Funky Cold Medinas

Another One Bites the Dust

2012-01-15T20:15:00.000-08:00

It’s days like yesterday, where I began throwing up somewhere in the 6:00 hour and 6 hours later my stomach was still churning, that really prove a mental struggle. Between simultaneous throwing up/offensive diarrhea, attempting to correct bickering children from my porcelain throne, and Jeff gone to work, I just wanted to break down and cry and scream for what was lost because I didn’t think I was strong enough to handle anything else that day....much less more days like that. My strength was running perilously close to empty.

Days like yesterday remind me what I’m missing. Days like yesterday remind me how hard life has become. Days like yesterday remind me that my life is still a constant battle and always will be. Days like yesterday remind me that I am now disabled and prone to stretches of despair because I so desire for 'wholeness' of body again. Days like yesterday reflect those weaknesses and worries in my heart that steal joy. Days like yesterday remind me that I am not strong enough to do this intestine-less life on my own, for I need Christ’s strength simply to make it through to the next hour. Days like yesterday are necessary, though.

Sometimes fighting my physical battles becomes plain wearisome and I just want to power down and go into hibernation mode where I can’t see, think, or especially feel. I get tired of trying to alternate my eating and drinking times, making sure I get enough fluids in so I’m not dehydrated (which is probably why I was throwing up so much yesterday), and to make sure I take in enough food so that I maintain my weight (because the TPN can’t do it all). I can’t eat and drink at the same time because it all slips through faster than a torpedo shaped water slide on a hot summer day. It’s exhausting to mentally plan whether or not I’ll eat breakfast or drink breakfast or if enough hours have passed from breakfast to my next feeding/eating time, and then come lunchtime what should I do, and on and on and on…also knowing that for all my effort, it’s all coming out anyway. It’s enough to make a sane person crazy.

On top of all that, add in a mother’s schedule of school drop offs, pick ups, naps, meals, laundry (and all the other cleaning I don’t get to), church activities, and a wife’s schedule of trying to be helpmate and all that’s left by the end of the day is a fleeting impression of female, a wisp of my morning self - - a woman who still has to pull out her TPN and prepare it and mix it and then somehow drag herself to bed just to start it all over the next day. Oh, I think I forgot to shower in there. Yep. That happens regularly, too.

It is days like yesterday that put ‘me’ into perspective. I may be the gear-shifter in my life, but this life is not simply about me for I am a simple weak fool prone to bouts of mental discouragement over my physical limitations.

(Insert 24-hour break because I had more throwing up to do and by the end of that I was too exhausted to continue writing…and as I begin again, I can’t even remember where I was headed with my last paragraph, so I'll just hop on over to another thought.)

Here I thought things were finally beginning to look up. At my lowest weight during my fissure problems, I was 120…not the best place for my height. I gained back 7 pounds which was terribly exciting, I've kept the weight on, I finished the 2nd round of growth hormone right before Christmas, and had two days running where I woke up and didn’t have diarrhea until well after noon. Progress is terribly addictive.

I try to remind myself that after every ‘bad’ period things usually take a turn for the better. It’s the rough days, the REALLY rough days that keep me tethered to my Lord, though, sharply reminding me of the parallels between my physical life and my spiritual life. That’s where Christ wants me, in a total and complete place of dependency on His strength, and I know this…but I get careless, lazy even, and pride in my own abilities (and complacency) begins to creep up and I start to think “this ain’t so bad, I got it today.” And boom. A REALLY bad day hits and I know I got nothing but…me and the toilet.

These days of pain (and torture) are necessary; though my focus is on me and what's going on with my body, my cries to God are real, my tearful query for His aid is heartfelt, and my thoughts are immediately turned to Him. It's become a good time for me to pray (well, not during the throwing up time or the rocking back and forth time, but the other times) because I'm stuck and I ain't going nowhere.

This particular blog hasn't struck me like some of the others, but the the one pervading thought I have as I end this is that I've got to be like Paul, "pressing on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 3:14)

Though storm and snow and rain and thirst and hunger and cramping and crying may be just a sunrise away, I will not give up and I will not be downtrodden (for long). "I will rise on eagles wings, before my God, fall on my knees....and rise." I like to think that my prize will be two-fold, eternal life with Christ Jesus AND a new intestine! For why shouldn't we eat in heaven?

My weary heart feels lifted just by the thought... and at least I can say about my very bad horrible no good day that..."another ones bites the dust!" Amen.

For My Jeff, on Our 6th Anniversary

2011-12-22T20:49:00.000-08:00

Most marriages have a honeymoon phase, which last longer than the honeymoon itself. When Jeff and I married six years ago, tomorrow, we never saw that phase. As many of you know, I got pregnant on our honeymoon, and when Gideon was 5 months old, I got pregnant with Scarlett. When Scarlett was 6 months old, I got pregnant with Lexi. We moved during that time, Jeff got a new job in a new city, and I became a ‘stuck at home’ mom with only one car and Jeff working 6 days a week. I was either pregnant or nursing and had very little social interaction outside of our home and our very small children. Life was, indeed, very hectic and very hard.

For those of you who think life got ridiculously difficult last year after I lost my intestine, you only know part of the story.

Life was also very personally painful during the first few years of our marriage, for my Jeff did not epitomize the model of a Christian husband. Though he was a believer, striving to serve our Lord, there were many heartbreaking issues he brought, unresolved, to our marriage: anger, lack of self-control, and a disregard for boundaries.

That Jeff was fear-inspiring.

That Jeff no longer exists, praise God.

In the year before I lost my intestine, God had been working mightily in his heart, in my heart, and in our marriage. We had been in counseling several times, together and alone, because we were determined that Satan, bent on the ultimate destruction of our home, would not win and we were willing to humble ourselves and seek outside help. Our home had finally become a place of peace when my medical mishap occurred. Trials have a funny way of stripping everything down to its core and pruning away those dead branches that bear no fruit, and though the pruning may be excruciating in dealing with past hurts, getting rid of those useless branches open a way for new life and new growth. Trials prove the mettle of man, shows where his heart is, and serve as a catalyst for either spiritual growth or spiritual death.

I will not take time to share with you Jeff’s journey, for that is his story to share, but my trial and the loss of my intestine was a vehicle that drove Jeff onward in his journey toward spiritual maturity. This is the man I’d like to tell you about.

Maturity does not take place overnight, and yet Jeff has become a man who I greatly admire and respect. I’ve always known how intelligent he was, for indeed, most of the blogs I write are a direct result of conversations we’ve had and thoughts he’s challenged me with. Intelligence alone, the knowledge of what is, is not enough, though, to merit respect. Even Satan’s lackeys know who Jesus is. Intelligence combined with spiritual awareness and understanding produces wisdom, which leads me to trust his judgment in all matters, knowing he has our family’s best interests at heart and not his own.

Jeff is a servant. He works many evening shifts, and yet, in the middle of the night when our children cry, he is the first one up to check on them. He began that when I was first home from the hospital and couldn’t get up. Now, it is such a hassle to unhook my heavy TPN bag and get myself down the hall that he still sees to our children’s nocturnal needs, no matter how little sleep he’s gotten. And he doesn’t complain about it.

Jeff is funny. He used to tease and flirt with me like he was in middle school, which got really old on, oh, about the first date. His level of flirting and pawing at me may not have changed all that much, but he is sensitive to my rough days, and has toned his teasing down tremendously when he knows I can’t handle it. He is conscientious of my physical limitations and sacrifices his need for intimacy when I’m in pain or too exhausted to even look at him with a wink of romance (and that’s quite often).

Jeff is a modern man. He helps with laundry, unloads the dishwasher every morning, irons his own clothes, and cleans the bathrooms when I haven’t gotten to them. When he was out of work for those 8 months taking care of me, it used to annoy me because he was treading on my terrain…but now I realize I couldn’t have gotten everything done (and still can’t) if it wasn’t for his help. He bathes the children and gets them ready for bed if he’s home and I’m stuck on the toilet. He might forget to detangle the girls’ hair, but at least they’re clean and their teeth are brushed.

Jeff is bold when he needs to be and does the distasteful things I don’t like to do; I have a problem calling people on the phone (and I don’t know why) and he will make those phone calls for me. Jeff is a visionary; he has grand ideas. He can preach, he can teach, he writes wonderful curriculum. He is kind, he is sensitive, and I love to see him working with children.

Jeff can sing. When we were dating he would serenade me with old 80’s love songs, some of which I’d never heard. He’d be sweating and shaking, waiting, I suppose, for me to laugh at him. I never did, and those became some of the sweetest memories of our dating months. He still sings to me, but not as often.

Jeff has put into practice patience like I never thought he could. He still does things in a hurry and becomes impatient to be through, but it no longer explodes into an angry tirade. He comes home happy from work, rather than sullen or discouraged, and he makes a practice of encouraging me, asking me questions about how I feel, and really takes time to make sure I feel loved.

He brings me (and the girls) flowers…just because. He hugs me, kisses me, and tells me he loves me. He gently corrects me when I’m wrong and doesn’t lose his temper if I get in a huff over something inconsequential. He simply says, “Now wait a minute…” And if we do get angry at each other because we are imperfect people, there is no fear of retribution involved, and we’re usually able to laugh our argument to an end by one of us saying something ridiculous, hold our hands and say “Let’s start over…” He doesn’t hold grudges against me and he makes it impossible to hold one against him.

My Jeff is simply the best man that I know and I would follow him the world over if he believed that’s where God was leading our family. He said this has been the best year of our married life, in spite of all the physical challenges I’ve had, and I must say, I have to agree.

I thank you, Holy Father, for bringing Jeff into my life. I thank you for the painful times, for allowing us to seek you more fully, becoming more like you through our aches and hurts. I thank you for not being finished with us, for promising to complete us, and for giving Jeff your mind, your heart, and the ability to see past his own past to become the man you planned him to be, the father you knew he could be, and the husband he must be. I thank you for six short years of marriage and the lifetime of lessons already imparted. I thank you for this treasure of a man you have deigned me worthy to belong to, and I pray you protect his mind, his eyes, his heart, and most importantly, his life.

Happy anniversary, my dear.

Some Final Thoughts

2011-12-08T19:48:00.000-08:00

You’d think I’d be finished defending my stance on Santa, and trust me, though I’ve thought of a lot more biblical principles that I’d like to “argue”, I am finished. The original post was never meant to begin an argument amongst believers; it was merely supposed to be a confession and spiritual check-up, of sorts, first for myself, and then for any others who may have been so inclined. The intent (and I apologize if I failed) was to get others to think and to figure out how to make the day more about Christ and less about other, insignificant, things.

The fact that it provoked such strong emotions struck me as very interesting, however.

Obviously, some of you have given great and thorough attention to your Santa decision. Others have not. It is decidedly your prerogative to make the decisions you feel best lead your family to have maximum output for the Kingdom of God, and if you can do that and still allow Santa to be such an integral part of your Christmas tradition, then you rank among the few.

And just to set the record straight, we are not anti-Santa in and of himself. We are simply opposed to setting him up as an iconic reality that takes any bit of focus off of Christ which includes, but is not limited to, leading impressionable children into belief in said reality. As my friend, Julie Brzozowski, so succinctly stated: “We can enjoy Goldilocks and the Three Bears without believing it really happened. And we can do the same thing with Santa.”

My blog and my thoughts are not The Gospel of Jesus Christ. My husband and I try to very carefully consider things for the ultimate glory of our Holy God in light of the Gospel, and though we will undoubtedly make mistakes along the way, our biggest prayer is that our lives pave the way for our children to one day accept Jesus’ loving atonement for sins and choose then to live a life that honors Him. I believe that as long as we learn to seek God first, before everything else, which is what Christ himself commands in Matthew 6:33, the rest will fall in line. If Christians would stand up in arms defending our Lord and Savior and His precepts like they defend their right to promote Santa’s presence at Christmas, neither would be an issue, for Christ would surely be exalted as “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6) and not simply become a chorus we sing once a year.

Almost dying and having my daily life so radically changed a year and a half ago has drastically altered (well, maybe more like ‘magnified’) the way I view life, my faith, and the convictions I consequently hold. I’ve also gotten quite a bit more verbal about those convictions, and I use my blog to work through those issues.

The lines between mainstream Christianity and the secular world are so blurry that the time must be coming where we will be forced to take a decisive stance one way or another on every single issue for when it comes to Christ, there are no gray areas. Either we are for Him or we are against Him. Flippant, careless Christianity is no Christianity at all. When we set something above Christ, we idolize it. When we place something on his level, we deify it, and so, in our house, we will not allow Santa to rule on Christ’s day neither as an equal nor as a superior.

Some may be tempted to get all up in my business and find inconsistencies in my walk and in the decisions Jeff and I make. If you’re coming at us from a place of loving concern, then come on. I don’t want to live a stagnant useless existence. I want to be challenged, every day, to be more like the Savior I serve. And maybe I’m extreme, but I don’t serve a pansy god. I serve the Master and Creator of heaven and earth, One whose

“wisdom is profound, his power is vast.

Who has resisted him and come out unscathed?

5 He moves mountains without their knowing it

and overturns them in his anger.

6 He shakes the earth from its place

and makes its pillars tremble.

7 He speaks to the sun and it does not shine;

he seals off the light of the stars.

8 He alone stretches out the heavens

and treads on the waves of the sea.

9 He is the Maker of the Bear and Orion,

the Pleiades and the constellations of the south.

10 He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed,

miracles that cannot be counted.” (Job 9: 4-10)

This is the God I serve and I will do everything I can to give him proper recognition and honor.

Most gracious Heavenly Father,

I thank you for this gift of life I so often taken for granted, complaining about my ailments and troubles. I ask for your faithful forgiveness as I determine, with your aid, to accept my life the way you have directed it. I thank you for another Christmas to be with my family, sharing in the joy of your birth. As we seek to give you praise and honor, may our lives, our thoughts, and our decisions all reflect your presence inside our hearts. Holy Spirit, convict us where we seek glory for ourselves, guide us into your Spirit of Truth, and help us to truly remember that this season of gifts, giving, family, fellowship, and generosity is ALL because of your great sacrifice for us. Amen.

Qualification

2011-12-07T08:58:00.000-08:00

Because of some comments received, I want everyone to know my Santa post wasn't a personal dig at anyone who believes or allows their children to believe in Santa and neither was it a censure of the person at my church who mentioned it to my children. It was a general overview of something that I see as a global problem and I felt led to write about it, to work it out on paper for myself as I do everything else.

Because I take my faith and the faith of my children very seriously, when Jeff and I are convicted about something, we do something about it and I'm not ashamed to confess or write about it. I will be the first to admit when we've been wrong, especially when I've been wrong about something. We are imperfect people attempting to reconcile faith and practical living without going overboard in any direction. We still have much to learn and I'm prayerful that our lives will continue to change to prune away anything that entangles or hinders our faith or the attempts to bring our children to the Lord.

That being said, it is your every right to raise your children the way you see fit, just as it is mine. I stand behind every word I wrote, and want you to know that I merely broached the subject because it was heavy on my heart and I simply wanted to challenge anyone who read the post to carefully consider Santa's placement in Christmas, especially if you are a Christ-follower.

And furthermore, it is a reminder for me, and for Jeff, to carefully consider everything we do and why we do it.

Escaping the Santa Trap

2011-12-06T19:38:00.001-08:00

I got a bit worked up over the weekend, for you see, some well-meaning person, at church, told my children that Santa is real. Obviously, I had problems with that on so many levels because I never expected that to happen. That particular situation now dealt with and behind me, I hope, did, however, get me to thinking really hard about Christmas, “the real meaning”, tradition, and Santa’s place.

You may wonder why I got all in a tizzy over a harmless, rotund, red-suited, jolly old man whose aim is to simply spread Christmas cheer and gifts. Santa, my friends, (and I hate to burst your bubble if this is the first time you’ve ever heard this) is not real. Legend has inflated this fictitious individual, loosely based on a Greek man named Nicholas, a devout man, who secretly gave gifts and put coins in shoes left outside. Now-a-days, Santa Claus leaves presents only for good girls and boys, his helpful elves are hard at work making toys all year round, he carries these bountiful toys in one very large sack… in a sleigh drawn by flying reindeer, he travels around the world shimmying his extra large girth up and down chimneys (even the houses without chimneys), and to ensure that boys and girls have been “good” he now leaves his Elf on a Shelf to watch over them and to report their behavior back to the North Pole.

Seriously? Seriously.

I love literature, and I love fiction. I love a good book, a little far-fetched time travel, a little mystery, a little illogic, and I celebrate such imagination. The Lord of the Rings trilogy, full of magic, intrigue, and a quest of biblical proportions is a series worth applauding. What I detest, though, is the telling of a falsehood, especially to children who are still learning the difference between concrete and abstract thinking. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is not written for impressionable children, and though I was an adolescent when I read them, I was at least to the level of development in critical thinking that had reached the abstract, knowing and understanding the difference between reality and fantasy.

You tell a 3, 4, 5, 6, or 7 year old that Santa is real and they believe you. You tell them that if they’re good, and the Elf on the Shelf is watching them to report back to Santa any and every infraction of behavior, they’ll get presents, and they’ll believe you. You tell them that Santa comes down the chimney, leaves perfectly wrapped toys, and eats the cookies and drinks the milk you leave out, they’ll believe you. You tell them his sleigh is driven by Rudolph the red nosed reindeer and company, they’ll believe you.

And then you tell them that we celebrate Jesus’ birthday on Christmas. You tell them that everything in the Bible is true. You tell them God created the world in 6 days and on the 7th day he rested. You tell them all the Old Testament stories about the 10 commandments, Noah and the Ark, Moses and the Red Sea, David and Goliath, and then move into the New Testament miracles of Jesus healing the blind, the lame, and the sick. You tell them Jesus died on the cross for their sins and rose on the third day and now sits at the right hand of God the Father. THEY WILL BELIEVE YOU.

What happens when you suddenly tell them that Santa isn’t real, or worse, if they learn it from someone else? What happens to what they believe about the Bible, about God, and about his Son, Jesus?

You have just effectively lost your right to be believed on every level.

They will have discovered that you purposefully lied. It is a crippling, jarring, shocking thing for dishonesty to be unearthed at any age within any relationship, but at a tender, vulnerable age you will have successfully raped their trust and caused them to question anything that further emerges from your lips. As Christian parents, we are charged with protecting, teaching, and leading our children to Christ. Propagating a falsehood is not a way to win your children to the Lord. And coercing ‘good’ behavior so children will want to act right to get presents does children a disservice because it completely misses the mark, which is their hearts.

You may think I’m harsh, overreacting, and perhaps even overly pious, but for me, playing up the Santa card because it’s fun and it’s customary and it’s ‘just what we do’ is not worth playing with my children’s eternity. Allowing them to believe a lie, no matter how harmless it may seem, is still allowing them to believe a lie. Jeff and I do not lie to our children, nor do we perpetuate lies, even if they be based on the practices that have been in our families for years. My father told me that he was devastated when he learned that Santa wasn’t real, and just a few days ago, another friend confessed the same thing. Therefore, I do not relinquish my right to share truth with my children, for when I stand before Holy God, and remember, you will too, what will I say to that charge?

I am not condemning you for playing along with Santa, but I challenge you to investigate the heart of why you do what you do.

Even as I type, I will readily acknowledge that we have allowed our children to read books about Santa, watch Christmas cartoons where he’s a main character, color pictures about him and his team of elves and reindeer. But, after each viewing, I quiz them: “Is Santa real? No. He is pretend. What is Christmas really about? Yes, it’s about Jesus. What did Jesus do for us?”...and so on.

But now I ask myself if that is enough. If we truly want to make Christmas about Jesus, what do we need to cut out? What do we need to purge? And what do we need to change?

Jeff and I had this conversation just last night. We’ve explained to our children about gift-giving, that since Jesus gave the ultimate gift of His life, we honor his birthday by giving gifts to each other. We do retain the ‘We Three Kings’ plan, borrowed from my brother and sister-in-law. Jesus received 3 gifts from the wise men, and so do our children. I know people bake a birthday cake for Jesus, but I want to know how else can we truly merit celebrating His day, for Him, when materialism and traditions tend to usurp the intent of the day?

I don’t have a complete answer, but I do know that by elevating Christ and dethroning Santa and his not-so-helpful Elf on the Shelf, we’re at least headed in the right direction.

Being Like Christ

2011-11-17T20:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes emotion hits unexpectedly, welling up inside, becoming a big tight ball of tension behind the eyes and throat. And then, the pressure becomes too great, and the dam bursts, no longer able to hold back the torrent of pain and heartache flooding forth in constricted and unwilling tears.

Tonight that happened to me as I stood in front of my mantle looking at the picture of my baby’s marker. I was listening to Josh Groban’s version of “Noel” and the power of that song mixed with the stress of the last month and a half was simply too much.

I felt the poignant ache of loss and love and hope and loss.

I don’t even know exactly what it was that set me off. I had been merrily listening to Christmas music while folding clean laundry luxuriating in the peace that follows the certainty of sleep from the preschool corridor, and then, BOOM, there I was, a pretty mess.

Maybe it simply was a need to release the stress of the last month…or maybe it’s more. I don’t know. I had surgery on the first of November. You know all that excruciating pain I was in? I thought it was hemorrhoids, a boil, an abscess or something. Well, it wasn’t. It was a fissure (a tear) in my anal canal.

I was in tremendous pain for 3 straight weeks. Every time I had diarrhea, and you know that’s quite often, I would scream in pain. Ladies, take yourselves back to the labor and delivery room if you chose to go natural…and you will understand when I say that it felt like I was pushing razors out of my rear end while they were simultaneously ripping all the way up my colon. I would scream and moan all the way to the bathtub, in tears, and I even frightened my children. Imagine pouring hot rancid acid over a deep fresh gash and then you can imagine the kind of anguish I was in.

Once the pain would somewhat subside into a dull throbbing, I’d sit in the bathtub and cry out to God that I wasn’t strong enough to handle this kind of pain every single day of my life. Even after the surgery, when it still hurt and bled, I began to despair and I became incredibly discouraged with my future, so much so, that as I lay on the sofa one evening tormented with grief and in agony, I admitted to Jeff that I believed it would have been better if I had died on that operating table last year.

This was the first time I’d ever let that thought become more than a flitting wisp; I genuinely wanted to be out of this human shell and into heaven where there’d be no more suffering or sorrow.

Before this latest obstacle, I was able to see with spiritual eyes beyond my immediate infirmities, but at this point, I became spiritually crippled by the unbelievable torture of that fissure. I didn’t want to eat because eating caused more diarrhea. I didn’t want to hook up to my TPN because that caused diarrhea.

The worst part was that my diarrhea was almost out of control. One night, I tried to eat three crackers and I was running to the toilet. I tried to take three tiny sips of lukewarm water and bite off a sliver of ice and I was running to the bathroom. That’s the night I wished I had died. I cried and cried with utter and complete desolation of mind and soul. Jeff tried to comfort me, but all I could say was “I’m just so thirsty, and I can’t even take a drink of water. I just want a drink. Why can’t I just have one drink?”

Have you ever been that thirsty and not able to quench the thirst? Or even partially satiate it? All I could do was swish water around in my mouth and spit it out and that did nothing but depress me. It was the lowest of lows. I just wanted a drink, a sip, a swallow, a taste to ease that arid dehydrated feeling, and I couldn’t.

So, I curled up on the sofa with my head on Jeff’s lap and cried heart-wrenching sobs of hopelessness and despair wishing for things that couldn’t be undone and wondering how I was going to make it through another day.

And then Jeff, in an unusual moment of quiet and sensitivity, said to me, “You know, you’re a lot like Christ.” Well, that got my attention as I was slobbering and snotting all over him because he has NEVER ever equated me to Christ before, at least, not directly.

He proceeded to talk about Christ’s sacrifice of his own life, voluntarily giving himself to be scorned, spit upon, beaten, and finally, crucified in a barbaric way to assuage the wrath of God. This I knew so I tried to jump ahead and figure out where Jeff was heading, but then he said something that I’d not thought about before that jerked my concentration back to him.

“If Christ had not gone willingly to the cross, think about how much worse it would have been for humanity to have had to suffer the full wrath of God for our sins. It would have been better for Jesus because He never would have had to suffer these earthly evils, but it would have been worse for humanity.”

Pulled from reveling in self-pity, I was merely sniveling by now, I had to agree.

So I briefly thought about what Jeff was saying. Instead of giving us, those who are merely the created, what we deserve….death….because we’ve idolized ourselves, set ourselves up to be greater than God, have revolted against His goodness, and have flauntingly disobeyed Him, we have thus created the impossible chasm of sin. In spite of that, in spite of our flagrant disregard for who God is, in spite of every wicked, wretched, evil thing we have ever done or thought, and even in spite of the fact that I know Him intimately and still choose sin, God still chose to pour out His holy wrath upon His own Son (sent to earth for that very purpose) and that atonement was enough to appease His wrath. It was the greatest gift of loving sacrifice, so tell me. What other religion in all of history can boast a god like that, one who would allow his own Son to die for your sins so that you can be reconciled and brought back into a right relationship with Him by no act of your own?

Well, then. Back to my story.

Jeff then told me, “Like Christ, it would have been better for you if you had died, for your body would be perfect in heaven and you’d not need your bowel and you wouldn't suffer in pain, but for us, for me, for the children, it would have been so much worse. God was gracious to us to allow you to stay alive, even though your body is damaged. We would rather have you damaged than not at all.”

When I heard that the slow hiccups and sniveling turned back into full blown tears and I was wholly convicted of the selfishness of wanting to escape my daily struggles by wishing my life away.

I love my husband, and I love my children, and haven’t I always told myself that I would sacrifice anything for them, including my life? I didn’t realize that I was (and am) sacrificing for them every day with my physical health. I thought giving my life would have been the ultimate sacrifice, but it seems giving my intestine was the more priceless commodity.

Though blinded by the rivers of tears, I managed to kiss Jeff’s cheek and whisper “thank you.” And the balm he applied to my heart that night was the beginning to restoring the hope in my salvation of which I'd lost sight.

It doesn’t necessarily mean that this journey of mine will miraculously end (though let us all continue to pray in that vein), and it doesn’t mean that I won’t continue to have bouts of despair, but what it does mean is that I’m not alone in this journey. God has gifted me with a man who, in spite of what I may have believed in the past, actually does understand me and understands how to encourage and build my faith, who loves me damaged body and all, who values me, and who was able to help me at this pivotal moment begin to see again the worth that my life has in Christ, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Healing Pain

2011-10-31T17:24:00.000-07:00

Apparently, there’s a difference between hurting pain and healing pain. Thankfully, I am lying on the sofa experiencing the latter for the first time in weeks.

You may remember, from my last blog, that I thought I had hemorrhoids. Well, the suppositories didn’t help and the excruciating pain I’ve been in for the last three weeks had not subsided. I went to see a colo/rectal specialist, but that exam was so painful for me that he had trouble identifying exactly what was wrong. He said it could be hemorrhoids, a boil, or an abscess. With that decree, I made the appointment for surgery, ready for relief.

Naturally, I was a bit nervous about the anesthesia because of what transpired the last time I woke up, with my world ruptured, rocked, completely altered.

Buoyed by prayer, I went in this morning with my dad as my support. Jeff couldn’t make it, but kept close tabs via phone. I felt perfectly at ease before the surgery, but upon awakening, still groggy, I kept repeating, “I’m alive. I’m alive. Do I have all my parts?” Even after the nurse assured me I did, I went into some kind of delayed trauma mode. I began to cry and shake and kept repeating myself. Since my pulse rate was faster than it should be, and I couldn’t calm myself down, the nurse pulled my dad in. He stroked my forehead and assured me everything was fine. That had the calming effect I could not garner on my own. When I finally opened my eyes and my ears, dad was in the middle of telling the nurse all about dan doodle, some kind of spiced up pig guts that people in North Carolina eat. In all my life, that’s the first time I ever heard of it, and I’ll be happy if it’s never mentioned again in my presence.

Thankfully, I was too groggy to be totally grossed out, but I couldn’t miss the way the nurse was repulsed. Uh yeah. You think.

After stopping by Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions, we made it home. I tried to sleep, but the pain kept me awake. I slipped in and out of sleep, and I could (and still do) feel heavy soreness, akin to post baby delivery.

I didn’t have a boil, or an abscess, or hemorrhoids. I had a fissure, which is a tear, in the anal canal. I didn’t get a chance to ask my doctor what causes that, but I will when I have my follow up next week.

But, I have to admit, I like this pain and discomfort. I like it because it’s a healing pain and already I feel better than I have in weeks, and maybe it’s just mental, but hey, I’ll take it!

Solid Gold

2011-10-18T10:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was in such a tremendous amount of excrutiating pain that I decided I had to go see my doctor…my general practitioner. It had been 8 torturous days.

My rectal area has NEVER hurt this bad. It was so awful that I was screaming on the toilet as I was having diarrhea, I was screaming and crying and hobbling all the way to the tub, and I was screaming and hollering as I finally got in the tub. I was setting up such a wailin’ that I scared Scarlett and Lexi. They ran away from me, and then when I finally made it to the bathtub, I saw them peeking in and heard them asking “you okay, mommy? Your bottom hurts?”

Jeff finally got home from taking Gideon to school and he found me blubbering and slobbering all over myself in the tub. I told him I didn’t think I could handle this for the rest of my life. I told him I just wasn’t strong enough and I didn’t see how God could use this for my good.

On Sunday, we’d heard a message from Romans 8, about God working all things together for our good, in spite of our suffering, in spite of trials, in spite of life being chaotic and stressful. Oftentimes we hand out that verse like candy for trick-or-treaters and it comes across as trite and overused. Our friend, Michael, preached, and he reminded us of that our good is that which encompasses our eternal hope the glory of God through his son, Christ Jesus. He said it a lot better than I remember it….but I was mulling over this message as the stabbing pain subsided enough for me to quit moaning and screaming. At that moment, hope was a blurry shape far off in the distance because I was blinded by pain.

I got an appointment for 3:30, but my rear end throbbed unceasingly from 7:00 in the morning until that night.

My doctor told me I had internal hemorrhoids. When she pulled her gloves on, I knew she was going to have to touch me. I managed not to scream when I got the digit check, but it was still simply awful. When you’re in as much pain as I was, you don’t even want air to touch the area…much less someone’s finger.

I went and picked up my prescription for suppositories and rushed home (after eating some chicken noodle soup, heavy on the broth) to get it in. I haven’t had to use a suppository in YEARS, so I really wasn’t prepared for the violation I was about enact upon myself. It shouldn’t have been that hard, but of course, it was for me. Thought I got it in (again, an agonizing experience), and I stood up to walk away when I felt it slip out. It took me several times before I finally managed, and dude. That was most unpleasant, especially since much of it had melted…

Anyway, this morning rolled around, and I felt great. I swept and mopped the floors, I cooked Jeff an omelet, I even ate a couple bites, and then he left for school.

I began to feel the urge to go, and so I ran to Coco. As I was going, yes, it was hurting, but not nearly like yesterday thanks to modern medicine, I realized something felt different. It almost felt like I needed to push. Now, if you’ve ever had diarrhea, you know you don’t need to push. It RUNS out on its own. I didn’t push because it hurt too much (not completely healed yet) and then I just had to look in the toilet to see what was going on. I was so blown away, I had to take a picture when I was through. I HAD SOLID STOOL!!!! (No, I am not going to post it)

My solid stool is nothing like yours. It’s more like when you almost have diarrhea, but it’s still formed and kind of fat, like dumpling-sized and crescent -shaped.

I was so excited I wanted to jump up and down, but obviously, I couldn’t. Instead, I joyfully hobbled to the tub to take my sitz bath.

Solid poop. Like a whole pot full! I started singing “Poopin’ solid” simply because I was the only one here! I just couldn’t believe it. I started thinking about that message again, about eternal hope. Hope is what keeps us grounded to our faith and to our God when we’re right smack in the middle of a horrible situation. Hope keeps us going even when we don’t think we’re strong enough. Hope is Christ’s gift to us when we’re marooned alone on a remote island with no chance of rescue. Hope sees me through those blurry moments where the only thing sharply in focus is the ravaging swollen veins in my rectum. Hope is moving forward; it’s not looking back or standing still.

As the pain decreased I was able to see hope more clearly, and the joy I felt as I squeezed out yet another mini-me log was indescribable! Let me hear a whoop whoop for those moments your heart is so full you think you’ll burst!

I experienced a moment of clarity, of oneness, and of pure adoration for my Father who loves me and blessed me in the midst of a laborious undertaking. And that, my friends is what I’m supposed to be doing when I’m crying out my eyes to God to intercede and make things right when I’m being tossed like a ship in a sea of angry waves. The hope I have is based in eternity; it’s not rooted in this temporal body that’s half broke and has screwy plumbing.

I may not be able to move it and shake it just yet, but in my head, I’m giving God all the glory and I’m twirling with glee!

Solid gold, friends. This is solid gold.

You said WHAT?

2011-10-14T11:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I do really stupid things. Sometimes I say something really dumb like a few weeks ago when I called my mother-in-law’s ex-boyfriend by her ex-husband’s name. Now that was embarrassing. Today, however, I incriminated myself in another manner.

With my family, I speak very candidly about my bowel problems. I don’t use a whole lot of caution when speaking to friends and others who know about my situation, but I might choose less obtuse words during these conversations. With my family, whatever comes out comes out. I do have 5 brothers, remember, and no sisters….but today I nearly did myself in.

If you follow me on Facebook, you’ll know that I’ve had awful diarrhea since last Sunday, and the pain and rawness have been so unbearable that I’ve spent many an hour just soaking my poor substructure in the tub. My friend’s mom even sent me a new powder to try “Lady Anti-Monkey Butt” (picture below). The name made me laugh, but that’s the only way it’s brought relief. Going on six days here, I knew something was wrong because it usually only takes me a day or two to heal and I’m not healing. In fact, I was up until 2 a.m. last night because I couldn’t sleep due to the throbbing and pain.

As I wasn’t really anxious to have a doctor examine my backside, I thought I’d ask the nurse, who does my blood work, what she thought I should do. Today she told me what my problem most likely was and it wasn’t what I’d anticipated. Since I’d spent the morning with my sister-in-law, Kim, yesterday, and we couldn’t go out anywhere like we’d planned because my derriere was on fire in between bouts of diarrhea, I immediately called her on the way home to fill her in.

As soon as she picked up the phone and said “hello” I launched into “Well, I know what’s wrong with me. I have a yeast infection in my bung hole. I didn’t even know I could get one there.” Kim is a kindergarten teacher and a more patient, understanding, and sympathetic ear you will not find. We began to discuss my problem, the remedy, and whether or not I needed to use the applicator and actually insert it you-know-where. Frankly, the thought of it made me a little squeamish, but since she assured me that likely wasn’t necessary, I felt better about self-medicating with the cream and just my finger.

In the middle of our conversation, she said “hold on, I need to order Hannah (her daughter) some food.” Apparently, she was in her car, a fancy little black Ford SUV with all the bells and whistles, and was going through a drive through for orange chicken and white rice. I was silent for a moment as she ordered and then I started teasing her for how she was asking, through the order box, the difference between a kid’s medium drink cup and an adult small one.

She laughed with me and then said, “Hold on. Let me take you off speaker phone.”

I immediately said “Oh, you had me on speaker phone? I’m really glad you weren’t in a place full of people when I told you I HAD A YEAST INFECTION IN MY BUNG HOLE!”

Yes, I was a little loud on that last part to emphasize what I didn’t want others to hear.

It was dead silent on her end and then I heard her begin to giggle, then stop, then giggle again.

Evidently, she’d pulled up to the window during my comment in order to collect her food, had trouble taking me off speakerphone, and my voice was booming quite noisily through HER RADIO!

I could hear her struggling not to snicker as she was paying the gal at the window, but it wasn’t until she finished, that she managed to fill me in on what actually transpired.

Kim said she couldn’t even look the girl in the eye as she handed her the money because she knew she wouldn’t be able to control her laughter….but, she tried to make me feel better by saying the girl probably didn’t hear me because she was completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

Sigh. This big mouth of mine. I did learn 3 important lessons however.

Lesson 1: Remind myself that this is the reason mom tried to get me to speak like a lady, and not like my brothers, while I was growing up.
Lesson 2: Always ask if I’m on the speakerphone that comes through the radio in newer model cars.
Lesson 3: Work on not using “bung hole” to describe my exit-only.

It's Been Awhile

2011-10-11T17:51:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes when someone doesn’t write for extended periods of time, there is usually something going on to keep that person busy. That hasn’t exactly been the case here. My evenings have been busy, just busy with reading all the free books on Kindle I can find when I’m not on the toilet or putting a child back in bed for the umpteenth time.

With Jeff’s work and school schedule, we don’t get a lot of time together in the evening, and since I only watch t.v. on Monday and Tuesday nights (Dancing with the Stars), I needed something to fill my time without making me feel lonely. Books are wonderful friends, an easy way to escape into someone else’s life and problems. Frankly, though, when I read for fun, I want to read happy endings, and I want to read something that flies me away to lands of adventure and intrigue my daily life doesn’t see. I can handle problems, as long as they are resolved at the end.

Kindle’s free book selection is okay, but not great, and there have been countless books that I’ve deleted because they are pure trash or poorly written. If you own a Kindle, they do have a “loan” function, so if you have some great recommendations for me, I’d be happy to get in on the action.

My health is still a tricky business, and the alternating antibiotics made my diarrhea so much worse and 2 of the 5 made me throw up nearly every day, so I’m finally off all of those all together since the benefit didn’t outweigh the side effects. Interestingly enough, I’ve had 3 meals in the last month stay in overnight…even some food I shouldn’t have eaten from the Texas State fair. However, my days have been really really rough for some reason, even to the point of tears, like this past Sunday. After church I spent my afternoon (not napping) but hopping in between the toilet and the tub, trying to soak my poor pitiful bottom. You may wonder what happened to Coco the bidet. Nothing. Even she wasn’t bringing me any relief.

Two days later, it’s still incredibly painful to go, but not to the extent of Sunday. I have to remind myself, when I’m in the midst of excrutiating pain, that typically after a round of awful diarrhea, my overall diarrhetic content is marginally better. In fact, this may be TMI, but my diarrhea is now, usually, penne rigati-esque in shape and form….not just a thick milkshake mass. (So sorry, I know that’s gross, but at the same time, it’s progress!!)

I’m set to begin a second round of the growth hormone. All the paper work’s done and we’re just awaiting my start date. I’m really not looking forward to beginning that again, as it made me throw up last time, but since we got about an inch of growth from the first round, I’m certainly willing to give it another try, as bad as the side effects are.

It has been a busy month. Our Gideon turned 5, and we celebrated Star Wars style. I had the children make lightsabers out of poster board and empty paper towel rolls while Jeff dressed up like Darth Vader so all the kids could battle him. They all loved it, even Jeff.

(Jeff in his costume, hairy legs, graduation gown, and a cape my mom woke up at 4 a.m. to make)

So I Do Not Run or Labor for Nothing

2011-08-22T19:28:00.000-07:00

I have a new personal goal.

I used to be a runner…not a particularly fast runner, but I was slow and steady and I’d run about 6 or more miles a day. This, of course, was pre-wedding, pre-babies, and pre-6 inches. In between babies, I’d managed to get myself together enough to run 2 or 3 miles without passing out and I was happy with that.

Now, walking up a flight of stairs leaves me breathless and I detest that. When my children can push my box of TPN across the floor faster than I can, I sit up and take notice that I am a weakling.

So, I determined in my heart to do something about this. The swimming isn’t working out too well, since I’m sweaty before I attach my Aqua Guards, they don’t stick the way they’re supposed to. And besides, I’ve never been much of a swimmer; I like to get my exercise by running.

It’s much too hot here in Texas. 108 is a number I keep seeing and wishing I wasn’t. The treadmill Jeff bought me for Christmas broke down right after the 3-month warranty expired and one of those months I was in the hospital and then recovery from a line infection…so I BOO Wal-Mart and its policies. My treadmill sits broken in my bedroom.

However, I have recently discovered that I had access to a gym for the past year, if I’d wanted. Jeff is a seminary student and we are his family. Duh!! I’d forgotten about that. Today was his day off, and after he read and studied, he came back and picked us up and off we headed to Southwestern’s RAC. Jeff took the children to the indoor pool and I braved the treadmill. I had my Camelbak and IPOD.

I started walking, at a not-so-brisk 3.5 and after 5 minutes decided I wanted to see what my body could handle if I tried to run (or jog, in my case). I was inside, the a.c. was blowing, I’d take a sip of my ORS every minute or two, and I set out. Those first few steps felt weird, since I couldn’t remember the last time I’d moved this fast (and I was only at 5.0). By minute 2, I could feel pain somewhere in my chest. I didn’t think it was my heart, so I assumed it was my lungs. Whatever it was burned, and then my legs began to feel wobbly, like a calf first standing up. I almost quit.
But then I started thinking about myself. I am not a quitter. I set a goal to walk 5 minutes, run 5 minutes and then walk the next 20. 30 minutes. I could handle that. Minute 2 was either going to make or break me.

Again, I decided I’m not a quitter. Surely I could force these legs a little further. I scrolled through my music until I found something upbeat, which happened to be a children’s praise song, but hey, it took my mind off my legs. I made it to the 5 minutes and started feeling a little better, so I did what any previous runner would have done. I decided to run 5 more and by the time I’d run 10, I found my groove, so I tacked on a few more and when I got there, I kept pushing my goal up. I found some really jiving upbeat Gospel music (that one of you sent me) and man, I flew (figuratively, of course) through my remaining time until I started feeling a little nauseous from my ORS. That FBC Woodstock really knows how to rock the praises to our God. I walked the last 5 minutes, cooling down my dripping body and made my decision.
I’m a fighter and because of that I’m not going to let this bowel, or lack thereof, steal anything else from me, especially no more of my physical health or aspects of it that I can control. I will do everything within my power (and the grace of Almighty God) to beat this body into the best shape that I possibly can to ensure I give myself no excuses and no flimsy reasons, to fail. If this body fails it will be because that is what God ordained, not because I didn’t take care of myself. I will rest, and I will run. I will drink that nasty ORS and I will eat 6 small (and sometimes medium) meals a day. And I will set goals, small, attainable goals. I’ve decided that I am going to run in races again. I will run in Dallas Baptist University’s 5K Turkey Trot a couple days before Thanksgiving and even if I come in dead last and have to be carried across the finish line or care-flighted to a port-a-potty, I will run every step of the way. And then, in the spring, I will run the Seminary Stride, another 5K. I have determined in my heart and in my mind that I am more than able because I’m not dead. I will lift weights again and I will be strong (not Mrs. Fitness USA or anything), but I will be able to pick up my own box of TPN when it’s delivered!

This mindset of strict discipline and a belief in the impossible stems from what I believe spiritually. I will get off my duff and cross the street to not only speak to the new neighbors we’ve yet to meet, but I will take them the basket of queso/chips/Coke as a welcome gift and I will invite them to church and attempt to ascertain where they are spiritually. Crippling fear for my health, my potential early demise, and rejection of the thing I hold most dear (the hope of eternal life in Christ Jesus) from others no longer has a place in my life.

I am alive, and more than that I am alive in Christ, the author and perfector of my faith. He strengthens me; he upholds me with his righteous right hand, and he will be exalted in my body whether by life or by death (Phil. 1:20). Lord, let me shine like a star in the universe as I hold out your word of life…so that I may boast that I did not run or labor for nothing. (Ephesians 2:15-16)

Ticked'ness' and Repentance

2011-08-18T19:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight, around 8 p.m., I decided if I saw another one of my cherubic children peeking out the door, claiming he needed to poop, or squawking my name, I was probably going to scream just for the sake of screaming because I’d reached my ‘wits end’. I came very close.

Today was a typically awful mom day that didn’t get typically awful until nap time. Two of my older children, bedded down on Gideon’s bunk beds were supposed to be asleep. I napped fitfully until I heard a door shut, and then their little game was up. I marched my cranky self down the hallway, opened the door, and caught the two squirrels red-handed, crouching down beside the bottom bunk surrounded by toys.

I pulled out the military voice perfected from years of hearing my dad and told those two they’d better get in their beds Right Now. I’d not seen them scramble that fast since I’d pulled out the candy bowl sometime last week. I realized that there was no way they’d go to sleep at this time as it was a quarter till 3, so I told Scarlett to grab her blankie and run to my bed so they’d at least be separated.

Gideon, crouched on the top bunk, set up a wail. I gave him the mom glare, you know, the one that says “you’d best get yourself together and quit that whining before things take a turn toward your amply padded rear end…” and marched myself back to my bedroom. I lay down with Scarlett and she snuggled against me like life was all sweet and good. I could feel my heart thumping with ticked-ness and I tried to settle down.

Apparently, the mom glare was none too sufficient since I could hear Gideon’s continued wailing down the hall. And then I heard the tell-tale scratching at another door…at the gate. Lexi. Oooh boy, could I feel the steam rising up in my ears because once she’s awake, there’s no getting her back to sleep. I ordered Scarlett to stay in my bed and not get up until I came for her, and I went to see about Lexi. When she poops, she tells me “I stink.” It works. Well, she stank all right. I changed her and then took her to the playroom. By then, Gideon had stopped wailing and Scarlett had started.

I made them stay in their rooms (and I eventually gave them a book) until 4:00 (our normal getting up time).

At that point, things rapidly declined. I attempted to get dinner together and wound up burning most of what I cooked (something I rarely ever do). I took a pan of grease outside because the last time I’d poured it down the sink, I’d stopped up the blasted thing…but this time, walking out barefoot with a hot pan of grease of burnt bacon, I stepped all over blazing hot cement and got stickers stuck in my toes in that sorry excuse for withered, prickly scorched grass lying pathetically about my backyard.

I hobbled back to the door with the still-hot pan while Gideon and Scarlett became unhelpful spectators informing me I was bleeding as a result of the stickers. I was not, however, but when I got back in, I looked at my white shirt and realized I’d somehow sloshed spaghetti sauce all over myself and on the floor and on my arms and on my legs…and, well, you get the picture. I was not holding spaghetti sauce in my hands at that point, either.

Trying to busy the children, I had them set the table, but as I was dishing up the food, Gideon started banging his fork on the table. I snottily told him to stop and he moved to bang it on his dish, informing me that it wasn’t the table.

I was trying so hard not to lose it, but when I’m stressed, loud noises further exasperate me. Burnt food, a bum toe (that I’d whacked on something hard earlier in the day), plus the throbbing from the stickers and the fact that I had spaghetti sauce splattered all over me and all over the stove was pushing me to my limit. That fork banging was tipping me over the edge.

Did I think of a Bible verse or ask God to enter into the chaos at that precise moment? Of course not. I was trying to get dinner prepared and I was single-mindedly determined to just get it on the table and get the children eating, dag-nabbit. That was the goal and I was going to get there no matter what.

You may be wondering where Jeff was during all of this…he was safe at work.
In my defense (as small as it may be), I’m now taking regular antibiotics to rid my intestine of bad bacteria. The pharmacist informed me that it would cause “excessive diarrhea” so that’s been added back into the mix of the day causing additional and incredible irritation and frustration on my part.

So, I finally get the plates dished up and put some raw veggies on each, and as I’m placing them in front of their owners, I say “now don’t open the salad dressings.” I begin to cut Lexi’s pasta, and totally missed what happened next. I hear, from less than an inch from me, “Uh oh, uh oh, it’s not stopping!”

I saw red and then I saw a lot of white. Scarlett had dumped, and was still holding the bottle upside down, about half of the bottle of Ranch dressing on her plate and the table.

That was my “last straw.”

I didn’t scream, I didn’t strike, I didn’t pound the table, I didn’t fling the plates upon the floor or any of those lack-of-self-control things. I merely yelled her name at the top of my lungs until my breath abated. Oh wait. Did I just say I exhibited self control? Indeed.

“SSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLEEEEEEETTTTTTT!”

I did manage to jerk back her chair before it puddled all over her, but I was fuming. I was furious, and my mind was raging.

I told her she was going to eat her food (which happened to only be half of her plate) with all that Ranch dressing. I spooned most of it into another bowl with a completely inappropriate scowl upon my face and only felt slightly guilty for what I’d just said.

Gideon chose at that moment to very smugly informed me that he didn’t open the “E-talian” dressing.

I put myself down into the chair and stared at my plate. After cleaning up all of the mess that I could I was struck with a fierce sense of shame. Shame for my yelling. Shame for my irritableness. Shame for the poor example I’d been to my children, and mostly, shame that my Heavenly Father witnessed such a childish display of temper and I never once sought His guidance during any of it. I let the emotion and the nasty spirit of discord rule during meal preparation and it spewed out like tongues of fire against my children.

I knew what I had to do, and swallowing my pride (which tried to justify me yelling at Scarlett because she’d disobeyed a direct order), I turned to her and said, “Scarlett, I’m very sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that. ”

And do you know what that tiny little 3-year-old said? She taught me a lesson in humility. She said, “I’m sorry I spilled the Ranch, Mommy. It was my all my fault.”

If only I had been that quick to recognize my own guilt and confess it. I held out my hand. She gave me hers and we squeezed and smiled at one another. All the anger and wrath of the day dissipated with her sweet words of contrition, for it wasn’t really her fault. She’s a child, prone to childish things and I was the fool who got angry about it.

It helped me see clearly something else about myself that I really didn’t want to recognize. I’ve got a problem with trying to control things at home. I’ve never really been a controlling person, but since my medical mishap, my life has been in such disarray and chaos of its own, that I think I turned to home for some semblance of normalcy and a pattern of regularity. I’ve created an atmosphere where I want to manage and order my home so that I don’t feel so pulled apart… like fried chicken at a picnic. And that, indeed, is how I’ve been feeling.

I’m not saying I keep the house totally ordered (because we all know I detest house-cleaning as a rule), but I order my time. Every moment and every hour is accounted for… and I order it for structure for our family, for sanity, and so I can have some time to myself after an exhausting mothering day. Today, though, I comprehend that I put that order above my children and have become rigidly inflexible. What does that accomplish? Well, just take a look at my day. Because things were going awry all around me, I flopped.

Because I didn’t get the sleep my body requires, I gave that an excuse to shut down and just react. Pitiful. Because I slummed my way through dinner and made a royal mess of myself and the kitchen, I gave that as an excuse to work myself into a ferocious mental lather. Shameful. Because my children were acting like children and I wasn’t spiritually (or emotionally) prepared to handle them, I failed that test. Inexcusable.

Thank goodness every day begins anew. Lord, bring back my joy in being a mother. Help me see these precious children for who they will be in you and for the treasures you have entrusted me. Forgive my anger, wrath, and flippancy when I allow circumstances to cloud my judgment and give into those areas that need to be pruned once and for all. Help me see beyond my physical discomforts to the needs my children have to be with me, help me, and loved by me. Grant me the ability to be flexible in my day, and not so selfish when it comes to my own desires. I thank you for your forbearance with me, though I am the least of these who claim your name for my own. Gird me and guide me as I face the potential for yet another challenging day tomorrow.

Prayer Requests

2011-08-08T10:50:00.000-07:00

Here I am, ready to run (figuratively, of course) errands with the children. Got my TPN bag and new pink camelbak. Even those few moments outside were way too hot! Texas is giving me a heat beating this summer. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd say I missed cold weather since D.C. winters were way too awful. I sure am thinking it though!

Please continue to pray for me. Here's what's on my mind.

I'm waiting for my Oral Rehydration Solution to come in the mail, and it's not particularly tasty...even though I'm allowed to flavor with Crystal Light, but in the meantime, the Camelbak is filled with water. I'm doing better about drinking sips, since that blue tube hanging over my shoulder is a constant reminder, but I am still throwing up, even this morning. I'm so tired of throwing up.

I will begin the 2-week alternating antibiotics sometime this week. (See previous post for further details)
Additionally, I'm considering trying to go back to school once Jeff finishes up his Ph.D. classes next year, provided I can do it health-wise. You might be thinking that I'm as bad as my dad - - he's already got a Ph.D. and is now working on a D.Min. Glutton for punishment is that man. I do already have an M.A. in Christian Education, but you know my love for literature. I want to do a master's in English with the final goal of studying Southern Lit and Southern Studies at Ole Miss in a doctoral program. I've discovered an online program that I'm looking into for graduate work. I wouldn't have to be in a classroom, and I can run to Coco anytime I need, which suits me remarkably well. I need a personal goal to work towards, so please just pray that the Lord will show me a way and provide scholarships or grants when that time comes, if indeed, this is something I ought to be considering in the next year.
After Jeff's sermon last night, I've committed to try and reach 6 people in the next year to invest in spiritually. Pray that the Lord will show me who and provide the time and energy for me to do it.

Nebraska Update

2011-07-29T04:10:00.000-07:00

For some strange reason, I’m up early. After being on the go and out of town for over a week now, I assumed I’d be sleeping in (well, at least until the children awoke at 7:00), but here it is 5:30 and though I have a slight headache and pressure around my eye sockets, I’m wide awake. I’m hoping the headache doesn’t mean I’m coming down with something.

I’ve made my first batch of Oral Rehydration Solution, added some Crystal Light, and now I’m waiting for my drink to cool in the freezer, since apparently, we’re out of ice. I’ll get to the ORS in a few minutes.

First things first. I had a wonderful time at the beach with my 3 girlfriends. It just so happened that our trip fell over the one-year anniversary of losing my baby and my small intestine. What better way, I thought, to celebrate life than with three of the friends who’ve been an instrumental part of my life for the past almost 10 years? Some very kind friends of one of my friends allowed us to stay in their beautiful beach condo down in Hilton Head.

We girls laughed like I haven’t laughed in a long time. We sang old songs, played games, cooked dinner, walked on the beach, laid out under umbrellas (for it was stinkin’ hot), and just relaxed. I think my favorite part was getting to spend time, one-on-one, with each of them, sharing our hearts about whatever the miles made it hard to say.

(Me, Janessa, Sarah, and Beverly)

As soon as I flew back in on Sunday afternoon, Jeff and I picked up our rental car and headed home to pack it up, hitting the road with the children that afternoon. We drove until about 9:30 and stayed in a hotel, getting up early to finish the rest of the drive. Between DFW and Nebraska, there ain’t much to look at, let me tell you. We were a little irritated that I-35, in Kansas, was a toll road, but the land is actually quite pretty, though sparse. Lots of cattle farms, gentle rolling hills, and an occasional pond dot the landscape. Once you get closer to Nebraska, it turns to farmland. Corn and soybeans, and once in Nebraska, it was corn as far as the eye could see, just miles and miles of it.

All of the roads we needed to take had been re-opened since there’d been major flooding up that way. We could still see a few houses sitting in water, and the water was nearly to the bridge we crossed over…crazy how high it was. We saw a few crops totally destroyed and my heart went out to the farmers who wouldn’t be able to recover any of it.

We got into Omaha and finally found our way to our host home. Natalie and Kyle Spontak are friends of my brother, Alex, and his wife, Julie. They graciously offered to let our entire family (having never met us) stay with them while I was doing all of my testing at the Univ. of Nebraska Medical Center. They are the sweetest couple, and we now count them among our close friends.

Tuesday was a long day of testing for me, so we decided Jeff should take the children to the zoo. He rented a wagon and wore himself out carting them around in the heat. Nebraska wasn’t much cooler than Texas, that’s for sure. They all came to the hospital on Wednesday, since I just had one long test, the small bowel series. I thought I was going to get away from having to drink “contrast” since my Barium Enema was cancelled (the WORST test ever that gave me diarrhea until 1 a.m. last year). I’d forgotten that the small bowel series was similar, except that I didn’t get that horrible camera stuffed up my anal hole, thank goodness.

The doctor who led the testing put me on the table and just had me take little sips of the contrast which was very thoughtful of her, and true to form, I scrunched my face like a child and grimaced most awfully every sip, but I did it. Horrible, that contrast stuff, like a thicker version of milk o’ magnesia or something equally awful.

Anyway, after that test, we decided to head home, and though we’d gotten a late start, we made it all the way. We missed a phone call telling of the results of that last test, and I had to call yesterday for the update…so, together with the meeting I had with the clinic team, here’s the complete update.

There has been some dilation in my small intestine, which means it has grown a tiny bit. After we’ve exhausted every possible rehab intervention, there’s talk about a ‘step’ surgery (and I can’t remember the name) which would basically slice the intestine and re-attach length-wise, which would give me a tiny bit more length. They want to wait as long as possible before this happens to give my bowel a chance to grow a little more, or in my case, I believe, to give God a chance to continue to work his miracle.
They ‘may’ put me on Zorbtive again, the growth hormone, but no decision has been made. Truthfully, I’m not looking forward to that, since it made me so nauseated, but I’ll do whatever I’m told to give my body a chance to work even better.
I now take 12 Imodium a day and the goal is to get me to “stool” (such a silly word) 1-2 times a day like everyone else. Wouldn’t that be GREAT?!?
Dehydration has continued to be a problem for me, so I’ve got to order the Oral Rehydration Salts I mentioned above and make my own adult Pedialyte. I’m supposed to drink a liter a day, and they told me to get a camel pack and wear it all the time. I feel a little overwhelmed with the liter because I never drink that much, but the more hydrated I can stay, the less diarrhea (and vomiting) I’ll have. So, will I do it? Yes.
We talked about exercise, something I miss terribly, but being out in the Texas heat is off-limits (thank goodness), so I’ve been given the okay to swim. That was the best news ever! I use a very sticky patch to cover my line when I shower, called an Aqua Guard, and as long as everything is covered, I was told it should last an hour, long enough for me to swim. I don’t particularly like doing laps, but I feel weak and jiggly, and I want to feel fit and healthy, even if I’m not.
One of the last things covered was the line itself. The next time I get an infection and have to be hospitalized, I’m to ask for an ethanol-lock compatible line because they’d like to start giving me ethanol through my line to kill bacteria and keep infections at bay. Didn’t think too much about it until we stopped to fill up our gas tank and I see “Warning. Contains ethanol.”
They’d like to try and wean me down off of TPN (oh yeah), but that will require getting the hydration issues resolved and the poop lessened, so maybe soon I’ll be down to 5 days a week!
And lastly, I think, we talked about some recent bloating/gas I’ve been dealing with, which my team believes is a direct result of bacteria in my small bowel itself, so there’s talk about trying me on cyclical antibiotics to kill that stuff, however, most of this, excepting the Imodium, won’t occur right away. They don’t want to make too many changes at once.
Basically, I didn’t get any bad news (which is fantastic news); my stool has changed somewhat; it’s thicker and often macaroni-shaped, which was good news for them…the only people who, besides me and those potty-training mommies, who get excited about poop! There is a little concern over the fattiness of my liver and potential gall stone issues (results of the TPN), but they’re simply going to keep their eyes on all that and I’m not to worry about it yet.
All in all, I was very pleased with this clinic visit and the fact that I’m doing well enough they only need to see me once a year, with regular phone calls and email check-ups. Thank goodness for modern technology!

Keep praying, friends. God has heard your prayers and there’s a little activity down there, but in order for me to not have to transplant and sustain myself nutritionally, I need more length!! So, please, join with me as we ask for the not-so-impossible.

For My Unknown Child

2011-07-19T12:24:00.000-07:00

Thursday, July 21st, marks the one-year anniversary of the loss of my baby and small intestine. I have written several things, none of which truly encompass my state of being, so I did not post any of them.

I did, however, write this poem, in honor of my unknown child. Bear with me, as I am no poet.

My child, my child, your corpse in the grave
Grieves my heart still, in wave after wave.

I look back, remember, upon that black screen
Those ill-fated words, imprecatingly mean.

So deathly, so still, that small forming one
Curled onto its side, a daughter or son.

My heart knew at once that this was all wrong.
No hope swelled within, no life-changing song.

My sweet darling baby, so precious, so true
Wouldn’t I trade places, if I could, with you?

Your life, barely started, was gone in a flash,
Why this one, I cry, in anguishing gnash?

Why this one, I cry, Oh God can’t you see?
I’d love him, I promise, just believe this of me.

My eyes unseeing and full, my heart heavy as stone,
I called your daddy to be not alone.

Quickly he came, his sorrow controlled,
Hold me, I begged, so I don’t feel the cold.

My sweet darling baby, so precious, so true
Wouldn’t I trade places, if I could, with you?

How long I did carry you was not long enough
For I fear I am made of much weaker stuff.

I wanted to hold you, caress, shield with my best
But I couldn’t keep death from collecting its next guest.

Now you are protected from all this worlds’ hurt
No one will harm you, hate you, subvert.

I know where you are, in heaven with my Lord
And his angels each wielding a celestial sword.

My sweet darling baby, so precious, so true
Wouldn’t I trade places, if I could, with you?

I miss you so dearly, most cherished of lives,
Meet you I will, though life currently deprives.

One year later, I still feel the pain of your loss,
I swallow, type blindly, and look to the cross.

For there is one far greater who eases all pain
He gave His life, and with His Father they do reign.

Child, you gave your life and I my small intestine,
To fulfill what Christ had already predestined.

Still…

My sweet darling baby, so precious, so true
Wouldn’t I trade places, if I could, with you?

(photo of a photo that sits on my mantle, courtesy Jon McFarling)

Trey Felix Figaroa

2011-07-02T19:27:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was nosing through Facebook like I usually do while I’m waiting for the children to stop their squawking and settle down for the evening. I came across some friends-from-elementary school in my news feed and began browsing their pictures.

If you’ve ever moved as a child, you’ll acknowledge with me that those friends/classmates, in your mind’s eye, usually retain their child faces as you think back. Seeing their grown-up faces on Facebook is a little weird. I mean, they’re not supposed to look like that. They’re supposed to look like they did in the 3rd grade! It’s like all this time has passed and I know I’ve changed and I realize they should, but I'm still taken aback when I see them.

I give you that background to say that as I was browsing, a name popped into my head. Trey Felix Figaroa. I think I may have mentioned this story before, but it made me chuckle in a way that used to always make me cringe. I was 5, and dad was stationed at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Elliott, Alex, and I were going to Covenant Presbyterian’s Christian school. I was in kindergarten and loving it. My teacher’s name was Mrs. ‘A’ (apparently, her name was long and hard so this is what we called her). I learned to read in kindergarten. Seeing Spot and seeing him run were highlights of my little life. Learning how to play tether ball, scurrying across the monkey bars with the agility of a chimp, and having my hair French braided for the first time are memories that I hold very dear.

I also remember trying to memorize the 23rd Psalm for a Reese’s peanut butter cup. It took me longer than the rest of the kids, and even at that age, I didn’t like lagging at the back of the honor roll pack. I do remember a feeling of accomplishment when I finally learned it and that spurred me toward staying closer to the head, not the rear.

And then there were my classmates. I had lots of little friends, boys and girls, and apparently I was the class flirt (hard to imagine, I know). Well, not really a flirt because I was merely super friendly, but affectionate and loving. Perhaps those are better words for a 5-year-old.

There were 2 or 3 little boys in my class who would tell me to kiss them, and, innocent that I was, I would happily, and we’d all wind up giggling and laughing.

"Kiss my nose," one would say, and I would kiss his nose.

"Kiss my cheek," another would say. And I would kiss his cheek.

You get the picture. Never anything naughty or inappropriate. We were innocent little children, and we were kissing in the after school pick-up line standing outside the building with our other classmates and teachers, so there wasn't even an opportunity to get into trouble. And I never got into trouble.

One of those boys was Trey Felix Figaroa, who was tan and had dark curly hair. That’s really all I can remember of him. One day my father (in his military uniform) came to pick me up and saw me kissing said little boy. Thankfully, he didn’t see me kissing all the other ones. Because my dad didn’t want me growing up to be a ‘loose woman’, so he said, he threatened to spank me if he ever caught me kissing another boy. I was such a sensitive little girl that his threat scared me kiss-less until I was 23 and graduated from college… before I had my first kiss, and yes, that’s the cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die honest truth.

However, if you know my dad, you’ll know that he has a big mouth. Apparently, my brothers got wind of Trey Felix Figaroa’s name and for YEARS and YEARS and YEARS they teased me. I don’t even know how they learned his middle name, but somehow those wily/pesky/rotten boys did and that name was like a curse to my ears every time I heard it, not made any better by the fact that it was so alliterative and not easy to forget. My shame and guilt (false though it was) were constant, thanks to “those mean boys.”

It’s been quite a long time since any of my brothers have brought it up, and though it was a source of torment for me, I can now browse through Facebook, remembering old friends and classmates and recall poor Trey Felix Figaroa with a smile on my face because he became one of my better ‘Dad-did-this-and-scarred-me-for-life’ stories.

For the record, my brothers and I like to “outdo” each other in telling our ‘dad’ stories when we talk on the phone… like the gallon of milk he’d take into Pizza Hut on those rare occasions we’d actually eat out and make us drink a tall glass each, driving our tiny great Aunt Sarah hundreds of miles in the car as she sat in the front seat while Mom, Austin, and I were in the back seat with Adrian lying across our laps…you know, those kinds of stories, the ones I plan to write and make my retirement off of because Dad is a character from another time and another place.

Murfreesboro, N.C., to be exact.

A Break from Muttering and Murmuring

2011-06-30T10:12:00.001-07:00

Since my mind (and posts) have seen naught but mutterings and murmurings, I guess it’s time for a little praise roll call.

Dinner (alfredo pasta and chicken) 5 nights ago stayed in overnight. This is the first time in months this has happened.
Yesterday, I ate half a bagel for breakfast, half of a turkey/cheese sandwich and some Doritos for lunch, and between the two, my meals stayed in for 8 hours! That, I believe, is the first time ever that’s happened during the day.
I received a phone call from the University of Nebraska today. I’ve been re-accepted back into their IRP (Intestinal Rehabilitation Program), so the whole family will be heading up there the last week of July for re-testing and a clinic follow-up to see where/what my intestines are up to. I’ve been searching for airfare, but for the 5 of us, it would cost anywhere between $1500 – 2000. Though many of you have been so generous, through Helping Hands, I just can’t abide spending that kind of money on plane tickets. So, we shall instead drive up there. It’s only about a 10 hour drive, and with Jeff at the helm, me asleep in the passenger seat and praying we don't have to stop too much, and the children stocked up with books, coloring material, and borrowing Grandpa’s portable dvd player, Bob and Larry will keep them entertained when other things won’t. At least, that's the plan.

All in all, I have much to be thankful for today.

Pounding the Pebble

2011-06-28T21:44:00.000-07:00

If you’re anything like me, the longer you try and escape from thinking about life and troubles by medicating with books, movies, cleaning the house (not really in my line), shopping, or whatever, the harder it hits you when you come up for air.

Last Sunday I was knocked flat in church. Our pastor was out of town and our friend, Michael, filled in. He’s not one to mince words; indeed, sometimes simply in talking with him, I start to feel uneasy…not that he’s judgmental or harsh, but he has a very blunt way of speaking the truth and an uncanny ability to really “see” straight to one’s heart. And it’s unsettling. Sometimes I wonder that if he’s that discerning, what would it have felt like to actually speak to Jesus face to face? You know?

Anyway, his message was bold and convicting. Quite frankly, those are my favorite kind of sermons because they not only reach my heart, but begin to chip away at any hardness that is daily attempting to reconstruct itself. This time, though, it was like a sledgehammer to my heart, and it seems I had a masonry to pound because I was in tears nearly all the way through. He spoke from the faith chapter, in Hebrews. Yet it was not faith he focused on, and since it’s been about a week and a half (and I didn’t take notes), I’ve lost most of what he said (sorry, not too flattering, I know)….BUT, what stuck like gum on hot cement was simply that I forgot.

I’ve been so busy just trying to make it through each day, trying to be a good mother, trying to keep up with the housework, trying to shuttle everyone where they need to be, trying to make it to church and stay even when I’m throwing up and having diarrhea, trying to make family memories, trying to work through trying relationships, trying to find time for myself to read and do things I enjoy, trying to love Jeff and meet his needs, and trying to just keep going (all of which I am not doing well)….that I forgot God.

How is it that one person can do all these things for Him, and yet, forget Him in the process?

When I was first in the hospital, I was surrounded by His presence. I didn’t have to work for it, I didn’t have to try, and when I came home, my emotions were so raw and this body so frail, that He was my only source of strength. In my weakness, I was strong.

But something happened a couple months ago…I don’t know what. It’s almost as if the stronger my body became, the better adjusted I became to my chronic diarrhea, the more I began to slowly rely on myself than I relied on Him, and I was slapped in the face, quite rudely, with the realization that in my strength, I’ve reverted to the worst sort of weakness. I’ve been short-tempered and angry with those around me and my heart needs an overhaul. I try to squelch the irritation and impatience, but I’m miserably floundering. And I haven’t even wanted to face myself because I didn’t like what I saw.

Some teenagers behind me at a Ranger’s game last week were laughing and talking boisterously which was fairly annoying, but when they started throwing ice at each other and a piece hit me on the back, I nearly lost my calm and let my tongue run loose with unrestrained fury. It took every ounce of self-control for me to stay rigid and face the front. I barely acknowledged the apology, and it took me at least 10 minutes to cool down. That’s not me. I’m not an angry person, and my usual response is to be too others-focused, to my own detriment.

Even after realizing all of this and confessing to God, the emotion still spills forth. I’m tired of the spiritual battle, I’m tired of the physical struggle, the mental strain, and the daily exhaustion I feel every night as I crash into bed. What can I DO about any of it?

Well, pragmatically, I can’t do anything to alleviate my physical problems, but I know if I can re-focus my inner lens upward instead of inward, I know that will affect the mental and emotional strain I’m under.

My faith is not in question here. Neither is my hope in eternity. What I struggle with is purely self-absorption. I daresay that’s the crux of most of our daily problems, yours even. Self. It gets in the way of everything. I’m in my own way. Sounds kind of silly, but really I’m the only one hindering the peace I seek. When we put ourselves before God, we make ourselves an idol, opening up the door for every kind of woe.

Have I gotten so sick of myself that I’ve gotten down on my knees and humbly asked God for his help? No. That’s pride, still thinking that I can do this by myself. Have I, like Hebrews 12:4 says, resisted against sin “to the point of shedding [my] blood”? No. Have I sat, deeply entrenched in God’s holy word, for hours as I attempt to seek out answers? No.

Have I cried out to God and confessed that I’m a sinner undeserving of his love and mercy? Yes. Have I poured out my woes and troubles and heavy heart? Yes. Have I admitted I’m ready to change? Yes. Have I let the cracking of the hardness around my heart commence to shattering? Yes. Am I broken? Yes.

Take me where I am, Lord, and lead me in the way everlasting. If there be any pebble left around my heart, find it and obliterate it. Make my heart soft and supple, Lord. Keep me from distractions, and let me be filled with you. Take this wretched self and move me out of the way. I want to be like Christ. Take this furrow between my brows and smooth the crease out. Bring back the joy I had in simply learning that I was alive. I want to remember.

Introducing....Coco

2011-06-07T19:01:00.000-07:00

This is Coco, my new bidet.

Coco and I pose as we gear up to become BFF's!

Silly, I know. But you really cannot fathom how excited I am about this bidet, ESPECIALLY after trying her out. I realize that in other countries this is no big deal, but I'm just a good ol' American girl who has neither lived/visited overseas since I was a little girl, and in Greece, there were no bidets, just a hole in the floor.

In preparation for my trial run, for I wanted the full effect, I sucked down my Diet Sun Drop, nearly all 12 ounces, knowing that would get my bowels a movin' and a shakin'. Jeff read me the "User's Easy Manual" with pictures, and I giggled my way through the button explanations (seen in the above picture on the left side). Things such as "massage" and "turbo wash" and "drying" never crossed my mind, for in my ignorance, I assumed that bidets simply squirted one's rear end with water and that was that. Oh no. My Coco (for that is the brand name and thus, she is christened) is so much more sophisticated than all that.

This particular bidet (the cheapest Jeff could find, and yet, exorbitant in my book) is basically a fancy toilet seat that plugs into the wall. I hopped on as Jeff stood there in expectation. Normally, when I have to 'go' I'm not gun shy, but for some reason, this time I experienced major stage fright.

"Umm, honey. Could you step out, please?" And then I was able to continue to purge my Sun Drop with ease.

I called him back in, where he proceeded to show me all the buttons on the apparatus. Each button has a simple picture of an anatomical part of the lower body in need of cleansing. I pushed the "wash" button and heard it make noise. Nothing happened, so I told Jeff, "I don't think this is working."

And then my anal cavity got quite the cold, wet shock, as a stream of icy water gushed right out on me.

"Ahhhhh."

I began screaming and giggling all at the same time. "Stop this thing. It's cold." And, it would have sprayed for 2 full minutes had I not pressed the "stop" button.

Jeff said, "well, I can fix that." He pressed the "hot water" button and soon the stream turned warm. Now that was nice, let me tell you. Then my seat began to heat up, on purpose. All I needed was my Kindle and I could have been there a few hours.

I then tried out the "turbo" cycle and that was like a Super Soaker 2000, and was entirely too strong, supposedly created for constipation (not one of my problems). I barely made it 10 seconds. I then tried the "bidet" cycle, which...ahem... I'll let you guess what it cleaned. That was a little too ticklish and intimate for my taste, so I decided to head through the "dry" cycle. My own built-in hand dryer, except it wasn't for the hands.

I thought I'd better toilet paper dry myself to make sure I got all cleaned, and to my utter amazement and rather provincial shock, I was clean and dry.

Friends, this will revolutionize my misery. I invite you to come over and try it one day. It's in the office, one for all, and all for one!

Here's to Jeff and my new best friend, Coco!

Life and the Bidet (not ON)

2011-06-07T18:25:00.001-07:00

I guess I should update this thing and let you all know that I am doing better, mentally and emotionally. I think I just needed to get it out and allow myself to feel those very real feelings, as awful as they were.

Some new adjustments just hit me harder than others. I thought that I’d be through “adjusting” by this point and yet, here I am, getting very dehydrated on the weekends from being in the heat (my pharmacist helped me root out the problem), and throwing up every Sunday and most Mondays… I’m supposed to be drinking 1 liter a day, at least that’s what Jeff was asked when we talked to the Univ. of Nebraska yesterday. 1 liter. Good night! I can’t even keep down 4 ounces of water at a time, much less drink an entire liter per day. And considering I can’t eat and drink at the same time, that means most of my day is taken up with putting something in my mouth, either liquid or solid. Don’t exactly have time to be monitoring that so closely with my 3 little ones still little.

However, I realize that if I get too dehydrated, I’ll wind up back in the hospital…where I’d rather not be. My pharmacist (from the infusion company) told me I had two options: 1.) add more fluid to my overnight TPN bag to see if that would help or 2.) hook up to an i.v. bag of straight up fluid during the day. I don’t really like either option, but I’m waiting to see what my doctor decides, and I have to do something.

Potty-training Lexi (2 year old) wasn’t working out so well, so I bailed on that, fully intending to try again later in the summer. It’s too hard for me to try and get myself off the toilet to run her to the potty when the timer goes off, especially if I’m not done. And, to be quite honest, I despise those tiny potties that you can put anywhere. I don’t want to have to clean it. So, I don’t buy the gross potty and I don’t potty train on the real one. One stressor down.

Now that we’ve pinpointed why I’ve been so sick lately, I feel better about that, too, especially knowing there are active steps I can make, even if neither option are particularly appealing. Two stressors down.

Also, now that we have insurance, Jeff has been in contact with the University of Nebraska to check with them about re-enrolling me in their Intestinal Rehabilitation Program, henceforth, IRP. They said they may need a follow-up visit, so the entire Medina clan may be flying up there this summer. I’m kind of excited to see if they can tell if there’s been any growth in my small intestine…though if I have to do the Barium enema again, I might rather NOT know. I had diarrhea for HOURS (until 1 a.m.) after the first one, and it was horrid, absolutely horrid.

As I type, I hear Jeff behind me in the office bathroom. He bought me a present, a bidet, and he’s currently working on installing it! A very nice lady emailed me that with her intestinal problems that led to ‘raw bottom’ a bidet is what helped her. I happened to read Jeff the email and then thought nothing else of it.

The next thing I know, he’s acting all secretive about a present he ordered. I didn’t pay any attention to him, but he kept asking me if a package had come in the mail. Apparently, the version he bought was on back-order. Anyway, when he finally confessed what he’d bought me, I laughed and laughed…and then I thought “what a truly sweet thing to do for me.” It came in the mail just this evening as we were putting the children to bed, and he’s wasted no time in trying to put it together. Basically, it’s not the uber-fancy kind you see in 5-star hotels (or on t.v. shows about 5 star hotels, ‘cause goodness knows, we’ve never stayed in one), but it’s a toilet seat, with a cord, and an electronic panel with buttons, like those massage chairs at pedicure places. He’s grunting and breathing heavy, so it seems like it’s a lot of work because he’s also fidgeting with the tank and flipping through his instruction manual.

I’m sure there will be some funny blogs to follow once I try out this exceptional device. Stay tuned for more….

Making Babies

2011-06-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

Sitting and thinking are two things I do really well. Well, there might be more, but when I sit, which doesn’t happen often during the day, I think.

This evening my mind’s been churning. I’ve been sitting in the semi-darkness (probably part of my problem) in a quiet house nosing through others’ lives on Facebook, and growing weary of that I pull up my blank page.

I am inexplicably sad today, and it is partly to do with what I saw when I got out of the shower this evening.

I got out of the shower, pulled on some pajama pants a friend had gifted me with several years ago but were always just a little too tight (now they are loose), and a shelf tank top, which has never quite covered it all, if you get my drift. Tonight, though, everything covered, I stared into the mirror feeling like a skeletal shell of myself. It’s been nearly a year since my incident and I’m about 20 pounds lighter, and as I stood there with my nose more prominent than ever, my shoulder blades poking out, and my pants actually loose in my rear end and thigh area, I felt frightened and oh so sad.

I could just imagine myself with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. I already have the dark circles. No amount of sun and shine can hide that. Is that what another year will bring?

People look at me all the time and tell me how healthy I look. But, I’m not. I’m not ‘in shape’ as I once was when I was running and lifting weights. After last weekend’s t-ball practice in the near-100 degree heat, followed by a day of t-ball games, and a Sunday afternoon game at the Ballpark, I barely made it back to the car; I thought I was going to conk out on the sidewalk. I know now that I was probably dehydrated, or close to it. My body cannot hydrate as quickly as everyone else’s, since I can’t suck down cold liquids; they come right out. I'm now one of those thin out-of-shape people and I loathe it. I want to run again, to have endurance, to play tennis and run the bases in a softball game.

I love the sun. I love the beach. I love being by pools. I can handle heat tolerably well. I should say I ‘could’ do those things. I can’t now and it’s yet another adjustment, my summer adjustment. Even taking the children out in the backyard to their kiddie pool for an hour in this June Texas heat is proving hard and I find excuses to pop inside or sit in the shade…which, if you know me at all from the past, I envied the life of a reptile, lazing away the day in the sun and slithering into the water when in need of a little cool-down.

That adjustment, as hard as it is, really isn’t my source of despondency for the day. True, all those thoughts coursed through my head as I stared at my dwindling body.

Today I faced mortality. I saw it in my eyes as it stared back at me, haunted, yet securely entrenched within the certainty of their depths. I saw the possibility of a shortened life, something I have not thought about in months. I saw myself slowly slipping away from life, one pound at a time, slipping away from my children because my body cannot supply its own need.

Tonight when I sang to them as they prepared to sleep, I couldn’t keep the lump out of my throat and I nearly choked trying to sing. The “what ifs” were crushing me because I know in all probability I will die of some complication due to the lack of intestine, but when?

Have I loved my children enough if I don’t make it another year? Will they remember me, or will I just be a smell or a fleeting impression to them? Will they someday call someone else “mommy” and if so, will she give them what they need? If I do live awhile longer, will I be sickly and unable even to go for a walk to the park with them? What if, what if, what if?

Lord Jesus, have mercy on this tortured soul. I know these fears aren’t from you, but tonight, they crowd my thoughts and take up residence in my mind.

My fear turns to anger as I am once again forced to accept this altered state of health. Every morning I wake up wondering if the diarrhea is going to do me in for the day, as it did yesterday. From 6-10 a.m. my insides were tormented, but not nearly as much as my exit-only hole. The burning fire and searing pain is almost too much to bear at times, and yet I have a lifetime to bear it. I do not want to bear it.

Tonight I am selfish and want it to be someone else’s burden, someone else’s thorn.

Tonight, I want to be pregnant again, and suddenly, I cannot even write because I can't even see through the wall of tears pouring from my eyes. God, I want to be pregnant again, to glow with health and the expectant beauty of motherhood. I want to get fat and happy and eat my way through a bucket of fried chicken. I want to chart the days, the growth, the milestones of another child. I want to feel the kicks, the discomfort sidling up my ribcage as he outgrows his sheltering home and fights his way out into this world and into my waiting arms.

It is not to be. Never to be.

Never is such an awful word. It’s so final, so determined, so brutal. I grit my teeth and ball my fists in helpless fury. FURY, which quickly subsides to a throbbing longing, empty and unfulfilled.

I curse inside my head, but it does no good. I scream in my head, but it does no good. I rage in my head, but it does no good.

Is this then what it’s all about today? I think it may be. My body is ripe for producing life, belying the truth of my situation. My mind is warring against the truth. My heart is sinking with the truth.

I was made for making babies. I shall make no more.

The Beach

2011-05-21T06:55:00.000-07:00

We're back from a week-long trip to the beach with my side of the family. Jeff couldn't go because of class and work. He's taking Arabic and can't get behind. My parents rented a house in Gulf Shores, a beautiful beach, and several of my brothers and their families were able to make it, too. It was such a beautiful time of watching the little cousins play and interact. They simply love each other.

Mommy-duty was kind of hard without my trusty side-kick, and I think I won't travel without him ever again, if possible. This was our family's first time at the beach. The children don't know how to swim yet, and I couldn't take them in very far. Not past my knees since I can't get the central line site, on my chest, wet. It was rather upsetting moment of acceptance, for the beach is my most favorite place in the whole wide world. I wanted to elope with Jeff and get married on the beach, but we knew my parents might not have liked that idea too much.

Anyway, I do wish Jeff had been with us to take the children in further than knee-deep and to help them get used to being around water. Our kiddie pools in the back yard aren't exactly the same thing. The children had a fun time anyway, in spite of my regrets. They helped their uncles build sand castles, we went for walks, they had bubble fights with their cousins, and they jumped the itty-bitty waves as all three hung onto me. Even Lexi would scream "NO" when I'd turn around to head back to our towels. And when she'd go for a walk, if we stopped for any reason, her little two-year-old voice would pipe up "keep walking." I hope they'll inherit my love for the beauty, the serenity, and the oneness with God that I feel staring out across those watery depths.

And one day, I pray, I hope against all odds, that I'll be able to shed my central line for good and immerse myself in the salty bath with my children and my husband by my side.

It was pretty cold the first few days so we stayed bundled up. It didn't stop the children from having a great time, though!

That Was My Face

2011-05-11T19:20:00.000-07:00

I realize that most of my blogs lately are all about my emotional health, physical health, and just general well-being. That kind of reading can get old after awhile, both boring to read and to write…so I’m more than delighted to bring back some old school funky cold levity.

This story has been milling around my mind for the past two days, but I’ve just not had an opportunity to sit down and pound it out. Well, to be honest, I had time yesterday, but no energy. This evening, one diet Sundrop later (it doesn’t have sugar so I can drink it even though diet drinks are normally quite repulsive) I find my house semi-clean, most of the laundry put away, except the pile sitting beside me, and the children in bed (though I do hear the girls giggling and clapping). Whatever. They’re mostly quiet and not yelling, so I’ll leave them be for the present.

This story begins a few weeks ago. You know my main point of vanity – the eyebrows. I keep a very watchful eye on those pups. As soon as they begin to sprout beyond what my tweezers can control, or begin to cultivate back into a uni, it’s time to mow the wiry weeds back into some semblance of shape and order. Well, as I was scrutinizing the eyebrows in the mirror, my gaze caught a glimpse of dark fuzz above my upper lip. I asked Jeff, who happened to be ironing in the next room, if he ever noticed my upper lip. His answer, “oh yeah, ever since we got married.”

Oh.

So, I’ve defended my lip against the persistent waxers for no reason?

Hmph. That got me to thinking. I want to be attractive to my husband, right? I mean, he’s a guy, I’m a girl. Obviously, he’s attracted to me. But, I had a small moment of worry. Why hadn’t he ever said anything about my ‘stache’ before? And why does it seem darker than before? Is it my medicine? Normally, when I sit out in the sun, it bleaches…but I’ve got a fairly decent tan already and that dark fuzz is REALLY dark fuzz.

Monday morning dawned. I went to counseling and then on my way home decided to stop by my nail salon, which, ironically, I’ve never had my nails done.

As soon as I walk in, I hear “you want your eyebrows done?” Umm, yes. Either I’m that memorable or my eyebrows are, probably, I thought with a sigh, the latter. Remember, this is the same lady who asked me where I was from and then said I looked Russian.
She motioned me back to the little room and onto the table whose cover looked even more dingy than the last time I went. I almost hated to lay down, but I hadn’t showered yet for the day, so I knew I could go home and scrub scrub scrub.

As I lay myself down, mentally cringing and staying very still since I was wearing shorts and a tank top and I didn’t really want my skin to touch the sheet, my lady walked in.

I said, “can you go ahead and wax my upper lip while you’re at it? My husband noticed it.”

And she gloated. “I tol’ you, I tol’ you, your guy don’t like it.”

I did not quite remember her ever saying that to me, but occasionally we encounter barriers in the English language where we don’t understand one another, but nod in agreement anyway. I figured this had to be one of the times.

I’m really hardened to the pain of the eyebrows being torn out of their follicles by that hot inflexible wax. Not so much the lip.

She had me laughing over her mother’s day experience (at least, I think it was supposed to be a funny story), and so I was hardly prepared for the scalding glob of wax she smeared across my upper lip. Admittedly, I had second thoughts, but it was much too late. She tore that strip off my lip like an unwanted piece of tape on a window pane. My eyes smarted and immediately started streaming tears.

My body was in shock over the pain of that very sensitive area, and it throbbed like nobody’s business. Contemplating the utter scandal of the torture, I barely noticed that she had moved down to the right side of my face, near the corner of my lip. Once it finally registered, she’d already ripped that part of my face off and I gave myself over to the tears wondering in numb astonishment if I could possibly have hair growing out of the side of my mouth. Crumbs from breakfast maybe, but hair?

This whole time she was talking, but I really don’t think it was English, or maybe I just didn’t have the capacity to focus as diligently as I had previously. Then she began cackling with glee and what she said was very English.

“You crying, you crying.” Hee hee hee. Now she’s laughing at me.

Then she’s off to the left side of my face, painting and ripping away like unwanted wallpaper.

Seriously?

My face was throbbing and swelling and pulsating, and it did not escape my notice that the pain she left in her aggressive wake was entirely in the shape of a handlebar mustache. Great. Just great.

Then she went after my chin, which miraculously, didn’t hurt, but of course, how would I know since the rest of my lower face was on fire!

I wanted to yell, “Lady, I don’t have a goatee. Give me a break!” But, of course, I didn’t.

And then she inched nearer and nearer to my lips themselves. MY LIPS?!?! You’ve got to be kidding me. Oh, she wasn’t. She snatched off any atom of being, dead or alive, as she exfoliated my precious little lips, and yes, the tears kept flowing.

She finished up, wiped off the remaining pieces of wax, and as I stumbled my way to the front of the store to pay, my nose breath kept knocking something against my lips. A stray piece of wax that resembled a spinning web in the making was blowing in my own personal wind.

That wasn’t the worst part. My face was still throbbing in that strange handlebar shape, and of course, when you get parts waxed, they turn BRIGHT FIRE-ENGINE RED. So, I walked out sporting a bright red mutton chop.

To make matters worse, Jeff called and asked me to run by Taco Bell to pick up something for lunch. I complied, but was too busy bemoaning my fate to think it could be a mistake.

I pulled through the drive-through and when I got to the window, the lady who never talks (and I recognized her by her mouthful of gold teeth) took one look at me and said “You’re looking good today.”

I nearly choked, but managed to pull myself together long enough to state the UN-obvious. “Thank you. I just got my eyebrows waxed.”

She just raised hers in return and handed me the food.

You think my story ends there, but it doesn’t. You may not remember this, but I have very sensitive skin. Everything breaks me out. This “upper lip” wax that turned out to be a face wax was no exception.

Yesterday, I started itching, and though I tried not to scratch, my nimble fingers could not help discovering a curiously shaped line of tiny red bumps all along where my skin had been so rudely molested . My chin withstanding the assault, the handle bar shape was, and still remains, a patch of itchy break out.

I pulled out my washcloth and my stockpile of armaments … my Mary Kay products. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my face was nearly raw, but I woke up this morning and there was no change. Not like I can put make-up on over it because knowing my skin, that would only further serve to irritate my face.

Sigh. Welcome to my world. That’s what I get for being vain. It’ll be my just desserts should the hair grow back thicker and darker than before my beauty attempt.

Growling, Howling, and Yowling

2011-05-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

So, tomorrow is Mother’s Day, a day I rarely think of in relation to myself. I always think of my own mother…especially since we’ll spending the day with them.

What is it about being a mother that’s so delightfully complicated, intrinsically natural, yet so stinkin’ hard all wrapped up into one taco roll of a filial bond?

Jeff and I attended a conference this weekend…well, to be honest, we attended part of the conference and only yesterday afternoon. It was on Suffering, Sin, and the Cosmos and it was technically for biblical counselors, but the general topic is one of intense interest to us. We weren’t able to be present at some of the sessions that I really wanted to hear, but interestingly enough, the ones we did hear (even the one on sexual addictions which was really quite fascinating) were what we needed to hear.

I’ve admitted recently via my facebook status that I’ve been a grizzly bear of a mother around bedtime. Typically, I’m not an angry person, though yes, as a result of the situation I now find myself, I have struggled with flare-ups of the blazing red-eyed monster. Admittedly, blistering rage has filled my heart from time to time when I’ve had a particularly rough day and I am reminded of the position I’m in as a result, not of the accident itself, but the aftermath of being forced to fumble through taking care of this mess ourselves because there’s been a general lack of concern evidenced from those whom I thought would make an effort to help me.

I am reminded, however, that no matter what people or institutions fail me…because they have, terribly, and they will…my God has provided for my every need up to this point through the generosity of a support network of people who have nothing to do with the situation and could have easily ignored my tragedy. It is humbling that Holy, Mighty God would deign to continue to display his loving care toward me, a sinful, selfish, and occasionally raging soul. And it is in those moments that I am further reminded that this life, this trial, this thorn so prickly to my flesh and painful to my core, is not all about me. It is about Him and the work He is choosing to do in my life to bring my character more in line with His. And so I breathe in the freshness of His love and I breathe out the bitter gall of fury.

If only it were that easy to do with the children.

Once Jeff went back to work, a blessing and relief all around, I found myself doing much of the parenting alone. Bedtime has usually been a relatively easy thing when Jeff and I are both home. However, since my energy levels have fluctuated from way below normal to slightly below normal and now somewhat normal, by the time bedtime rolls around, I’m done. D-O-N-E.

I growl and snap and snip my way through pottying, teeth-brushing, Bible story, singing, and lights out. I mean, good night, right in the middle of Jesus telling Lazarus to “come forth” I’m barking at Scarlett to quit rolling around the floor, I’m nearly howling at Gideon to get his finger out of his nose and his feet off of his sister because she’s starting to cry, and I’m trying to snatch Lexi one-armed as she’s shimmying and giggling her way up onto Scarlett’s bed so she can jump off. Sadly, Lazarus never made it out of the tomb the other night because I slapped that picture Bible shut so quick, Lazarus’s linens still smelled of perfume.

Night after night it’s the same thing, and even though spending time in the Word and deep in prayer has helped, the flash of irritation still creeps out unexpectedly.

But, Jeff helped me figure things out as we combined things we heard from each session, not necessarily pertaining to parenting, but just good, sound, biblical advice.

Here’s the deal. I have an expectation that my children will obey the first time I ask them to do something. They are corrected if they don’t. That’s not an unrealistic expectation…or is it? I start to get angry or irritated when I feel like I’m constantly correcting them for the same ‘offense’ or whatever it may be they’re doing (or not doing) when I know they know the choice they ought to be making.

However, I believe in original sin, that through the disobedient act of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, all of mankind was stained with unrighteousness, sin deserving of death. That stain of sin, imputed to us all, clearly evident in children and their selfish ways, doesn’t magically disappear when they have been instructed to “obey the first time or else….” They are still sinners in need of God’s amazing grace! Ha. Imagine that. How in the world can I expect my preschool-aged children to consistently make the right choices when the Holy Spirit of God does not indwell within them?

It seems so obvious to me now what needs to be done. They don’t need to change…because they won’t until Christ has rule within their hearts and they have the Holy Spirit to guide their actions. Instead, I am the one who needs to change my expectations.

My stress level of parenting during conflict has just dropped by about 75%.

This little epiphany is not an excuse to allow my children to make whatever poor decisions they want until that great day of faith comes….shame on me if I allow it. It is still my responsibility to point them to the cross, which means showing them the right way to treat others, the types of ‘good’ choices that lead to peace and harmony with each other, and correcting their choices in love when they don’t. I also have to remember that when they disobey, it’s not a personal attack on me, so I have no right to be angry unless it’s anger that’s kingdom focused (and how often can we admit that’s our driving motivation in behavioral correction if we’re truly being honest?). Their disobedience is not a personal rejection of me; they’re rejecting Christ because it’s what’s been credited to them from the Garden, the stain of sin and rebellion in their little hearts.

Furthermore, my expectation shouldn’t be that they’ll mess up every time. That’s ridiculously pessimistic. I set the standard. I set the expectation and set it high (but attainable), but if they fail, and when they fail, there’s no reason to get in a perfectly useless snit that merely serves to emotionally compound an already poor choice.

My goal is, and should be, their hearts. Am I a perfect mother? No. I think I’ve just more than admitted I’m not, and yet, I know what I must do. I can expect that Gideon may fight/kick/run away after he’s caught taunting his sister(s) and knows that discipline awaits him. I must expect that Scarlett may push her little sister down the slide for the umpteenth time because she’s in her way, and I must expect that Lexi may grab Scarlett’s Dora purse and run away screaming “mmmiiiiinnnneee” at the top of her lungs though I’ve told her over and over it’s not.

Am I still going to mess up and make mistakes and growl and howl and scowl and yowl? (Don’t you just love the English language?) Of course I am, but changing my perspective and expectations frees me to abound in love and increase in grace, the same grace I received so undeservedly.

Most gracious heavenly Father, I thank you for making this a matter of great clarity for me; I ask that you change my heart in relation to how I view bedtime and my expectations for how my children will behave. I ask that you guide my mind and guard my thinking. I rejoice in tomorrow, for the opportunity to see your grace at work in my life and the lives of my precious children, whom you have so graciously entrusted me. Amen.

12-hour TPN cycle

2011-05-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, this past Friday, I went to a 12-hour TPN cycle, with the possibility of moving to 10. I was so excited thinking that finally I was making progress. However, the 3 days I was on it were MISERABLE. Well, the mornings were anyway. I was so nauseous, I threw up, and I wanted to curl into a ball on my bed and close out the world. The only problems with that were that it hurt my stomach to curl into a ball, and I had children to care for.

Once I threw up and had copious amounts of diarrhea, I felt better…but, after talking to my pharmacist today (we went back to 14 hours last night to make sure it was the TPN and not a virus), and after asking all my questions, the fact remains that my body just can’t handle all that glucose/dextrose coming in at a faster rate. And since throwing up negates the work of the TPN (which is to nourish me), it’s quite anti-productive, at this point, to force myself to stay on the schedule just because it’s more convenient... not that I'd calling throwing up and feeling sick convenient...but you know what I mean.

Big Sigh. Progress will have to wait.

But, my pharmacist assures me we’ll try again, maybe going down to 13 hours first….and then to 12. Whatever the case, I’m just glad to have the nausea/vomiting behind me. I don’t do well with all of that.

Welcome 12-hour Cycle

2011-04-30T06:35:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update to let you know that some more good news has come my way. I think I mentioned a couple posts ago that I am now hooking up to my TPN only 6 days a week. In addition, I have a new dietician at my TPN company and she talked to me about lowering the number of hours I’m actually hooked up. So, as of yesterday, I called and my pharmacist talked me through changing my pump so that I’m now on a 12-hour cycle instead of a 14, but with the same volume as before. Whoo hoo! If my body responds well to this, then they’ll lower it to 10 hours. AMAZING! Just wanted to share my bit of good news and to thank you all for your continued prayers. However, this morning has already spent much of my waking time in the bathroom with stomach discomfort and pain, so….we’ll just have to wait and see if it gets any better.

I’m managing to maintain my weight on my skipped days, but eating so much is actually quite difficult. Someday, I hope to not have to keep my eye so rigidly on the scale, but until then, I praise God for keeping me healthy this month and allowing me to keep in enough nutrients to gain back two of the pounds I lost last week.

In other news, tomorrow is Jeff’s birthday, and he doesn’t know I have a little surprise in store. Are you wondering why I even posted that on the blog? Well, he rarely ever reads it unless I tell him he should. So, if you’re friends with him on Facebook, send him a little message. I want him to have a fantastic day!

Happy Easter

2011-04-24T16:28:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter from the Medina clan!

Thoughts on Easter

2011-04-22T13:02:00.000-07:00

It might seem as though I’ve given up on writing. Well, I haven’t exactly. With Jeff working again, it seems I have turned into some kind of Turbo Mom, and I love it. I think part of my newly zooming life revolves around the fact that I feel so much better about life.

I’ve always dressed up on Sundays for church because that’s just what we did growing up. With a dad as a pastor in small rural southern communities, he was cut from the cloth that you put on your best for God’s day. Even when I felt my poorest, I still managed to perk up a bit for Sundays. But, with the iron infusions behind me, these last couple of weeks have seen a marked improvement in my energy levels. I nap for less than an hour, instead of the 2-3 hours, and I actually fix my hair and sometimes put on makeup on days other than Sunday.

I've even been allowed, this last month, to go down to 6 days a week of TPN, instead of 7. I did well maintaining my weight but last week did me in. I picked a day where I was so busy, I didn't get a chance to eat every two hours. I wound up losing about 4 pounds instead of the normal 2. I've not been able to gain them back. My dietician told me we may have to go back to 7 days a week (at least for awhile) if I lose any more weight. I pray not for I love my day off. It's wonderful. Last night, I skipped. I even ate half a hamburger *from Braum's since they make them with 100% beef*, a few fries, and a few sips of Sprite. IT STAYED IN ALL NIGHT. Nothing has stayed in all night in forever....and to think part of a hamburger did, well, it's nothing short of a miracle and a reminder that God is still at work in my intestine. Amen?!?

The first week Jeff went back to work was really hard for me. I’d forgotten how demanding being a mom was, and it didn’t help that I still wasn’t back to my post-procedure top percentage. I was grouchy, growly, and just plain stressed. We ate out quite a few times that week because I just didn’t think I could get dinner together. All of that, thankfully, has improved, and we’re staying busy with soccer (NOT a favorite of Gideon’s) and now t-ball (which he’s loving).

Soccer was such an issue, I almost let him quit, but then I remembered my parents never let me quit anything. I asked, begged, and pleaded to play soccer when I was in the 4th or 5th grade. Things weren’t so ridiculously competitive back then, so even though there was no girl’s team for me to play on, my parents reluctantly let me play on a boy’s team. I hated it. I wasn’t very good, and I didn’t like to play sports I wasn’t good at. My silky slinky soccer shorts were always riding up in all the wrong places and mean boys from another team even tripped me, ON PURPOSE, during one game. I wanted to quit, but my parents made me see the season through. I then went on to play softball, tennis, and volleyball, and loved those sports, so it really shouldn’t surprise me that my own son disliked soccer from the beginning.

The first game Gideon was “that” kid who, as soon as he was put in position, ran off the field crying. Frankly, it was somewhat embarrassing at first because my children are “good” children in public (for the most part). They behave in Sunday school, at preschool, etc. They are very social and make friends on any playground. So, it was not how I’d foreseen the first game would go. After I got over my embarrassment, I realized he couldn’t quit. The coach asked us what we wanted to do, and I very intelligently, just shrugged. This was a new dilemma beyond my mothering skills so far. Anyway, she put Gideon back in at goalie, and let Jeff stand back there with him. He stayed in the game. The next couple of games he ran off crying again, but I told him for every time he ran off, I’d march him back on (which was true at practice, too).

Perseverance is hard, and this soccer thing was hard on Gideon, me, and Jeff (well, not so much when he went back to work and couldn’t be at practices or games). One mom a couple games ago, went on the field with Gideon and when the ball came near him she’d run off the field and yell for him. It was a great help to me, since I was trying to keep up with the two girls by myself. Remember, this is a four-year-old team. I later found out that the other team complained to the referee and he forced her, very unwillingly, off the field. She’s a fiery one and apparently, had a few choice things to say to the other team parents. She told me about it the next week, and I was immediately incensed…because he’s a child, for heaven’s sake! Errrggghhh. Competition is good and healthy, but at this age, the game is all about creating confidence, and if I’d have known what was going on, I may have had a few things to say myself.

Anyway, this last Saturday, I am proud to say that Gideon stayed in the entire game. Did he participate on the field? No. But, he stayed on and crowd-watched as the game went on behind him. Did he participate as goalie? Yes! Immense satisfaction filled my heart as I realized a small victory had been made. And then I was ashamed that I’d ever been embarrassed that he’d run off the field crying. He’s my son and I love him.
I started thinking about perseverance. Scripture, specifically Romans 5:3-4, tells us that “3 we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4 perseverance, character; and character, hope.” How true is that, not only in my life with what I’ve been through and continue to struggle with, but also what I’m teaching my young son, though he may not be fully aware of it yet.

The greatest thing in the life of a believer is the hope that resides in our hearts as a result of our faith in Christ’s great sacrifice, realized today, this Good Friday, when he willingly went to the cross for our sins. When we lose sight of that eternal hope, we become fixated on ourselves and our own problems. We are inundated with self and can’t see beyond our own needs. We become crippled Christians which affects not only ourselves, but our families, our testimonies, and our church families. (This is another blog all together for another day)

What I’m trying to get at is that in this small way, by not allowing Gideon to give up because soccer created fears in him and it was somewhat painful and scary, Jeff and I are training him for perseverance in life, specifically in the Christian life we pray he will desire for his own. Will we force him to play soccer another year? Probably not because he’s fallen in love with t-ball, and that’s okay, too. But, will he play in this last game tomorrow. You betcha!

Will we all gather Sunday morning to celebrate our Eternal Hope, Jesus Christ, on his day of resurrection?!? Yes, and will we explain to him, again, why we have hope, why this day is so very important, and what it takes to claim it as his own? Yes, indeed.
Persevere, my suffering friends, for it is producing steadfast character, shaping you as you stand the test of your trial. Christ is ultimately after your heart, and he will allow trials to sculpt it to his own likeness. Do not lose sight of the hope that dwells in your heart. Remember this weekend and the Savior who loves you, who died for you, and who overcame death to offer you eternal life found only in him. He is risen!

On Receiving...and Sacrificing

2011-04-07T09:57:00.001-07:00

So, writing has obviously not been at the top of my list. Many things have transpired since I last wrote. Some good, some not so good.

For instance, I am now anemic, so I’ve had next to no energy. I did 5 different iron infusions and I’m just now feeling a bit more energized. Not much, but a bit. That’s why I haven’t written. I’ve just been too tired.

In other Medina family news, I am happy to report that Jeff has a job. He’s working back at the Chick-fil-A where he used to work, but this time as a manager. He’s working nights, so that’s been a tremendous challenge for me to get used to doing bedtime all alone. We rejoice that he has a job, and I personally did a happy dance because it forced us to finally buy another car. Jeff’s schedule, going straight from school to work, is no longer conducive to our family only having one car. We’ve done it for over 5 years, but I am so excited to have now joined the ranks of mini-van driving soccer moms. It’s an older van, but it’s new to me, and we still only have one car payment, so I feel free to enjoy tooling myself and the children around where we need to go.

We were having trouble finding the right combination of low miles, quality car, and affordable price. But, God plopped this van on a lot we checked out of the blue. It was cheaper than everything else, had been incredibly well-maintained, had never been in an accident, and averaged a low 10,000 miles per year. I knew God had set that van out for us; it was the only one in the used car lot. When I sat in the driver’s seat, it was if it had been perfectly formed for my backside. I fit in all the right grooves and I told Jeff “this is it.”

The haggling and paperwork was overwhelming. Buying a car is simply not fun and takes forever (even longer when you have 3 preschoolers along). But, praise God I have a car again. I sold my car when Jeff and I first got married, so I could pay off his credit card which had school bills from seminary. It was a huge sacrifice for me and my ‘freedoms’, one I didn’t know would last 5 years.

But, more and more I learn about making sacrifices and what is expected from my Christian life. Life is not about having the biggest, newest, or best things. It’s not even about having lots of lesser value items either. Life is about making sacrifices for what’s important and making choices that affect eternity. I made the sacrifice to sell my car. I made the sacrifice to stay home with my children and for us to live on what Jeff brought home because, for me to be able to stay home with our children was the most important part of motherhood. I could have worked and I could have been driving an SUV Cadillac tricked out with rims, sunroof, and tinted windows, but no, we drove a 4-door Chevy Cobalt not made for three car seats and two parents. I was squeezed into the back like Pizza Hut’s stuffed crust, between two car seats and two children who couldn’t keep their hands off me. I oozed all over the place, especially when I was pregnant.

Making sacrifices isn’t easy; in fact, most times it’s really hard. But it wouldn’t be a sacrifice any other way, would it? I think about each of you faithful readers. Many of you have made monetary sacrifices in order to help my family through our hardship, and though we are INCREDIBLY grateful for your help, our gratitude, in no way, can compare to how God thinks about your obedient act to Him. Many times obedience isn’t about who’s doing the receiving; rather, it’s about you and your relationship to God, for sacrifice is an act of worship to our creator, Holy Awesome God.

A 5K Kind of Day

2011-03-07T07:05:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting here full of thoughts of Saturday. Several of you have expressed an interest in knowing how the day went. It was incredible.

We didn’t make it quite as early as planned because I had to make a potty pit stop on the way. As soon as we drove into the parking lot and saw all the cars already assembling, people directing traffic, things set up, people milling around, and others lined up behind us, I got all teary. It’s not like that’s very hard for me these days, but to think that all of the preparations had been made, planned, and it was THE BIG DAY, was very emotional for me. To think that it was all done to help my family was just a tremendous overload to my emotional system. Crying is the only way to get it back in line!

Most of our extended family had already arrived and was busy at work. We signed in and got our armbands, and made our way across the bridge to where the start/finish lines were. Gideon and Scarlett had helped me make a paper chain for the finish line. We headed over to tape it up, only it was SO COLD and SO WINDY, it was very difficult to do. With the help of my FBC Everman friends, we got it up there, only losing about a foot or two of chain.

I’m so glad I brought the children coats and Jeff threw in some blankets last minute. Even with a long sleeve shirt, sweater, and light weight jacket, I was shivering within minutes of being out there. My mother to the rescue: she doesn’t believe in being cold. She brought extra layers for Beverly (my friend from D.C.) and me to put on. Thanks, mom!

I saw so many people who I knew and even more people who I didn’t know. As my pastor, Jim, said in church yesterday, “it’s easy for people who know and love (me) to attend something like this, but for those who don’t, it’s amazing.” Truly, it’s a testament of our Father in each life, pricking the heart and the desire to be a part of this amazing day.

Jeff took Gideon and Scarlett to walk, and I wasn’t sure if they’d make it the entire three miles. He left the stroller with me, so I knew they wouldn’t be in the head of the pack! The horn blew and off went the sprinters while the rest of the walkers sluggishly moved along creating a much slower pace. Beverly, Lexi, and I stationed ourselves near the finish line to cheer on the runners/walkers. The wind was blowing so hard poor little Lexi didn’t want down. I had her snuggled beneath a blanket as she lay in my arms.

20 minutes later, we saw the first two runners rounding the bend. We quickly assembled into our places and started cheering them on. Those boys were quick! The first fella broke through the paper chain, and I sighed a little sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to worry about the tape holding any longer! The second fella, hot on his heels, was a high-schooler who was the younger brother of a family friend. He raised $500 dollars for our family. I was so impressed.

And then I turned around behind me and saw a flash of white. It was my brother, Adrian (who doesn’t tan), running like the wind. Okay, this boy has done nothing but surprise me. I remember watching him learning to play soccer as a 4-year-old. He was too busy waving to all of us to pay attention to what was happening on the field. Anyway, from my observation, it looked like he was the 3rd person. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t see anyone else cross the finish line (unless I missed him as I turned around).

My oldest brother, Aaron, had decided not to run, as to keep the attention off himself and on me. Very sacrificial of him. I wasn’t sure if he thought he was going to win the race or what…but I’ll keep those thoughts to myself.

Anyway, he took off running behind Adrian with his video phone recording, which, upon viewing later, was incredibly funny, Beverly and I started chanting “Adrian, Adrian, Adrian.” Ha ha. Those white legs were flying. I was so proud of him. I yelled at him “didn’t know you could move that fast.”

Nipping his heels was a high school gal (daughter of our emcee) who was super fast, too.

After that, I lost track of who came in when, but I cheered them on the last length, encouraging them to pick up the pace just a bit and then high-fiving as they came through. That was the most fun, though I did start to feel as if I were losing my voice.

My other brother, Austin, came in, as did his wife, Heather, who said she’d wanted to quit running halfway through, but knew I wouldn’t have quit, so she kept running. I wanted to be in that race so bad; it seems years since I’ve run.

Then I see my dad. Mind you, he’d told me he was walking so he wore jeans and his S.C. Gamecock puffy coat, but when I saw him he was running. I had to laugh because true to his nature, when he got close to the finish line, he started the chicken walk across the finish line. Good ol dad!

Jeff’s family came across the line, friends I hadn’t seen in years, friends from church, new friends, and perfect strangers. I was having so much fun at the finish line, I didn’t hear my name being called to take a picture with the winners. Scarlett and I headed to the stage for the picture, and Jeff was summoned, too.
We took the picture, I said a quick word of thanks to everyone who’d braved the elements (at least it didn’t rain) and then I was given a beautiful quilt that the entire HGHG committee had signed. On that note, I need to find out where to get a quilt hanger thing to put on the wall.

At that point, many cold participants left for the warmth of home and car. For those who stayed, they were blessed to hear Summer Ames perform, Jim Wilson from local KCBI, and several other bands whose names I didn’t catch. There were quite a few people who hung around long enough to hear me give my testimony, which was very kind, since it was about 12:30 when I gave it and they HAD to be cold. The children played in the bounce houses, got their faces painted, ate their hotdogs and everyone sipped hot chocolate!

By that point, I’d sent my children home with my parents because they were just frozen, and I didn’t want anyone to get sick.

Regarding my testimony: You know I like to write things out, so I had 5 pages of what I thought was a beautifully scripted story (not to toot my own horn or anything), but I knew no one out in the cold wanted to listen to me read it even though I write better than I speak, so I opted for a shortened version and asked God to let come out whatever came out. And I shared. I’m only partially disappointed that I completely neglected to talk about my issues with diarrhea! You know that’s very important to my daily life, but I totally skipped over that part. Oh well. My dad said that some things were sometimes better left unstated. I guess he’s right.
My brother, Adrian, videoed the whole thing and is working on getting it posted to YouTube, if you’d be interested in listening. I managed to keep it together for the most part and only lost it there at the end, thank goodness.

The sun finally came out and it warmed up a tad, and we had a great time with the remaining faithful few. I got to see so many of my good friends that though it was impossible not to feel the cold air biting, it was bearable because of the amount of love flowing from person to person. I gave and received so many hugs and the event was truly a success. I was able to spend some quality time with my friend, Janessa, who’d had breast cancer while pregnant with her second child. If you were there, she was the crazy one wearing all the breast cancer pink, the crazy hat with braids, her husband was dressed like Larry the Cucumber, and she had a choreographed dance caught on video. Talk about celebrating life! Why do you think they are friends of mine?

I heard (and I’m not sure if this was a rumor or based in truth) that all 500 race bags had been given away and there might have been somewhere in the neighborhood of 750 people. Once again, I’m not putting it out there as truth, for there may have been less, but it was a blessing to see so many. There wasn’t a final tally to how much money had been raised because there had been requests to keep the Helping Hands account open so people could go home and give donations, but whatever it was will be thankfully received.

When all was nearly packed up and being put away, Jeff, Beverly, and I climbed in our car and headed to my parent’s house to visit with my out-of-town brothers. I was very exhausted by that point, but determined to see the day through. I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink all day because I wanted to spend time with people, not with the toilet, so when we got to my parent’s house, I ate. And that was a mistake, but it was so nice to hang out with family and sit in a warm house!

All in all, the day was more beautifully scripted than anything I could have ever written. Those who sacrificed their day, those who sacrificed months of preparation, those who gave so generously…it all perfectly came together, and I am so grateful to have been part of this wonderful experience. I’m not a scrapbooker, but I think I’ll scrapbook! If you have any great pictures or thoughts on the day, please send them to me!

To God be the Glory.

And P.S. One thing I forgot to add was that while the 5K was happening in Texas, a group of friends in Georgia got together and ran at the same time. How cool is tha

Pray for the 5K

2011-03-03T16:34:00.001-08:00

On Saturday, a group of individuals who were virtually strangers to me before my tragedy, have organized a 5K run Celebration of Life to help our family. I'm humbled by their hard work and diligence all to help meet my needs. Praising God for them!

The local newspaper picked up my story. Please pray for good weather, hordes of people, and peace in my heart as I share, for the first time publicly, the story of how my life was forever changed.

http://www.planostar.com/articles/2011/03/03/mesquite_news/news/2085.txt

Back in the Hospital

2011-02-25T19:03:00.000-08:00

So I haven’t updated the blog since my birthday story because I’ve been very sick. Long story short, after several diagnoses and rounds of antibiotics, one trip to the E.R., all while fever/chills continued, my parents stepped in.

My parents know me very well. Obviously. Sometimes I don’t like that. In fact, when they showed up last Saturday morning before 9:00 a.m. together, I was miffed. (That’s my dad’s word for me when I’m irritated with them) They insisted they were taking me to another hospital E.R. Admittedly, I wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do; I’d been running these weird fever/chills for over two weeks and I was just plain cranky. Jeff and I had just sat in an E.R. waiting room for 12 hours overnight (the worst possible time to be waiting) and I was released with a “bladder infection.” Perhaps I had one, but that certainly wasn’t all I had.

Anyway, when my parents showed up and I realized their plan of attack which was: don’t call Audrea and warn her we’re coming because she’ll get huffy and forbid it, but we’re coming anyway to bodily put her in the car if we have to and take her ourselves.

My dearest Jeff was no help. He saw me with frowny-face and simply shrugged his shoulders and said “whatever Audrea decides to do is fine with me.” That was not the type of help I was anticipating.

My mother told me to go take a shower, which I refused to do on the basis that I felt uncooperative. I’m 32 years old and I was acting like a teenager. I wish I had considering it was the next day before I finally got to bathe and I stunk.

So, I donned my clothes for the day, my Kindle (girls, that was the BEST gift ever), my pills, and my attitude. I marched to their car and slammed myself in the back seat all in a dramatic huff. You may wonder why I didn’t just say “no”, but you don’t know my parents like I do. I quickly ascertained they were serious and they weren’t going anywhere until I gave into their demands, so I figured if I went, I wouldn’t start a ridiculous argument and we could get the next 12 hours over with sooner.

I had my paper and I’d drawn a calendar of the month of February. While dad drove, I chronicled every day of fevers, the prescriptions, doctor visits, the temps if I remembered them, and I had myself a hand-drawn spreadsheet of my ailments.

Happening to look up at the rearview mirror, I saw my dad smiling. I frowned. He laughed and asked if I was still “miffed.” I snootily told him I hadn’t decided yet.

They took me to Baylor All-Saints in Fort Worth. We were the second people to walk into the E.R. Within 3 minutes, I was taken back to a room, blood drawn, my spreadsheet examined, my story told. I couldn’t believe it. It was so fast, and they were incredibly thorough. I wound up being admitted and I felt a little silly because I thought they’d find nothing wrong with me and send me home. Well, they were pretty sure there was some infection somewhere in my body. They were right. My blood cultures came back with some little germy bacteria taking up residence and whose name I can neither remember nor pronounce.

I was in the hospital for 5 days and met some of the most interesting nurses/techs and I was very well taken care of. I had to swallow my pride (and my angst) and tell my parents they were right and I was wrong and I was thankful they’d intervened. In fact, my mother even had me repeat a line or two of her own, which I did. It went something like “Mother, I’m so glad you cared enough about me to disregard my feelings and get me the help I needed.” It was a bit more flowery than that, but you get the picture.

Within two days of being in the hospital hooked up to heavy duty i.v. antibiotics, I was feeling so much better. Those little uninvited intruders had been zapped! I did have to have a new central line put in, but this one happens to have two “prongs” (for lack of the actual medical word), so I can be hooked up to my TPN and i.v. antibiotic at the same time. It’s still pretty tender as is my old hole. Apparently, 6 months with one line and no infection is pretty good. Hoping to make it longer this next time!

Considering the gravity of my last hospital stay, I was really quite fearful of this one, but those sweet nurses and doctors allayed every fear I had, and they took exceptional care of me. The night I was to be released, I even got to see the surgeon who’d saved my life initially, and that was such a treat. You better believe I gave him a big ol’ hug. I didn’t know he rounded at that hospital, too. If you’re ever looking for a general surgeon in Fort Worth, just send me a message. I know the best.

Moral of this story: Even if you’re an adult, sometimes it pays to still listen to your mammy and your pappy!

Birthday Time

2011-02-09T19:29:00.000-08:00

I was lying in bed attempting to nap and for some reason, today, it just wasn’t coming. Sometimes, when that happens, I start writing in my head, and it drives me crazy until I get out of bed and put it on paper.

I was thinking about all my blog posts and how they’re mostly concerned with my medical issues, my feelings of frustration, etc. It made me realize that I’ve almost forgotten how to laugh, well, how to write a laugh anyway. My posts used to be filled with unprecedented Medina tales of nonsense and ridiculousness.

I don’t want to forget how to laugh or enjoy life, even in spite of my daily struggles. I shall, therefore, endeavor, to fill you in on my birthday ‘party’ of sorts.

It wasn’t to be a real party, just my parents, my brother, Aaron and his wife, Kim, and their little girl, Makennah, plus Jeff and me, as well as our children. Tradition in our family holds that big family celebrations occur at Trail Dust. It’s a steakhouse in Texas that has a dance floor and an inside two-story slide for the children. At night, a live country band will play while you tear into your hot slab o’ meat.

Well, I didn’t exactly pick Trail Dust for myself, since I don’t get to eat beef anymore; the children LOVE going there because they get all duded up in their cow-poke costumes and can dance to their heart’s content, and since dad usually foots the bill, they’re none the wiser that’s it’s prices aren’t akin to Taco Bell (their other favorite restaurant because of the unshared bag of Doritos they get in the $2 meal deal). Fess up. You know you other parents like those $2 meal deals, too!

Anyway, it was Gideon and Scarlett’s idea. Of course, we had a week of terrible weather, and as a result, we got a phone call the night before stating that Trail Dust was closed for the weekend due to a need for some immediate repair caused by the ice storm. Okay. Back-up plan. Didn’t have one.

Between Jeff and I, we finally came up with a plan to meet everyone at Main Event, this place in Fort Worth that has bowling, arcade games, etc. We were supposed to meet at 10:30 a.m. and after bowling proceed somewhere for lunch. Aaron and Kim aren’t known for being early arrivers, but they’re also not known for being exceptionally tardy (as is #6 Adrian). (Yes, you’re getting much family history/secrets here)

Aaron (#1) and Kim had already informed me that Makennah had gymnastics and if it hadn’t been canceled, they’d be on time; if not, we were to start bowling without them.

No biggie. I woke up, excited that it was “my” special day and that I was actually here to celebrate it. I promptly had diarrhea multiple times, but I wasn’t about to let that ruin the day. The only thing I’d asked for (okay, well not the ONLY thing - - Jeff keeps a running list, but most of them are just wishful desires anyway) was to have TWO eyebrows instead of one. There’s a lady I’ve been going to down by the Super One Foods who, in addition to asking me if I was really an American, agreed that I looked partly German (which I am) and somewhat Russian (which I’m not). My eyebrows must have been doozies to get that response. I quite enjoyed her prattling on about making my eyebrows “perfect every time” and explaining to me how everyone else messes them up. She’s definitely a keeper. She only costs $7, and it was a cheap birthday wish to fulfill.

That aside, I didn’t have an appointment, but slipped in a few minutes before they opened and asked for her by name. She was delighted that I remembered her name. (She said I looked Russian – you think I’m gonna forget her?!?) She got me in and out in a matter of minutes with the best “arch” she’s ever done. For the record, she’s at Sporty Nails down by the Super One Foods, which isn’t nearly as scary as I thought when first passing by.

Back to the story. Brows in place, though bright red in the places they were ripped off, we headed to meet my family. My parents arrived shortly after we did, and when dad found out the allotted one hour began as soon as money exchanged hands, he decided we needed to wait for Aaron and Kim. I assured him they said to go ahead, but dad was interested in everybody having a good time and said we could wait. And wait we did.

After multiple phone calls to see where they were, since Makennah’s gymnastics had been canceled, they said they were en route. My foot. We had arrived at 10:30. They arrived at least an hour later, maybe longer. I told them I was glad they deigned to arrive so “MY” birthday party could begin. Naturally cheerful people they laughed, but reminded me they said to start without them.

Finally, we were set to bowl. 6 adults and 4 children on one lane and one hour to do it. Yes, folks. That took me back to growing up years when dad would splurge and take us to Pizza Hut, but not order drinks, just cups, as he’d pull out the by-now-lukewarm gallon of milk from under the table. Ah, those were the glory days by which I plan to write and make my fortune.

This is how bowling panned out. Jeff, I, and Kim each took a small child as our “helper.” Aaron, the alpha son, naturally known in our family as the person least likely to think of others before himself (admittedly, Kim has done wonders for him in this respect) played for himself, as did mom and dad, who claimed they hadn’t bowled in twenty years (not true according to #6 Adrian who said they bowled when they lived in Wisconsin which was somewhere between 8-10 years ago). Regardless, Aaron showboated, even taking over Kim’s turn to ensure their daughter (who is 3) learned correct form and release, while Jeff and I simply helped Gideon and Scarlett since it was their first time, and dad admitted his only goal was to beat mom. That is where we children get our competitive spirit.

With three preschoolers, the time ran out much faster than the 10 frames. We were all, though in slightly cramped quarters, having a great time. It came down to the last minute before the computer was to freeze us out. Dad was losing to mom by a couple of points. He had one minute to pull out the big guns. And he did. He pulled out a strike for the first time in the game which made him cackle like a wizened old toothless geezer (except he had his teeth in, thank goodness).

We turned in our shoes and decided to head to Salt Grass, another steakhouse, imagine that? As soon as we pulled out of the parking lot, Jeff yelled, “look at Lexi.” SHE HAD THROWN UP ALL OVER HER COAT, HER CHAIR, AND IT WAS RUNNING EVERYWHERE. I climbed back with her, but there wasn’t much I could do to clean her up since we were in motion. I was simply trying not to breathe. We quickly got to our destination, and since mom and dad were following us, they came around. I got my very small box of wipes and leaned in. The fumes gagged me, and ever since I was on that growth hormone, it doesn’t take much for me to throw up. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t clean up the poor baby. Mom to the rescue. She and Jeff pulled her out of the car while I ran inside the restaurant to find Kim.

Naturally because my children are perfect and never make messes, I didn’t have a change of clothes. Kim, always prepared for any and every emergency, had some extra clothes of Makennah’s in her car. Thankfully, it was Saturday and the weather had warmed up tremendously. We stripped her right down there in the parking lot, annoying people who were trying to park in the spot in which we were standing, and they cleaned her up. My dad suggested we take her into the restaurant bathroom.

“Oh yeah. Like everyone in there wants to see/smell a puke-soaked child as they’re eating lunch.” So we kept her outside.

Once she was clothed and only smelling slightly of puke, I took her in my arms. I thought she had just eaten too many chips at the bowling alley. She wasn’t interested in food at the restaurant, though she managed to suck down her sprite with amazing speed and agility.

And then I started getting a headache. I sort of ate my baked potato, Lexi kept laying her head on the table, and the restaurant was overly warm.

I sliced the cheesecake mom brought, blew out my candles, and passed it out. By then, I was feeling a little sleepy and the headache was making me feel a little cranky. Honestly, I’m not a particularly cheerful person when I don’t feel good.

We wrapped up the party, exchanged excessive hugs and kisses and they all told me how wonderful it was to be able to celebrate my birthday this year. Aaron even restrained himself and didn’t purchase a birthday card about “gas or diarrhea” he informed me. Instead he got me one with an awful looking man wearing a hula skirt and sparkly green coconuts. Enough said.

Jeff allowed me to drive and he sat in the back with Lexi, to keep her awake. I played “freeze out” on the way home, partly to keep the children awake since it was past their naptime, but partly because I was trying not to breathe in the putrid smell of yakety-yak. Rolling windows up and down was vastly entertaining for the children, though they did yell from the back that they were getting rather cold.
We got home, tossed the children in bed, and flopped in ourselves. For some reason, I could not get warm. I was shivering uncontrollably, my head ached, and I was miserable. I finally fell asleep, and kept snoozing after Jeff and the children got up. He took my temperature and sure enough, I had a fever.

That began a wonderful next few days, which are not part of the story. I alternately ran fever, had chills, incredible body aches, sweating, etc. Lexi continued to throw up several other times, never quite making it to the bathroom, which constituted me or Jeff cleaning it up.

By Monday, I thought I was better. The fever was gone. Lexi was fine. Jeff had done a wonderful job taking care of me and the children. By Tuesday, I was running a fever again and had intense sinus pressure in my eye sockets and head. My left eye wouldn't even open all the way. Sure enough, it was a sinus infection. Miserable things those sinuses. But, I was prescribed a z-pack and given a shot in me bum, and that had me feeling so good by 7:30 that night, I started vacuuming and cleaning (things I normally detest). Today, even. I couldn’t nap, and that never happens. Wonder what's really in those bum shots?!?

Anyway, there’s no “punch” line to this story as some of mine have had in the past, only to say it was quite a day, and when I was asked what was my most memorable birthday, I immediately claimed “this one.”

Do I get a do-over?

A New Challenge

2011-02-03T21:26:00.000-08:00

I have to confess to feeling a surge of anger today like I haven’t felt in awhile. My anger came as I realized a few very hard truths about my situation.

My Medicaid was terminated. I was under the false impression that when I became officially “disabled” Medicaid coverage would continue. Obviously, I was either misinformed or I misunderstood the information we were receiving during the application process. Disability counts as ‘unearned income’ in the state of Texas and in order for me to qualify for Medicaid, we can have no income (or less than $300 or so a month).

This new development is a huge kink - - more than a kink, it’s rather devastating because the benefits I will now receive monthly as a disabled person won’t even cover one day of my TPN needs, much less everything else I need on a daily/weekly basis.

And as I was talking to a friend of mine, I could feel the anger surge within me, and I started to cry at the helplessness and unfairness I felt. I feel like I was carelessly swept to the mercy of the system and even the system has failed me, which really shouldn’t surprise me, but it did. I usually don’t harp on that which lacks fairness because I am most certainly aware that life is not fair. But, today, it rankled. Today, I gave in to a moment of fear, to the uncertainty that now faces me. I did not despair, but I was mad. REAL MAD. Mad at the mistake(s) which cost me my intestine, my ability to function, and that put me at the mercy of a system which serves itself. The mistake which has stripped our family of everything and has pigeon-holed us into a completely dependent state. To me, it is beyond tragic. It is wrong. And injustice galls.

We don’t even have the ability, on our own, to make things right.

You may think I’m complaining and I just need to suck it up, grow up, or something a bit more crude. Believe me, I’m very familiar with those unhelpful suggestions. I do them every day. But, I am frustrated, I am scared, and I want to know that everything is going to be all right. Is that really too much to ask?

Oh to be a judge and pound my gavel when justice has been served.

Trying to get through the phone lines to speak to a live person with the right answers is nigh to impossible. Navigating the Medicaid phone system is one of the most frustrating things. I very well gather rules and chains of command, but when Medicaid tells me to call Social Security Administration and SSA tells me to call Medicaid, the bile rises.

We do ‘think’ that there’s a special program called “shared cost” Medicaid that I may qualify for (if we received accurate information). We would have to pay into the system, how much, we don’t know, in order to keep Medicaid coverage.

Once this ice clears up and everyone goes back to work, we’re planning to make a family day of it and sit at the Medicaid office until we get answers on paper.
I know that this is a small problem for our God to handle. Please pray that I will see His hand of provision in spite of our lack, that I will not despair, and that this situation can be resolved quickly.

In the meantime, I need to be thankful and recognize that the company that makes my TPN is being gracious and has promised to deliver my needs every week as usual as Jeff and I try to figure out what to do. I must have it for it is what keeps me alive.

My faith is being tested and challenged, my weaknesses being exposed, and right now it is a bit painful. I WILL trust in God, but I will also ask that you lift these requests up so I have help in asking that those niggles of doubt dissipate as ice on a hot summer's day.

On a Very Snowy Day

2011-02-01T06:45:00.000-08:00

So, I’m sitting here this morning gazing out our office window as I type. It looks slightly deceiving outside. It’s somewhere between 15-20 degrees, the wind is blowing, there’s a fluffy layer of snow covering most things, and yet, there’s a fairly thick layer of ice underneath which has caused numerous accidents on our roadways.

The children want to go out and play, but knowing how cold it is, I don’t know if our winter wear is quite warm enough, especially with the temperature steadily dropping.

I haven’t had time to update. I think I’ve over-committed myself for the month. I’ve begun teaching a class at church called “When Life is Hard: Turning Your Trials into Gold” because I really wanted to do the study myself and I wanted accountability to finish. That’s been taking up most of my evening time, and to top it off, the children all caught the flu last week and Scarlett had a double whammy. She had strep throat at the same time. Last week, no doubt, was a bit over the top, and trying to care for sick/cranky children is very wearing.

Thankfully, neither Jeff nor I got the flu. My doctor(s) thought it would be a good idea to put me on Tamiflu as a precautionary method, and it worked.

This study, though, is excellent, and has already helped me with coming to terms (not at the gold stage yet, though) with the events of my life that have been less than ideal. If you’re a Christian and you’ve ever been through a trial or are going through one now, (and I believe we all must admit to the truth of this in our lives), I highly recommend either reading the book or working through the study.

In the meantime, the growth hormone I was on that was making me dreadfully ill, has somewhat abated it’s terror on my body. In fact, I’ve had about 3 good days, and yesterday was so good, I only had diarrhea once! Praise God for his tender mercies…and I had been thinking all day how glorious it would be to have a day of constipation.

Now, not to be so descriptively coarse, but you must know that things are a’changing. (If you’re squeamish, don’t read the rest of this paragraph). My “stool” has changed. It’s always been a liquid mass of sick-nasty, but as of a few days ago, when I began noticing changes, there was some form to it. I tried to get Jeff to come look, but he was quite determined in his refusal. He said he heard enough to know something was going on, and that’s the other thing. The process of my elimination has become quite noisy; there’s a lot of air involved, and Jeff said it sounded like an almost-empty ketchup bottle being squeezed into the toilet. I had to laugh, especially because it’s so true. When it’s noisy, and yes I look, there’s form…like elbow macaroni noodles, and to me, that’s almost as exciting as potty-training my children! It means God is working through that growth hormone.

So there you have it. If you’ve been praying, know that God is answering. He’s working on my heart, my emotions, my ability to accept, and more miraculously, He’s at work in my 6 inches…which may be a little more than that these days. Wouldn’t that be a hallelujah chorus!!

Sick Season is Here

2011-01-20T08:28:00.000-08:00

I called my mother this morning to see if she could come watch the children if I needed to head to the doctor. She, of course, said she would, and then she reminded me to blog. Mothers are great reminderers, aren’t they?

Despite the illnesses swirling around our house, I’m feeling pretty good today. Gideon contracted the flu, even with a flu shot, Scarlett has impetigo all over her nose and way up deep in it (and totally comes apart when I stick the medicated q-tip up inside), and we’re still treating Gideon’s fungus (ringworm). I’m so glad I took Gideon to the doctor, too, in a last minute decision…else his flu would have gotten worse before it got better. They caught it early.

I spent part of the morning spraying Lysol all over the toys and on all the doorknobs. The children’s pediatrician, who we absolutely LOVE (and it’s never a problem to get the children to the doctor because they get so excited to see him), suggested it would also be a good idea for me to take Tamiflu as a preventative action. So, pray the germs away!

So far, this is the first sickness in our house this cold/winter season. What a change from previous years. Winters were horrible. We all stayed in a perpetual state of illness. There was the year I got mastitis twice when Scarlett was born, and staph infection twice, and then I came out with dyshidrotic eczema (bubble type all over my hands – thought I had poison ivy, but no). I think that was the year that we were in and out of doctor’s offices between 6 and 8 weeks straight.

I’ve still been struggling with nausea, vomiting, and dehydration (as well as the ever present diarrhea). I finished the growth hormone, found out I was approved for another round in 6-12 months, but in the meantime we’re just to watch my labs (from bloodwork every other week) to see if I’m retaining much fluid. Obviously, with the dehydration issues, I’m not retaining hardly anything. I’ve dropped 6 pounds, which isn’t good, and I’ve had Jeff pick up a huge bag of Sonic ice so I can crunch those little cubes throughout the day. I can’t even drink water when taking my pills without running to have diarrhea.

In happy news, Jeff is taking two leveling classes at the seminary while we continue to wait on his government prison chaplaincy job. I am going to attempt to audit a class at my alma mater, Dallas Baptist University. The class is on “Disability and Suffering” and DBU (a great place to send your children by the way) provided a scholarship for me to take it. I’m so excited and have already planned to sit in the back in case I have to run out to the bathroom. The ability to take this class and learn as much as I can about my new status (I have just been officially declared disabled) is such a huge gift for which I am so thankful. I was even told to come when I can and if I have some bad days and can’t make it, that’s okay. And, I’ve certainly been having some bad days lately!

Anyway, please do continue to keep our family in your prayers as we struggle through sick season. Praying you stay healthy, too.

Life is Hard

2011-01-09T19:58:00.000-08:00

Tonight the children spent the night with my parents. With the threat of snow, which amounted to nothing but rain and slush here in the Fort Worth area, they were all worked up before naptime thinking they weren’t going to get to spend the night. It all worked out because the roads between here and Dallas were fine.

Now Jeff and I are hard at work on our respective studies. He’s working on a paper for his ph.d. application; I’m working on preparation for the class I volunteered to teach. I’m having second thoughts about me being the right fit, but it’s a little too late. I wanted to be a part of a class on suffering and trials and since nothing was being offered at our church, I volunteered to teach it. Though I feel like I’m certainly an expert in the area of suffering, I feel quite ill-equipped to teach it. Yes, we have a workbook and I have several other books I’ve read, too, to pull from, and though really I just wanted the accountability to get through it, I’m now asking myself why I’m the one teaching. My mother used to tell me that if God placed something on my heart to be a part of, and no one else stepped up, perhaps he was telling me to do it. Sage.

I’ve studied, put most of my powerpoint together, read, underlined, sought Scripture, etc. and though I feel pretty good about the content of my preparation, there’s something in my spirit that seems to be lacking.

I feel a tinge of despondency.

It crept up today in the middle of our worship service. I think it’s because I realized today’s date and that tomorrow marks a very significant day for me. It was my baby’s due date.

Heartache of heartaches.

My good friend, Linda (and I’ll have to write a special blog about her story) and her two-month old baby, Eden, came to visit this weekend. It’s the first time I’ve held such a tiny baby in a long time. I didn’t cry, but my heart was so full. It was such a tender time, and yet today, the pain hit me with full force. Do you mothers remember the joy, the complete contentment, the very rightness, of cradling your own precious newborn in your arms? You watched longingly for the first sign of recognition, the cocked head toward your voice, the first real smile, and the inability of anyone but you to give comfort. You were in awe over the tiny fingers and toes and you just couldn’t stop kissing that sweet little face with those cherubic soft cheeks.

My throat is constricting and that unusually large lump in my throat, though most unwelcome, is back.

I feel the irrepressible and sudden urge to uppercut a punching bag. I feel so angry and so sad all at the same time and I don’t know what to do with these emotions.

July 21st marked D-Day for us. Everything changed on that day. Everything.

I feel a bitter root in my soul. It’s been there awhile. My counselor had me read a book on bitterness. Did you know that bitterness comes as a result of something that’s happened to us, when someone sins against us? (How to Be Free From Bitterness, 9) My response, to feel bitter, though is sin, my sin. It infiltrates everything: my relationship with my husband, my children, my extended family, my church family, etc. If I keep this bitter root inside, I hurt everyone around me. It doesn’t matter what anyone has done to me; I do not have a right to keep it and cherish it because it is rotten and it will decay me. God commands I get rid of it. And, I’m trying.

I’ve confessed it. I got down on my knees before Holy God today and asked him to uproot it. I want to be free from every harbored ill-feeling I’ve ever held on towards anyone for anything, great or small. I don’t want to live as an unforgiving person. I want to be joy-filled again. I want to see my hope in my eternal circumstances and not this horizontal junk that’s bottlenecking up in my heart.

But, I think I need a little help. I think I need a sledge-hammer to my heart…I want it soft and vulnerable, not hard, cracked, and calloused. Please pray that God will break any crusty shell I’ve held onto and that as I practice forgiveness and love, the bitterness I feel will simply not be able to withstand God’s great love and the truth it brings. I want the bitterness to come crashing down as the walls of Jericho did when the Israelites blasted their trumpets.

Come, Lord. Quickly come.

13 More Days

2010-12-27T18:46:00.001-08:00

13 More Days. Thank goodness. I’m miserable. Don’t get me wrong. I’m very thankful to be on this growth hormone because I’m certain it’s going to help, but it’s set me back a good 4 months. I’m back to every hour, multiple visits to the bathroom. Again, my rear end is so raw that the only relief I’ve gotten is the short Aveeno Oatmeal bath I had today…and as soon as I got out and had to hop on the toilet, the dragon was back.

I told Jeff it feels like fire is breathing out of my, ahem…waste hole, and fire is also breathing into it, creating a painfully hot and prickly inferno, much like my vivid mind imagines hell to be like. Agonizing, all the way around. I was, once again, near tears today, sitting on the toilet for the umpteenth time, attempting to read a new novel about Mary of England (big historical fiction buff) that Jeff picked out for me (because reading somewhat occupies my mind during these episodes)…when it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I had more than a few of these episodes.

Before I started the growth hormone (and diarrhea is a side effect - - oh joy), I still had bad days, but I also had good days. I’ve been on the growth hormone for 15 days and every day has gotten progressively worse….to the point that I feel like I’m starting over and have just gotten home from the hospital. Not a very desirable place to be because it’s such a hard place to be in. Every single thing that I eat or drink slides through in a matter of minutes, seconds even, sometimes. I had been keeping things in for a few hours, even longer if we look at my overnight potty hiatus. I've even thrown up and have started taking Zofran to control the nausea. Think morning sickness (and add in a horrible stomach ache of diarrhea) and you've got what the way I've been feeling.

However, what this does mean, to slap some audacious spin onto my creeping-slowly-downward-thought, is that there was some improvement up until this point. IMPROVEMENT. Wow. I mean, I really did have a few good days mixed in with the rest. And, prayerfully, once my 13 days of self-injections are over, I’ll get back to having good days.

I don’t want to leave the house, though. We tried today, and on a different note, I publicly renounce my favorite store of all time…Target. They have the worst return policy of anywhere (if you don’t have a receipt) even if the item had been purchased there. It cheats, not stopping with only giving you the sale price, but ‘the computer’ arbitrarily picks a price to give you that’s dollars lower than the sale price) and I don’t hold with that. Anyway, I couldn’t even make it through our quick errands without blowing out another bathroom. I’ve learned to take one of the children with me. They make so much noise (even when they’re loudly telling me I’m stinky so that everyone can hear) that I’ve lost the embarrassment I have when alone. Is that terrible? Am I using my children? Oh well…no wonder the highlight of any outing for them is using the bathroom. It’s nearly the first thing they ask to do. Should I wonder why?

Counting down the days....

Her Guts, His Glory

2010-12-21T18:26:00.000-08:00

It’s not even Christmas Day yet, and I’m breaking my pledge of Christmas week silence because I’m bursting.

We’ve been so blessed already…not simply this Christmas season, but that’s what I want to particularly point out. So many of you, people we don’t know and may never meet, have sent us very generous gifts because God prompted your hearts to do so. Thank you.

I mean, you all have just opened your hearts, wallets, and pocketbooks, and let the love pour out all over us. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way because it just proves to me, once again, how much our Heavenly Father cares. He’s working through each of you to more than meet our needs.

A group of VERY hard-working individuals, who have quickly become friends, have done something very generous, too. They’ve planned a 5K run/walk in our honor. They put together a website (www.hergutshisglory.com) and a video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlPvg9-4r0c) on YouTube. Check it out and join us.

What’s more, for those of you who live in the DFW area, they’ve also got dvd’s to pass out to local churches (who’d be willing to show it during announcement time, etc.) If you think your church might be willing, just email me (audreamedina@hotmail.com) and I’ll put you in contact with the right people. Additionally, they’re requesting help on race day, and you can look at the website to see where you might be of use, if you’d prefer not to be a part of the walk.
I’m blown away that anyone would be willing to go to this type of effort for me, but really, it’s not just about me, it’s for everyone of you who’ve prayed for a miracle, who prayed for my life to be spared, and who continue to pray for my family. This is about all of us who are on this journey together.

Catching Some ZZZ's

2010-12-18T09:20:00.000-08:00

Let’s talk Zorbtive. It’s the self-injection I’ve now been giving myself for 6 days. It’s a growth hormone that will, prayerfully, add some length to my current 6 inches of small intestine.

Let’s talk Zofran. It’s the anti-nausea medicine I’ve been taking every day as I’ve been battling extreme nausea due this new drug.

I was somewhat terrified that I was pregnant because yes, I can still get pregnant, and that nausea/fatigue was a bit too familiar. When I visited my GI doctor this past Friday, he reminded me why pregnancy would be so dangerous. I thought it was just because I couldn’t nutritionally support a baby. That’s true, too. Mostly, it’s because my uterine wall is so thin and still healing, that if a baby were to form, the chances for the lining to rupture and cause “massive bleeding” would be a very real and incredibly dangerous situation for me.

I’ve always been the type of mother who told Jeff (every other time I was pregnant) that if it ever came down to choosing between my life and that of my unborn child, he’d better choose the child, for I’ve lived a long life. I know my Jesus and I know where I’m bound for eternity. I want my child to have the opportunity to make those same kind of choices. My throat is kinda clogged and lumpy as I write because my last child didn’t get those opportunities.

My mother reminded me that I have three, still small, children who need me daily, and that I have a responsibility to live…for them. So, Jeff and I have decided on that little snip-snip action taken for men. We just need to find a urologist in our area. Again, that decision was easy in light of the danger I could be in as well as the formative health of any child in utero, and yet it was so hard for me because it’s so final. It’s like taking away the last glimmer of hope that I’ll ever give birth to another child.

I’m not pregnant by the way, but it was a very real fear, one I constantly gave over to the Lord, and yet I still couldn’t quite come to grips with truly trusting Him. And I know that’s dumb. He’s taken very good care of me all these years, especially in the last 6 months. It was/is still a struggle.

So, back to the Zorbtive. It’s been making me pretty queasy and sick to my stomach…all normal side effects, I’ve been told. I got a little worried on Day 2 when my hands were so swollen I couldn’t get my wedding band off. That only lasted one day, though. My weight and other vitals have been normal, so it seems my system is accepting this drug. I mix it myself, and I did a pretty good job jabbing it in subcutaneously…until the last two days. I couldn’t do it (even though I knew it didn’t hurt at all), and when I finally got brave, it was a timid jab and it HURT! But, it was better than when Jeff tried and kept jabbing me all over the place, never puncturing the skin! I quickly ended that painful attempt.

This next week, as for you, too, I’m sure, is packed full of busy family get-togethers, so I’ll go ahead and bid you “Merry Christmas” from our family since I may not have time to do much updating. Thank you for your love, support, and earnest prayers for us. I know our family is never far from your minds…from your lips to God’s ears…don’t stop!

May we all remember why we celebrate this glorious day.

Praise Him, Praise Him

2010-12-12T11:31:00.000-08:00

So, I’m online this Sunday afternoon to give a quick update. In about 30 minutes, a lady will be here to train me on giving myself an injection, for I begin taking the small intestine growth hormone today. Though we’re no longer in the Univ. Nebraska IRP program, a hard-working lady at the drug company went behind the scenes to help get this approved for me.

We’ve been so blessed with the numbers of people working on our behalf, people we don’t know and probably will never meet. I am just so grateful.

Anyway, I will inject this drug once a day for 23-28 days, and I’m not sure how long before we’ll supposedly see results.

I do have a huge praise to God to share, though. He’s already supernaturally at work in my small intestine. I still have bad days every week, but the good days have been really good days. In fact, this past Monday, I ate half a bagel for breakfast, a baked potato (with butter and salt) for lunch, and I forget what I ate for dinner, but I didn’t have diarrhea until 7:30 that night!! I went almost all day. Amazing! And then, yesterday, I was having quite a bit because I cheated my strict plan. I just had to have a Chick-fil-A breaded/fried sandwich. I mean, the diarrhea was worth it (almost) because it was just how I remembered…dipped in Chick-fil-A sauce, I was in taste sensory heaven! So, for dinner, Jeff made ground turkey meatloaf (with onions and special sauces since I can't eat beef), Spanish rice with tomato chunks (didn’t eat the chunks), and I made Bisquick biscuits with real milk (accidentally grabbed the wrong milk), shredded cheddar cheese, and garlic.

Get this.

We rushed through dinner so we could ride around looking at all the Christmas lights. I did not have diarrhea (dinner was at 6:00) or an upset stomach until this morning! THANK YOU, JESUS!!! Two days this week have been wonderful. The bad days were pretty bad, but the good days were just SOOOO good.

So, keep praying for me. God hears and he’s faithful to answer. Much love to each of you!

On Suffering

2010-12-05T19:55:00.000-08:00

I haven’t updated in a couple of weeks, and no, it’s not because I’ve been down in the depths of despair. The last you heard, I was. In fact, it’s been the complete opposite, and so I must thank you for your fervent and steady prayers of intercession on my behalf.

My parents bought me a plane ticket and I slipped away to North Carolina to visit my aunt and uncle. I had mounds of time to myself to read, lounge, heart-to-heart conversations with my aunt, and really dig into my Vann family history (pappy’s side). I realized that I’m a lot like my aunt (dad’s sister), and frankly, had such a good time I forgot I was supposed to be depressed. I don’t know that I’ve completely come to grips with the events in my life of which I had, and continue to have, no control, but I did find some semblance of peace and renewal in the hope of my eternity, of which I had temporarily lost sight.

One thing that helped was reading a book my counselor recommended…because yes, I did begin counseling. I read “When God Weeps” by Joni Eareckson Tada and some other guy. This book penetrated my soul in ways nothing else has, for the book was all about suffering. If you know anything about the author, she’s famed for her story of suffering. She’s paralyzed from a dive accident as a teenager and found Christ.

I could write an entire blog about this book; it was just that good, especially if you’ve suffered tremendously. I will simply summarize a few of the insights I gleaned.

Those of us who are Christians forget that we’re actually promised suffering. Our modern day sensibilities are averse to suffering, for we think our status as “little Christ’s” precludes us from encountering real, and debilitating, suffering. Our counterparts in other parts of the world could teach us a thing or two. As such, we’re ill equipped when monumental suffering and tremendous trials occur; we flounder and faint. I had two such weeks.
Anything I’ve felt as a result of suffering, Christ has already experienced. He is intimately acquainted with grief and with sorrow. Remember, as He was spread across that cross, with nothing but nails keeping Him there, He bore the brunt of every sin you ever committed, every sin I’ve ever committed, and the rest of the world’s upon His shoulders. When God looked at His very own Son (and He cannot look upon sin) what was he thinking or saying? He was meeting out the punishment each of us deserve on the most innocent of men…His Son. Re-read Isaiah 53 and gain a whole new appreciation for what Christ has done for you. I did. I cried all the way through it. Christ endured more than any of us ever will because of His great love for us.
The more I suffer, the greater the capacity I have for Christ. We are promised suffering, not simply because evil exists in the world, but also to become more like Christ. The more I suffer, the greater my understanding of what He felt and went through, and the greater my understanding, the more I love my God for what He did for me. This whole time, I’ve incorrectly thought that God allowed me to lose my child and my small bowel because He knew I’d give Him glory. WRONG. He’s more concerned about my heart than He is my small bowel. He’s more concerned about me loving Him with my entire being than He is with my grief. He’s more concerned with my relationship to Him than anything else. That’s not to say that He is unconcerned with those things that trouble me or cause me grief, but His goal is my heart. My goal should be His heart. Does this mean my troubles will pass? Maybe. Maybe not. When I suffer, and I have suffered so deeply, I need God more.
Does God rejoice in suffering? Rejoice in evil? Rejoice in the tribulation of His people? Of course not. He grieves, but He “permits what he hates to achieve what he loves.” (When God Weeps, 84). I love that quote. Additionally, “when we suffer and handle it with grace, we’re like walking billboards advertising the positive way God works in the life of someone who suffers.” (101)

As such, this is my prayer: God, grant me the ability to see with your eyes, with eyes that have suffered and overcome. Let me be gracious, kind, and loving, no matter my physical or emotional ailments. Let me shine for you. Keep me honest; keep me true. Keep my humble. Though I’ve begged for healing, what I now mean is simply grant me a greater capacity for knowing and loving you. Help me share what I have learned, and when I feel close to despair again, help me remember Philippians 1:19-20: “19 for I know that through your prayers and God’s provision of the Spirit of Jesus Christ what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. 20 I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death.” Amen.

Weekend Reprieve, of Sorts

2010-11-14T20:24:00.000-08:00

I’ve turned my mute button off. I realized very quickly that life doesn’t stop for days of despondency. Children don’t get bathed and fed and loved and clothed (well, matching) when mama turns inward and is oblivious to all but her own suffering.

So, I took a deep breath and returned to the land of the emotionally living. I still cry at every word of sympathy, every caring look, every whispered breath of love. Every hymn and praise song leaves me dripping wet and snotty and a wreck. I still feel bouts of incredible anger and injustice. It’s all still churning and toiling and unsettled inside, but I must go on. I have always been duty bound and responsible. I don’t get to quit. I have decided to begin counseling. My first session is tomorrow morning because I refuse to stay this way when God has gifted others who can help. I thought God and I would get through this together...but it looks like it's time for me to seek wise counsel.

There was a blessed reprieve, of sorts. My good friend from college invited me, last minute, to her church’s women’s retreat, all expenses paid AND a room alone and I shall give props to the generosity and thoughtfulness of the ladies’ ministry at Hillcrest Baptist Church, which is like my ‘other’ church family, for allowing me to become a part of their special weekend. I felt the Lord begin to move in my heart, mostly through the worship music and the time alone. If you know the song “Blessed Be Your Name” you’ll know that it’s a powerful song even in joyful times. It was especially poignant to me this weekend. I sang choked up with the tears freely falling because it spoke truth that I could receive into my very marrow. “On the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering, blessed be your name.” Every time I hear this song, I think that King David and his psalms could have had a little competition because it, too, speaks directly to the heart, to the trials and issues, to the loss as God “give(s) and take(s) away,” BUT “my heart will choose to say, Lord, blessed be your name.” I will choose to bless God in spite of these awful feelings that I can’t seem to shake.

And then, I was given my own room. What a treat. It’s the first night I’ve slept alone, by myself, no husband, no children, no nurses, no family, no strangers, no nobody but me since Jeff and I were married almost 5 years ago next month. We stayed at the seminary where I had graduated (SWBTS in Fort Worth) in their conference center, and though I’ve peeked in the rooms before, I’d never stayed overnight. This was the purest form of luxury my little heart could have desired. I just wish I could have stayed a few more days. The seminary does things right. My room was perfect. I soaked in the tub until the water lost its heat, sa-shayed in my complimentary robe, and snuggled deep into that big bed all by myself and continued in my pursuit in the book of Job.

Though I’m gregarious and a bit of a talker and I dearly love people, I am an introvert, in that in order to renew and replenish, I must be alone. It is nearly impossible with the life I lead. My husband, though people “think” he’s quiet, is the exact opposite of me, and our precious preschoolers don’t know what alone means…well, I take that back. Alone, to them, means “private time” on the potty. Even then, they get immense joy out of becoming a parade of visitors to whomever has left a crack in the door (our bathrooms don’t lock).

Several funny things did occur at the conference, though I will limit what I share to what I did to myself so stupidly.

Before the first session began, I thought I should run back up to my room and brush my teeth. I quickly grabbed tube and brush, and as I began my routine, I discovered immediately that my toothpaste tasted strange. Wondering what kind of toothpaste I'd bought but still brushing, I looked down at the toothpaste tube, and to my horror realized I had picked up the DIAPER CREAM tube instead. I spit and spat and wiped out my greasy mouth with a washcloth, and even used nearly the whole bottle of complimentary mouthwash to rinse the taste away. I couldn’t get the paste out of my toothbrush and I was distraught. It took me forever to get that slime out of my mouth and I was most disgusted with myself. It's bad enough that my poor rear end has to smell like that, but my mouth, too??!!?? Come on.

Thankfully, we’d been given a goodie bag that had a brand new toothbrush and toothpaste in it….the best gift EVER!!!

Despair

2010-11-09T07:43:00.000-08:00

Have you ever felt so bad that you feel like you’ve been sucked inside yourself and nothing exists outside of you, at least from an awareness perspective? I think that’s what I’ve been feeling for the past 4 days. I haven’t left the house, I’ve hardly left my bedroom, and I’ve not really done much talking. I still do what needs to be done as far as taking care of the children, cleaning, and feeding the family, but even they sense something is wrong. They run to daddy when they fall and get hurt.

I'm not sick in the physical sense, but I'm emotionally ailing.

Today I feel a little better and that’s why I can write and at least get some of it out.

I can’t really even put into words the eruption and overwhelming sense of sadness and despair in my heart. I know what triggered the sinking into this despondent oblivion, but that’s beside the point. The point is I’m here. That black cloud in my periphery, which I thought had disappeared, was hiding around the corner all along. I opened my eyes and found myself standing in the midst of this terrible whipping frenzy of a storm and didn’t even know how I got here.

It’s almost like I was a small snowball accidentally kicked off the side of a mountain (like in the cartoons) and while gaining speed and momentum, my emotions also gained in size and strength, until so big with nowhere else to go, I crashed into a giant oak tree at the bottom. It all exploded. Now I’m left with fragments of myself scattered for miles and I don’t even know where to begin picking up the pieces.

It’s dark and lonely, but no person can help me. I just want to be alone. I want God to fix me. I want my bowel back. I want my child back. I want my life back.

From the moment I woke up in the hospital, I did the right thing. I forgave. I focused. I worked hard to get my physical strength back. I came home. I found a small task to give me purpose. I rested. I wrote. I cried out to God. I focused on Him. I relied on Him. I trusted in Him. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I grieved…or so I thought.

And yet, in one moment, it all came crashing down and I came apart.

I am broken.

And no, I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel. I want to let the pain wash over me again and again so I know I’m alive, for when I don’t, I begin to wonder what it would have been like if I hadn’t woken up.

Perhaps for the best?

Oh, God in heaven above, help me. Remember me. Do not forget your servant. I know you never left me. I know you’re with me still. You can do anything. Make me right again. Make me whole. I am so weak, nothing compared to you, insignificant really, in the thread of history you’re directing. This heart of mine, though, the one you inhabit, it cries for mercy; it cries for peace. There is no strength left in me to fight. There is no strength in me to speak aloud these things I feel.

I want a sabbatical from this drudgery. I want to go to a cozy cabin in the snow-capped mountains and commune with my God. I want to find solace in Him, in who He created me to be.

I need to be alone, and I am never alone.

Reclaiming Halloween

2010-10-31T18:42:00.000-07:00

You ever get finished with something and think, “Wow. What a great night?” I’ve never really had that feeling on Halloween before, except as a child getting home browsing through my gluttonous loot, but tonight, we did.

We had the opportunity to go to a friend’s house and trick-or-treat in that neighborhood, but at the last minute, God gave me another idea. We stayed home to pass out the giant bowl full of candy our children collected at the Fall Festival we attended yesterday.

We figured we had the perfect witnessing opportunity; people were coming to our house looking for candy, so we might as well make the most of it. We gave it to them AND Gideon and Scarlett passed out Gospel tracts along with information about our church’s children’s programs. There wasn’t too much opportunity to begin discussions because the trick-or-treaters were itching for candy and a quick get-away, but at least we were able to plant some seeds.

Many churches have started a Fall Festival alternative to Halloween, which I think is a great idea. It’s safe, family and kid-friendly, and a super easy opportunity for outreach in the community. Some people refuse to even acknowledge the day, seeing it as Satan’s day o’ iniquity. Today, I was reminded that no day is Satan’s day; God created them all, but

we can reclaim this day as a day to shine for our Lord and share the precious treasure we hold within our hearts, the truth of Christ’s sacrifice for our sins and the forgiveness he freely offers.

Anyway, it was such a blessing to see our preschool-aged children get excited about passing out their candy and information cards because 1.) they didn’t seem to notice ‘their’ candy was quickly dwindling and 2.) what better age to start than when their excitement about Jesus is fresh and contagious? Why don't you try it next year?

On very much a lesser note (but I thought it worth writing), our pediatrician (whom we absolutely LOVE) gave us a practical piece of advice about all that candy we don’t want them eating. He said that his dentist, I think, recommended that he let his kids gorge themselves on the candy after they’ve trick-or-treated, and then while they’re asleep, toss the rest. Better on the teeth than spreading it out for days or even weeks. A great piece of advice I’m happily distributing to you, and yes, we’ve adopted it. Our children gorged last night on the way home from my parent’s house. It was the quietest ride we’ve ever had. They’d never gotten to eat that much candy at one time, EVER!

(posing on my parent's stairs with our costume clad characters)

Gift Giving and Goats

2010-10-25T19:56:00.000-07:00

This past Wednesday, I finally made it to church (Wednesdays have been notoriously rough for me)…just in time for a business meeting. I was not thrilled and almost lost my desire to attend, until two things occurred. 1.) Jeff told me the church was voting on making him the unpaid Minister of Education and 2.) the realization that in the Southern Baptist world, a handful of people are present during business meetings, and they’re the ones who get to make the decisions. Well, I have a responsibility, both as a Christian and as a member of my local church, to make my voice heard and my vote count.

It turned out to be quite a business meeting. I did happen to be the only dissenting vote on a particular issue, for which I was teased afterward that “don’t you know you never dissent at a business meeting?” Apparently, I don’t follow those unwritten rules. I’ve always voted my mind and my conscience. I love the autonomy of each Southern Baptist Church. All of this, though, is besides the issue I actually want to address.

Our youth minister gave his report first, and mentioned his idea for giving back at Christmas. I loved it. His idea was to charge the youth a minimal fee (of like $5 or so) to attend their annual Christmas party. Instead of bringing a white elephant gift that no one wants or needs, the money will be collected to purchase a goat or two, preferably, to sustain a family in a needy country, providing them a way to eat and make money. Ingenious.

I was quite honestly bothered by the number of jokes/giggles/guffaws after he’d made the statement and fielded questions. I didn’t (and still don’t) understand how such a gift, as odd as it may be to our American senses, would be so funny. A pair of goats, to a family in most of our third world countries, would be a treasure beyond their wildest dreams.

And then it hit me at dinner time tonight when I heard my own two older children complaining about what I’d cooked for dinner (a turkey bacon, potato, feta, and chicken medley) and I, probably a bit too harshly, told them that there were many children in the world who were hungry enough to be thankful to eat their medley plus some. Though Jeff and I currently have no income, we still have the luxury, and I stress that word, of choosing what we’ll eat for dinner. For how many of our third world counterparts could boast that same extravagance? We still have the luxury of paying our bills (thanks to many of you) with hot running water, heat in the winter, cool air in the summer, a full refrigerator, and the occasional dining out/date.

To give a gift of a goat, or a couple of ducks…something which would shock us if anyone ever deigned to present it…would be Christ in action both to those who know him and those who don’t. It would provide a source of income long after the first few cups of milk were downed. Do we even feel the least bit guilty about how much we have (and how much we toss out) when our brothers and sisters in other parts of the world don’t even have clean water or the ability to find food to nourish their children?

I tell you it should make us feel more than uncomfortable. We should be downright ashamed. It should make you want to DO something about those feelings. We are. I didn’t even have to tell Jeff what I was thinking. He suggested we help our children empty out their piggy banks and make up the difference so it becomes a family project, where we help purchase a goat, or two, if possible, for another family, and we explain to our children what we’re doing and how it helps 1.) the family and 2.) brings honor to God.

World Vision, that superb organization, has its website full of ways to donate. They even have a catalog for you to look through. I urge you to seriously consider finding a listed way to support a family this year, especially since we’re coming upon the season of thanksgiving and celebrating risen Christ’s birthday. One of my favorite verses is Matthew 6:21 “for where your treasure is, there your heart will also be.” Put your money where it counts. Give the gift of a goat….or something!

http://donate.worldvision.org/OA_HTML/xxwv2ibeCCtpSctDspRte.jsp?go=gift&&section=10389

Hair Time

2010-10-18T16:00:00.001-07:00

I know some of the most generous people in the world. I know I’ve said that before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, but truly, I do. Many of you have blessed our family TREMENDOUSLY by sending financial gifts during this tough time, and now Jeff and I know what self-supported missionaries feel like, living off of the generosity of others. We are so grateful.

But, there are others of you who offer even a little bit extra. You've given us clothes for our children, groceries for our pantry, and someone in our church even pays, anonymously, for me to get my hair done. I go to Mindi Watson (who is FANTASTIC and runs her salon out of her house) and if you live in the Burleson/Fort Worth area, I highly recommend her. She’s become more than just-the-talented-girl-who-does-my-hair. She’s a friend, and I know, has given my hair extra attention or color or something out of the goodness of her heart and refuses to let me pay her anything. I’d like to see her a bit more… (at church, HINT HINT, Mindi, if you’re reading this)….! Gotta love that gal.

I still have limited energy, so actually taming this “wild tassle of hair” (as my mom wrote about my hair in a poem one time) every morning is the pits…so, I don’t do it. I can usually be seen with a ponytail, or occasionally, a wild curly mess. Even more sporadically, I straighten it, and if you saw me then, you might actually think “wow, she DID play with Barbie’s growing up!” I always leave Mindi’s house looking like a super-model. Okay, well, maybe having super-model hair is a little more exact, and isn’t that the goal of getting one’s hair done? To leave feeling better than you entered? I always do.

If you’re a man, and this monologue is way out of your league, I give you permission to cease and desist and move on to other more interesting reading.

Anyway, not to belabor the hair talk, but ladies, you know what I mean when I say sometimes you just need a change? Helps the overall emotional female hormones or something. Today, I spent three hours with Mindi getting pampered and my hair permanently straightened. I was worried I’d wind up stinking up her bathroom, so I didn’t eat much before I went, and thank goodness, I never once had to go…though I did as soon as I got home.

It’s interesting to me how a simple physical alteration makes a mental/emotional difference. I’ve admitted on here that I’ve been struggling, but since I confessed it to the world, I’ve felt the prayers of the multitudes, and I thank you. I still think I may eventually get some godly Christian counseling (because I’m a firm believer in it), but that black cloud, at least this last week, feels as if it’s dissipating.

I’m attaching two pictures of the permanent straightener, not out of vanity, but to let you see what a good job Mindi does! I'm posing with my two best men.

A Little Help From My Friends

2010-10-15T18:26:00.000-07:00

I hate asking for money, unless it’s for someone else, like foreign missionaries, or a friend in need. This precludes that I have a very strong loathing for fundraising, not in and of itself, but being part of it. I skirt away from fundraising if at all possible.

I remember being a little girl and having to call people in our church (that my dad pastored) to ask them to sponsor me for a MS walk. I nearly cried every time I picked up the phone. Yes, part of it was due to the fact that I was incredibly shy (believe it or not), and part of it was due to the fact that my father did not like us children to “use” our church directory for personal gain. I guess that’s stuck with me. I’m a terrible salesperson and I have an incredible amount of guilt asking anyone to empty their pockets for any reason (other than to give straight to the Lord or His work and then I could preach a sermon or two).

However, I find myself in need of a few people to help me by making a purchase, if you’re so inclined. My children’s preschool is doing a fundraiser (eco-friendly brightly colored reusable bags) and I find myself actually wanting to do our part and more this time. The school/church has been so gracious to our family during our tragedy and even beyond and I want to help them continue to fund this incredibly God-centered program.

If you’re interested, and there’s absolutely NO PRESSURE to be one of those people, you can check out http://www.mixedbagdesigns.com, and let me know if you see something you could use or pass on. If you want more information or you’d actually like to help, too, just email me directly (audreamedina@hotmail.com) and I’ll be happy to take your order and make sure it gets to you. It ends November 2. We only need 3 or 4 orders to make the requested family goal.

Blessings, and remember, I’m not trying to hook you all…just a couple of friends to help would be, in the words of Mary Poppins, “practically perfect in every way.”

For a Chocolate Ice Cream Bar

2010-10-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

Today was a very good day until about lunchtime. I thought I’d head over to Sprouts, a local whole foods/health grocery store and check out the sugar-free and lactose-free products while the children were at preschool and I had a little time to myself.

I immediately found the lactose-free/sugar-free fudgesicles, which were made with coconut milk. I’d been on the hunt for ice cream for quite some time. I detest coconut-flavored anything, but a girl can only go so long without chocolate and ice cream. They looked so delicious (and that was the brand name) on the box, I just had to pick one up.

One of the biggest problems with these fancy food items is that they cost a fortune. I bought a box of fudgesicles, which consisted of 3, for nearly $4. I thought to myself that those pups had better be the best fudgesicles I’ve ever had, and each one better take me thirty minutes to eat. It did, but not for that reason.

I then headed over to the cheese aisle, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the newly hated soy cheese. Uggh. I felt ill just looking at the packages… remembering trying to make a quesadilla with that stuff a few weeks ago. The after taste was akin to what bubbled out of our toilet on Sunday.

And then I thought to sum up my purchases, I’d buy some coconut milk yogurt. Good thing that’s still in the refrigerator. Any takers?

So, I hopped in the car and unsheathed my first fudgesicle. Tasted kinda funny, but not terrible. I’m a girl who isn’t picky, but I like what I like and I’ve never tasted coconut milk products before. I nibbled a little more, still trying to figure out if I could say “good purchase” or “never again.” I nibbled and licked like some kind of paid taste-tester…perhaps I should have swilled and spat.

I got about a quarter of the way through it when I decided I was done. I don’t like to waste food, especially the expensive kind, but this just wasn’t speaking to my tastebuds the way my mind planned. I drove back to preschool and put the rest in the freezer. I should have left them without my name scribbled so possessively across.

I went into Panera Bread to spend a little quality time with the Lord; I wound up spending more time with my porcelain friend.

I continued to have diarrhea off and on all day (and I hadn’t even eaten anything) and I was so puzzled as to why. It did subside for about an hour when my friend, Amanda, and I met and headed to the local state park overlooking a lake to start our Bible study together.

But, as soon as we were in our cars and back to preschool to pick up our children, I had to RUN, and RUN, and RUN.

Thankfully, my mom showed up to help me get the children to the car. It was an unspoken answer to prayer. 3 backpacks, nap mats, and children are quite a handful. I had to run back in several times, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why I was going so much.

I barely made it all the way home (30 minute drive) before I was back in the bathroom, where I’ve been most of the evening, too.

I then decided to post this sad tale on my Facebook status because I just can’t keep good news to myself.

That’s when I found out that coconut milk is a natural laxative. Only I would unwittingly buy it and put myself in extreme discomfort for the sake of a chocolate ice cream bar.

Good thing I only ate a quarter of it.

Mount Vesuvius

2010-10-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

Just the other day I was thinking that for the past few months these blogs have been uber-serious…and I had begun to miss writing about the crazy Medina experiences. I even went so far as to think “nothing funny ever happens to us anymore.”

Well, I wouldn’t say today was particularly funny, but you may cringe and groan along with me as I relate what happened, and then laugh with a grateful heart that it did’t happen to you.

This morning began innocuously enough. Gideon had hopped in bed with me soon after Jeff hopped out to finish the night coughing alone on the couch. This is regular happenstance at our house…since I’m plugged into the wall at night, if Jeff is on the couch, then Gideon gets to stay because it’s just too much trouble for me to unplug everything and get him back to his own bed. I think the small sly one has figured that out because I only find him in bed with me on nights Jeff is out.

Anyway, Gideon was floppy fish and hogging my pillow as usual, so right at 7:00, I sent him out to find daddy so I could steal a few extra winks. 30 minutes later I woke up to clattering in the kitchen; everyone was up but me.

Background Information You Need to Know:
Several days ago, I smelled a peculiar odor emitting funk from our kitchen sink, but I simply thought something hadn’t been ground up too well in the garbage disposal. I kept meaning to drop a lemon in to freshen in up, but I didn’t, and since the smell wasn’t too pungent, I forgot about it.

Until I go to bed, I usually use the office bathroom, right near the kitchen. Last night I happened to notice, upon my last flush, that the toilet seemed sluggish.

By now your mind has already jumped a few steps ahead to “uh oh, another potty story.” Bingo. A story from me wouldn’t be a real story if I didn’t include my constant companion.

After breakfast, we sent the older two to the bathroom. Apparently, Gideon used the office bathroom not realizing he had just awoken Mount Vesuvius.

I think I was in my bathroom curling Scarlett’s already curly hair when Jeff came running in spluttering and all kinds of upset.

“You’re going to have to get the children dressed for church because there’s toilet water everywhere and I’ve got to clean it up. There may be a pipe that’s busted.”

I was a little confused and didn’t understand exactly how that could be, but I was quickly distracted by Jeff running to the linen closet.

“Don’t use my good towels on the floor, please.”

“I’m not. Don’t you think I remember the last time you got mad at me for using your good towels to mop up water?”

I can’t remember my response, but I was so concerned that he’d use the good towels in his frantic haste, that I had to remind him (to his exasperation) several times and I probably got a little snitty about it.

I got the children ready for church, I went to see what Jeff was doing, and saw the watery mess. He kept running back for more towels, and I was getting a little worried that he was running out of the bad ones.

Again, I told him not to use my good ones.

Jeff threw the soiled ones into the washing machine, which happens to be in our kitchen, next to the office and started a cycle.

He took a quick shower, and when he got out, he remarked that it made sense for Satan to be attacking in such a way on Sunday morning, since he was scheduled to preach at church tonight.

Little did he know that was just the beginning.

Then it was my turn. It takes me awhile to shower because I have to try and guard my central line from getting wet, even though I tape it up. I was only about halfway through when Jeff came running back snapping that now poop was exploding everywhere, out of the toilet, out of the shower in that bathroom, onto the office carpet, and the washing machine was spilling water all over the kitchen floor.

Jeff had called our landlord to tell him what had happened (with the first burst), who had explained he couldn’t get anyone out until tomorrow, being Monday. That would have been no problem, except for the nasty explosion that came next.

And yes, Jeff did, then, use my good towels, promising me he’d replace them all. I was sick. Just sick about it.

However, this same ever-enterprising husband called our landlord back and told him we couldn’t wait for help on the morrow, and in the meantime, he ran up to our church to borrow a wet vac to clean up yet a third explosion of offensiveness. It was already 9:00 by this time, and our Sunday School starts at 9:30. I was charged with keeping the children out of the mess, and since they were already dressed for church, when Jeff returned, I took them so we could work unhindered.

This time, when I walked into the office, I was hit with wretched of wretchedness. My power of description utterly fails me here, but suffice it to say, the smell was so bad, I stuffed tissue in both nostrils before entering the haz mat situation again. The stench was everywhere, in the kitchen and the living room. Imagine sewage, add dead rotting fish, toss in a few squares of undissolved toilet tissue, and then remember that I used that bathroom anywhere from 10-20 times a day. I opened up the back doors to let some air in and the foulness out. It didn’t help much. And then I walked back into the bathroom and saw Jeff's solution to the stink. He lit ONE scented candle, as if that single-handedly would drive away the breath of horrid odor.

Jeff told me the same thing had happened to our friends and we couldn’t use any water because it would only continue to spew things out of the toilet and shower. I had a moment of panic when I realized I hadn’t had any diarrhea yet that morning and it was sure to come.

“Don’t worry,” said my practical husband. “You can always drive up to the church every time you need to go.” And he turned back to suck up the sludge.

Soothing. Not at all.

I had to be doing something, and since only one person could shop vac at a time, Jeff suggested I go clean up the playroom.

I did, and it hasn’t been that organized in months.

In the meantime, Roto Rooter had been called to come out. We knew we’d have to wait because all technicians were already out on their first call.

I decided to run up to the church to pick up the children and bring them home, since the worst was over with, but when I got there, they were fine and having a grand time, so I left them again.

Good thing we only live 8 houses down, for when I returned home, within minutes, I could feel my stomach churning and gurgling, and there was nowhere to go. So, I hopped back in the car, dashed up to church, and at the stop sign, I saw a Roto Rooter van coming my way.

I stopped, rolled down the window, and very hurriedly (because I had to GO), told him, “You’re looking for my house. It’s the 8th house on the right, red brick, and the garage door is opened, all ready for you.” I think I could have won a speed-speaking contest with that sentence.

That goodness for church bathrooms, especially the close ones.

Since I was already at church yet again, I decided to go ahead and pick up the children. Jeff suggested I keep them out of the house while the guy was there, and I’m not sure if it was to keep them out of his way, or if it was to keep them out of any potential further explosions of the stank kind. Probably both. They’d likely put on their rain boots and have a happy dance in it, if we let them.

So, we went up to Taco Bell and picked up lunch.

By the time we got back, the man was almost done.

Jeff met us outside and I asked him if he’d found the problem.

“Yes. Old pipes and quality toilet paper, and using lots of it, caused the pipes to get clogged up, then backed up, and then all this mess.”

Oops. That would be me. I need me some quality toilet paper these days.

275 dollars later and a cold Mountain Dew for the road, the technician left, but of course, not before I just HAD to explain to him that I only had 6 inches of small bowel, which meant that I had to use the bathroom quite a bit.

He absently nodded, humoring me, I'm sure, and I could tell he didn't really care. He was done and off to the next job.

Then came the cleaning part. I stood outside the door, handing Jeff Lysol wipes and Lysol with Bleach for which to clean. He did it all, bless his manly servant’s heart. I still had my tissues in my nose.

He was about half way done when I offered to fetch him gloves. He just gave me an eyeball roll and said I could have offered 20 minutes before.

Our pastor, his son, and other friends stopped by after church with their sleeves rolled up, ready to pitch in and help. They were a little too late, but the gesture was certainly appreciated.

Jeff had done his work well, and when I look back at the day (we still need to steam clean the carpet, and I’m sure I’ll be tasked with that tomorrow) my Jeff really did do all of the nasty work. I kept offering to help, but he wouldn’t let me. And boy, am I thankful!

The Black Cloud

2010-10-06T17:11:00.000-07:00

There’s a black cloud hanging out in my periphery. Normally, I wouldn’t share such a deeply personal feeling of weakness, but I’ve been honest thus far, and you are people of prayer.

The black cloud is one of depression. If you’ve ever been there, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. It hovers, waiting for the perfect moment of weakness to move in, and there it stays until a strong wind finally blows the last of it away.

I refuse to be sucked into one of those dark ominous places; I’ve been there before.

It’s strange, though, that I should be striving to keep this cloud of gloom away because there are so many wonderful things happening. People are hard at work for my family; new friends have astonished me with detailed plans for organizing a 5K walk/run in March and I’m excited to be a part of that. I’m busy shuttling children to preschool, dashing through potty breaks as I lead the 15-minute Chapel service for the little ones, gearing up for a one-on-one Bible Study with a friend, writing, reading, and doing other things I enjoy (except exercising, which I wish I could do).

So, I really don’t know where this is all coming from, especially since even early last week I was doing fine, or so I thought.

Maybe it’s that I should be about to start my cycle, which is quite a bitter certainty. My body belies the reality of my situation. It continues as if my world hasn’t been spun out of control, hasn’t been tossed out into space like a piece of exploded fragment. My cycle has returned with expected regularity (or it has, once, anyway). And yet, I know without a doubt it would be futile and irresponsible to even think about getting pregnant again. But, it hurts. It hurts to think about not being able to nutritionally support a life. I want to hold a baby again, my own. I want to love and nourish, stroke and calm my own wiggling squawking baby. I never desired these things as much as now when it will never be.

I watched Lexi sitting on the kitchen table where she climbed the other day, shredding napkins and tossing them to the floor. That busy, mischievous 18-month old is my baby. She’s getting so big and she doesn’t even want to be rocked anymore. There isn’t another one to take her place and there probably never will be.

I would have been about 6 months along, visibly pregnant, uncomfortable, and keenly anticipating January. My heart is aching right now. Terribly aching with unfulfilled longing. And this lump wasn’t there a minute ago. My vision is blurred because of the unshed tears, and I feel another little piece of my heart chipping away.

The logical side of me, of which I had plenty of practice growing up with those 5 unemotional brothers, says to just shake it off and move on. But, the emotional female part of me cannot. Isn’t this the part of the grieving process where I’m supposed to be able to let go? I cannot, for I cannot distinguish between griefs…the grief over my lost child or my lost bowel. I’m an emotional jumble.

Where, might you say, does God fit into all of this? Well, where does he not? He knows my innermost thoughts, the ones I cannot even clearly communicate to you. He knows me intimately, and He is fully acquainted with my weaknesses. He's seen me during my best times and He's seen me in my worst. In spite of that, and in spite of the facts I’ve shared above, I know He loves me and I know it’s okay to express the depth of my feelings, for I do not doubt His presence. I know the Holy Spirit intercedes with groans that my words cannot express. And my words cannot fully express what's churning in my heart.

A Really 'Crappy' Night

2010-10-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

I feel highly aggravated, much like my nether-regions and I’m almost not in the mood for writing. I have a semi-permanent crease between my brow and the irritating sound of Jeff scrolling his mouse on his computer is like nails on a chalkboard and though I keep glaring at him, he’s scrolling away oblivious to the dagger darts I’m shooting his way. If you couldn’t tell, this means I’m in a very cranky way today.

Because….today was supposed to be a glorious day and it was just the opposite. My dad graciously bought Jeff and me tickets to the State Fair (of which I was the only member of the date looking forward to going), but my beloved doesn’t like fairs and I have no earthly idea why not. My parents offered to watch the children so we could make a day of it, alone. Admittedly, the lure of the fair had lost some of its luster since I wouldn’t be partaking in any elephant ears (funnel cakes for you Texans) or iced lemonade. I don’t ride the rides at fairs because I think they’re probably dangerous, but I like to look at everything, and with a brisk cool wind on my face, it marks the advent of fall. I might not have gotten the brisk cool wind on my face today, but it was still a beautiful day…if only my night hadn’t been so horrible and ruined all my hopes of a fair date with my man.

My new diet plan says I can eat lean beef; I haven’t done so since I snuck half of a hamburger from Sonic and barely lived to tell the tale. I had diarrhea like a busted fire hydrant going full blast. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but stupidly, I figured that Sonic wasn’t in the business of serving lean beef, and a girl can only eat so much grilled chicken. Yesterday, Jeff made hamburgers for dinner from the leanest meat he could find. I ate half of mine and then thought, “well, I don’t feel anything yet, so I’ll just go ahead and eat the other half.” Mistake.

I won’t bore you with my nocturnal misery, or maybe I will. Let’s just say this was the worst night I have had since I’ve been home from the hospital. Have you ever had acid poured on an open wound? Me either. But, I’m sure I know what it feels like now. Around 9:30 p.m., while we were watching “The Apprentice” I came back from the bathroom shuffling so my cheeks wouldn’t jiggle and I was IN TEARS. I could hardly walk, I couldn’t sit, nor could I lie down in a fetal ball on the sofa like I wanted. I stood up, groaning and bawling and rocking back and forth as the fire raged near my s5 dermatome. I have given birth 3 times, and I don’t remember crying during labor. This time, I couldn’t stop, for it felt like someone had taken a paring knife and filleted my anus and the surrounding skin and then poured hot firey acid all over just to be mean.

Usually, after a few minutes the burning eases up. This time it took somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes for it to subside enough for me to sit down and the whole time Jeff held me and tried to soothe me. It didn’t work.

We went to bed and I could feel my stomach still churning. The wretchedness hadn’t ended, but I knew I couldn’t handle another episode like that and so I prayed that my sphincter muscles were in top shape and I drifted off. I kept waking up when the sphincter muscle would contract. That was a four-hour ordeal.

Finally, at 2:15 a.m. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The relief was short-lived and no amount of creams or lotions relieved my suffering. This time I couldn’t even walk out of the bathroom. I lay my head on the sink, rocking back and forth, and cried out to God to “have mercy” and to “make it stop.”

When I finally hobbled back to bed, I couldn’t even lay down. It took a long time before I could even get into bed, and poor Jeff had to listen to my agony of tears as he tiredly tried to comfort me again. He finally advised me to do what is recommended for babies with terrible diaper rash (strip ‘em down and let ‘em air out). That was simply the worst idea I could think of because my prudish self likes to be completely covered at all times, especially when I’m near him and not in the mood to be mauled. But, I could see no hope in sight and I resignedly gave into his suggestion. This time it took about 30 minutes for the pain to subside long enough for me to find some degree of comfort and about an hour later, I finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The next four hours were equally restless, sleep-deprived, and uncomfortable, and by 7:00 I was up again and in the bathroom.

I called my mom to let her know our fun day was off, and she reminded me of the concoction she bought at the pharmacist’s insistence, of which I had slightly scoffed and then promptly forgotten about. The brew consisted of A&D cream mixed with an antacid (like Mylanta). I mixed the potion in my hand and lathered up because by now I had nothing to lose. I immediately felt more relief than I had in the last 12-hours, and then I was most annoyed with myself for having secretly sneered at the pharmacist’s home remedy.

We still didn’t go to the fair because I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, and I’ve been grouchy all day (which is completely typical when I don’t get enough sleep). Even my 3-hour nap didn’t completely catch me back up. I’m ready for bed now, and I’m praying that tonight will bring peace, a settled stomach, and time for my pitiful anal area to heal. Being a new member of the Small Bowel Syndrome club is, literally, really crappy sometimes.

But, at least I feel much better than when I started writing. And I'm not irritated with Jeff anymore.

New Look

2010-09-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

You know how you sometimes need to rearrange your furniture to make a room feel new? Okay, well, maybe that was just my mom growing up...but I realized I was ready for a new look. You've still got the right page - just a little fresher look to welcome in the Fall, if it'll ever really get here.

So Much to Digest

2010-09-22T17:33:00.000-07:00

With life happening all around me, I find that my blogging time suffers…or well, maybe I just don’t have that much to say. But, it doesn’t mean that my mind has gone to mush. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.

First of all, I was trying to figure out why I was disappointed and slightly down about going to church on Sunday because I normally love going. As I talked it through with my mom, I realized that I have trouble shifting gears quickly and painlessly. The process of change, any change, takes me time. So, when we got it into our pea-brains that we were moving to Nebraska, though I dreaded the winter months, I accepted it, we packed up almost our entire house, and had a plan and set of directives for how/when we were going to temporarily move ourselves up there to accept the miraculous transplant which would snap me back to my former self.

And then Jeff and I went to our evaluation week and discovered we shouldn’t have counted those chickens before they were hatched (I can just hear my dad saying it) because all of our (well, mostly Jeff’s) careful planning was to no avail since their recommendation was for me to wait on the transplant and, instead, enter their rehabilitation program.

That should have been good news worth celebrating and eating a plateful of fajitas and a cherry coke over… blast the diarrhetic consequences; indeed it WAS, and I’m still very excited to see what God chooses to do through my body’s own natural healing abilities and His intervention….but, then we came home to a house full of boxes and no plan, no movement, no going forward. I felt stuck in the waiting game again, for Jeff and I have been here before, many times in our short 5 years of marriage. It seems like every single time we make a plan and believe God is in it, He shuts us down and keeps us where we are, in a completely dependent place.

By nature, I’m not a very patient person, and one would think that after all that has transpired in my life, or more specifically, in the past two months, impatience would be parked at the curb.

I guess what I’m trying to get at and trying to confess is that instead of placing my hope in God only, I’d placed much of it in the transplant, naively and egotistically assuming God would choose to use the transplant to be my immediate miracle and I wouldn’t have to live this TPN dependent life but for a little while.
It was quite jolting to my entire being when I realized this mercenary diarrhea will continue indefinitely, even within the hope that it could possibly subside somewhat in the next year or two. I’m having a hard time swallowing that. It was easy to show much faith in the 100-meter dash of post-hospital discharge; it’s much harder to continue faithful when there’s no end to the affliction in sight.

I now belong to the select category of people who have a chronic illness, and my heart feels extraordinary and empathetic compassion for their suffering in ways it never did before. I understand what it means to struggle daily, to try and find some normality within the illness, to re-learn independence, to accept help as it chips away the last vestiges of pride, to find something outside of myself to invest in, to become “mommy” again, to try and show physical love to my husband when it’s not even on my radar, to sit and play with my children with minimal potty breaks, and to find some balance between the old normal and the new where I feel like “me” and not “invalid me.”

I really don’t know how to do it, but I do know I can’t do it alone.

This is a journey I never planned to make. This is a journey chosen for me. I can choose to sit and mope away the days or I can claim that same fighting spirit now that Christ exhibited through me in ICU. I want to live and I want to live abundantly. Now, what must I do?

Doctor Recommendation

2010-09-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

It looks like we’re not moving to Omaha afterall. The transplant surgeon’s recommendation is for me to enter their Intestinal Rehabilitation Program first. Because my injury is so fresh, my body hasn’t really had time to learn to adapt. The way God created our bodies, they naturally try to adapt to what’s left. Apparently, it’ll take a year to two years for me to reach my “final adaptation” so to speak.

The doctor told us about a guy my age who had about the same amount of small intestine who is already completely off TPN and can support himself nutritionally without having to have had a transplant.

The doctor says there’s not a 90% chance this will happen for me, too, but it’s not 0%.

The colon will attempt to take on some of the responsibilities of the missing parts of the small intestine, etc. and the goal would be for me to try and get to a point, by tweaking my TPN prescription, allowing for adaptation and a few other things, to scale back TPN to 2 or less days a week and for me to be able to nutritionally sustain myself on my own.

Anyway, should the following occur, they will bring me back for a transplant.

· Liver disease (from the TPN)

· Loss of adequate central line sites because of infections

· Recurring blood infections from the central line

Basically, I’ve got to get much sicker before they’ll transplant me. The way they put it, a transplant is not an immediate fix like I thought. It’s like trading one disease for another, and there are very fixed risks to transplanting….like 60% of people live to the 5-year mark. Because of my age and health, they put me in a slightly higher category, but the first two years after transplant are very rough, health-wise. However, they weigh the risks versus the benefits, and right now, because I am doing remarkably well on TPN (they're shocked I'm not on any narcotics for pain), the risks out-weigh the benefits to transplanting.

I have to say I’m really okay with this recommendation because if there’s even the slightest chance that I could recover some of my own function, without having a transplant, that’s ideal. Didn’t know it was a possibility to get beyond the constant diarrhea and TPN.

I was told I will always be a very good candidate for a transplant, and likely, that day will come, but not in the next couple of years (unless any of those three bulleted points occur).

We’ve got to go home and unpack and re—move back in. Sigh. I’m tired thinking about that.

There are many financial concerns, with Jeff not working, and trying to keep me covered with insurance. Those will be the biggest stressors for us....plus me not giving up when I don't see immediate results of adaptation.

Keep praying,

Audrea

We're in Omaha

2010-09-12T16:49:00.001-07:00

I’ve been reminded that I haven’t updated in awhile. Packing up our house…well, Jeff and others packing up our house…has taken up a lot of my time. I’ve had to make sure Jeff didn’t pack everything up around me. He was! Every time I needed something, it’d already be in a box. He doesn’t waste time because he’s very task-oriented, but it was starting to drive me crazy.

We’re now in Omaha for the week, minus the children. I just got off the phone with my parents and the two older children. They were in the backyard having a grand ol’ time with a pan of water. Mom knows what to do with preschoolers. They’re not even missing us.

Jeff and I attended Hillcrest Baptist Church (where we first met) with my parents this morning. Pastor Mike graciously led the congregation in prayer for me at the end of the service. We then high-tailed it to the airport, and armed with my medical bag of supplies and TPN, along with a letter from my doctor, I was thoroughly prepared to get a pat down and the nose-through my bag. None of that happened. It was rather anticlimactic.

We sat in the airplane for about 40 minutes while the mechanic fixed the fasten seatbelt sign. I detest flying after a scary experience with terrible turbulence right after 9/11. I was nervous during takeoff (and landing) and didn’t realize I was digging my nails into Jeff’s hand until he told me. The flight was uneventful, as all flights should be. I never once had to run to the bathroom, THANK YOU LORD! And I’d even eaten a few bites of Jeff’s fried rice at the airport.

A sweet lady related to a new friend (thank you, Heather MCVann for sending Sandi to us) met us at the airport and took us all over, to the townhouse Jeff found, around the medical facility (which is huge and confusing), helped us find our room, then to the grocery store to stock up on snacks (for Jeff), and now we’re settling in.

I keep looking out the window and thinking about winter. Washington, D.C. was too cold for me and I barely lasted 3 years there. This past winter was the coldest in Omaha’s history…well, since 1976 or something like that. A repeat is going to send me into a deep depression. I don’t DO cold weather very well. I was made for tropical heat and island time!

Ah well….if this is where I need to be, this is where I need to be, cold, snow, ice, and more cold. For some reason, and maybe I’m tired, I feel a little down, a little overwhelmed by all the “to do” items on our itinerary, and in need of a quart of java chip ice cream (which I don’t get). I keep wondering if they’ll try to rehabilitate my intestine and I won’t get a transplant. I am worried, and I know, intellectually I don’t need to be…but I am.

And I’m tired of “all work and no play” - - not that I’ve been able to work, but all of this planning, preparation, flying, evaluating, etc…it’s all work. Maybe Jeff and I will find time for a little ‘date’ while we’re here. Something to take my mind off of all this would be nice. He’s got football. I don’t even have a book; he packed ‘em all!

Prayer S.O.S.

2010-09-05T18:20:00.001-07:00

So, I’m sending out a big prayer S.O.S.

After being so miserably sick this weekend with a terrible ear infection, and receiving frantic phone calls from my parents, and then some not-so-frantic-but-equally-concerned from my brothers, I realized I can’t get sick again. I mean, really, I can’t get sick. If my temperature would have risen above 103, or if I’d begun to have severe, or even strange, abdominal pain, I would have had to rush to an Emergency Room. Thankfully, the antibiotics finally kicked into high gear, and my fever broke for good, but not after I’d soaked through clothes and sheets as I slept miserably cocooned in my own salty saturation.

If there is any kind of infection in my body when it comes time for the transplant to take place, they won’t do it because of all the immunosuppressants I’ll be on. And God is not taking me (and my family) all the way up to COLD Nebraska (I shiver unhappily just thinking about winter) not to get my transplant. However, I’m currently not back at 100% health-wise, so I would greatly appreciate continued, and fervent, prayer, that I would stay healthy and the germs would bounce off me as if I were sprayed down with germ repellent!

You all have been so faithful to lift up any prayer request I’ve put out there, and please know, I am so grateful.

There’s a lot for us to do before our big September 23 move date. I won’t be traveling with Jeff and the two oldest children in the car. I’ll be flying. I can’t be miles from a bathroom at any given time. I’ll have my mom and the baby with me, and probably my TPN…and just getting through all that security already gives me a headache.

Keep lifting us up as I know you do.

Midnight...or thereabouts, Tirade

2010-09-02T23:56:00.000-07:00

It’s 1:30 a.m. and tonight I feel the acute loss of my small intestine, for I am up having diarrhea. I tossed and turned until 12:32 when I couldn’t take it anymore. My sphincter muscle clutching tight kept waking me up. I’ve got a terrible ear ache, and I’m running fever. After the ibuprofen, I’m no longer shivering, but so burning hot. My ear still hurts and if you couldn’t tell, I’m more than cranky.

I tried to sleep through all of this, but couldn’t. And every time I get up, I have to unplug my TPN pump; it beeps quite loudly 3 times. Then, I have to push the i.v. pole to the bathroom door, and it doesn’t fit all the way, in so it bumps and bangs and wakes Jeff up, if the beeping hasn’t already done it. Tonight, he was gracious and helped me, but that was an hour ago.

Since then I’ve felt the urge to have more diarrhea, and I can’t swallow for the shooting pain it sends to my ear. So, I unplugged one last time and tried not to bang anything on the way to the living room and then to the bathroom by our kitchen. Ever tried to push an i.v. pole with a heavy bag of TPN on carpet in the middle of the night? It’s not easy.

I’ve got to face it. I’m sick, and I can’t be. I can’t have any infection in my body when it’s time for the transplant because of all the immune-suppressants I’ll be on. And, I don’t want to be sick.

I’m just so miserable right now, and the worst part is not being able to sleep through the “sick” part because of the diarrhea. I want to curse my 6 inches of bowel. I am incredibly unhappy tonight about the whole situation. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did, and it makes me want to cry because of what I’ve lost. I’ve tried to be strong. I’ve tried to keep up a positive, righteous attitude, but tonight, I find it exceedingly difficult and I feel despair creeping in.

Every morning when I wake up, life-as-usual whispers tauntingly in my ear, and then I hear the gentle whirring of the pump, that blasted concoction that’s keeping me alive, and I remember my new normal. I sigh because I want to be thankful for it, but when I have to do it every day for 14-hours (even at night), it chains me. It limits everything I can do, even when I wear the more mobile back-pack. It gets in the way. I’ve even begun tripping over the cord, and some days I want to rip the central line out of my body. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Feel my frustration.
I can’t even get up at night when my children cry because I’m all hooked up and it takes too long to detach and roll the pole. Jeff has to do it. I want to comfort my children in the middle of the night. I’m mommy. I’m supposed to.

I realize I will probably have a transplant soon and I need to get over my crabbiness, but I also realize that even with the new bowel, my life will never go back to the way it was before. I don't even question God's sovereignty in all of this, but joyful acceptance is beyond me tonight.

There will likely be no more children for us. I saw a newborn baby in the pediatrician’s office today, and I had to blink back the tears because that small joy has been taken from me. If the rejection medicines are as strong as I think they are, to risk trying for another child isn’t worth it, unless it’s in God’s miraculous design. My heart is simply broken when I think I’ll never hold a newborn of my own again.

I feel sleepy, so I suppose I must end this sore tirade over what I cannot control. I need to sleep. I want to sleep.

The Big Move

2010-08-31T19:10:00.001-07:00

The excitement is mounting because today we got the final “ok” that I’ve been accepted to the University of Nebraska’s transplant program for an evaluation. We leave Sunday, the 12th of September, for an intensive week of testing, meeting with every single member of the transplant team, and when we return home, they’ll meet to give their recommendations on the best course of action for me. I’m praying, with belief, that they’ll unanimously agree that I am in need of a transplant.

Though I have been doing much better with my diarrhea, I’m still chained to being close to a toilet if needed. I’ve learned that my days are better when I eat next to nothing, but I am determined to keep eating, even if it’s mouse portions.

When I think of my daily life, I’m ready for this move. We’ll return from the evaluation, and provided I’m placed on the small bowel waiting list, we’ll move up to Omaha at the end of September and we may be there as little as 5 months. We’ve found a 3-bedroom townhouse, which will be bigger and cheaper than living in the hotel at the medical facility. Since we’ll have our three children, plus my mom for awhile, as well as other visiting family, we needed more space.

Pray for our children; we’ll be putting all three of them in a room together. They did just fine this past weekend with out-of-town guests (as long as we put the baby down first), but there’s always an opportunity for things to go awry when big changes come.
Pray for Jeff; he’ll carry the load again for awhile. He’d like to be able to find some part-time work while we’re there, but there has to be flexible hours because as soon as we get the word there’s a match, it’ll be time to drop everything and run.
Pray for our patience with the children and each other. Satan will try to get a foothold in that door, and I’m not willing to let him in.
Pray for a new church family and support. We’ll be by ourselves for awhile and we know absolutely no one in that city.
Pray for us over the next several weeks as we pack and make ready.
Pray that we’ll be excellent stewards of the money you all helped us raise. Pray that all of my worries over having enough money to pay for our daily expenses will be there when we need it.
Pray for a bigger car. We currently have a Cobalt (small sedan), and with all 3 carseats, one had to be in the front, and I sat in the back squeezed in with the other two children. With my mother staying with us for awhile, we really need something bigger to use. There isn’t room for all 6 of us. Jeff’s dad and wife have let us borrow their new SUV since I’ve been home from the hospital, but we’d really like to be able to give that back and have our own vehicle. God can make it happen. I know.
Pray also as you feel led. I’m tired tonight, so I may have missed some obvious things.

Much love to you all. I thank you for your continued support, especially the prayer support. This part of the journey will be even more challenging for us…being away from family and friends is hard. So hard.

The Visit

2010-08-24T18:49:00.000-07:00

I haven’t written in a few days, well, maybe more than a few days at this point. I’ve been in a very deeply private and thoughtful frame of mind and wasn’t ready to share.

For you see, I went to visit my baby’s grave for the first time this past Friday evening. I took a deep breath, swallowed a morsel of courage, and told Jeff I wanted to go. I’d maneuvered around the idea for these few weeks I’ve been home because physically, I wasn’t ready, and emotionally, I just didn’t think I’d hold up.

After we put the children to bed, I headed over to the grave. A very sweet couple in our church allowed us to bury the baby on their land, in a field, under a shade tree. The couple, Mike and Carolyn, were outside when I drove up alone.

For some reason, when I asked them if it would be okay to go see the baby, I felt the emotion well up, along with that tell-tale lump and the hot tears which prickled against my eyes. Carolyn told me to go ahead and that their new donkey had had a baby, but wouldn’t bother me. Normally, I would shy away from being alone in a field with animals who were much larger than me, but at the time, I barely heard her words. I was too focused on keeping my emotions under control.

Our music minister had fashioned a pretty little wooden cross with the words “Baby Medina” on it, and as I went through the gate and tromped through the wild Texas wilderness, I kept my eyes on that cross and barely even felt the stickers attack my bare legs or smelled the giant plops of horse manure.

Mike and Carolyn, on top of the freshly dug grave, had placed a solid layer of pretty bricks. I don’t know what I felt as I stood there for the longest time and just stared. I just seemed to empty of everything but the moment. My mind finally rewound to that sorrowful place before I went in for surgery, and the emotion surged out of my body. I knelt down, blinded by my own torrent of tears, and cried out to God, “Why this one? Why this one? Why couldn’t I have had just one day, just one day?”

I then noticed dirt and bugs lounged and crawling across the bricks and I frantically began to swipe them clean, furiously whisking the unwelcome intruders away, telling them testily to “get off my baby.” My TPN backpack kept sliding down (for I was “hooked up” for the night already) and was getting in the way. I guess, in some way, this represented my frenzied attempt to control, protect, even guard my vulnerable baby snuggled beneath that fresh sod.

That’s what we mothers do. We watch with eagle’s eyes, we care, we protect, we nurture, we guard; we even fight for our children. We take a silent, solemn vow when they are placed within our arms for the first time. We vow, before Holy God, that no harm will come to our child while we are in charge. We recognize, and accept, the heavy responsibility of becoming a mother, and we become fierce and frightful bears when our children are in danger or are crossed. Those feelings were raw and real as I lay there, even more so for my unborn baby.

That effort left me spent, and I lay almost prostrate across the tiny grave, finally releasing all the pent-up emotion that had been pushed aside during my post-operative recovery phase.

Finally, I grieved, alone with naught but my child and my God. And then, in silent salute, as the sun began to set, and the evening began to quiet, I said my farewells.

I don’t pretend that visit is the end of the story, for I know I will be reminded, again and again, of that precious little life, as the years go by. I will mark birthdays and graduations, soccer games and summer swimming. I will imagine, as all mothers who’ve lost babies, what my child would have looked like, who he/she would have acted like, and what calling to which God would have called him.

All in all, it was, admittedly, another very sad day. I anticipate more, but I also anticipate hopeful acceptance of God’s decision and better days, acknowledging that He ultimately knows best.

While I'm Waiting

2010-08-19T18:54:00.000-07:00

There are three words that come to mind every day lately; I’ve even written about them. Waiting, control, and faith.

Every day that passes where we don’t hear something about the coming transplant, I feel impatient, for I dislike WAITING, especially when we were told to expect news within a week or two of leaving the hospital. I’ve been home exactly two weeks today, and I feel like a race horse ‘chomping at the bit’ except I have no CONTROL over when the gates open for the derby. That’s in someone else’s hands.

Control, for most of us, is a daily struggle. We aim for control in our work environment, home life, and especially in our relationships…perhaps even without realizing it. I am reminded of the arguments Jeff and I have, and they’re usually a result over an issue where we both want to exert our control and conflict ensues when we want different things and neither of us will humbly give our desires for the other. A very wise man once told Jeff that arguments/fights/marital discourse arise when one person wants something so bad, he/she is willing to sin to get it. That really resonated with me when Jeff shared it, and often, when I feel tension arising between us or I snap out an ungodly response, I try to stop and ask myself “what is it that I want so bad I’m willing to sin, even against the man I am sworn to love forever, to get it?” Now, honestly, that doesn’t happen all the time, but when I remember WHO is in control of my life (Jesus Christ) and that I am a Spirit-controlled person, I am usually very quickly shamed by my own behavior and able to be quickly reconciled with my husband.

In this waiting-game instance, I can’t even sin against the parties involved because I’m too far removed from them. But, the tension I feel and the impatience that’s teasing my mind, tells me I need to start asking myself if I want a transplant so badly that I’d be willing to sin to get it. My flesh cries out “yes, I want it and I want it bad and I want it now because I’m so sick of having diarrhea every time I turn around and I’m sick of the nausea I’ve started feeling…” and on and on with my physical complaints. But the Holy Spirit, (and since I am a Christian, I am bound to listen) tells me to be patient and to TRUST the one who brought me back from an early grave. He’s already proved faithful. It is natural, for those of us who are Christians, to respond in a way that honors God; it is unnatural not to. I am weak, though, and my flesh and spirit do battle daily.

Therein lies the crux of the matter. I am a spiritual being trapped in flesh, and the Devil seeks to destroy me. He is intimately acquainted with my weaknesses, and Scripture tells us he is wily and crafty and will stop at nothing to destroy me because of his hatred for God. Destroying each of us by way of unreconcilable rifts with spouses which lead to divorce, bitterness toward another, selfishness, rage, sexual immorality, envy, and all the other things found in Galatians 5:19-21 merely serve to give God a bad name among those who do not believe.

The antidote: God’s Word steeped in our hearts so that we have the ability to break those enslaving chains from our lives. I need more of God’s Word to combat these daily mental battles I’m struggling with, and I would dare to suggest that you do, too.

I want to live freely, unhindered by sin and being a slave to it. Galatians 5:1 tells us that “it is for freedom that Christ has set us free…and do not let yourselves be burdened again by the yoke of slavery” so that tells us that Christ himself already understood our battle and addresses it. I want to live unhindered by my sin so that I can concentrate on others, helping others, and ultimately bearing fruit for God’s kingdom. I don’t want to dishonor God’s name, since I bear it; I want to bring him the most honor that I can.

So now I can wait knowing the control I desire rests in God’s hands, and he will be faithful to provide my transplant in His time (as some of you have already reminded me) and not my own. Grant me patience, Lord, in this time of waiting.

GI Doctor Visit

2010-08-17T18:36:00.000-07:00

Quick update to let you know that I had a great visit with my GI doctor this afternoon. I have a sneaking suspicion he's seeing me without cost, and further raises him in my already high esteem.

Anyway, he asked about my diet, and was surprised that I’ve had solid stool, and was also surprised that I’ve managed to keep anything in at all. He said most people just give up trying to eat and let the TPN do its job. Not me. I love to eat. But, my scrambled egg with cheese and lightly buttered toast (a sure fire stay in) might get old eating 3 times a day. My doctor told me to eat what stays and slowly add other foods in after 2-3 weeks. That’s hard. Everything looks SOOOO good.

Baby steps, Audrea. Baby steps.

So, after that great visit, mom took me shopping at Kohl’s, our favorite place to browse the clearance racks. She treated me to a new wallet and new outfit. Thanks, mom (err…and dad)! I felt normal browsing, except for the time we had to dash to the bathroom. Mom kindly made a lot of noise washing her hands, drying them, etc. since she knows how I dislike #2 in public. Considering it’s either #2 in a public bathroom, or #2 on myself, I think I’ll swallow my pride.

Porcelain Life Lessons

2010-08-13T19:10:00.000-07:00

I’m the type of person who looks for lessons in every situation. I know God has some major branches to prune from my life, and none of us are perfected or complete until the day we’re called home to heaven if our names are in the Lamb’s Book of Life. My physical body, though, longs for that day, the day where, perhaps, I’ll not need a small bowel.

I think about lessons in light of today where nothing I put in my mouth stayed. After running to the bathroom for about the 10th (or more) time today, I’m exhausted. My stomach is still churning, my rear end, as you can well imagine, is rawer than a newborn baby’s raw, the gas seeping out is so toxic we’ve all resorted to plugging our noses and counting to 10 before we breathe, and my spirits are less than ecstatic.

What lesson(s) can I take from all these potty trips that will get my mind back on things above?

• The first one I think of is that God’s design for the human body is flawless. I never knew much about the human body or how things work (you’ll remember back to my brother, Elliott, sending me diagrams about the female cycle, etc. when I was pregnant for the 3rd time in 3 years), but now, I’m intrigued. I see why so many are so fascinated by the medical field. God’s design of each of us is perfect and faultless (even if something in our body doesn’t work quite right when we’re born), and it boggles my mind that anyone could memorize all of the body organs/functions and think we happened by accident or evolved from some big booming bang of matter. I’ve got more respect for myself than that. Our human, and finite minds, even the most brilliant and intellectual, could not have created anything more ideal. Even the great scientific minds of today, bursting with knowledge, can only attempt to replicate, or clone, what already exists. And that, on a completely other subject, is treading very dangerous ground.

• This brings me to my second lesson. Science and technology are wonderful tools of the human mind (gifted from God) when used to advance and protect life. I’m so thankful to be living during this time because had this trauma happened even 50 years ago, I probably would have died. TPN, the stuff I gripe and complain about because it chains me to itself and is my master for 14 hours a day, is sustaining the very breath I breathe. If I’d had to rely solely on what I could feed myself, I’d wither away in a matter of weeks. Because of medical advances, medicine, and a careful combination of surgery and care, I’m alive to testify to the positive side of medicine.

So, I guess what I’m telling myself tonight, is that the next time I let out a gas bomb which sends us all running for cover, I should stop and take a big gagging whiff and tell my family we should all be thankful I’m still here to blow! Ha.

Well, on a serious and less elementary note, I find myself, once again, ending cheerfully, now that I’ve put things into eternal perspective. And, I must apologize if I’ve offended any delicate sensibilities with my potty talk, though it is hard not to when all of my issues stem from what’s missing from my small bowel!

Truly Trusting

2010-08-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

I find myself feeling incredibly frustrated today. I feel helpless, as if every single thing and every single decision is out of my control. I feel all a jumble, feeble, powerless, and weak. And I don’t like it.

I’m not a good patient. Well, I was in the hospital because I was truly unable to care for myself, but now that I’m home, that “new normal” I talked about the other day is not happening fast enough. I’m impatient for it because every day presents a new series of frustrations.

This (referring to my new condition) sucks. Excuse the lack of a better and more genteel term. And don’t tell my parents I said it. Even though I’m 31, I’ll still feel guilty for the chastisement I know I’ll receive since that word was not allowed in our house!

Already I’m tired of being hooked up to an i.v., tripping over the pole, running over my own feet, and unable to bathe (the only thing I can do alone) until it finishes. I can’t pick up my children and hug them when they’re hurt, or just pick up the baby when she needs some mommy love. I can’t put her in her crib at night. I can’t sweep or mop my floors or carry a load of laundry. Who’d have thought I’d miss THAT??!!???

I haven’t even been able to see my baby’s grave yet, and though I hesitate to go too soon, my heart needs to see it.

Why am I so cranky tonight? I don’t like it. Jeff is staying away, clear on the other side of the room writing the thank you notes I should be helping him with. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling overwhelmed by all of the changes, all of which are completely out of my hands.

If that is true, this, then, becomes a true test of my faith. When I’m not in control, do I really trust God, Jeff, and all the others to make the best choices for me? I think that’s where my frustration lies. I want to make some decisions for myself and because I can’t, I’m barky. I’ve not practiced being thankful today, so I might as well get to it. In fact, I’ve not spent any time with Holy God today and it’s showing as I bare my teeth and furrow my brow(s).

I’m weak and frail and incapable of handling regular routine tasks. I don’t like being in such a vulnerable position.

I am reminded of what my brother shared on Facebook yesterday. It was from his Oswald Chambers devotional: "Jesus never measured His life by how or where He was the greatest use. God places His saints where they will bring the most glory to Him, and we are totally incapable of judging where that will be."

I feel unequal to the task of being used, in this way, for His glory, even though that’s been my heart’s desire for the longest time. I start thinking back to 3 weeks ago and wonder if I could have made any changes which would have protected my bowel or even my baby. I don’t know. Maybe. But then I have to pull myself out of that train of thought and realize I can’t change anything now. My personal judgment asks if God could have used me in another way, as in writing a novel (my other heart’s desire) and eventually teaching Southern Literature in a college setting.

I sit here now, looking inside and thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, Omniscient God has a better plan for my life than I do. The question is: Will I trust Him in my daily life struggles as I claim to trust His providence in the grand scheme of my life? Will I sit here and continue to gripe and whine about my daily trials, or will I take an eternal perspective and thank Him that I’m allowed another day to learn how to live my “ new normal.”

Hmmph. I already know, and I feel at ease again.

This is why I write. My mind is clear and I feel hope wrapped around me. I can look at my heavy i.v. back pack, listen to the gentle whirring of the pump, and thank the Lord that it’s working properly and nourishing me for another day with my loved ones.
Sorry for the moaning and groaning session, but at least I don’t end that way.

New Week

2010-08-09T08:07:00.001-07:00

This post will just be a little short one. My dear friend, Beverly, is here and she's occupying the children right now, but I need to jet to spend some QT with her since she and Jeff have been holding down the fort.

When you get hungry what do you do? You go to the refrigerator or the pantry and get something out. I can’t do that anymore.

It hit me last night as my family was sitting down to a beef nachos dinner, which looked really good, that my days of eating anything I want are over. And when we ran up to the grocery store to pick up some yogurt and pudding for my meals, I realized that of all the thousands of food items packed so tidily on every aisle, I could only eat about 3 or 4 things. This is so hard, for I love to eat.

It was easier in the hospital because the only food I saw was the chicken broth and jello they brought in. By Thursday, when I left, I thought I’d be genuinely happy if I never saw chicken broth again. Now, back at home, where food is busting from every crevice (kind family and friends filled us up), it’s just so difficult. I’m not hungry; the TPN keeps me full, but my mouth desires the pleasure of putting in and chewing up. I could eat, but the ramifications are a quick, and miserable, trip to the bathroom. Not really worth it.

Errggggg! That’s me feeling frustrated.

So, let’s move on to a more pleasing topic. Church.

I went yesterday, excited to be in the House of God, but also feeling somewhat drained. It was our church’s 140th anniversary, so walking into the sanctuary and seeing it full of people I’ve never ever seen before, was a little unexpected. However, when the first song began, “God is Good, All the Time” I felt the emotion in my heart well up and spill out of my eyes. I couldn’t sing for crying in agreement.

And then Jim, my pastor, walked over to me and led our church in prayer for a miracle.

I slipped out right before the end of the service because I was drained, emotionally and physically. All in all, though, it was good to be there.

One additional note: I’m working, very slowly, through thank you cards to each of you who have sent me a little something. It may take awhile, but know that if you’ve sent something, it’s probably been received. I’ve been so blessed to receive lots of good music, kind cards, etc. Thank you.

Strength for Today and Bright Hope for Tomorrow

2010-08-08T05:23:00.000-07:00

It’s my first Sunday back at home in two weeks. Jeff had his first full night’s sleep in two weeks (he just woke up and told me) so I praise God for that. The children are still asleep, and yet, I’ve been lying awake thinking for the past 30 minutes.

I’ve been thinking about strength and the fact that many of you have written to me admiring my strength. It occurred to me that I’m not strong. I’m as weak as the children in “Jesus Loves Me” but it’s my faith that’s strong.

My faith in Christ Jesus is an unbendable steel rod. It may be bumped, banged, bruised, or beaten but I will not relinquish it. I asked Jesus Christ to be my Lord and Savior when I was 8 years old. As some of you, I did have a curious stage where I wanted to know what the world had to offer in terms of the enticing nightlife, but even then, it took but a moment to realize there was no real satisfaction to be found. My conscience was my Holy Spirit. And He wouldn’t let me fully engage, since I was betrothed elsewhere.

I was (and am) a child of Holy God. I know there are many of you out there reading my posts, hooked to this horrible (yet fully amazing) tragedy. If you have an ounce of feeling, your hearts are full of compassion. I want more for you as I want for myself, especially if you don’t know my Jesus, the reason for my faith.

When you hear the name of Jesus Christ, what do you think? Do you smile because you know you belong to Him? Do you cringe because it makes you uncomfortable? Do you scoff because you think of it as a farce or a fairy tale?

Have you ever pulled out a Bible and read about this man?

Even if you are a believer, do you really understand the sacrifice Jesus made for you when he willingly carried his own cross down the streets to Golgotha while being spit upon and mocked? He was innocent, his only charge being that He claimed to be the Son of God. And He was the Son of God. He never spat back at his tormentors.
Do you understand that the penalty for your sin must be atoned for? In Old Testament times, there had to be a blood sacrifice to atone for sin, thus the killing of an animal. When Christ came down and offered his life, his blood covered once and for all the future sins of mankind…that means yours and mine. He offers eternal life as a gift and how many toss it back in his face with disdain or mockery? It’s a GIFT for goodness sake and He desires for all of man to come to know Him in a real and personal way.

I could not have made it through the past two weeks if I didn’t believe these simple truths.

If you don’t know Christ and want to, find a Bible, and turn to any of the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke or John). He will reveal Himself to you through these testimonies of his life. Dig in and investigate whether or not it’s real. Don’t look to people who’ve failed you; we’re incredibly fallible. Look to the man who lived a perfect sinless life.

Today is Sunday, and I am ready to join my church family in worshiping, celebrating, and fellowshipping. I don’t know if I’ll have the energy or ability to sit through the whole service, but I’m going to try. If I have to run out to the bathroom, at least I know everyone already knows why.

I am so very thankful to be alive, to be allowed to open my mouth to say “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done.” That’s my new life verse.

And now the children are awake, so I must run for the day. All my love to each of you.

Home

2010-08-06T05:21:00.000-07:00

After being told I was going home yesterday, I was up, packed, and ready to go by 10:00 a.m. We didn’t leave until after 4:00. Almost as soon as we got home, my TPN arrived, as did my Angel of Mercy, the nurse who came to show us how to hook everything up.

My first attempt to stick a needle full of vitamins into the TPN bag resulted in a contaminated bag and my finger bleeding. Jeff took over after that because we had to throw the TPN bag away. Each one of them costs about 1000 dollars. I was horrified that I’d messed it up and I refused to touch anything else.

Once the nurse left and Jeff stuck my bag and pump on my personal i.v. pole, I just stopped thinking. I felt so overwhelmed. He took the bag/pump off the pole and put them in the back pack, especially made for this stuff. I couldn’t get the bag situated where it didn’t hurt my new central line (below my right collarbone) and I just lost it. I cried and cried and said, “I don’t want to wear it. I don’t want to wear it.”

Jeff tried to comfort me, saying that it was just temporary, but I still cried my heart out. Home is where life is supposed to be the most normal and most comfortable, and yet, even that has changed for me. It was (and will be) so hard to wrap my mind around.

When I finally managed to pull myself together and remind myself that the TPN was keeping me alive and I should be grateful, I felt a little less overwhelmed and could focus on the 3 little reasons I was glad to be home.

I can’t pick up the children and that’s so hard. But, Jeff picked up Lexi put her in my lap. I rocked her while she drank her last cup of milk for the day, and then my mom came in and put her in her crib.

The older two were much harder to put down. They cried for me, they cried for Jeff, and it was well past 9:00 before they were settled and sleeping.

In the middle of the night I woke up to find Jeff gone and a little replacement (Gideon) in bed with me. It was rather nice to have that snuggly little guy near me. He’d been skittish of me and my bandages and boo-boo’s for awhile, and wouldn’t come near me when I got home yesterday.

I know this journey will get easier, but right now, just pray for a me to be able to create a home routine for myself that doesn’t seem so overwhelming.

Helping Hands

2010-08-04T19:28:00.001-07:00

I’ve received some very good news today. I get to go home tomorrow and I’ve been accepted into the Univ. of Pittsburgh’s transplant program. I’ve been assured of the funding for the transplant, but with future medical needs and current/future living expenses, there has been no guarantee.

Many of you have been asking how you can help, even in the financial realm. I do not enjoy asking for help, but want to make a way available to you. If you feel the Lord leading you to assist us on this very expensive journey (which will be for the remainder of my life), we will thankfully accept your help knowing you’ve added a jewel in your heavenly crown.

Jeff has set up a tax-deductible non-profit project through Helping Hands Ministry.

If you feel led to help us in this endeavor, or know somebody who wants to, then please follow these directions: (IT WILL NOT BE UP AND RUNNING UNTIL MONDAY, AUGUST 9th)

1. Go to the website: www.hhmin.org
2. Click on the tab to the right called "Make a Donation"
3. Click on the tab to the far left called "Donate to Helping Hands Ministries Approved Projects"
4. Click on where it asks for "project type" and we are a “MEDICAL PROJECT”
5. Click on "project" and our project name is: Medina, Jeff and Audrea

You can also send a check to:

Helping Hands Ministries, Inc.
125 Main Street
PO Box 337
Tallulah Falls, GA 30573

Checks are made payable to Helping Hands Ministries, Inc. with recommendation to the Jeff and Audrea Medina Medical Project and that may be written in the memo of the check or on a separate sheet of paper to accompany the check.

You each have aided us so much already on this journey through your constant prayers. We are so very grateful and indebted to you already. Praise be to God for his children who lovingly care for one another.

For His Glory,
Jeff and Audrea

To Live

2010-08-03T07:23:00.000-07:00

Today will be a very busy day of meeting with people, possibly getting a Hickman port put in under my collar bone (TPN feeding port), learning how to hook myself up to the TPN, and how to care for myself at home.

There are still many details to iron out before they’ll let me go, and honestly, I don’t want to leave until I know exactly how to care for myself. So I’m excited about being home with my babies, but uncomfortable with the idea that I’m not going home to “normal” life. This life of mine is forever changed and it’s rather scary. I don’t know what to expect, what I’ll have energy for, or how I’ll balance it all since I’m less than 100%.

I’m a little bummed (well, to be honest, it’s more like quite disappointed) that I’m not headed straight to the transplant center, and this is where I detest money. Gone are the days of good faith, good will, and assistance because people genuinely want to help or genuinely want to do what’s right. Money, greed, and power drive so many…Christians even. The tagline that it’s “just business” is a load of junk because it’s not just business to me. This is personal because this is my life, and a terribly important organ was accidentally destroyed. I want to live. I want to be as close to whole as possible and I want to live longer than the 5-year expectancy with TPN. I want to see my children graduate high school and college. I want to see them walk the aisles with the spouse God is now preparing for them. I want to watch football games, ballet recitals, and church musicals. But most of all, I want to see my children come to know Christ in a very real and tangible way, giving over their lives to his direction. I want to see Jeff baptize them.
I want to teach my children to invest in others, so that every choice they make brings honor to holy God.

I know that none of us are promised any day beyond what we have seen, and yet, I want that to be God’s decision, not man’s and I want to be in a position where it’s possible to have a longer life.

I just want to live. It burns inside.

Sunday

2010-08-01T20:13:00.001-07:00

Today was a great day; Mom and I walked down to the prayer garden. Last time I was in a wheelchair. Praise God for progress. I wasn't even tired when we got back.

This evening, though, after my parents left, Jeff and I were left alone (doesn't happen much these days), and he lay his head upon a pillow in my lap while I rubbed his head. I could feel the stress and tension in him, and I realized we're both worried about the next step and how it's going to be financed.

Though we know that God holds all the riches in the world, I still have some worry crawling around my mind. I think of the verse my mother taught me when I was a worry wort in college: "Be anxious for nothing, but through prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus."

So, Jeff and I prayed an earnest prayer for God's intervention, protection, and provision with thankful hearts for what He's already done for us.

We had just finished praying when one of the ladies who has been my nurse (but wasn't assigned to me tonight) walked in with a present for me. It was a little music box that plays the old hymn "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" and part of the most beautiful poem was written on top...from "Footprints" - - The Lord replied, "I love you and would never leave you. In your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints that was when I carried you."

Of course I broke down in tears when I read it because it was just the encouragement and reminder that Jeff and I both needed today. Right now we can only see one set of footprints, but it's not because Christ has outdistanced us, but it's because He's carrying us through this time of incredible trial. What a humbling reminder of the love our Heavenly Father generously bestows on each of us and the extent to which he cares.

Friday's Update

2010-07-30T03:32:00.000-07:00

Once again I am up early in the 4:00 hour because my poor stomach is just a churnin’ and a turnin’ and I’m awaiting my sweet nurse to bring me my small portion of pain medicine. That stuff, I think, has morphine in it, and I sure have been grateful, considering the pain I’ve been in when trying to (for the sake of being polite) “eliminate” waste. That part of the story, however, is for a little later.

I didn’t write yesterday because I’d had a bad night previous. I couldn’t go to sleep. I tossed and turned and by 1 a.m. I was cranky. I felt the Lord telling that I might as well get up, push my i.v. pole down the hall and pray for every single person on this floor.

Well you know me, I had to make a fuss about that. An argument ensued because all I wanted to do was fall asleep and stay asleep. I told the Lord people would think I was weird if I did that, and then I heard this voice (probably my own) say “people already think you’re weird, so get up and pray.” I realized this argument would continue until I obeyed, and with no hope of winning, I got up, unplugged my i.v. pole, and entered the bright hallway.

No one was about, so I started on my end and slowly prayed for each patient, by name (since it’s written outside all the doors). I figured out that about half of the patients were still awake, and most of them were well into their senior years. So I prayed for these special people who, like me, were recovering from surgery. I prayed for healing and I prayed they’d get some of the sleep I’d been deprived of.

One or two of the nurses asked me if I was okay or sleepy, and I simply said I was praying. They asked me to include them, so I did.

Once I finished my round, I headed back to bed and finally, around 2 a.m. I fell asleep.

I “slept in” until 8 when the nurses came in, blinded me with the lights, took my vitals, and stuffed me full of medicine.

Yesterday was a mixture of the good and the bad. I was able to find some independence by bathing myself all by myself. Oh glorious privacy.

I was released from my TPM (the nutritional life support) to freely roam, unattached to my i.v. pole, for about 10 hours. They have me on a new cyclical 14 hour intake of that stuff.

So, when Jeff came in, bringing the children from getting their shots, we all took a little trip down to the “meditation garden” (guess that’s the politically correct way to call something a prayer garden). I somehow forgot it was Texas in the dead of summer. I lasted all of 3 minutes outside before calling it quits due to the extreme heat.

We came back into the atrium, where I happily watched my children throwing pennies into the fountain and hopping from chair to chair. Besides the fact that I was still in a dressing gown and sitting in a wheelchair, I felt normal watching them play unhindered.

The rest of the day was a little rough. I was so very tired, but unable to sleep. And the “bowel issues” hit with full force.

Because I only have the 4 inches to my small intestine my bowel functions are basically out of control. I cried sitting on the toilet as liquid streamed painfully from both ends. This is the way I’ll use the bathroom from now on, though the pain is supposed to eventually subside. Don’t ever take your bowels for granted. I have to go a lot, too.

Because I’m doing so well, I was given the go ahead to begin a “clear liquids diet”—I got to drink my first sip of water in over a week ( I have been so parched and crunching ice just doesn’t do the trick sometimes). I ate a cube of red jello, and I drank part of a glass of cranberry juice. I’m glad I didn’t overly indulge because those things, as expected, slid right through me, another bout of potty time blues.

In light of everything that’s occurred, struggling with bathroom issues shouldn’t cause me as much angst as it is, but it is. I can’t get too far from a toilet, though the doctors have started me on some high powered, terrible tasting form of morphine that’s supposed to dull the pain (it does) and decrease the frequency at which I run into the bathroom. I never know when it’s going to hit, so pray for that. I’m really struggling with this adjustment.

· Pray for the next step. We were basically accepted into a transplant program and given the green light to head up there as soon as the hospital cleared me, but we’re running into financial problems. The nature of how this occurred necessitated legal intervention and I hate that, but that’s the way the system is set up – like dealing with auto insurance after a car accident. I may wind up having to go home for awhile (learning to live on this TPN and hook myself up to the i.v. etc.) while the administrators and others work through the sticky details. I am a little worried about where it all will come from, but mostly the timing. As you can well imagine, I’m ready for my transplant TODAY! But, I have to trust that though this may present a big concrete roadblock, God is still in control and it will all be in His timing.

· Pray for my mind and Jeff’s stress. Pray that we’ll truly learn to trust in God’s timing and provision for our every need.

· Pray for my “movement” issues (and thank God the next time you go!!!) because I’m really struggling through this.

· Pray for my family and Jeff’s family to stay strong and united during this time.

Once again, thank you for your love and support. Today is my oldest brother’s birthday (Aaron), so if you know him, give him a shout out. He’s supposed to share his birthday with me tonight, by coming by the hospital to play games.

I’ve been trying to think of a clever poem or something to write about him, but the last time I did that I equated him to Chicken Little and I realized I should be encouraging/uplifting him instead.

Wednesday Morning in the Hospital

2010-07-28T03:16:00.000-07:00

I am up incredibly early in the morning. There’s an electric spark in the air and after Jeff helped me to the bathroom at 4:00 a.m., my mind was wide awake, grateful, and energized. I slept 4 hours in a row, after a terrible coughing/choking fit from the NG tube, where my nurse had to rush in and save the day by pulling it out (through my nose). I guess that’s one way to get rid of something that’s caused so much pain in my ear.

The tube was scheduled to come out later this morning, anyway, but I told Jeff they were going to think I choked on purpose to get it out. Naturally, true to Jeff form, he said, “anybody who knows you knows you’re the chokingest fool alive.” It’s true and that’s our joke about me. I choke on anything. One our first anniversary date, I choked so hard on a bread crumb that the entire restaurant basically stopped eating to turn and watch me. That was slightly embarrassing.

This morning though, the electric charge I feel is the same as when you know good change is coming, like the first breath of cool air after a hot Texas summer. Change is coming, and I’m getting ready.

I’m walking everywhere…well, everywhere they’ll allow me to on my floor. I’m ready to get out and explore the rest of the hospital. God is so amazing in that I have this drive--this energy-- that’s been missing. Today is Wednesday; I entered the hospital exactly one week ago, where my life hung delicately waiting to see if my Holy Father would bring me to my eternal home.

Even though I’m a Christian, there’s still been this earthly fear settled within me about heaven. I usually fear the unknown, and though I know what Scripture says about heaven, and I know it will be much more glorious than I can even imagine, heaven represents a change, an unknown “x” factor to after –life. Now, though, when I was almost there, I do feel just a little bit of regret that I missed it this time. I almost saw Jesus and I was ready.

The fear is gone, though. Praise God, the fear is gone.

I’ve been thinking about the wonderful people who’ve come to visit. Thank you. You’ve been an encouragement to me. If you want to come see me, please do. I try to reserve the mornings for my exercise, bath, quiet time, and time for my children’s visits…afternoons for more exercise and rest (if it comes), and after 4 or 5 for visitors. However, if you want to see me during the day, I won’t reject you, just call Jeff, so I can know (469.285.0126).

I was also thinking of all the offers for help, and I’ve thought of a way that you can help me in the immediate days ahead. I miss music. I miss worship music, praise music, lovin’ on the Father music, hymns…whatever. I want to see if Jeff will buy me a cheap little cd player, and if you would be so kind, send me your favorite Christian artist. You can send it to my house and Jeff will pick it up and bring it to me. I would be most grateful. 303 West Barron Avenue, Everman, TX 76140.
My usual favorite past-time is to read, and I’ve already received quite a collection. I’m not there yet, but I am ready to hear some uplifting words in the musical form.

On another note, you’ve all been so gracious to write me. I haven’t even had time to check out my “Praying for Audrea” page since I’ve had a few moments online myself. When my brother, Alex, was here, and I was still in ICU, he’d come back with his laptop and read me your beautiful words of prayer and encouragement. Thank you. I wish I could respond to every person who writes in. It honestly has been wearing me out trying to keep up, so please don’t shoot me dirty thoughts if I don’t respond. My energy levels (though sparking with electricity this morning) don’t give me hours at a time to invest in one thing. I do one “task” and then rest, another one and then rest. Pretty soon, my endurance will be built up, but right now, rest must come after every little thing. And I MUST continue to heal

•Add my Jeff to your prayer list. He’s balancing so much right now. I want him to be able to find peace in all of his running back and forth, and to remain as stress free as possible, finding patience with the children, and the supernatural ability to get it all done.
•Pray for our next step. We think we have settled on a transplant center, but all of the small details that go into that require time and attention. Pray for the center, the doctors, and most of all the life that has to be lost so I may receive a new small bowel. And there is a waiting list, but we’ll find out soon what that all entails.

Blessings on your Wednesday, and now I’m off, back to bed to rest.

Tomorrow

2010-07-20T20:21:00.000-07:00

It’s much before midnight tonight. I dread tomorrow. I dread ‘the procedure.’ I dread the walking out to the car when it’s over. I dread the coming home to happy expectant children. I dread the emotions that will overwhelm like a tidal wave roaring down, crushing me into oblivion, leaving only a raw, open, and exposed heart in mourning.

Only one thing is helping. I have a kind doctor who believes as I do, that our baby is with the Lord. After a very lengthy conversation with Jeff this morning about all of my options, he has promised to put the baby’s “remains” (another cold impersonal term that I almost didn’t write) in a jar and will bring it out to Jeff for us to bring home.

I am so grateful for I will bury my baby.

Today we asked a church friend to build us a wooden box. And then my brother informed me that it would rot, so we went on a hunt to find a small and suitable earthly resting place. I found a beautifully mirrored, glass, deep, velvet inlaid jewelry box. My dear friend, Glenda, is making me a pillow for the baby to nestle his head against. I am having 2 Samuel 12:23 engraved on top. When King David lost his child he cried, “I will go to him, but he will not return to me.”

I will see my baby in heaven one day.

Some may think it’s bizarre that we are burying our child who had yet to be completely formed. Some may think it’s even more bizarre that we are having a memorial service, too.

I hadn’t even thought about a memorial service until my doctor told Jeff that under the law, a baby of 20 weeks or more is required to be buried. Anything less than 20 weeks is not deemed a life and is “destroyed in a lab.”

I demand to know if man’s law is greater than Holy God. The law will NOT dictate, to me, when the life of my child began. His life did not begin at 20 weeks in my womb. And no lab is going to toss my precious baby carelessly into a hazardous waste bin to be disposed of in whatever way they deem sanitary because he wasn’t more than 12 or so weeks developed.

The life of my child began the instant Jeff’s sperm found my egg. Before the pregnancy test showed two lines, I knew there was a life growing inside of me. I felt it. I kept taking tests, all negative, but I still knew they were wrong. They could not detect what I already knew.

If my baby had made it full-term and died in my arms, I would have buried him. If my baby had been any age, on the outside of the womb, it would seem bizarre and heartless if I didn’t follow custom and memorialize him.

So what that I don’t know if my baby was a ‘he’ or ‘she.’ So what if every part of him wasn’t complete. So what if he couldn’t have survived ‘on the outside.’ So what that he’s only somewhere between 2 and 3 inches long. God still breathed his breath of life into my unborn child, and I will honor that.

I dread tomorrow as I dread no other. But, I will have my burial of whatever parts of my baby they can save, and I will have my memorial service to honor God’s provision, the hope in eternity, and his love for the life he entrusted me for so short a time.

I will grieve. I will be sad. I will see devastation attack my mind, rage within my soul, and seek to cripple me. But, my faith did not die with my child. No, God is more real to me than He ever has been before. I suffer. I bleed. I am tormented with guilt. But none of that compares to Christ's suffering on the cross for your sins...and mine. I did not give up this child willingly, but Jesus gave his life of his own free will so that access to God could be a gift. A GIFT! I am humbled as I write. A gift I accepted when I was 8 years old. Should I now throw it back in his face and tell him that his sacrifice was nothing compared to mine?

And yet, my faith is weak when I think of what I face tomorrow, and the emptiness I will bring home, and I know that it will only be through God's unfailing love and the gracious gift of his people who love me that I shall emerge from it.

Heavenly Father, grant me strength to persevere on the painful road of tomorrow. Grant me mercy in the cold dark hours ahead, and grant me joy in the morning.

In my suffering and in my hope I must claim His word like I claim no other. Psalm 73:26 speaks from the very depths of my faith: "Though my heart and my flesh may fail, the Lord is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Amen.

The Saddest of Days

2010-07-19T22:29:00.000-07:00

It’s midnight, and I am alone, at last. Today I learned a new dimension to sadness. I think I’m the saddest I’ve ever been.

My heart, rent and torn, battered and bruised by life’s disappointments and pain, still drummed a persistent steady beat.

Today, though, my heart stopped for the briefest moment as I heard those fateful words I never want to hear again. “Uh oh, I think we have a problem.”

For you see, today I went in for my 15-week check-up only to find that God had already taken my precious child from me several weeks ago.

I had no idea; my plans for the day included routine business. My plan never included discovering that the baby so loved, so longed for, so fresh in my womb, was no more.

My heart is so full, so painfully full that I cannot sleep; I eat because it has been so graciously provided by the sweetest of friends. I press on on this saddest of days because I have to, and yet, in my pain, while my heart throbs, I terribly miss the child I will never know.

I saw you on the screen, your body curled and curved into what looked like blissful sleep. You didn't move even when the doctor bopped my belly. You stayed snugly curled into that fetal position.

I never got to say goodbye—and I never got to say hello. My breath comes shallow and uneven; the tears fall in waves of sorrow and distress.

Tragedy has struck me to my very marrow; my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby. My heart cries this over and over. Will he know that he was loved by me? Will he know that he would have been cherished? Why, oh why, did nothing “feel” different? I hadn’t a clue, no warning. Blind-sided. Struck down with grief, only to realize that life doesn’t stop for grief. My other sweet children need me and I am their only mother.

But, I am so very sad.

I want to hold my baby, tell him I love him, kiss his forehead, squeeze him gently, and show him to his older brother and sisters. I want to know if he is a “he” or a “she.” I want to feel the flutter of the first movements. I want to feel the kick of impatience. I want to be uncomfortable. I want to groan and moan his way out into this world.

I want to scratch out the words "fetal demise" from the check-in papers. I want to blot them from my mind.

Why, God, oh why did you need him more than me? I feel but a shadow of myself, more so after they invade me to take him out. I dread that day, but it is coming, for I cannot keep this shell within forever. I want to, though. I put my arms around my belly, still falsely protruding, proclaiming a life within. I want to keep him, hold him, and guard him. God, grant me gracious compassion. I want my baby out whole. I want him intact. I want to hold him one time, and put him in a special box with a soft little pillow. I want to bury him in a quiet, peaceful place. From dust he came, and to dust he should return.

You never promised any of us life; you granted this child somewhere around 12 weeks shrouded safely in my womb. You shared this child with me; it wasn’t enough. Make it enough. You promise Peace. I’ll take it. You promise your Presence. I need it.

I know you are true. I know you are kind. I know you are compassionate.

But, I grieve. My whole heart beats dully, aware something is wrong, terribly wrong. My body keeps churning, craving…unaware that the life within has breathed its last.

My understanding is dim. My wits are gone. I have nothing, nothing but you Holy God, to keep me going as I face tomorrow and the next and the next.

I have lost my child. I should be glad that he is safe within his Father’s arms, but I cannot yet bring myself to share in that joy.

The selfishness overwhelms me and I am so very sad tonight.

The Pregnancy Crazies are Here

2010-06-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

It’s only been a little over a year since I was last pregnant, and yet, I’ve gotten the worst case of amnesia. It seems I’ve forgotten half the horrible things that come along with pregnancies. Don’t get me wrong, you know I love my babies when they FINALLY come out, but it’s all those little irritants and changes in the pre-baby stage that seem to have knocked me flat on my rear end.

You’d think that after 3 other pregnancies, this stuff would be old hat. It’s not. Every day I am reminded why I detested being pregnant before.

First of all, I was hit with some pretty hard truths about myself yesterday.

I don’t particularly like myself when I’m pregnant. Wait. What’s that? I said that I don’t really like who I am while I’m pregnant.

And I’m not just referring to the physical transformations, though those are particularly atrocious, too. For half the pregnancy, I don’t even look pregnant, I just look thick, adding inches to the places I don’t want inches added to every month until finally, around month 5, there’s a definite belly protruding past my bosom. For the record, I’m two months away, and I’m just a jiggly double-wide right now. My eyes have perpetual possum circles drawn around them, and I can barely keep them open without a two-hour nap (which hasn’t been occurring lately thanks to a busy little two-year-old). My skin has taken on a sickly hue -- blotchy tan mixed with a sprinkling of breakout. “Lovely complexion” I never hear. As for that pregnant glow, it’s more like “I’m so dang hot in this Texas heat that the glow you see is my internal combustion about to combust!” And don’t even get me started on morning sickness. I can honestly say it’s much better this time, but it’s still misery. That constant little nagging companion of queasiness….I want to SMITE him.

I’m cranky all the time; the littlest things aggravate me beyond endurance. I raise my voice quite near to yelling at my precious children when they’re disobedient, and it’s only afterward that I want to kick myself because I’m not typically a yeller. I snap at them if they don’t move quickly enough, and I have this outlandish idea that they touch me more, cry more, and need me more when I’m pregnant. Just the other night, the two oldest were fighting over who was going to sit in my lap during daddy’s bedtime story-time; I lost it and broke down in tears along with them. Jeff looked rather helpless, poor man.

As for Jeff, I’m surprised he hasn’t move back with one of his parents for the next 6 months. We rather stupidly had an argument last week (which seems to happen more often these last 3 months), and he brought up the fact that I can’t handle his smell when he gets home from Chick-fil-A, I can’t handle his breath even when his teeth are freshly brushed, I can’t handle his touches, I can’t handle physical intimacy unless he reminds me and even that's questionable (it’s really not on my radar these days, to be frank) and so forth. I told him not to be ridiculous, but everything he said was true. He even accused me of not being able to handle ANYTHING and that I was so off my rocker, he felt like he was living with a female version of Cosmo Kramer. I had to laugh at that description in spite of myself. I could easily see why he was feeling abandoned and fed up. All I really want him to do is help me with the children and the housework and let me go to bed. But, should it be that way? Is pregnancy really an excuse to turn into a slothful, unkempt, beat-up looking, crabby, useless housewife? Or, do I really have a case when I claim I’m doing good to just make it through the day in one piece.

These things I know I can partly blame on the whacked out hormonal system, but I’m a Christian. I have self-control. At least, I thought I did. Does pregnancy just bring out the worst in me? It’s such a challenge to remain self-controlled and loving. It’s really starting to make me mad that my emotions are so loosey-goosey that I latch on to whatever feels good at the moment and run with it. Consequences be_____. That’s not the way to deal with life. It’s not the way I normally handle life.

So, I’m coming to you, my friends and faithful readers, for advice. I really can’t remember how I coped with things the first 3 times (and maybe I didn’t), or if I’m just more aware of my short-comings this go round. For those of you who’ve been there/done that, how did you pull reason and sanity back into the life mix, if indeed, you did?

Or, for some of you husbands, how did you help your wives?

HELP! HELP! HELP! Remind me of the obvious, if you must. Just bring it.

For a Pair of Maternity Pants

2010-05-30T12:52:00.000-07:00

I left the house about 30 minutes ago to go shopping for a pair of maternity Capri pants. I made it as far as the gas station, and now I’m home and in a very reflective frame of mind.

I’ve been through a series of personal struggles these last few months, and it’s really been hard to focus my attention outside of myself. That, in itself, has been a battle.

Today, I wasn’t needed in the preschool area during Sunday school, so I was able to slip upstairs and into our pastor’s class, where, it seems, most of the young adult classes had converged. I hadn’t even brought my Bible to church, for I had poorly anticipated that my presence would be required to fill in for an absence in the nursery. It wasn’t.

Anyway, the lesson was from Leviticus, and though we did get to it, the pre-lesson (because you know pastors just can’t help themselves sometimes) was about caring for one another, and how though our godless society is plagued with the preservation of self before others, God’s way is to step outside ourselves and take care of those in need, BUT, to use a spirit of caution and discretion (asking God’s wisdom) on those to whom we give aid.

I came home from church with those thoughts (and plenty of others) rumbling around my head. I tried to nap, but it didn’t last long. Something prodded me wide awake. I was hot and realized my thickening waist didn’t leave too many options in my closet, I decided to ask Jeff if our budget allowed me to run out while everyone slept and buy something “stretchy” and comfortable for the increasingly hot months ahead. He mumbled “okay”, reminded me I needed to get gas, and off I went.

I was headed to Burleson, so I stopped at the QT quick mart right off of 35. It was busy and hopping. While I was locking my doors manually, I saw a rather unkempt looking man headed my way. Instinct had me refrain from making eye contact, since I was alone without Jeff. The man by-passed me and headed for a man in a suburban.

I continued to pump my gas, and wasn’t surprised to hear, “excuse me, ma’am.” It does always startle me to be addressed thus because inevitably, I’m younger than the one using the phrase. My heart sunk. I did NOT want to be accosted for money 1.) partly because I didn’t have any to give and 2.) because I feel like a perfect target when I’m without Jeff and that kinda ticks me off.

So, I reluctantly turned my skeptical eyes toward the man and he gave me his line. He said he was trying to get back to Austin to get his wife’s insulin because hers had gone bad being unrefrigerated or something like that. I thought he asked if I had any cash, and naturally, I never do. I simply said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any cash” thinking that would turn him away, but he persisted (and I began to think of the passage of Scripture that talks about knocking on a neighbor’s door at midnight for help and though he doesn’t want to help, he will because of the persistent knocking).

The man then said to me, “oh, I don’t need cash. We just need gas to get back home.” Something in the way he said that put me in mind that he was sincere. I was moved to compassion because though I’ve been all in a mess myself, God’s Word, from the morning, did not fall on deaf ears. I told him that I could put some gas in his car.

He left to get his car and pulled up beside me; I saw his poor wilted looking wife in the front seat of their very old and decrepit Camry.

I finished putting my $20 in our car and quickly calculated that I could probably spend about that much on his gas since that was the limit I had placed on the projected new maternity pants. I said, “we’re on a pretty limited budget, but will $20 help you?”

“Oh, yes ma’am. Thank you.” And he proceeded to tell me that they’d come up for the weekend and his fuel pump broke and that cost $180 to fix, which left them nothing to get home. I totally believed that because his car was worse than anything my parents ever owned, and we owned lemons, for sure. He kept thanking me for helping them, and so I told him my line. “Well, I’m a Christian, and we’re supposed to help our brothers and sisters. It’s what God would have me do.”

He told me how hard it was to go up and ask people for help because they’d run him off (of which I had to shamefully admit to myself that was my original intention), and that it was even harder to ask because he actually did have a job (can’t remember what he said he did) in Austin.

I merely responded to the first thing that came into my head, “We live in a wicked world where it’s hard to trust people. So tell me, do you all have a church you attend in Austin?” He nodded, but hesitantly, and I chose (perhaps not the most wisely) not to pursue that because he looked a little unwilling to embark on spiritual matters. I wish I had; I wish I’d asked him if he had a personal relationship with Jesus, but I just didn’t feel the Holy Spirit prompting me to go there with him.

Instead, I asked him if his wife needed a cold drink. He said he had one for her, and while I turned back at his pump (which was over $20, I resolved in my mind to forget our budget and do more than just help the man in a skinflint way) while he peeked in at his wife and asked her very gently how she was holding up.

The man then turned to me and kept assuring me he had a job. When I finished pumping, I got the receipt and he looked at the pump. Very surprised, he commented that I’d filled his tank all the way up.

I said, “I want to get you home to Austin. Will that get you home?”

“Oh yes ma’am. Yes ma’am. Thank you, thank you.”

I told him to take care of his wife and get her home quickly and safely.

As I got in the car and watched him wave and mouth “God Bless you” I began praying for that man and his wife. I asked God to use that incident to show them that His presence is a very real thing and that He uses unsuspecting, and oftentimes, rather unwilling, people to carry out his provision.

I asked God to cover any omission of mine in grace, and thanked him for using me in spite of myself.

I tell my children to listen with their ears and obey with their hearts because I know that’s what God would have each one of us do. And though I didn't get my maternity pants, I was blessed to be in a place to be used in a way which I know glorified Almighty God.

Scripture Memorization

2010-05-28T18:17:00.001-07:00

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The Wedding

2010-04-19T12:50:00.000-07:00

Jeff’s sister, Steffanie, got married this past weekend, and Jeff was asked to officiate the ceremony.

It was his first.

He wrote the entire ceremony from scratch, though he did have a cheat book, one all seminary students need - - Criswell’s Guidebook for Pastors - - that really helped him. Anyway, Jeff worked on his words for weeks, off and on, and tried it out on me. It was honest and it was beautiful, and it really brought honor to God and the institution of marriage.

Since Jeff was to be leading the ceremony, that meant I wouldn’t have him as a helper and I was awfully hesitant about my role; the role of mom-in-the-back-of-the-sanctuary-with-three-preschoolers.

There’s no “nursery” during weddings.

My gut said it was a bad idea. Mistake #1.

Mistake #2 was deciding to wear about 3-inch Barbie heels, the kind which were so tall that when I put them on, I leaned forward a little.

I should have remembered that no matter how hard I try for Jeff, mothers of preschoolers don't get to be sexy.

The wedding was at Dallas Baptist University (where Jeff and I both graduated), at 5:00 p.m. in the new chapel, which was gorgeous. 5:00 p.m. is dinner-time at our house, so I knew the children would have to be fed in order to make it through what Jeff projected to be a 45-minute service.

Food should have been the least of my concerns.

I wrapped them in napkins to protect their dress clothes, and popped Chick-fil-A nuggets in at the Student Center while Jeff practiced his memorized opening on us. He did it perfectly, I think.

I was a little busy making sure the napkins stayed put.

We walked over to the Chapel, dodging wind and raindrops, and Jeff left us to fulfill his pre-ceremony duties. I found our seat on the very last row in the back and parked Lexi’s stroller, thinking she’d sit quietly in it the whole time. Wishful thinking. We’d packed books, but no snacks.

There was a very strict “no food” policy posted in the foyer.

Jeff’s cousin and his wife, along with their 4-month old precious little man, joined us in the back in case they needed to make a speedy exit themselves.

Guests paraded in and got settled.

Lexi started crying and reached up for me. I hoisted her up on my left hip (per the chiropractor’s orders), and I let Gideon and Scarlett roam the back row.

That was mistake #3.

The guests were all assembled, the doors were closed, and the music started.
Curious little preschoolers began roaming the back aisle. I tried to mutely order them back to their seats. Reluctant Gideon obeyed; but for Scarlett it became a game, one which I refused to play. So, I clip-clopped on back, grabbed her arm, and basically pulled her unwilling self to her seat.

The doors opened and the bridesmaids filed in; that kept my children’s attention for a few seconds. They escaped out the other side of the pew (the one I wasn’t blocking) and dashed around to the back again. I had to follow (still with baby on hip).

As the wedding party made their entrance, I wrangled Scarlett on the right hip and held both girls while Gideon stayed close. As each bridesmaid came in, Gideon would ask, “Is that Aunt Steffanie?”

“No, honey. She’s wearing a white dress.”

Then the doors shut and the wedding march began. The audience stood.

By this time, the children and I were kneeling behind the last pew, next to the useless stroller.

The wedding coordinator peeked in (not even exactly sure when) and tried to motion us to the other set of pews.

Yeah. That wasn’t going to work, unless she gave up her post and came to help me, so I, normally a rule-follower, ignored her.

Aunt Steffanie and Grandpa Victor entered and stood poised for a few seconds while the children had their first moment of awed silence.

It didn’t last.

As she passed down the aisle, they caught a glimpse of Jeff waiting for her at the front. Gideon started crying, very loudly, “I want my daddy.” Over and over.

I tried to put Lexi back in the stroller. She was having none of that. So, there I was trying to comfort two crying children while the third one decides this would be a good time to take off running in the opposite direction.

Jeff’s cousin and wife looked back and chuckle, but do offer to have the two older come sit with them.

It was too late for that. They were loud and I was about to lose my tightly wound composure.

In a not-very-hushed whisper, I instructed Scarlett to, “Get back here now.” She didn’t.

“That’s it. Everybody out. Now. We’re going out.”

They heard me that time, since I was none too quiet and gladly ran to the doors and let themselves into the foyer.

Before we left, I managed to look around and see that the entire congregation was still standing.

I murmured, “Jeff, tell them to sit down. Sit down. Sit down.” He, of course, couldn’t hear me, and since there was nothing I could do to help, I followed my rowdy crew out.

The Chapel foyer has tile floor, which is not exactly suited for preschoolers with loud clomping shoes. They began hopping around like bunnies in opposite directions, and then I felt like I was in a chicken coop trying to catch runaway chickens, who gleefully squeal and scatter at the new “game” mommy has instituted.

Gideon tells me he needs to go potty. Guess all that hopping had jarred something loose.

We head to the bathroom, where he insists upon entering all 10 stalls before I order him to settle on just one.

(For the record, I don’t normally spend this much time ordering my children around, but I was incredibly frazzled and stressed, and my sweet and mild self-control was back in the sanctuary on the back row where I belonged.)

Of course Scarlett decides she needs to potty, too, which means I have to put the baby on the floor and help her.

Lexi starts crawling all over the bathroom floor in her white dress, Scarlett decides she doesn’t need to potty anymore, so she hops down and tries to escape out the door, and I have to catch her again and sit her on the floor with a lecture (why? Because of course that was the perfect time, right?) and then Gideon finishes his business and needs help with his pants and re-tucking his shirt.

I almost sat down on the floor next to a pouting Scarlett and cried, but I didn’t.

Jeff’s cousin-in-law , Nichole, enters with her baby because he was the next Medina to take on howling during the service, so there we were spending the wedding ceremony in the bathroom with unhappy children.

Cheers.

I don’t even know how long we were in there, but when we finally emerge, we decide not to try and take them all back in. I got the children to sit by Nichole on a sette, but that didn’t last long, and then I completely gave up trying to control them, and let them hippity-hop to their hearts content.

I was miserable, and probably the only one.

If only I’d been given octopus arms; that would have made all the difference.

The ceremony lets out, and we discover Jeff HAS KEPT THE ENTIRE CONGREGATION STANDING THE WHOLE TIME.

He was so focused on his order of service that he didn’t even notice they were all still standing. I did manage to laugh about that.

We hurriedly take the whole family picture and because I’m so ready to get our children home, I didn’t wait around to see if we were needed for more.

We had prescheduled with Ann, a DBU student I work with at preschool, to meet us after the ceremony, take them home, and then Jeff and I were going to the reception ALONE.

Good plan, right?

With the help of Jeff’s brother’s girlfriend, Laura, I get the children outside (in the rain), but under the small awning, to wait for Jeff. I’ve got Lexi back in the stroller, Laura’s holding Gideon, and Scarlett is on foot. Mistake #5.

There were a few others outside with us, including the limo and limo driver. He was on the street, under his umbrella.

Scarlett decides (probably because she’s two and mommy has done a terrible job of containing her thus far) to re-instate the game of the day. She takes off running down the sidewalk toward the street.

I belatedly realize no one else standing around is going to stop her, so I must.

Refer back to mistake #2. I was wearing 3-inch heels.

I try to start running after her, but it would have taken me 15 minutes to get anywhere in those things, so I take about 2 tiny steps out as far as I can, drop the overloaded diaper bag, and kick off my hindering heels to dash and splash through the rain, barefoot, after her before she reaches the road.

I catch her near the edge and throw a dirty glance at the limo driver for just standing there under his umbrella when he could have been a hero.

Ann sees all of this from her car, and comes to help with the children. Thank you, Ann.

By now I’m a little wet, frazzled, and very cranky, and I certainly don’t want to go to the reception.

Jeff finally emerges from the Chapel looking dapper and fresh (which irritates me because I’m obviously not), and I inform him that he totally owes me a spa day and I am NEVER EVER EVER bringing these children to a wedding again.

We do get the children home, leave them with the very capable Ann, and attend the reception, where my good mood returns, we dance, and have quite a lovely time ourselves.

Moral of the story: Never wear heels when responsible for preschoolers, and if something sounds like a bad idea, it probably is.

The Eyebrow Wax

2010-04-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

I get my eyebrows waxed. It’s no secret. If I don’t, like my 5 brothers, I’ll have a thick and dark uni-brow, except mine is the thickest and the darkest of them all. It’s been about two months since I’ve had them done, and that is way too long. The jungle was about to engulf my whole face.

So, I wax. Ain’t no shame in my game.

Today was my day. I’ve been struggling mentally and spiritually, but the Lord really broke through my heart today during my pastor’s sermon on servant-hood. That’s another topic for another day.

I was feeling great, and though we don’t usually shop on Sundays (old habits from childhood die hard), today was my only day to do it alone. My mother had given me some money, and I set out to find a blouse. Discovered a couple of really great deals, looked to my heart’s content at everything, and then decided to see if I could find a place to get my eyebrows waxed while I was indulging in aloneness.
I saw a sign for “Fancy Nails and Spa” and assumed the ‘and Spa’ meant they did eyebrows, too.

I went inside and, for those of you who get your nails done, it was the mecca of all middle class nail spas. There were at least 20 nail stations all neatly rowed, a giant shelf of every nail color imaginable, an equal number of those cushy chairs which vibrate during pedicures (which, if you’ll remember I will never again do because they once rubbed some rose salt on my legs and I broke out in giant welts for a full 24-hours), AND a drink bar in the middle of it all. I was offered a drink, but declined when I saw margarita machines in full swing and two giant bottles of liquor guarding tall and regal. I don’t drink alcohol, but thought if I did, that’d be the place to go. I’m assuming all of this was legal since it was out there in the middle of the organized madness, but who knows?

I sat down and waited for my lady to come and get me. I was mesmerized by the other women intent on their beautification process. Quite extraordinary, these ladies, who sit and allow their own nails to be sawed down to the nub, and then purposefully super-glue acrylic ones on top of theirs. All the while they’re carelessly sifting through magazines or texting with their free hands… immersed in their monthly or bi-monthly ritual.

I obviously didn’t belong.

My lady eventually did come get me (the place was hopping like grasshoppers in a windstorm with other middle class ladies and their fake nails glittering from every corner), and took me back to a room with a reclining chair.

As she was busily adjusting all of her artillery for bush-whacking my brows, I just thought I’d mention the fact that I didn’t “do” skinny eyebrows, and I’d just like them cleaned up a bit and re-shaped.

Easy enough, right? Usually, when I make that request, there’s an assent and the bush-whacking commences without speaking.

This particular beauty technician was having none of that.

Very briskly, she gives me the once over and says, “you want your lip done, too?”

Ummmm. I was trying to let her question register, but instead hesitation and slight mortification was present...since attention has been placed on something I had not made a request for.

“No thank you,” I say very uncomfortably.

She presses, her dagger point hits its target.

“But it long, too.”

WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?

Did she just tell me that I have A MUSTACHE???!!!??? I feel the tension rising in my shoulders and neck, the place it has just left. I feel trapped into a corner, and when I feel trapped and ticked to boot, I become mulish.

I say quite stubbornly, “The sun will bleach it” thinking this will get her to quiet down and get to work on my eyebrows and leave my poor lip whiskers alone.

But, no. She presses even more.

“What you mean, the sun will bleach it?”

I feel like a hibernating bear awakened in the middle of winter. Grrrr.

“I mean, it will bleach it and make the hairs lighter and they won’t be noticeable.”

“Oh.”

And her grunt was one of disapproving disbelief.

My face was slightly tomato in color, my breath was coming fast, and my mind was working overtime. She totally just insulted me, said I have a mustache, and insisted that she wax it, too, against my will. This was not part of the “Fancy” experience I was paying for.

I will grant you, the reader, an admission I would not grant her. I have, from time to time, during the winter months, noticed the hair above my lip might possibly have a darker tinge than the rest of the fuzz on my face, but still, to tell me that it’s “long” brings to mind something of this nature:

(taken from; http://www.photopumpkin.com/wp-content/uploads/mustache-2.gif)

I almost piped up and clued her into my thoughts, but I maintained dignity and self-control and did battle within instead.

If Jeff had ever said anything to me about having a mustache or a furry face, I totally would have done something about it. But, to his credit, he’s never said a word, and he’s the one who counts because he’s the one who comes closer to my upper lip than anyone else.

Gone was my good mood. I was feeling quite crotchety.

I was imagining that my eyebrows would turn out all kinds of crazy and misshapen because I had refused the additional treatment and my brow was furrowed during her work.

She did finish in silence, and handed me the mirror, backwards.

Thanks.

I turned it around, pulled some offending residual wax off my right brow, and had to grudgingly admit she’d done a good job.

I followed her to the front to pay and she had the nerve to say, “Ten dollars. You want to add more?”

No, I did not want to add more. I did not want to even pay $10 since I was so highly offended, but I went ahead and added a couple extra dollars for a tip she did not deserve because I thought that’s what the Lord would want me to do. I cannot say I gave with a cheerful heart, though.

Meanwhile, she and several others at the front desk were laughing and talking to each other in another language.

I immediately felt their gazes on me and I reminisced back to an episode of Seinfeld where I had become Elaine and they were laughing about my mustache, but I had NO PROOF because I couldn’t understand them.

I hurriedly signed my slip and marched myself out of “Fancy Nails” and heatedly walked to my car vowing I’d never return to be insulted again.

Black Death

2010-02-16T19:06:00.000-08:00

Caution. What you are about to read is terrifying, shocking, and extremely graphic. If you’re a woman, read on and learn from me. If you’re a man, I don’t recommend you go any further into this blog. But, if you choose in spite of my warning, I don’t want to hear from you that you can’t believe I wrote about this or shared it publicly. It’s for your wives and daughters, and let it be a warning for them.

The past four weeks have been quite horrible for our family. Between sickness upon sickness, the baby’s surgery, my own horrendous illness, and a huge build-up of stress to get outside work done on top of taking care of a sick family, something even more terrible happened to me, no-less.

The day of Lexi’s surgery, I came down with a bug that knocked me flat out for about 4 days. That’s not the point of this story. If you’ve seen any of my comments on Facebook, you’ll know just how awful that was, especially since it was my birthday and I was in constant pain in my ear for close to 72 hours straight. I digress. However, I was given a shot and an antibiotic for what I believed was a misdiagnosis, which I thought was the culprit of the following parade of terrors.

I finished my period a couple of days before my birthday, or so I thought. You know how at the tail end, it’s darkish colored and splotchy? Well, after about a day of complete clarity, I noticed a darkly tinted trail spotting my underwear. I figured I just hadn’t quite completed my monthly flow.

So, I did what I do best. I padded ‘er up and got terribly ill, ignoring it for the most part because I was so focused on being miserable and in pain that the barely-there-leak a couple times a day wasn’t a big deal.

I noticed a peculiar odor on the pad, different from what my regular cycle left behind. It was unpleasant, but once I changed pads, it was gone. I just thought, “Gosh, my period’s lasting a long time and it’s rather strong this time.”

This went on practically unnoticed until this past weekend when suddenly that peculiar odor multiplied and took itself to the highest level of stink an odor can possibly get. I could smell myself whenever I moved AND whenever I sat still, especially when I felt a fresh leak spring forth. I smelled like a mound of old poop-filled diapers rotting in a fish tank on a hot August day in south Texas. No amount of bathing could get rid of it. I’m not a stinky person, and I can’t stand feeling like I am. I was washing and bathing and cleansing in every way possible multiple times a day, but nothing could squelch the abnormal contamination oozing from my most intimate female region.

I told Jeff that Black Death was attacking my body, and I was spewing it (well, it was still just an occasional trickle) but I do tend to use very descriptive words to get my point across. I even tried sticking a tampon up there, with a pad for extra protection and baby powder to disguise my ‘parfum de stench of death’ (aka Black Death). It didn’t work. But, had I not smelled like a dirty old diaper before, I sure did then.

By Sunday night, I was convinced something was terribly wrong (yes, I know it took me long enough, but the smell, up to that point, wasn’t THAT noticeable). I called my sister-in-law, Kim, who thought I might have a yeast infection. Well, I’ve never had one of those. Apparently, it’s itchy. I wasn’t itchy. I just stank it up.

While on the phone with her, I sent a very sick Jeff to the store to buy Monistat 7 because I was too embarrassed to do it myself. Meanwhile, Kim and I researched potential diseases. We came across what sounded like an STD. It was called BV for short. Bacterial Vaginosis. It said something about “a vaginal discharge with a foul odor” that could be grayish-black in color. That’s it. I knew I had it, but thank you very much, it’s not an STD (in case you were wondering). The problem with researching online at semi-reputable websites is that people write in with their home remedies. One woman claimed she used a yeast infection cream and it cleared it right up; others claimed it could only be cleared with an antibiotic. How in the world did I get this, if indeed my research was true? I had no clue.

But, now I had a dilemma. Jeff had gone to get the cream, but we don’t have insurance, so I knew I couldn’t go to the doctor for an antibiotic because that would be way too expensive. Should I use the cream and wait a week to see if it would go away, or go to the doctor afterall?

When in a dilemma, mom is the one to call. Of course, she advised a gynecological visit the very next day. I didn’t want to go back to the ob-gyn who delivered Gideon because, at the time, I didn’t think his bedside manner all that appealing. He’s the one who told me to quit eating tater tots and the month I gained 7 pounds, he told me I was gaining too much weight…mmm-hhhmmmm. A girl doesn’t forget those types of comments. Black Death or not, I wasn’t anxious to return.

Anyway, I went with mom’s wisdom. Forewent the Monistat 7 cream and called the ob-gyn first thing Monday morning. There were no openings because he’d just come back from knee replacement surgery. Well, junk. Now what?

Called several other friends for recommendations. And all the recommendations I tried were closed yesterday, for President’s Day. Only my old ob-gyn was open, but I couldn’t get in to see him. Now, I was feeling slightly panicked. I thought I had diagnosed myself correctly, and knew I needed an antibiotic to clear it up. I was dirty, stinky, and probably diseased, and all I really wanted was to smell clean again. I could be diseased forever, but I just couldn’t live with that polluted stench emanating from me.

Jeff wound up staying home from work yesterday because of flu-like symptoms he was having. I tried to give him a break and let him rest, but I was desperate for his help. We decided to try and call my old ob-gyn back and just make an appointment for the very next day that I could.

Jeff called for me, while I was changing a real dirty diaper, and I heard him holler, “Go, now.”

Someone had canceled and I had a 10:00 appointment. It was 9:20. I hadn’t bathed yet that morning, so I knew I was doubly wretched, but I didn’t care. I was about to get help. I felt guilty for leaving a sick husband with 3 very active children, but I had to go.

I got to the doctor’s office, had a very pleasant conversation with the receptionist, and just hoped that through the window slits she couldn’t smell me.

I was taken back, got my vitals checked, and then into the examining room. My doctor came in, we chatted about the other two children I’d had since he delivered Gideon, how there must be something in the water in Georgia since I was a baby-making machine for 3 years, and then we got down to business.

“Tell me about what you’re experiencing.”

You know I’m not one to mince words when stressed or my fragrance is overly pungent and equally repellent. (I did happen to think that our very fine military could bottle my Black Death perfume and add it to their arsenal of weaponry).

I sputtered out my explanation as best I could. “Black Death is coming out of me, and it stinks. I’m stinky, and I don’t want to be. I’m not exactly sure when it started because it’s kind of blurry and confusing, but maybe it’s a result of the medication I was on, or something, or maybe it started before I took the medicine. I just don’t really know, but it's awful.”

And all he said in response was, “Black Death. Now, that’s a new one. You’ve given me a challenge.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his dry manner in spite of myself. He was doing a good job of relieving some of the tension I felt.

I had to do the whole scoot-to-the-edge-of-the-bed-with-my-feet-in-the-stirrups deal, but that I was used to. I did manage to apologize for the smell before he went down ‘cause I knew no amount of pain medication he had to be on for his knee (he was using a walker) could disguise the smell of decaying putrefaction issuing forth from my most protected region. Or, as Song of Solomon states, my “mountain of myrrh.”

The doctor stuck one of his cold sharp utensils inside of me and immediately I felt the pressure in my rear end and my ‘cheeks’ clenched in ready response. My thoughts: “Oh, no. I already peed on him the first time I was ever checked. Please don’t let me crap on him this time. Squeeze, cheeks, squeeze with all your might.”

While I was engrossed in this new mental (and physical) quandary, I heard him say, “well, here's your problem.”

And then I thought, “He’s going to tell me I’m pregnant again.”

But, he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “you’ve got a tampon stuck up here, and that is the most offensive odor in the world.”

Oops.

I no longer thought about crapping on him.

I just kept mumbling over and over, “oh my goodness, oh my goodness.”

He pulled it out (and no, I didn’t ask to look at it), served it up to the nurse, who covered it up and scurried it away like the offending intrusive object it had become.

I have no idea what he said next. My mind was a cloud of when and where. I quickly calculated back to just the end of my period. 13 days before, so it was probably a couple of days before that when I left it. It had been up there for probably over 2 weeks and I had no idea when it happened. I should be dead. Correction. I could be dead from Toxic Shock Syndrome.

I tuned in just as he was talking about TSS and I heard him say I didn’t have it yet. I then zoned back into my own shocked mind.

I rarely wear tampons anymore for just that reason. I’m terrified I might forget. Well, thanks terrifiedness for leaving me just when I needed a blast!

The doctor went on to tell me that with three small children it was a no wonder I was distracted by life and forgot it. He saw at least one woman a month from the same thing.

Great. Now, I join those women. Not a rank I’m proud to belong to.

I then saw him write down “bacterial vaginosis” - - well, at least I was partly right. I just didn’t know what caused it.

I normally check and double check for strings. How could I have missed it and probably shoved another one up there on top of the first, and never felt it? And then, well...I have a husband and there was at least one time....need I go on?

Let me tell you, the remedy explained, in depth, ain’t too much better than the problem.

Vaginal suppositories and sitz baths complete with self-digit checks to let the hot water kill the remaining bacteria. Uggh. Seriously? Jeff and I both had to read the instructions and look at the pictures to figure out what to do with those silver bullets and long white catapult looking rod in the suppository kit. Jeff even asked if he needed to help me. Yeah. Now wouldn’t that add to the already almost-unbelievable story?

He didn’t help me, fyi. I managed alone.

Several hours after I called my mom back, I got a phone call from my dad (he was on his way over with a check to cover the very expensive visit and silver bullets). The first thing out of his mouth was, “Well, do you still smell like fish?”

I never once said I smelled like fish. I said I smelled like a rotting fish tank.

Big difference. At least in my mind.

But, in my late night moments alone with the Lord last night, I caught a glimpse of scary mortality. I knew TSS could be deadly. High fever, diarrhea, and organs shutting down. What if that had happened to me when I was home alone with the children? No one would have ever found me until Jeff got home from work. And then what would have become of my precious babies?

I breathed in a big sigh of relief, but didn’t move because I didn’t want the suppository to fall out, and lay in bed quietly thanking the Lord for watching over me in spite of my life-distractedness. I felt pretty stupid and wondered yet again, how it happened.

I will never know, but I can say that I am so grateful that God is not finished with me yet.

Lesson learned: I will never wear tampons again. EVER.

Listen Up, Ye Southern Baptists

2009-12-05T09:45:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday Jeff filled in for our pastor (who was out of town) and he did an excellent job sharing his heart on how we make ourselves idols before God.

I was also allowed to share my heart about the Lottie Moon Christmas offering. Some of the feedback was that the words I shared (all pre-written because that's the only way I feel prepared) were rather harsh. They probably were, but I think that sometimes we need to be reminded of where our hearts and priorities lay...and that may come across as a harsh truth even if it wasn't intended as such.

Here's what I shared, and if you're a Southern Baptist, I hope you'll decide to give generously, and sacrificially, this year!

Even in the face of our sketchy economy, a mere two days ago, a multitude of Americans across the nation awoke during the wee hours to stand in monumental lines to get the “best” deals out there for Christmas. Some people didn’t even bother going to sleep on Thanksgiving night, for the bait of sales beginning at midnight was something they just couldn’t miss. Perhaps even some of you joined them, and you’re now feeling quite pleased with yourselves for the money you saved. Kudos to you for saving money! Jeff and I didn’t join the throngs, and there was no sale in the world that could entice us to forgo any of our precious hard-to-get sleep. As my husband so precisely stated, in reference to the semi-crazed masses, “If an item isn’t there or on sale when I get to the store at 7:00 a.m., then I just don’t need to get it.”

However, our need for diapers was pressing, so I did brave the later morning 9 a.m. rush to Target with the three children, just as the electricity flickered and died for the entire 20 minutes we were in the store. Interestingly enough, though only the security lights were lit, the generator did still manage to power over 20 busy lines of cash registers. Obviously, they weren’t willing to let a little electricity surge keep my money in my pocket or have it slip away to their arch competitor.

Money. Money, money, money, money. Money is such a touchy subject in church, and I don’t even understand why. We’re usually so excited to share every good deal we’ve found, like where we got our $2.99 blouse from or our $10 shoes or our how much our great new stylist costs. We talk about money all the time at home, with friends, and with family; frankly, most of us are obsessed by our finances, but we may not realize to what extent that rings true.

Did you know that there are twice as many verses in the Bible about “money than about faith and prayer combined?” This means that there are 2,350 of them. And don’t you think that if the God-inspired authors of our holy text saw fit to mention the idea of money over 2000 times, it might just be a theme we should be concerned about and take the time to understand?

How we handle our money is basically “an index of our spiritual life. Our stewardship of our money and possessions becomes the story of our lives.” If we use our money in ways to help others and advance the kingdom of God, we bring glory to God and we leave behind a solid spiritual legacy. If we use our money in ways that only help ourselves, we bring shame and dishonor to the name of Christ and we leave behind a weak and insignificant spiritual legacy. When honestly examining yourself, what spiritual reflection do you see? Are there areas that are stunting your spiritual growth? Do you ever wonder how you can be more like Christ? Well, I challenge you to look at how you spend your money. We spend our money on things that are important to us, and we’re willing to do whatever it takes to meet those need.

For example: Any Cowboys fans out there? Go ahead. Let out your biggest whoop-whoop for their Thanksgiving Day victory.

Did you know that the cheapest ticket for a Dallas Cowboys game at the new stadium is $75, not counting parking, snacks, and memorabilia, or the binoculars you need to actually see the players on the field (if you decide not to watch the jumbotron)? And the most expensive tickets are $239. If expanded to maximum capacity, the stadium holds 111,000 people. I didn’t do the math, but that’s a lot of people and a lot of money just for one game and three very long hours. Don’t get me wrong. Football is great. Football is fun. Football is not sinful. But, when I think about the fact that our Southern Baptist denomination boasts over 16 million members worldwide and we can barely support a paltry 5,600 long-term overseas missionaries, the IMB has had to completely cut out all short term projects, and now Jeff and I no longer have a job description to where we believed God was leading us to, I think we (and that’s the collective church) have gotten some things awfully mixed up. We’ve taken an ax and chopped ourselves to the knee, thoughtlessly bowing to materialism as our latest idol while it brazenly prostitutes itself on God’s holy altar. Yes, materialism has sauntered through the front doors of the church and has taken residence right there on the front row.

And how do I know?

I know because we, and I’m speaking to those of us who are Christians, get up at the crack of dawn to slap down slightly lesser-than-big bucks for Christmas gifts and carelessly peel off the Andrew Jacksons for football tickets without even blinking, but when it comes to tithing back to our local church, which is merely a pittance of what we have…to thank God for the abundant provision and generosity he has graciously bestowed to us, we suddenly have a crisis of financial conscience and we snap together faster than a ripe clam sensing danger. Do we form lines at midnight to bring our tithe into God’s house? Do we peel off the Andrew Jacksons when we take up extra special offerings for local mission projects? Of course not. We pull out our tricks from childhood for these - those “mom-is-lecturing-me-and-I’m-tuning-her-out” ear skills that we’ve long perfected.

The Lottie Moon Christmas Offering is the ‘offering of the month’ for Southern Baptists. Lottie Moon was a single woman, who, at the age of 33, left her home, her friends, her family, and her comfortable life to take the message of eternal hope in Jesus Christ to the Chinese people. She has become a permanent icon to missionaries and missionary hopefuls.

Though she has merely become the face of the offering, it is none-the-less a very important offering because 100% of it goes directly to the International Mission Board to help fund our missionaries who are so faithfully serving overseas, and that’s strictly to missionary needs and salaries – it doesn’t even fund IMB staff salaries. The Southern Baptist Convention is the largest volunteer organization in the United States, and churches have banded together because we know we can do more collectively as a body of believers than we can individually. But our connection to this very large volunteer organization doesn’t mean that we give up our fiscal responsibility to take care of our missionaries because those missionaries are counting on us. You may not be called to be an overseas missionary, but you are called to support them.

Jeff and I voluntarily delayed a year. We have involuntarily been delayed up to an extra year, we believe, partly because the money just isn’t there to send us in our time frame. Perhaps though, for us, we may be headed nowhere in 2 years. It may be 5 or 10 before we finally touch foreign soil, and we’re okay with that because ultimately, we know our steps are directed by the One who has never failed.

The IMB has had to severely cut the number of appointments (down from about 6 appointment ceremonies to just 2 per year) because of funding, and we know of at least one other couple who is willing and ready to head to the mission field now, but they aren’t sure when they’ll be appointed. Who knows what lost soul may miss a divine encounter with them because that missionary couple won’t be on foreign soil when they believed God meant for them to be there.

Jesus himself has told us that we cannot serve two masters. Either we will hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. We cannot serve both God and our money. We cannot serve both God and anything else. Everything we have comes from God. He asks for so little in return for his provision, his love and his grace, and yet, we see it as too much.

We have the funds to get that missionary couple to where they are supposed to be when they’re supposed to be there. The money is in your pocket, and it’s in mine, but the question is, will you put your hand in your pocket, pull it out, and give…give even sacrificially, this month? Or will you stick your hand in your pocket, make a fist, and hold on even tighter than you have before?

Let me tell you about a little three-year-old boy. His name is Gideon. He has raised almost $50 in his Lottie Moon Christmas can thanks to friends and family, and do you know how excited he is to get to come to ‘big church’ and put his can in the offering plate to help the missionaries? So excited. That’s the sort of spiritual legacy we want our children to learn.

So, in light of that, I ask you to consider what sort of spiritual legacy you want to leave behind. Will you be known for working hard and saving your money, only to empty your pockets for your own personal pleasures, or will you be known for emptying your pockets so that Christ, his name, and his work may be glorified?
Let me end with a reminder from Matthew 6:21, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”