tell me your story. Yep, you have one, even if you think you don’t. I am not seeking pity. I ask only that you read on with an open mind and a compassionate heart.
You see it is a newfound empathy that has driven me to open myself to the judgment of others by writing this testimony. If you’re like me, you can’t help but make judgments about others as you move about your day. Working, scrolling through your facebook newsfeed, working out, or however it is you spend your time, establishing opinions about others is part of our human existence--as natural as breathing. But my small foray into a world that was previously unknown: the wilderness that I am currently walking through…that gray area where you are alive but know you almost met death… or that place where your loved one has died and you simply don’t know how to say what you feel…or the new place you moved to where it seems no one knows who you truly are, what you have been through…it is in this place that I find myself now. Wanting desperately to heal but not wanting time to pass so that I do not miss the precious moments I am presented with each day. It is from this place of empathy that I wish to write my story—-fully understanding that there are those experiencing more difficult, more painful trials than me. And that there are those who are living in a season of blessing, with “smaller” waves crashing at their feet. It is this idea that I want to challenge—-as a wise counselor once told me: We all have problems. Some are greater than others, but that doesn’t invalidate the ones that we have.
I am hoping that as I tell you about the challenges I faced, you too will find some truth, some morsel of connection to the feelings I am feeling. I hope that you will not pity me, or think my experiences “smaller” than yours. I know I am opening myself up for criticism, perhaps most deservedly from those experiencing a terminal illness, or a terrible divorce; those with a baby in the NICU, or a spouse who has lost their job—a litany of awful things I cannot explain or imagine. But I assure you that it is realness that I seek. Lest you think my life a sequence of perfectly Instagrammed moments, I write for the sake of empathy in all of us, for our biggest, and our littlest experiences.
sweet baby.
Beautiful moment huh? Captured by my wonderful husband of me and my baby girl. Look a little closer. Can you see the red nose? Tear-stained cheeks? This picture was taken on the seventy-second day of my healing, after a joyful trip to the pumpkin patch and apple orchard with my beautiful family that I artfully captured for social media, giving the impression (as we often do) that life is just roses. Or in this case…apple pie.
What you can’t see is my heart so grateful that I am alive. So blessed that I can walk around in skinny jeans and boots when just weeks ago I could barely roll out of the hospital bed, to barely straighten up and shuffle around one of many hospital floors we spent time on. I was barely covered in a gown that could only loosely contain the nearly fifty pounds of fluid I retained; making me look like a bloated whale and more pregnant that I did before I gave birth just days before.. The rooms I shuffled around, I add, sometimes had to be covered with a large yellow warning sign, and offer masks and gowns for visitors while my stool was tested to make sure I did not have yet another infection. Awful.
You also can’t see my frustration. The anger that my stomach is writhing in pain once again from trying to eat a normal meal beyond the saltines and jello I can usually keep down. How I ache to feel better, or throw up, or something just to make it stop rolling and tumbling like a balloon full of tamales.
What you can’t see is my heart so grateful that I am alive. So blessed that I can walk around in skinny jeans and boots when just weeks ago I could barely roll out of the hospital bed, to barely straighten up and shuffle around one of many hospital floors we spent time on. I was barely covered in a gown that could only loosely contain the nearly fifty pounds of fluid I retained; making me look like a bloated whale and more pregnant that I did before I gave birth just days before.. The rooms I shuffled around, I add, sometimes had to be covered with a large yellow warning sign, and offer masks and gowns for visitors while my stool was tested to make sure I did not have yet another infection. Awful.
You also can’t see my frustration. The anger that my stomach is writhing in pain once again from trying to eat a normal meal beyond the saltines and jello I can usually keep down. How I ache to feel better, or throw up, or something just to make it stop rolling and tumbling like a balloon full of tamales.
an army of fire ants and an amazing husband.
This nausea has been going on for weeks now—nearly a solid month, and the doctors just can’t seem to figure it out. They know I am on painkillers still, and attribute much of the unrest to the way that narcotics can turn your body upside down. My team of doctors call it stomach “irritation.” This dismissal of my stomach pain, which feels like a small army of fire ants inside my belly, makes me more than slightly irritated with my medical team.
Stop taking the painkillers you say? Well I’d love to. When I tried several weeks ago, I experienced with drawl like I imagine drug addicts from the movies do…cold sweats, heart racing, anxiety, and my good old friend nausea. After 24 hours of terror I restarted the medication and must taper slowly.
This means of course, that I still cannot drive. I can’t take my baby girl to the zoo, or the dog park, or even Wal-Mart for heavens sake to pick up groceries, or craft supplies, or simply expose her to the big, wide world. I have a tremendous support system who do everything for me, including cart me around to various events, errands, even church. For this I am eternally grateful. The center of this support system is my devoted husband. We have been married for four years, but have been in a committed relationship for almost thirteen years (trust me, we were as shocked as any when our high school romance led to a beautiful marriageJ). He can drive me to and fro of course, but the poor man has a job. And the need for some free time of his own! Did I mention that he too has had his share of health complications? My husband had his third ACL surgery back in May, while I was 30-some weeks pregnant, and teaching full time. He unfortunately did not recover well, meaning that he can walk and get around…but not very well. So amidst the frenzy that was my hospital stay this summer, my partner in crime was not up to his usual physical standard.
I can’t imagine sitting in a waiting room, for eleven days straight, holding your newborn baby girl, and wondering if your wife would come out of the Operating Room alright. I simply won’t go there, as I am unable to really put myself in his shoes. Perhaps I will feel just a touch of what he did, now having experienced several surgeries, when he has another ACL scope and repair in a few short weeks.
I do know the strength he exhibited as he squeezed my hand, prayed with me, and promised me it would be alright. How beautiful it was to have my husband, who has only come to know the Lord intimately in the last five-six years, be the rock of faith that I needed, telling me that "we believe in a God who heals, and He will heal you." I know the power of his faith, and the testimony he was to doctors, nurses, family members, and friends. And I know the look on his face as he had to tend to my wound daily when we returned home. Though we promise “in sickness and in health,” I know the heartache it caused me that he had to attend to my private parts in such a medical way. The nature of my wounds meant that every trip to the bathroom required his accompaniment and special gauze and wiping tools. Going out in public (usually only to the doctor’s office) meant bringing along a bag of supplies not only for our newborn child, but for mom as well. It necessitated finding Family bathrooms so that all three of us could take care of business, and on one occasion even asking for an open exam room so that my husband could perform doctor-like duties.
Stop taking the painkillers you say? Well I’d love to. When I tried several weeks ago, I experienced with drawl like I imagine drug addicts from the movies do…cold sweats, heart racing, anxiety, and my good old friend nausea. After 24 hours of terror I restarted the medication and must taper slowly.
This means of course, that I still cannot drive. I can’t take my baby girl to the zoo, or the dog park, or even Wal-Mart for heavens sake to pick up groceries, or craft supplies, or simply expose her to the big, wide world. I have a tremendous support system who do everything for me, including cart me around to various events, errands, even church. For this I am eternally grateful. The center of this support system is my devoted husband. We have been married for four years, but have been in a committed relationship for almost thirteen years (trust me, we were as shocked as any when our high school romance led to a beautiful marriageJ). He can drive me to and fro of course, but the poor man has a job. And the need for some free time of his own! Did I mention that he too has had his share of health complications? My husband had his third ACL surgery back in May, while I was 30-some weeks pregnant, and teaching full time. He unfortunately did not recover well, meaning that he can walk and get around…but not very well. So amidst the frenzy that was my hospital stay this summer, my partner in crime was not up to his usual physical standard.
I can’t imagine sitting in a waiting room, for eleven days straight, holding your newborn baby girl, and wondering if your wife would come out of the Operating Room alright. I simply won’t go there, as I am unable to really put myself in his shoes. Perhaps I will feel just a touch of what he did, now having experienced several surgeries, when he has another ACL scope and repair in a few short weeks.
I do know the strength he exhibited as he squeezed my hand, prayed with me, and promised me it would be alright. How beautiful it was to have my husband, who has only come to know the Lord intimately in the last five-six years, be the rock of faith that I needed, telling me that "we believe in a God who heals, and He will heal you." I know the power of his faith, and the testimony he was to doctors, nurses, family members, and friends. And I know the look on his face as he had to tend to my wound daily when we returned home. Though we promise “in sickness and in health,” I know the heartache it caused me that he had to attend to my private parts in such a medical way. The nature of my wounds meant that every trip to the bathroom required his accompaniment and special gauze and wiping tools. Going out in public (usually only to the doctor’s office) meant bringing along a bag of supplies not only for our newborn child, but for mom as well. It necessitated finding Family bathrooms so that all three of us could take care of business, and on one occasion even asking for an open exam room so that my husband could perform doctor-like duties.
blessing.
You can see all of the blessings in this right? Me too. It does not escape me that God gave me a husband who would perform these tasks without a single grimace or complaint. Our Heavenly Father gifted us with a baby who rarely cried, slept often, and smiled early. He ensured that our families were healthy and happy to meet our every need in the hospital, and take care of our sweet child in her very first weeks at home when we could not be there. I am so blessed by the state of the art American hospitals that jumped into action to care for me. It was the Lord who delivered the constant stream of gifted, beautiful nurses and doctors who saved my life. They were truly amazing. Some even became like family because they treated us like family, greeting us every day with hugs, smiles, and love for baby Zoe. Without their strength I would have crumbled. I could literally write a novel describing the irreplaceable friends and family who sent an endless bounty of cards, flowers, treats, books, baby clothes, food, and more to my ever-changing hospital room. Streams of prayers flowed from every corner of my community, from those I have known for years as well as those I have yet to meet. I cried nearly every day in the hospital, but just as often out of fear as out of reverence for God's amazing grace that brought these people to their knees in prayer. Currently I am involved in a study of the book of Exodus, in which a lovely friend of mine draws particular importance to Exodus 17: 8-16, where Moses needs the help of Aaron and Hur to hold up his hands so that Joshua and his army could triumph over the Amalekites, and fulfill the Lord's promise to bring victory to the Israelites. These people: my friends, family, doctors, nurses, and every acquaintance or stranger that showed me kindness, or showered me with gifts, well wishes, or prayer, were my Aaron and Hur. Whether they knew it or not, these people were Christ's love in the flesh, and I am forever grateful for them. If you are one of these people, thank you, thank you, thank you. You are truly loved. I live in the confidence that it was the Lord from whom all of these blessings flowed. Thank you Heavenly Father for saving me.
memories.
Yet those disheartening memories do not simply vanish. The days of surgery after surgery, of not being able to eat for hours on end because I would be going into surgery, or sleepy from emerging from it…the inability to walk, get out of bed, or go to the bathroom without a chaperone (and the giant IV cart, catheter bag, and for a few days- my wound vac. Side note, "wound vac" =wound vaccum...I remind you that my wounds were in my vaginal area, so just picture vaccum + vagina. Super, right?). The waiting for a little green light on my remote every ten minutes that would finally allow me to administer more pain medicine through my IV. The constant beeping of monitoring equipment all through the night when you are trying to get a few precious minutes of sleep before a nurse comes in to give you medicine, take your blood pressure, take blood, give you a shot. The slow movement of the clock towards morning when I would get to see my newborn little girl again instead of being up with her in the middle of the night, caring for her as a new mom should. Then the difficulty of trying to hold and cuddle her while eight cords monitoring my vitals and administering antibiotics and pain medicine would become tangled in her tiny arms and legs. The frustration of trying to breastfeed those first few days and supplement through a tiny tube the formula she needed for nourishment…followed by the exhaustion, deflation, and feeling of failure when Emergency Room doctors and nurses helped my mom to give my girl her first bottle of formula as I went in for surgery. Those moms who have had difficulty breastfeeding, or have been unable to do so understand the shame and embarrassment that comes along with such a challenge--it's unavoidable. The countless days after where I tried to muster up enough energy to pump my milk numerous times a day in between surgeries, vitals, medications, and doctors’ visits, accumulating next to nothing, and not leaving me the calories I needed to heal. The arrival of a constant stream of doctors, for whom I had to spread my legs and allow for a check of my wounds. Later, the overwhelming sadness as I examined photo after photo taken during this time, only to realize that I actually could not remember so many of the moments captured. Embarrassing. Debilitating. Frightening. Invasive. Painful. Not the way it was “supposed to be.”
embarrassing.
Those who are close to me know how much I value my privacy and prudence. To have contracted my infection in such a private place, and then to have to discuss it openly, is a response to the challenge I believe the Lord gave me to be vulnerable with others.
debilitating.
I learned at an early age from my mother that a strong, intelligent woman takes care of herself and those around her. I could not imagine a more debilitating event than this one, that would not only take me away from caring from my new baby on my own, in my own home, but a time in which I would have to allow everyone else, including that sweet child, to take care of me.
frightening.
“That could have taken your life dear.” “You were septic huh?” “You were extremely sick.” These comments, that came after my brush with death in the hospital constantly replay in my mind, reminding me of the seriousness of the situation. When the Emergency Room doctors finally found the source of my pain, just 36 hours after we left the hospital the first time, and about 8 hours after we were discharged the second time, I could see in the downcast face of the ER doc whom I asked, “It’s bad isn’t it?” that what my body was facing was not going to retreat without a fight. On my eighteenth day in the second of two hospitals that I spent time in, I woke to an incredible panic attack that haunts me to this day. Feeling claustrophobic and locked atop the seventh floor of the hospital, all I wanted to was get out. When I was allowed to go home a few days later, bringing these panic attacks with me, it was the fear of being taken back to the hospital that dominated my thoughts. It scares me even now to think of how fleeting, and how precious, our time here on Earth really is.
invasive.
A pic-line? What is that? A small IV tube, inserted from the inside of your upper arm all the way through a large artery to your bloodstream, through which nurses and doctors would draw blood and insert medication. The small scar I have retained is just one little reminder that my body is not mine after all it turns out. It's actually on loan from God, and therefore I have entrust it to its actual owner.
painful.
Yes, having several gaping wounds in one of the most fragile areas of your body is painful. Nightly shots to avoid blood clotting and frequent blood draws to ensure white cell counts are moving downward, and the worry that urine samples would come back showing the spread of infection, are painful. Constant nausea without the ability to go out to eat and enjoy delicious food or have a glass of wine (painkillers again…), is painful. But cliché as it is, sometimes it’s the emotional pain that gets me. Don’t get me wrong, I never understood before how much physical pain could really hurt! However, it's the comments that really get to me deep, and hurt. The way I felt when a specialist didn’t read my chart and wanted to know if I was pregnant. The numerous times I've been told I look great...sometimes as far as to joke that it's a great way to lose that baby weight! Thanks for the compliment about how thin I look, but no, being desperately sick is not the new Weight Watchers plan for new moms. If only you knew that I was constantly nauseous and trying to keep food down, actually trying to gain some weight so I can't see my ribs sticking out when I change my clothes. Yes, I did almost die. Thanks for bringing it to my attention every time we talk. I promise you, I am not ungrateful to be alive, but I haven’t yet processed this very real fact as quickly as you seem to have.
I am just as guilty of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, trying to be so empathetic when someone is going through a tough time, and failing miserably. If I'm honest, in those moments, I wanted nothing more than to quickly correct a person and give them some examples of what is really going on--sometimes I even did! More often I just bit my tongue and tried to quickly change the subject. It has been a lesson for me in humanity, I suppose. And grace. Jesus didn’t lash out when people said insensitive things to him. Nor did he take offense when he was hung on the Cross. He simply gave grace. This is the grace I can now only hope to extend those I already know, those I teach, and those I will meet from now on.
I am just as guilty of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, trying to be so empathetic when someone is going through a tough time, and failing miserably. If I'm honest, in those moments, I wanted nothing more than to quickly correct a person and give them some examples of what is really going on--sometimes I even did! More often I just bit my tongue and tried to quickly change the subject. It has been a lesson for me in humanity, I suppose. And grace. Jesus didn’t lash out when people said insensitive things to him. Nor did he take offense when he was hung on the Cross. He simply gave grace. This is the grace I can now only hope to extend those I already know, those I teach, and those I will meet from now on.
the big event.
I remember someone saying that they forever charted the events in their life as “before the big event” and “after the big event.” Whatever it was that had transpired, this person knew that things just wouldn't be the same afterwards....or would it? I will certainly most always look to the time just after the birth of my daughter as the “big event.” I certainly do not blame my beautiful child, nor do I really associate her birth with anything negative. More than that I see her birth as the new beginning, the “new life” as her name suggests. And in fact, this time of healing where I am more alert, and steadily returning to "normal" is surprisingly more challenging for me. That time of living moment to moment in the hospital reaching small milestones every day (No more surgeries! No fevers for the last few days! Body responding well to the oral antibiotics! No more catheter! Goodbye wound vac! See you later daily-Heprin shots!) enabled me to rely completely and overwhelmingly on the Lord. And though it absolutely did not seem this way in the middle of those experiences, they do fade. As He has shown us so many times in scripture, when we are in a season of greatest need, we draw closer to God. As I fight the continued battle of nausea, and medication, and healing, amidst enjoying caring for my baby, I want this time to reflect a changed me. When I look at pictures from before the “big event,” I feel the tension of trying to return to what I once was, while wanting to remain changed…ultimately more compassionate and empathetic to all that others may be experiencing. A testament to Christ, and what he has done for us.
Well thanks for listening...and reading. I truly hope that Mama Giraffe will be a place for all to be real, especially those moms and women for whom life does not always turn out “the way it was supposed to be.” I hope you will use it as a forum to share your little challenges, as well as the “big events” that shape you forever.
Well thanks for listening...and reading. I truly hope that Mama Giraffe will be a place for all to be real, especially those moms and women for whom life does not always turn out “the way it was supposed to be.” I hope you will use it as a forum to share your little challenges, as well as the “big events” that shape you forever.