The last eight months have been hard and beautiful. Scary and enlightening. They have been a master class in sitting in discomfort, emotionally and physically. I have tried a few times to write, but I haven’t been able to categorize the feelings, the experiences. I am now realizing, it is because they are too intertwined together, though on paper they wouldn’t seem that way.
I have mentioned here before that my body is far from a Lamborghini- it is a hooptie Toyota, at best. It battles against it’s own interests via an autoimmune disease. My body is very angry with my thyroid. It has wanted a divorce for some time but the damned organ just won’t move out. But with that knowledge came relief. I have a pretty simple care regiment. I was healed! Or so I thought.
I was healed enough. I was able to safely bring Moose into the world. And for a time, I felt pretty good. The digestion issues persisted. The weight didn’t like coming off, but it begrudgingly left my frame. My exhaustion became more manageable. My pain levels lowered. Until two years ago. Whatever duct tape was holding the flood of inconsistent physical experiences at bay gave way. The migraines became more frequent. Weeks of being lightheaded with no discernable answer. Weight began accumulating despite any efforts to expel it. Shame collecting with the pounds. Abdominal discomfort became nearly daily, bringing along the friends of nausea and fear of eating. All the while, my labs were coming back normal. We eliminated ideas of other autoimmune diseases. Surgery was performed on my sinuses to assist in curing the sinus infection I had been harboring for years- one that was resistant to months antibiotics and multiple rounds of steroids.
I branched out to new medical disciplines. Searching for answers with a gastroenterologist. Experiencing my first colonoscopy and endoscopy. Being told nothing of note was found. All biopsies clean. The sort of results that should garner relief- instead fueled frustration. One answer begetting more questions. Experiments with expensive medicines, in hopes they would solve the unknown underlying cause. Becoming more and more convinced that I was a hypochondriac. Questioning the validity of my experiences. Disappointment leading to disillusionment and apathy.
With the undeniable understanding and advocating of my support system, more disciplines were consulted. Second opinions sought. It’s been interesting, sort of stepping outside the process. Seeing how quickly I will scoop a sickly Moose into my arms and ferry him to the doctor. How closely I manage my father’s doctors appointments and progress. Yet, how advocating for my health has been uncomfortable, at best.
It is at this point that it is imperative to note that nothing is dire. Answers have been gained. I feel like garbage, but I’m not in danger of any kind.
Now, it is a matter of making decisions based on the diagnoses. Again, nothing dire. Turns out, the antibodies swimming in my body are not that of Hashimoto’s, but it’s cousin. Just a pinch of autoimmune thyroiditis and a touch of endometriosis. First up to bat is the autoimmune thyroiditis. I had the pleasure (no sarcasm at all, he was spectacular) of meeting with a thyroid surgeon on Thursday. The broken organ gets the ‘ol heave ho in a few weeks. A course of action that was no surprise, and yet left me unsettled. That’s where the collision of experiences begins.
The surgery is not something to take lightly. I will not be up and running the next day. An overnight hospital stay may be in the cards- we aren’t entirely certain at this juncture. I will miss work. I will experience some pain. I will not be able to carry on in isolated self reliance, as I am want to do. Poop.
I am not fiercely independent by necessity. I have people. Family, and those that have become chosen family over the years, that wait in the wings for me to outstretch my hand in search of assistance. I just… don’t. Not if I can help it. It is a flaw. A trauma response.
In three weeks, I must rely on those people. To ferry me, tend to me in a weakened state, help with the Monster. They will be there, without hesitation. The reluctance is all mine. Discomfort with the vulnerability. Distaste for being the one cared for, versus the caretaker. But therin lies the beauty.
You see, fourteen years ago I was under the impression that I was creating a new family. A landing pad in which I would relax my defenses. Blossom with self love and confidence. I was wrong.
Here’s where my responsibility enters the stage. I placed an unfair, unattainable burden on that relationship. I wanted it to be the putty in my emotional cracks. To heal me. Allow me to like myself. No external relationship or circumstance can perform that miracle. I created that unrealistic expectation that would never be met. Couldn’t be.
That reality aside, I also wasn’t celebrated in that pairing. I don’t want to say that my eccentricities were merely tolerated, as I never resided in his brain. I did not experience his thoughts or emotions. So anything I detail is conjecture- how I felt. But I can confidently state- I never felt particularly celebrated. The parts of me that were encouraged were things that aligned with his quirks. I must admit, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It had been my experience when dating others, so it wasn’t a red flag of any kind. There was no inkling that I may be deserving of experiencing something different. No place in the world I had existed that didn’t require me to tamp down portions of my personality or existence to be accepted.
I can now declare, without reservation, things can feel vastly different.
Through maneuvering ill days, doctors appointments, medical dead ends, outpatient procedures, and now surgery on the horizon, my boyfriend has been there. Never has he been offput, inconvenienced, agitated by my limitations or experiences. He has taken time off work. Forced me to sit down and be cared for. Enjoyed me as a whole person. Quirks and all.
There are moments of complete clarity in life. Blips where the fog seems to clear and you can see something for all it is. Sometimes these flashes allow us to see dangerous or unhealthy situations. Others, allow us to feel bathed in love. This past weekend, the fog lifted, for a beautiful instant. My interests were not only accepted, but encouraged. My enjoyment delighted him. My very specific knowledge base entertained him. I felt wholly loved.
My medical history hasn’t felt relevant to write about. To talk about. It was merely something to endure. It also stole much of my energy and focus. The combination took me from this platform. It also allowed me to rest in the embrace of my support system. I don’t feel any better- not yet. But a path is emerging, granting hope to seep through. I am unequivocally certain that I wouldn’t be following this path without the support and encouragement of my people.
It was once my dream that my son would speak at some point as an adult and declare that his father and I taught him how to love. When my ex-husband decided that he no longer had love for me, that dream withered on the vine. I mourned it. I now realize, the details of the dream are different, but showing my son a relationship that is worthy of modeling love is not a fantasy. It is more a reality than has ever been.
So yes, the last several months have been daunting in some ways, they have also been beautiful. A beauty I couldn’t have predicted, yet I am beyond grateful for.
Mommyhood Mayhem and Me 