Starting in the Middle

I don't want to write anymore.

Not until I have something impressive to tell you. You may have read my latest story (one post back), my dramatic narrative of my 3 month stay in the hospital. 

Truth is: it feels like not much has changed. 

Yes, I am home now and my kids are with me. Last week I spent one full day alone with them. Despite a few eye rolls, my 12 year old did most of the work. Thank the Lord for half grown little people and all thier youthful energy. I wait longingly for the day I can have even half of that energy back. Some days it feels like I might not ever get there.

You see I still can't walk very far without getting winded, my trach site is still open, I still cough and get choked up if the air is not just right. My chest tube sites can feel like knives in my side from scarred tissue. My hands are a mess, still not healed from blood pressure meds in the ICU.  I need help going up and down stairs. Withdrawals aren't the easiest thing I've ever experienced. I still can't drive, can't pick up my baby, can't bathe myself, and can't lay on my side because I feel like my lungs might cave in. These are just my limitations right now, big or small, there they are hanging over me day after day. 

This is why I don't want to write. I want to tell you my story from the end. When I'm healed, when I feel like me again and everything is back to normal.

But lately God whispers to my heart, "Tell this part of your story even though you feel its undone. Tell it from the middle; tell it from right where you're at. And remember, I Am still writing."

I don't want to seem ungrateful. I keep saying I'm so glad that God let me keep participating in life and I have a new outlook on everything. Sometimes I people watch from my wheelchair and I just think how much we take for granted the everyday, just to be walking around on 2 feet; to be healthy enough to go to work or to take care of people we love. "Do you know just how beautiful your life is?" I ask myself.  So I admit I'm human and impatient and I want my miracle to be finished. But it's just not quite there yet.

 

But as I lay still and wait for sleep I try and count the things I can do. 

I can walk some, there was a time my legs forgot how to work. 

My trach site is going on its 7th week and it's. so. very. close. to being healed. 

My coughing fits no longer last for several minutes leaving me exhausted and feeling defeated. 

My scarred tissue will heal and the doctors seem hopeful that most of my fingers will too. 

I've dropped most of my meds, only one to go. My very conservative doctor even felt safe to take me off antibiotics. 

I need less and less help on the stairs. 

I taught baby Joel to climb up into my chair for a cuddle. When I kiss his soft little head I vividly remember how I longed to be able to hold him a few short weeks ago. 

As for the other limitations, I know I will get back to them in time. 

It's not always the first thing I want to ask myself but I try, "what CAN I do?" Instead of dwelling on things I can't. 

Another thing I can still do is encourage people through writing, through sharing my story openly and honestly. So if your in a place that feels like you're in limbo or progress is antagonizingly slow, just know I'm right here with you in the middle. It's not always a fun place to hang out but it is one where we can exercise our trust in the One who is still writing. 

Thanks for reading today,

Jenna 

A Letter to my Mom

Dear Mom,

I'm embarrassed to even try to say thank you for all you've done through all of this.

You've been my personal nurse. You may have a nursing career but this is something different. You have sat by me countless hours; sometimes talking, sometimes silent. You have changed dressing after dressing, coached me on medication, and made sure that I understood the fast talking doctors. You've sponge bathed me, changed my bed pan, my clothes and my sheets almost every day. You made sure I was as comfortable as I could be. You learned trach care and wiped mucus off my neck countless times. You've came early stayed late, and even stayed all night just because I was really nervous about having another tube put in. 

More than a nurse, you have been my faithful friend. You have waited with me and been bored with me. You've watched endless hours of HGTV with me. You have brought me almost every meal only to throw most of it away because I was too sick to eat. With tears in your eyes you told me you would rather quit your job than have me sit in the hospital alone. You listened to my fears and cried with me. You encouraged me with words Jesus would whisper to my heart. You have modeled sacrificial love and servanthood with out even blinking. 

I won't be able to thank you enough in this life time. I can never return the favor and you probably wouldn't let me if I could. Because you're just being you.

And I know this is just what good mothers do. They have staying power. A supernatural energy to protect their offspring, to shelter them when there is a storm. 

I am so blessed to have you as my mom.

With all my love,

Jenna