The Direction I So Want To Go

It's the morning of my surgery  and we are driving in fog so thick only the sighting of an occasional road sign helps us get our bearings.  In my head I keep searching, "Where are we? Where are we?"  Finally we inch past a familiar roadside turnout and I know. Dearest One asks where we are and I tell him what we should see next - a place with so many lights you can't miss it. We look ahead into deep darkness and he questions my answer. Moments later an eerie ghostlike glow of tall guiding lights comes into view. Our shoulders relax back down around our ears. There is relief in knowing where we are and where we are headed.

Much of the journey of the past few months has felt like driving through fog, trying to recognize road signs and find my way again.

I lay in bed yesterday morning and opened myself up in silent prayer to the One who knows. Tears streamed out the corners of my eyes and down into my ears because the vulnerability felt too much and too real. I enfolded into myself less than five minutes later because I could not handle it another moment. I will be back another day, I said to God - I will last longer than five minutes.

While in hospital this week, tubes going in and out, trying to come to terms with an orange sized hole in my breast, I asked myself what was bothering me the most. Into my head came a picture of a woman, not unlike Rapunzel, throwing open a window in a castle turret and yelling "This is what happened to me." I watched as she came to the window over and over again, as horrified the fiftieth time as she had been at the first proclamation. I watched as she aged, screaming the same story until she died.

And in that moment I came face to face with a choice.

I've kept taped to my wall this snippet from Syd's blog for several years now:

"You can complain about the same problem three times. Then you'd better be in the solution. If you have to talk to more than three people about the same problem, you don't want help, you want attention."

And because I've swung like a pendulum between wanting attention all my years and shoving down my feelings I have struggled with posting so much about this particular part of my journey, confused as to whether I am attention seeking or honouring my feelings.

I do know that I don't want to be an old woman screaming this story thirty years from now.

I do know that I want to honour the journey.

In the midst of it all, too, is the shattering of all that I thought I knew about God and how God works. The whole ego inflating certainty that came crashing down with one fell swoop. A beautiful bitter sweet moment that is both gift and grace. One that simultaneously soothes and sears one's soul.

I have craved certainty my whole life long. It has taken me down some awful paths, my searching has. Ambiguity is nice in theory but damn, I want to know where my feet are headed.

I`ve felt like I've been grieving for the old me - the one I would never get back. And I've been trying to find my way through the fog, hoping for some road sign that would get me back on track - facing the direction I so long to go.

I almost miss the sign when it appears.

"It is less precise, this living with ambiguity and nuance and paradox and poetry, but it is more alive and real, too." ~ RJ 

I read these words with my head and then read them again. They slip past the fiercely guarded filter that keeps my head and heart separated. My hands fly to my face as I start to sob. As I grasp that there will be no going back.

And inside a little voice said,

"Welcome to more real."

And I realize that's the road sign my heart's been looking for all along.

Home Again

After an extra day in hospital, reactions to multiple drugs, I am home. Of course I have no end of thoughts about the experience but writing some of those thoughts down will have to happen another day. Thank you for praying.

Waiting

Surgery is this morning. I will be offline for a few days. Hopefully I won't have to wait too long for biopsy results. Prayers appreciated.

A Burlap Bag Of A Shirt

"I don't know what God's got planned but I do know this new venture was God's idea so I just have to trust Him."

I hadn't seen her in a few years when I ran into her at the checkout counter of a local store last week. We embraced and smiled big smiles at seeing each other again. Years ago we used to talk on the phone several times a day.  She will always hold a special place in my heart for her stable friendship through some of the toughest years of parenthood.

We took a step away from the counter and as I listened to her talk about God this and God that, I felt like an alien. Like I once knew her language only to realize it had slipped off my shoulders like a silk nightshirt. Well, more like it got yanked off, a burlap bag of a shirt that left scratches and bruises in its wake.

I have no desire to put it back on again.

I hear people talk with such certainty of how God is working or not working or will work - what lesson God is teaching them and I can't wrap my head around a concept that was once solid in my life. A concept that made me think I had a strong, unshakeable faith.

Yesterday I said to my priest that I meant it when I prayed "Thy will be done" although I had no idea what God's will was for me. He nodded his head vigorously and said, "that's true."  And I relaxed, knowing that he knew I meant that I did not know, would not know, what God was doing in any particular circumstance - whatever that happened to be at any given moment.

I  can't find it within me to think I will ever know again. I look with curiosity at people who do. I feel a little sad, judgemental, and tempted to shake them by the shoulders, point to their own burlap and tell them that all that certainty can get yanked away in a nanosecond.

It's incredibly confusing.

Sweet Relief

Sitting in a rocking chair this morning, purring kitten in my lap, I looked up at the crisp fall sky and felt joy.

I told the surgeon, when he suggested medication if I kept feeling as bereft as I did, that I wouldn't stay stuck.

That while where I was at the moment was not fun, it wasn't the end of the story. I told him I didn't believe in wasting the pain . Nor do I believe in feeding it. But I do believe in feeling it.

Mostly I've felt like I've had a scream stuck in my throat.

Rising To The Surface

I'm looking at a reflection of myself in the change room mirror when I hear the click of a change room door across the way.

"Mom, how do I lock the door?"

Her mom tells her and then the little girl wonders aloud how to open the door when she's done. After being reassured that she'll be able to unlock the door the little girl gets on with the business of trying on clothes.

I twirl a bit in the royal blue dress I've tried on as I'm transported back to being six years old. A nurse ushers me into a change room to get into a gown before they take x rays of my broken arm. It's  broken high up on my arm and I'm still in pain from having to change into an appropriate going-to-the-hospital shirt before getting into the car to make the journey. A red shirt. I still remember the pain and confusion as to how I was going to change without help and without it hurting even more. I wanted an adult to help me but no one offered and I was scared to ask.

The nurse tells me to come out when I'm ready except that I can't figure out how to get out of the cubicle. It takes little for me to think I've done something wrong, am in trouble for not finding my way. When the nurse eventually comes back to check on me, she opens the door and laughs at the fear etched in my face.  The x ray table is cold and shiny. Soon my arm is wrapped in a sling, broken too high up for a cast.

Put me in a hospital change room today and a little of that fear rises to the surface even though there are no doors, just curtains, now.

All this goes through my mind as I listen to the mom and daughter talk about separating out the armful of  hopeful clothes into piles of yes, no and maybe. They chit chat back and forth as I change back into my clothes.

I gather all my tried on clothes into a no pile and open the door to my change room. I come face to face with the little girl's mom. I want to thank her for being such a safe mom that her daughter can ask such an innocent question without fear. How overhearing their conversation reminds me that my story is not everyone's story. I know there would be no quick way to explain my comment so instead we smile at each other and go our separate ways.

Taking Off The Blind Fold

Last day of work today for six weeks. I am so, so relieved. I work with an incredible group of people who are very supportive. I know that in order to heal and rest I need to let work stay there and not think twice about it. That feels doable which is a far cry from when I truly thought I was indispensable.

Surgery is just less than two weeks away. Sometimes I feel like life is like playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey. I'm hoping after surgery I'll feel less like I'm spinning and more like the blind fold is off.

Back Below My Ears

This was in my email today, from this site:

Day 11:

What are your predictions for 2012?

Your Answer:
I may have mixed feelings about turning 50 but mostly I'm going to be happy to be alive.
***
I must have answered this a year ago as it's nearly time for this year's questions to arrive in my mail. I can say that I am grateful to be 50 and definitely happy to be alive.

Today I contacted my family doctor and requested time off until after I recuperate from surgery. It was no problem to get a medical leave note for up to six weeks off. Last week the surgeon commented that my nerves were raw. Yep, they are.

I need to allow myself to be off work, which is hard to do. I take such pride in doing my job but reality is the world will not collapse if I'm not at my desk. There was a time when I thought it would. My sister laughed the other day when I told her it made no logical sense to take time off. She said that was so typical of me - to need to find the logic in order to make sense of something.

I knew I had my answer to whether or not I needed to take time off when I felt incredible relief at the thought of being home. My shoulders dropped back to below my ears when I had the doctor's note in my hand this morning.

At Great Price

"I can either run from this experience in fear or I can let it transform me. We are called to be transformed into the image and likeness of Christ. How else can it happen?"

Those are my words, spoken several times through this experience to different people in my life. Once to the surgeon between heaving sobs. If you've ever been laid bare by life's circumstances you know the bitter sweet place of utter pain and potential beauty residing within you simultaneously.

I have not cried in several weeks. I haven't liked the hardness that has seemed to be settling within me. This morning, listening to  this weekend's offering reduced me to tears. Good and healing tears that feel wrenched from me at great price.

A God I Can't Figure Out

I see her number pop up on my phone while I'm talking to youngest son. I wonder why she is calling and decide to call her back later. She is an acquaintance - someone I see only when we are both involved in the same retreat like weekend. I haven't spoken to her on the phone for years.

I finish my conversation with youngest son and dial her number. Her rich slow voice greets me. She asks how I am and I try to tell her about my summer. She is quiet and thoughtful in response. She tells me that she must have been meant to call me so that she can pray for me and that the original reason she'd called would be best left for another time.

Her comment makes me grit my teeth. I envy her certainty about knowing how God is working and yet I don't want any part of it. I so thought I knew how God was working through this process and when my world came to a standstill I was humbled with how much I didn't know. It's left me feeling like I don't know anything at all. A God I can figure out is a God I don't want to serve. A God I can't figure out leaves me feeling vulnerable and raw.

The other day, when we were in the surgeon's office waiting room, we visited with a couple we hadn't seen in nearly 20 years. The last time we saw each other we were both busy chasing after toddlers. They sat across from us and shared about dealing with his colon cancer. He's facing a further 6 months of chemo after having gone through chemo, radiation and surgery. They were there that day to get the post op report from the same surgeon I was seeing. I watched as phrases flitted through my mind to say to him and discarded each one unsaid. I didn't want to inflict harm. I knew there was nothing I could say that would make any of it better.

It sounds like I have it all figured out, doesn't it? I pray I don't turn my new awareness into a different kind of ego grab. I continually fight that temptation.

I think of this when I am talking to the woman with the rich slow voice. It helps me let her comment stand instead of challenging her about it. There's a fine line between speaking my truth and inflicting harm. Later, as I lay in bed and mull over her certainty about why she figures she was meant to call me, I think about my own thirst for connecting the dots in life. I see it in my mind as a pencil on paper using a ruler to draw straight lines from one point to another. I think it must drive me batty when others do it because my hankering for it has been so strong.

When I used to work in a fast food restaurant and the owner wanted adverts hung in the windows, the rest of the staff would volunteer me. They knew his demand for perfection and mine were well matched. I happily measured the distance so that the signs in the windows were placed perfectly between its edges just like the owner wanted.

I'd like to believe that my desire for having my ducks all lined up in a row, literally or figuratively has diminished this summer. The thing about it is that my quest for answers, for drawing lines between life's circumstances and God has helped me feel in control. It feels futile now. I do know though, that sometimes life happens and we feel changed and then those feelings fade. I don't want to forget where I've been.

Last night Dearest One and I shampooed the living room carpet. We could write a script about how it will go. He doesn't do it quite the way I would and I point that out with every pass over the carpet he makes. Eventually he hands me the shampoo-er and I take over. When it happened that way last night we laughed at the repeat of a pattern that dates back over a quarter of a century when we first tried wallpapering a room together.

As I emptied out the containers of dirty water I realized that it really didn't matter how the room got cleaned. It was obvious from the brown swirl disappearing down the drain that the carpet would be cleaner when we were finished and after all, wasn't that the point?

I carried a clean container of water to the living room, dumped its contents into the shampoo-er, and handed control of the machine back to him. My way is just that. My way. Not the way.

Part of not forgetting where I've been is acknowledging I'm just as human as the lady with the rich slow voice.

A Road Map Out Of Here

I'm standing at the window looking down on traffic and at the office buildings surrounding us. If I press the side of my face to the glass I can see my car parked on the street over to my right. It's a different perspective  from the one at my previous appointment.

I'm looking out the window trying to occupy my mind while I wait for the surgeon to come in. I can only do it for so long before I turn around and sit back down on my chair. Dearest One's early morning commute has caught up to him and he's fallen asleep in his chair. I study the room and get up to look at a chart on the back of the door. It's hard to pace in a ten by ten room but I'm trying. I've been vibrating with anger since I walked into his office and I'm trying to shake it out of my body.

Eventually I give up and go sit back down. I shake my head a little, as if to clear my vision, because I notice for the first time, a chair right beside the doctor's desk. I gauge the distance from where I am to it and then from it over to the doctor's chair. I decide it's too close to him and with how angry I'm feeling today I'd rather keep my distance. The best I can concede is to uncross my legs when he enters the room. It's a trick I've been doing for years when I am uptight. Doing so reminds me to breathe deeply and relax.

I no sooner decide this when I hear the doctor just outside the door. I place both feet flat on the floor in anticipation, hoping that a more open body language will translate into a more open attitude. I swear anger is coming off me like heat waves. I don't even know why I'm angry, I just know that I am. I have felt this way in nearly every conversation with a doctor in the past few weeks. I feel it every time I go for blood work or enter a hospital.

I pray for my defensiveness to lessen. I pray the serenity prayer. As I pray it I realize that accepting what I cannot change means accepting that what has happened has happened and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. I stick that nugget in the back of my mind to think on later.

The doctor comes in and extends his hand to me. I shake it firmly. I've always liked how taken aback a man can get when they feel the strong grip of my hand. Dearest One wakes up just as the doctor motions to the chair next to his desk and says to me, "Come sit over here." I get up and go sit in the chair and cross my legs. Body language be damned.

He doesn't need me to open my mouth to know I'm angry. We talk about the anger, the numbness, the tears. He reassures me it's normal under the circumstances. I want a road map out of here, out of this part of the process. I want to be through it already. Not around it. But through it. I'm not sure I can handle being in this space mentally much longer. Not that I have a choice. Wishing has never helped further myself down the path.

When I try to explain to him where I've been emotionally in the past month both my hands claw at the air as if I'm trying to gather oxygen. As my hands come together I feel myself wanting to bring my legs up onto the chair, hug my knees and curl up in a ball. Shit. No hope for both feet on the floor now.

Dearest One asks me to tell the doctor about this day. I start to and then I clap my hands over my face because the tears rise up from deep within and I can't talk. I don't want to be this vulnerable. Not here. Not now. I take a few breaths and finish my story. And he gets it. He gets that I was triggered in that moment. That I keep getting triggered. I uncurl my legs and put both feet on the floor.

We move on to the options in front of me. I  have very definite ideas about what I want to come next medically in the whole scheme of things. I have a hard time listening to him lay out my options. I keep interrupting him and then remembering my manners. I had my mind made up before he ever came in the room and am determined to not let anyone change it. He initially wants me to make the decision another day.

I don't need another day.

In short order he sees that. I just want the breast lump gone. I don't ever want it to show up on another mammogram again. He takes a paper out of his desk drawer and fills it out. I sign it and then fill out the pre-op paperwork. The waiting time before surgery is longer than I'd like but it is going to happen.

As I stand to leave his office he asks me to call him if anything comes up between now and surgery. I reassure him that I won't; that after all this is done I don't give a shit if I ever see another doctor. Spouting off knee jerk reactionary statements like that makes me feel like I'm a two year old having a temper tantrum. I can't excuse my behaviour and I can't make sense of it.

I wonder to myself what I will make of it when I review my day.

Seasons

Geese flock overhead as I type. Their wings move in a graceful tip of the hat kind of way as they honk. I pretend it's their way of letting me know they're leaving. A friend told me recently that Fall is the season of surrender and letting go. How appropriate.