Morning.

  Today,  there is a lump in my foot. Just below my small toes.  I found it because it hurts.  All I want to do is nothing at all.  But then I would have nothing to think about but how it hurts.  But it hurts to move.

   In my mind I decide I must get up,  but the body is taking a long time to get on the action end of the idea. I hear wailing downstairs.  I feel guilty. I should be down there putting out that fire, calming the chaos. I feel this way every morning and by now, the thought cycle is worn out.

   It is then that the instigator of this chaos toddles into my room, swinging the door open with a loud thump as it hits the wall and swings back.  Little curly head boy reaching up, grabbing the air with his hands. I thank heaven for this tender mercy,  for bringing this boy to me, and scoop him into the warmth of the covers I am still in.  Tears turn to rhythmic breathing until he is asleep on my chest. Thoughts of pain melt away as my mind fills with all the good things in life. My breaths match his and I soak him in, for I know all too well I must enjoy this sacred moment. Babies never keep long enough.

Why.

    I have had a lot of thoughts lately. They need to be written. If only for my future self. But I don't want my future self to get bored-to-tears with my journal style writing. So I have begun a new blog here.

(Above:  My eight lovable, naughty and delicious hooligans.)

    I have a great life. It is full in nearly every way. Full of people. Full of emotions. Full of ups and downs. If I had to describe my life in one word it would probably be- FULL.  Through all this fullness, inside I'm trying to sort it all out. Why I am here. What is my purpose. Am I fulfilling that purpose? Today a little, yesterday not so much. Tomorrow I hope for better...

    The gospel gives us so many answers to these questions. It clears up the basics for us- who we were before we came and why we are here in this testing earth life, where we are headed after this dance is over...

    But my soul yearns for specifics.
    I want to know WHO I WAS before I came. What part did I play in the unfolding of this world? What promises have I made and am I living up to them?

    The only way to know the answers is to allow the spirit to tell them to us. Problem is,  even though I want to know the answers, my choices do a good job of telling the spirit I don't have time to listen. It seems that lately my earnestness to know if I am fulfilling the measure of my creation has made me more aware than ever of the things I am doing to quiet the spirits voice. Some days I'm not sure I know what it sounds like exactly.

    I do know what it doesn't sound like. It doesn't sound like much of anything I have heard coming from the TV. Or from the radio, (though I may flip through channels looking for something good like a caught bass trying to find water.) I don't hear it when the sound of my own voice is nagging the kids or highly emotional.
I can't even hear it in my own mind when all that runs through it is the drama from the last episode of Downton.

    AND NOW.  Now, after years of opportunities to practice hearing the spirit- the time has come when I REALLY NEED TO KNOW FOR SURE.

    This blog is an invitation. Join me on this journey.
     I'm not sure where it will take me- but I love company :)

The beginning, a very good place to start.

     

(Above: Me and the hubbs.  Love this guy.)

        I made my way into the sterile elevator, my mind racing.
      "The levels were high,  this wasn't a pointless, expensive exercise", I reminded myself over and over.

      It felt selfish- taking Sean from work, leaving the kids and meeting with a specialist.  Specialist...  another word for more expensive. It felt a like a gamble.  I managed in life, I wasn't on my death bed.  I certainly didn't look sick (at least that is what every doctor I met with before and after told me). I wondered if Sean was right.  If I would walk through that door, have the specialist look at me like I was totally wasting his time, tell me it was all in my head, handing me my "wuss-card" and a hefty bill on the way out.
       It was with some trepidation that I had met with our family doctor in the first place.  I had mentioned these aches and pains numerous times to other doctors I had met with... most often the response was "Well, that is to be expected when you are pregnant"  or, "Of course you feel tired, you have eight kids!" or, "give it a little time and if it bothers you, let me know."   That is why I began my list of complaints with that preface myself-  "I know this is probably nothing,  but I just need to know for sure if I am being wimpy and need to buck up or if this is something..."
    Dr. Moorehouse hadn't looked at me like I was crazy.  He promptly ordered blood work to be done and a B12 shot to follow.  The B12 made me feel much better immediately- so much so that I almost forgot about the blood work being processed. UNTIL. Until the phone call came. The nurses casual matter-of-fact voice almost masked what she was saying..."how are you... blood tests back... rheumatoid levels a little high... concerning...referral had been sent to a specialist..."   Thirty seconds later I was scheduling an appointment for what? What did she say exactly?
        All I knew about rheumatoid arthritis was that my Nana has it, and that it has taken quite a toll on her. I already suspected that medical treatment had come a long way since she had been diagnosed, but it was still a visual aid to what lay in store. I had often thought about Nana's absolutely unfailing optimism in spite of trial and wondered if I could be like her.  And all of these thoughts hinged on the fact that I really had no idea what "rheumatoid levels a little high" meant. Up till that point I thought it was pronounced rhuema"tory" and didn't even spell it correctly!

(Above: Amelia taking a picture of my Nana last summer at my brothers wedding.

 See that smile?  I told you she was optimistic!) 

      It was two months before I could get an appointment- which gave me wayyy too much time to read up. In which time I also learned that the nurse had put it kindly,  that my levels weren't a little high.  They were a lot high.
       What I found out was that if you have any level at all,  you have something. There aren't really any false positives in this arena.  The extent of that "something" was what I wanted to know the day I stepped into the elevator and felt the pull of gravity.  Up to the third floor and into the waiting area. Sean tapping his foot and checking his phone and taking a call... and its my turn to go in.
     On the way there we had taken separate cars so he could rush to work afterwards and I found myself wishing I hadn't asked him to come.  What if it was negative? (Most people would think that was a good thing, but I was afraid of it. I was afraid that I was maybe a certifiable weakling. And I was afraid we were walking in to prove it.) Looking back I realize he was in denial- he didn't want to think I was sick. He didn't want to believe that something could be wrong... but at the time all he said in joking tone was, "prepare to be handed your wuss-card." I had retorted back with something like "you should never say anything like that to a woman who has birthed eight children." But, he was right- it could be a possibility, a possibility he yearned for and I feared.
           The specialist arrived. He didn't look at me like I was nuts for showing up. He had my blood work in his hand from Dr. Moorehouse. He smiled. He asked me to tell him ALL about how I felt.  I guess I hadn't been laying it all out there for Sean (mostly because listing your symptoms sounds a lot like whining) and I saw surprise in his face at what I described feeling.
     I hoped for something real to be wrong.  I hoped for it, because if something was there-  it meant I wasn't just lazy. If there was a reason for how I felt, it meant I wasn't just bad at controlling my irritability. It meant I wasn't just imagining that cold temperatures, wearing shoes and standing for more than five minutes -to name a few of my complaints- actually cause me pain. MOSTLY, it meant that if there was a real problem- there was also likely a real solution to that problem. It meant that I wouldn't have to feel this way forever, blaming my lack of discipline and laziness for the extreme fatigue and waist-high piles of laundry waiting at home.
        I had read a lot about the disease, but Sean hadn't.  He simply hadn't had the time to research something he hoped to know nothing about. So when the doctor sat down and launched directly into treatments it took him by surprise.  Soon, I was having an ultrasound done of my feet and chatting with the nurse while Sean waited in the lobby.
     "Feels like the flu,  all the time, doesn't it." She said. The cold gel tickled my foot. "That is because you kind of have the flu, you know?  Your body is fighting itself, it fights all the time. It fights all night- that is one reason you feel tired all the time."  She was reassuring, "people struggle to understand what this is like,  but I find it to be like having the flu a lot. Low grade fever, foggy memory and general achenes to start with." I nodded, slipped into my flip-flops and turned the corner to a solemn Sean as he hung up the phone.
     "That was Mary (the hospice nurse from his office, who he really trusts). I asked her what this means. I asked her what would happen if we did nothing. She told me... she told me we are looking at a crippling diagnosis if we choose to do nothing about this."  It was the first time I saw him register everything. He was pale. Suddenly he wasn't in a hurry. I found myself talking him through it. It was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. I didn't feel guilty anymore and for the first time, I didn't feel like I had something to prove- it was proven.
    We went out for breakfast. Stared at each other, knowing somehow this was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. I was on the road to recovery. I had an ally. He held my hand, concerned and full of love. I would look back on this as the moment when he became my greatest champion and defender in this battle.
     We munched on our kneaders french toast. The moment was full of everything silence can say.
    A problem I have, yes. But I had known that.  I felt physically terrible, and now- now there was a solution. That, to me, was relief already.