Confession

I've been reading a lot more lately than I have been writing. Not just not blogging, but I haven't been putting much down in my notepads or journals either. This is weird for me. I used to love putting pen to page and scrawling out my thoughts late at night. It's how I untangle my thoughts and bare my soul. Seeing my words laid out in black allows me more brain space. But I haven't been doing this much mostly because it hurts my hand and a little because my penmanship skills aren't what they once were. The alternative (and necessity to blogging) is typing, which I'm also not able to do. Anything I've posted has been via iPhone, sometimes using my thumb, sometimes the microphone. It all reminds me of the reality I have to face concerning my hands.  I haven't talked much about my hands except for those closest to me, but they will probably be the last thing to heal and are most likely going to require some minor surgeries.  

In case you have zero idea what I'm talking about let me explain. In the ICU, my vital organs were obviously the highest priority. I was put on a medication that restricted blood flow to my hands and feet causing extreme damage to my fingers. It caused a condition called necrosis which is basically the dying off of cells due to lack of blood flow. They also tried to keep my fist unclenched but in my drugged irrational state I refused to cooperate. This resulted in what is known as a contracture, meaning the joints in most of my fingers are stuck in a bent position. Luckily my right hand got the least of it and my thumbs are still operable. 

This is a confession of sorts because I have avoided writing about this, specifically asking for prayer around this issue and try to act like the permanent damage to my fingers is a small price to pay for working organs. In the big picture, yes this is true. But if I can be human and really really honest and vulnerable: I want my fingers. I'm terrified of the surgeries I'll have to have and what I might be left with. 

I'm also afraid to say too many words about my hands fearing I'll regret my vulnerability later. Maybe I will. We all struggle with showing our deepest darkest fears. Not the one on the surface but the one just below, the real reason we don't open up. The crushing fear below having my hands not healing up is that I'll appear different than others, that people will notice and they won't accept me. I have a feeling that not being loved can be found at the root of many fears. In all reality, I guess I don't need everyone's acceptance and those who show it: those are my people, the kind I actually need to surround myself with. 

                             ***

Last Sunday at church I sang these words:

"Into your hands I commit my spirit 

Into your hands I lay me down"

Our worship pastor spoke over us saying that lifting our hands over our heads was a universal sign of surrender. That it signals that we are giving over our lives, our control into the hands of someone else. He asked if we felt this way about God would we lift our hands in worship? I was sitting down, breathless from singing. Our pastor continued, would we be able to surrender if our prayers went unanswered? Could we lift our hands when life is not panning out the way we hoped?

This isn't the first time I've had to ponder this question. It's easy to say "yes! Here am I!" when things appear to be smooth sailing, but what about about when you look out at the horizon and all you can see are storm clouds rolling in? 

I think about other times in my life when fear hung over me like a dark cloud that refused to dissipate. Life can be happy and all sorts of lovely but when all is still and quiet there it is lurking in the corner threatening to destroy me. I know better than to give in to worry and fear. I know God can do greater miracles.  I try not to put too much stock into what the hand therapist tells me. She's never come across my condition before in 25 years as a hand therapist.  Besides, who can add an inch to their height, a year to life by worrying? God reminds me: "I know your need before you ask." But what if You don't answer the way I want?  You will get me through I know, I know, but I don't want to release it. I try though. I lay it at Your scarred feet. I pick it up. I lay it down, I pick it up.

A couple of years ago, my mentor noticed this pattern in my life and she would say: Fear stands for False Expectations Appearing Real. This is a truth that's always hard for me to accept. I think I can tell the future and already know exactly how everything will play out. My tendency is usually to plan on the absolute worst case scenario. But it almost never pans out that way.

In the past when faced with this constant battle of fearing an encroaching event, I wake up one day and that event is over. It passed and it was hard but I bounced back with more joy than I expected, more wholeness than I expected. I adapted and adjusted more than I thought I would have. I suppose we get our measure of grace when we truly need it.   

The theme of this blog is honesty.. Healing truth telling. I believe so much in community and vulnerability and how sharing our stories can not only be a breath of fresh air to others but can help the storyteller to breath again. When I bring my fears out in the open, they cease holding so much over my head. So I've been conflicted about holding this back, wanting to share but still feeling too raw. 

So I won't tie this up in a pretty package with a bow.. I'll leave it a little undone, knowing I don't have to figure it all out at once. I'm walking out the hard lesson of resting in uncertainty.  This fitting  quote from Sarah Bessey seems a good conclusion: 

"I think sometimes we rush the narrative construction of our seasons. I know I am guilty of this in my life and yet I still do it. We are eager to wring the lesson and the hope and the story out of our lives in order to make sense of them, we are ready to move on! but sometimes the story isn’t clear until you’ve lived further into a few years more chapters. Time reveals what was really going on and there is no shortcut for an unfolding life. Sometimes the full story won’t be clear to us until years have passed and then we see the hand of God or we see old things with new eyes; this is grace."

Thanks so much for being here today,

Jenna 

To My Child in Between

Whoa. 

You're 6. I feel like we're crossing over into to new territory. You haven't been the "baby" for awhile now. You are moving into big kid frontier. 

You amaze me when you say things like, "you've got a point there" when we're in one of our debates. Or "Mom! I've been around the sun 6 times now!"

You are creative and smart. You see patterns and symmetry that most people wouldn't pick up on. You could be an architect someday. You're fascinated by space, it's vastness and its beauty. Space crafts and rovers, meteorites and astronauts. Maybe NASA? Or maybe you'll be a super hero? You certainly have the energy for it! With your cape tucked away or your spidey suit right under your regular clothes, the way all good super heroes dress.

Though your rough and tumble, I see little hints of sensitivity when you still come up with arms wide open and say "hug?" Or you sneak into my bed in the middle of the night, you're careful not to wake me but in in the morning I smile when I find you there. When I was in the hospital, you weren't afraid of me with all my tubes and cords, you gently sat beside me and brought me presents you and daddy picked out in the gift shop. 

I love to see you take care of your baby brother "Buggers" as you still affectionately refer to him. (This is a derivative of "Joel bug" his nickname from birth because of how tiny he was). You teach him to share and try not to laugh when he gives you love taps. You help him up and down and show him that anything can be a toy with a little imagination. Then there's the sound effects and giggle fests. Only you can entertain him the way you do.

You adore your older sister and though since your independence has blossomed  you two have the occasional spat, I know the feeling is mutual. The two of are so very different in the best way possible. Still, you could play video games together for hours. You love it when she reads to you and perfects your costume for whatever role you might be playing in your imaginary adventure for the day. Heck, even tag is fun with her.

I'm so very proud of your place in our family. But sometimes, though you never say so, I know you get lost in the middle. While we're all laughing at the baby or fussing over how cute he is. While we are applauding your big sister's guitar playing or basketball skills. Sometimes I see it on your face or the way you say, "mom, I can't do it as good as Jayda does."

I want you to know today and everyday there are no favorites in this family. There is plenty of love to go around. Each of you are gifted and unique and I can't wait to see what kind of man you will be someday (take it slow though, would ya?)

 

I hope someday in the future you will  read this and it won't be a surprise to you. Maybe the art of blogging will be long lost but these words will still hold weight. I know you don't like mushy stuff but you mean the world to me. Birth order aside I love you all the most and nothing can or will ever change that.

Love, Mom

Scars

We all have them. 

I've acquired several new ones during my bout with sickness. 

We define them as a mark left by a healed wound...

When we catch a glimpse of our scars some are meaningless and we may not even be sure where or how we acquired them. But if the wound was deep enough, even though technically healing has occurred, sometimes scars still cause pain. I have little x's on my sides where tubes were inserted to drain the fluid out of my lungs; these x's cause searing pain on some days, it hurts to breathe during these episodes. I have scars on my neck and my arms, my chest and fingers. "Battle wounds" I've heard people call them. Some may fade over time but others will be permanent. Becoming accustomed to my scars and learning to see them in a different light will be part of my journey as I continue to heal both physically and inwardly.

However, our souls tend to heal much slower than our flesh.

Because the figurative scars, the ones that don't show up in the mirror, can often hurt just as bad, if not worse, than physical ones. Sometimes they are relentless, they linger, they cause inexpressible pain in the deepest parts of our beings. Some may be self inflicted, others we didn't ask for. We can try to numb or ignore these scars, hope they heal in time, but I'm not sure they always do heal. Some scars run so deep we may carry them with us indefinitely. Our memory flashes like scenes from a horror movie when we are alone or when they are triggered in certain ways. We pray for the hurt to stop and often the answer is: grace is sufficient.

We teach our children not to stare or ask questions to just keep walking when we encounter people who look a little different. I've had to deal with that in public and I'm bothered by the fact that I'm bothered. 

I don't think I'll ever look at people in wheelchairs the same. People with limitations. People with disfigured appearances. People with scars. 

Instead of quickly averting my eyes and pretending there's no pain in the world I'll ask myself, "What is thier story? What scars can't I see?" 

And maybe we should be asking that of all people. The rude people, the insensitive or impatient people. The prejudice ones, the addicted ones, the ones who are screaming for acceptance. The quiet ones who don't step on toes, the perfectionist, the ones who work to earn thier worth. 

"What scars are you suffering from?"

So where does that leave us? 

I don't pretend to have easy answers but I suppose it's a little like accepting outward scars. We learn to see them differently. We learn they don't define who we are and we learn to define beauty much differently. We trust in a God who makes all things beautiful in His time. The one who walked this earth and felt our pain and has the scars to prove it. 

I believe freedom can come despite our scars. It's hard not to be consumed by our outward appearance in this world and it's even harder to bear our soul scars. These days, I'm learning to check my heart more than I check the mirror.

Thanks for reading today,

Jenna

Here's to 10 years

Ten years ago on our wedding day...

I was nervous, excited, a little unsure about how we would make it all work, especially after the night before. I don't think I had slept or ate in the previous 48 hours. All the wedding preparations had us fighting over something petty. I have always said if I were to do it again, it would be just me and you and the officiate, maybe a few friends and family in some beautiful clearing out in the forest. It would be simple. 

Nonetheless it was a lovely ceremony and once I walked down the aisle and my dad lifted the veil, I looked deep into your blue eyes and knew: "we are going to be ok"

Still to this day, I think about our late night conversations. Sometimes we would drive around for hours just to be together and talk. Sometimes we would sit on the porch of my moms house. We mostly talked about our experiences with God. I had grown up in church and you were a few years into your surrender with God. We we were pretty different in our beliefs but mostly I remember grasping grace for the first time. I grappled with the idea that I could neither earn Gods love or lose it. Not only did you talk a lot about this love, you fleshed it out in the way you accepted me, the way you accepted my daughter. 

That's how I knew we would be ok. Now I was not naive. I was no stranger to dysfunctional relationships and we both came from divorced families. We regularly got on each other nerves before we were even a couple. I felt like I was standing on the precipice of a huge cliff, the view both terrifying and breathtaking at the same time. I knew if we jumped there was no turning back; but for once I was ok with that.

I knew that if we leaned into this grace and practiced it regularly with each other we would be ok. 

Fast forward ten years later:

I knew you would be an incredible father to our 3 crazy kids. 

I knew you work hard at what ever job you had whether or not it was your dream job. 

I knew you would be a servant and put my needs before your own. 

I also was sure we would fight and pout and have to  apologize for a thousand ugly words or attitudes. We would have plenty of opportunities to practice forgiveness. 

I knew we would face hard times not only relationally but financially, physically and spiritually.  

It didn't surprise me that  you would be the kind of husband who would spend every night sleeping in a waiting room for a month when I was in the ICU. Then spend another two months sleeping in the most ridiculously uncomfortable recliner next to my hospital bed. 

This last season of our life has been trying to say the least. However I have joy in the fact that we made it through in one piece and that God is continually healing us both together. 

Words can't express, though I did attempt it.

Here's to 10 years and 10 more and as much time as were allowed together. 

Love always,

Jenna 

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

Day 73 and Counting

I'm starting to want to put a few things down. I've waited and waited because:

1. I can't stop coughing
2. I'm not sure I wanted to remember.

Thankfully I don't remember the first half. When I hear the bits and pieces I shudder. I rejoice that I'm alive. I cry because I just don't understand how quick life can change; it can be ripped right out of your hands. But mostly I cry because of how prayer really does affect our world.

A lot has been shared on Facebook so you may know most of this story but this is my telling, my perspective.

My whole family had been sick and I was the last to get it. It came on pretty strong with aches, sore throat, coughing, that kind of thing. Two days of this had me at urgent care where they concluded I had the flu but they couldn't give tamiflu since I was still nursing Joel. Rest and fluids and you'll be fine he told me. I went home to a miserable night of coughing up blood but I wasn't worried because Google said unless it's bright red no cause for alarm.

Early that morning I felt like I was having an asthma attack, only I grew out of my asthma years ago. I felt so weak and breathless that I couldn't get out of bed. I was getting scared and knew I needed help. Of all nights to forget to charge my phone this had to be the worst. Unfortunately John was sleeping downstairs with the baby since I was sick. I resolved to at least get to  the top of the stairs.

I crawled out of bed over to the stairs. I tried calling out but I was breathing so hard I couldn't get my voice loud enough. Luckily there were some toys and random things laying in the hall. I started pitching them down stairs. John stumbled over and once he saw me he knew something wasn't right. I whispered in broken speech that I could barely breathe. He carried me over to the big windows in our room and opened them hoping the cool air would help clear my lungs. He left me sitting on the window seat to see if he could find some medicine. I sat there feeling so weak I might fall out that window.

In a matter of minutes the squad was parked outside  with its red lights streaking across its surroundings. A paramedic carried me down the stairs of our skinny row house and next thing I know I'm taking an ineffective breathing treatment and trying to answer questions through restricted breathing. It felt like someone was hugging me too tight and wouldn't let go. I was afraid but never imagined the outcome to be remotely serious.

                                   

Once in the ER they tried different breathing masks to no avail. And after that my memory drops off. I don't know if I blacked out, I've tried so hard I just can't remember. 

Apparently I was transported to a couple  different hospitals until I ended up at the UC cardio vascular ICU. During all the transporting and trying to figure out what was wrong, things were going downhill fast and I was in multi organ failure before they knew it. Friends and family were gathered, prayers were going up and hope was shaky.  Once at UC, the process of saving my life was set into motion. I was on a vent, ECMO, had a tracheotomy and put on every drug under the sun. I was there for a month fighting to live but I remember nothing. Just flashes.

                                       

I remember being strapped to the bed while tubes were inserted in various areas of my body. Fighting, I remember fighting to get up and seeing the pictures on the wall of my life, my beautiful family that my grieving yet prayerful mother had taped up. I remember trying to communicate so hard but just not being able to. I remember tears and horrible nightmares. But I also remember the staff lining the hall as I was wheeled out to be transferred to a Long Term Acute Care facility at Christ Hospital. They all clapped with smiles and waves, celebrating my life. I really didn't understand still what I had been through.

I was in LTAC for another month trying to repair some of the damage that was done. I've had chest tubes, feeding tubes, IVs, a trach, and more pain than I thought my body could endure. 

I've lost most of my muscle mass which I'm trying hard to regain. Right now I'm in rehab doing just that. For 3 hours every day I am up exercising and relearning to balance and walk. It can be really exhausting after lying in bed for as long as I have. I was terrified to come here, scared that I couldn't do it. But I've been surprised what a little trying can do. 

                                   

I've been up, I've been down. I was depressed for the first part of my stay that I was conscious. I was in shock: how could the flu knock me down so hard? 

(Which I'm learning more and more that it wasn't just the flu, but more like a rare H1N1 combined with strep which led to double pneumonia and infection in my blood). But the more I heard about the darkest part of this story, I can't help but be thankful that I made it. I've seen miracles before in other people's lives and my own. But our day to day life tends to make us forget. 

We forget that miracles aren't just in the thin pages of the Bible that's tucked away somewhere. They don't just  happen to other people. The thing is miracles happen during pain and suffering. We don't see miracles in the everyday drive to work, do the dishes life. Maybe things come together like extra cash comes our way right when we need it. Or we find our car keys just in time.  No. Miracles involve pain and grief, hurt and true loss. Miracles can be slow, they can be a process. We might not always recognize them. And maybe sometimes they don't show up at all and we are heartbroken and we ask why. I wish I knew but I don't. All I know is that I'm here against all odds.

I met another guy like me, he came with his wife to visit my room. I think his chances of living we're even smaller than mine, but there he was sitting in my room talking and laughing. Living proof of healing. Another miracle breaking through suffering. 

I really don't know what to make of all this. I'm still processing and probably will be for some time. I suppose miracles are really just mysteries to us and sometimes all we can do is be grateful. I feel like I've barely scratched the surface. As I sit here in rehab and look out the window over the city I think about all the people milling around down there. I think about their stories, their pain and if they've experienced miracles. My story feels so little, so small in this huge hospital filled with hurting people. I look at them and try to smile. I pray for their miracles to come soon.

            

I couldn't be more grateful to the people around me and my family. If you said a prayer or encouraging word. If you visited, waited in the lobby or brought food. If you have sacrificed time, vacation days, or a drive to Cincinnati. Some very kind friends organized a benefit to raise money for our medical bills. My hairstylist even came to cut my hair to make it more manageable. Maybe you sent a card or made a card, maybe you clicked 'like' or shared an update on Facebook. You might have bought a gift or gave money. Maybe you listened to my story. If you're reading this now: thank you from the bottom of my heart. Every little bit has gotten me through. I can't thank you all enough for your support.

More to come...

Jenna