On Sunday, my baby will be 12 months old. And I will focus on her life, her beautiful sweet sunshine life.
In order to focus on her alone, there's something I have to do. I have to acknowledge that on her day of birth we as a family were unknowingly stepping into another chapter other than our new addition. On that day uninvited guests named Pain and Grief, Loss and Struggle, Questions and Unanswered Prayers were introduced to our family. I want to take a few minutes to talk about how exactly these new "friends" in my life have changed me forever. I want to talk about Pain and the depth of effect it has and did have on me. I am not an expert on pain, but I can talk about my own I am talking of course, about my TB.
I have learned a lot about physical, emotional, and mental pain and believe these things with all my heart.
I believe that physical pain makes us emotionally ugly. During my most intense moments of physical pain, I was unable to function emotionally in a normal way. Acting out love and kindness while pain seared through my body was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And I failed. So much so in fact that I experienced a self-loathing that only my husband and journal know. And I hated myself more than anything in the world for being ugly with my children. God help me if that ever happens again (and it certainly may).
I believe that physical pain ages us. And I'm not sure if it can ever be gained back. My body felt the aches and pains that I did not expect to feel until I was in my 80's. Walking up stairs, getting up from a chair or into a car, walking across a room, riding a bike, picking up my children.. stuff I instinctively knew was suddenly taking up an incredible amount of mental space in my brain. How do I do this so I don't drop to the ground in pain? Should I use my one leg or both arms to scoot across the bed? Do I shift with my shoulders or hips to ease the pain? My brain creaked and groaned under the heavy weight of thoughts that I'd never had to exercise. And after four months of doing it, I wasn't any better. I was just older.
I believe that the person in crisis desperately needs community to step in, but desperately has no idea of how to make that happen. I remember when hubby and I would just look at each other and say "one moment, just one moment at a time." This was survival mode which meant that each and every tick of the clock that passed was a moment to celebrate--we'd done it, we'd made it through another hour. There was no thriving only surviving. A woman on bed rest needs a girl friend to come over and polish her toenails and talk about what movies are in town. She needs a bowl of popcorn, a chick-flick and a good laugh. A woman in physical pain needs the windows propped open and fresh air. She needs a friend, or not even a friend, to barge in with a meal, organize the family around the table, serve the food, ask what time she can come by next week, and then silently and humbly leave.
I believe that pain makes us meek I recall gong to the mall with my mother soon after the diagnosis of TB. Having an infectious disease in my body made me feel well,... like a big fat ugly infection. In the mall, I was exposed and I held onto my mom's arm like a small child. I even called my husband two hours later and wept not sure why. When I was in my husbands home-town and he was talking to his buddies, I stood next to him but with hunched shoulders in his shadow. Of course it wasn't until later that I realized what I was doing. The image of a school-yard bully comes to mind. Physical pain is a bully and part of recovery from the bullying is learning to stand tall again.
I believe that physical pain is married to emotional pain. There cannot be one without the other. I would often stutter when asked, "How are you?" I didn't know the answer. The pain was gone since the infection was taken out, but the memories of the pain still horrified me, held me hostage.
I believe that physical pain humbles you almost painfully. I was a few hours out of surgery (in the USA) and two lovely friends showed up with a gorgeous quilt that had been stitched just for me. I wasn't in the room when they came. I was around the corner in my hospital gown with my leg bandaged, on crutches and practicing how to walk. I was a mess--no make-up, little sleep, a bit drugged, smelly, a wreck My inner diva was far gone. But these ladies were so gracious--I remember how intentionally low-key they acted. They were so sensitive to how I felt. I was painfully humbled.
Now I'm on the other side. I have to be intentional because now I'm accountable. At least I have to try. And I don't want to be any Super Woman. I just want to do it better than if I'd never had my own personal painful experience. Because it's my story to tell. But it's also my story to share.
God give me the strength to do what is right and the grace to keep trying when I don't.
In order to focus on her alone, there's something I have to do. I have to acknowledge that on her day of birth we as a family were unknowingly stepping into another chapter other than our new addition. On that day uninvited guests named Pain and Grief, Loss and Struggle, Questions and Unanswered Prayers were introduced to our family. I want to take a few minutes to talk about how exactly these new "friends" in my life have changed me forever. I want to talk about Pain and the depth of effect it has and did have on me. I am not an expert on pain, but I can talk about my own I am talking of course, about my TB.
I have learned a lot about physical, emotional, and mental pain and believe these things with all my heart.
I believe that physical pain makes us emotionally ugly. During my most intense moments of physical pain, I was unable to function emotionally in a normal way. Acting out love and kindness while pain seared through my body was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And I failed. So much so in fact that I experienced a self-loathing that only my husband and journal know. And I hated myself more than anything in the world for being ugly with my children. God help me if that ever happens again (and it certainly may).
I believe that physical pain ages us. And I'm not sure if it can ever be gained back. My body felt the aches and pains that I did not expect to feel until I was in my 80's. Walking up stairs, getting up from a chair or into a car, walking across a room, riding a bike, picking up my children.. stuff I instinctively knew was suddenly taking up an incredible amount of mental space in my brain. How do I do this so I don't drop to the ground in pain? Should I use my one leg or both arms to scoot across the bed? Do I shift with my shoulders or hips to ease the pain? My brain creaked and groaned under the heavy weight of thoughts that I'd never had to exercise. And after four months of doing it, I wasn't any better. I was just older.
I believe that the person in crisis desperately needs community to step in, but desperately has no idea of how to make that happen. I remember when hubby and I would just look at each other and say "one moment, just one moment at a time." This was survival mode which meant that each and every tick of the clock that passed was a moment to celebrate--we'd done it, we'd made it through another hour. There was no thriving only surviving. A woman on bed rest needs a girl friend to come over and polish her toenails and talk about what movies are in town. She needs a bowl of popcorn, a chick-flick and a good laugh. A woman in physical pain needs the windows propped open and fresh air. She needs a friend, or not even a friend, to barge in with a meal, organize the family around the table, serve the food, ask what time she can come by next week, and then silently and humbly leave.
I believe that pain makes us meek I recall gong to the mall with my mother soon after the diagnosis of TB. Having an infectious disease in my body made me feel well,... like a big fat ugly infection. In the mall, I was exposed and I held onto my mom's arm like a small child. I even called my husband two hours later and wept not sure why. When I was in my husbands home-town and he was talking to his buddies, I stood next to him but with hunched shoulders in his shadow. Of course it wasn't until later that I realized what I was doing. The image of a school-yard bully comes to mind. Physical pain is a bully and part of recovery from the bullying is learning to stand tall again.
I believe that physical pain is married to emotional pain. There cannot be one without the other. I would often stutter when asked, "How are you?" I didn't know the answer. The pain was gone since the infection was taken out, but the memories of the pain still horrified me, held me hostage.
Now I'm on the other side. I have to be intentional because now I'm accountable. At least I have to try. And I don't want to be any Super Woman. I just want to do it better than if I'd never had my own personal painful experience. Because it's my story to tell. But it's also my story to share.
God give me the strength to do what is right and the grace to keep trying when I don't.
3 comments:
Libby,
I'm so glad I read this. I have less experience with physical pain than emotional, but it does seem to wreak havoc.
You tell your story eloquently, thanks for sharing.
Continuing to pray for you.
Lisa
Thank you, Libby. What a year you have had.
I know also that pain can make someone beautiful, and wise. I have no doubt it is doing this work in you as well.
Thanks for your honesty Libby, and also for your earlier post about struggling with depression... I have had postpartum after Samara and Gabe, and when my lupus flares I turn into a downright mean mom & struggle to function normally, and I hate myself for it. By God's grace I am getting past all of it and the wonderful side benefit is increased compassion for others in pain! We continue to pray for you guys as you serve in India and I pray that this next labor & delivery is wonderfully (joyfully) uneventful, except for loving & cuddling your new baby!
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