"No. I'm afraid."

I am afraid of dogs.  It is not rational; more phobic in fact.  I think I was a naturally fearful child (temperament? attachment issues?  trauma in the womb?  regardless...) and dogs were the one thing that seemed okay for me to project all my fear on.  Oh - that and my brother, my ever-present best buddy, was bitten on the nose by a yappy little dog in West Berlin; true story.

Origins and psychobabble aside - I fear dogs.  (Really, just dogs I don't know).  To the point where it sometimes effects my life in certain ways.  And I am not okay with that.  I am not okay with fear dominating an area of my life.

If you have read this blog, you know the primary way this fear manifests itself is on my runs: "gauntlets of dog-ridden, fence-lined paths."  Oh, holy moly.    But I face it, and try to work through it, and today I was comfortable.  

Imagine my surprise when slap dab in the middle of the road there was a huge boxer and his buddy, the border collie.  SOMEONE CALL 911!!! 

But, no!  I have control.  I am alpha, dogs are beta.  I am calm.  I am able.  I will face this head on, "Go home, buddies....go home."  Dogs barking, approaching, snarling.  "Go home, doggies.  GO home."  Dogs moving in, Lizzy don't panic.  "GO HOME DOGS, " just like my momma taught me.  Feelings rising, traffic not budging (I was blocked on off by a busy street), dogs pursuing.

"Jesus, help me."

Car approaching, "Are those your dogs?"  says the kind, elderly man.

"No.  I'm afraid."  Three words communicated it all.

"Okay, hun.  I will take care of it."  Bless him, bless him.

I'm working on it, but it sure is nice to have some support along the way.
...More later on how the Wagners are in search of a dog to live us.  Oh, holy moly.

7 Years Later: Waiting Room

The family and friend's journey parallels that of the patient, but rarely do their experiences intersect.  It is a strange and careful distance, a precious and dear closeness. 

I am told this is what happened in the waiting room while I was in surgery.  I am told that my family took up most of the waiting room.  I am told that my parents, grandparents, aunt etc..., and church friends huddled around; my cousin learned to knit at some point in there.

I am told that when the doctor came in to tell of the surgery, of the thyroid cancer, that the whole waiting room went silent.  That my mom and dad heard the news first only due to the laws of physics; you know, sound waves and all; but really, they all heard at the same time.

I am told my mom cried, my dad was shocked, and my grandfather said, "Not her.  It can be me, but not her."

This is a sacred story to me.  One that is passed on by oral tradition.  The details maybe sketchy, but the heart of it is huge: I am loved.  While I was oblivious, hearing German, and emotionally dulled with pain meds, these others bore my story.

I Still Baby My Right Side

I have been writing this blog mostly about my life change that happened seven years ago.  Mostly because, after years of surviving the ripple effect of this bomb (these bombs? and other associated land mines?) that dropped into my life, I find myself in a new place of acceptance.

And it was this week, that a spunky, loud spin instructor helped me along.  (She sold herself as a centered, peaceful, yoga-spin-combo spinner; I need to talk to her about her packaging.  Calm waters blue should not wrap a firecracker).

The music was thumping, but with a sitar in the mix, "Interesting..." I thought.  But I was down.  After all, my usual spin lady climaxes our workout with the Chili Peppers.

And we were off: legs spinning, heart pumping, breathing heavy.

"Lizzy!," she shouts, "Do you favor your right side?"
"What?"
"Do you favor your right side?  Do you have an injury on your right side?"

I mean, how do I answer this?  How?  Enter Lizzy A and Lizzy B.  Lizzy A speaks out loud.  Lizzy B uses lots of profanity, but keeps that to herself.

Lizzy A, "No, why? ... I mean, years ago, but..."
"Well, you are favoring your right side.  You are so young!  You are going to injure yourself.  Use your right side evenly."
Lizzy B, already as angry as a swatted hornet, "Um...okay.  Give me a f***ing second while I tell my body to please forget that it was HALF F***ING numb and took years to recover to where I am now.  And GOING to injure myself...going to..."  This is the mild version...
Lizzy A was honest, "I don't know how to fix that."
"Stick your right elbow out."   Lizzy A and Lizzy B, "Okay.  Thanks."
Mind you, the music is pounding and there is a workout class as our audience.

20 minutes later: "Lizzy!  Your right side!"
Lizzy A, "I'm trying!!!"  (My friend in the class laughed sympathetically - bless her).
Lizzy B, "And F*** you."  Lizzy A said this through her body language.

Some unearthed anger, much?  Yes.  And it says a lot of F-yous.  (Say an amen if grace sounds even sweeter). Thankfully, I have a filter that has functioned pretty well through these years of having a hidden handicap.  I know it is not HER fault.  It is my story still finding its voice.  And truthfully, this anger is mostly helpful, as it shows the places I have not yet healed.  If the F-bomb pops up, I know I've got something to move through.

And bless my spin instructor.  God bless her.  She really helped me; she saw me.  She saw even what I could not see: I still baby my right side.

Afterwards we talked for quite a while.  I shared bits of my story and she did hers too.  She has survived lymphoma: "It totally changed the way I did sit-ups."  Well, there you go.

My right side is sore this week and I am exhausted after my work outs.  Elbow out and this baby is growing up.  

7 Years Later: Chances

I've said it before and I will say it again (for the umpteenth time): If someone had said to me, "Lizzy, we would like to try a surgery where we cut off your head and reorganize some things in there.  It is an experimental procedure, with a 50% chance that it will reduce your dizziness and a 50% chance you will die," I would have said, "Sign me up."  The chance was worth the risk, in my little fantasy world created to describe the level of misery of my invisible injury.

So, I was actually happy to be back in the MRI machine that cold October day.  My symptoms were worsening and doing nothing was not an option.  I waited anxiously for the results from my neurologist.

The call came quickly, (in medical exam results sort of quickly), but strangely.  I expected the easy, monotone, Russian accented voice of my neurologist and instead I had heard the chipper, familiar, Minnesota-esk voice of my primary care doctor.

"Lizzy, it's John.  So - I got the results of the MRI.  The good news is that the lesion in your brain is healing quite nicely...  The other part, though, is that there seems to be a mass on your thyroid..."  The next day at John's office, "So, most masses in the thyroid are benign nodules, but some are cancerous.  There is roughly a 10% chance that it is the latter.  But who wants to walk around with a 10% chance of having cancer when we can know if it is or not..."

Good point.  Is this the point where he suggests that they cut off my head?, she thinks sarcastically.  (Your thyroid is in your neck, by the way).

7 Years Later: Carried to Light

I haven't written since July.  And how fitting that my last reflection reads with such heaviness and stuckness.  The Day of Darkness were long.  Waiting, miserably; therapizing, endlessly; suffering.  I would grieve one thing to lose another.  The biggest black holes were the losses left nameless.  Physically, spiritually, emotionally I felt as a vapor.  I spoke to people through an invisible triple pane window.  Even now I realize just how sick and traumatized I was.

During this time, I wrote a devotional entry for the seminary student handbook at the request of a colleague and friend.  It is the story of a paraplegic man whose friends carry him on a mat to Jesus.  (Does a hole in a roof ring a bell?).  Because of their, (as in the friends'), belief, the man was healed.

And, during the Days of Darkness, it was my friends, (including my family who are the dearest of friends), bold belief that, I think quite literally, kept me alive.  I was carried to Light.

If I started to name the ways, I would be typing until morning.  How appropriate.

"...and you will know them by their love..." 
 

7 Years Later: Just An Earthquake

The inner ear has miraculous functions.  One is the levitating function.  This is part of what cues your body to feel weightless when you free fall, that you should push harder with your legs on an incline, that tells you you're more secure when sitting.  It is instrumental in the music your body makes called movement.  In my orchestra, it was a violin out of tune and on a different sheet of music: screeching, out of sink, and wildly erratic.

While I was sitting, I would suddenly feel like a phantom was pushing my body back.  When I was walking on level ground, it would feel like the ground was suddenly falling, ...or rising quickly and unpredictably.  My body would react "as if" and with in milliseconds of my sympathetic nervous system going into hyperdrive, reason would catch me and I would realize we actually hadn't entered into an Escher drawing or the movie "Inception." ("Lizzy, you aren't really feeling like your falling because in a higher state of consciousness you are careening down an elevator shaft." Although I did not say this to myself at the time because the movie did not come out until just last year, right?)  I would ground myself against a wall, in a chair, or keep moving in a deliberate walk to scream reality at my body that was totally out of sync.  And then I would break out in a sweat.  (That is a lot of work "behind the scenes," eh?).

Puerto Escondido had an earthquake the first night we were there.  I was on my hands and knees pushing my suitcase under my bed.  It felt like the ground was rising.  When reason caught me, I fell to my knees and felt around at the ground to remind me it was still; it wasn't.  I panicked.  "HOLY CRAP!  Save me!"

I looked at my parents.  And caught their eyes.  They were panicked too.  They were panicked too!

"I think that was an earthquake!" said my dad, just a couple seconds later.

"Phew.  Really?  For real? ..., ... Alleluia!  It was just an earthquake."  The locals talked about it for days.

7 Years Later: Esperanza

My parents had one more idea for my six weeks of FMLA.  They were going to Puerto Escondido, Mexico for a week..."why not come along?"

She said in her head, "Well, lets see...ummm...I am half numb!, I need medical care, I can barely handle the thought of being by myself for two seconds, (ie- I am experiencing some serious trauma symptoms, Mom and Dad!), and you want me to fly to Mexico City and waaaaaaaay south from there by myself?...!!!...!!!"

"We think you can do it."  Three weeks after my life sentence had been issued: Hope.

You see, the night I came home from the hospital I instantaneously grieved the loss of my plan for my life: my story was supposed to climax with me living in some remote corner of the world, in love, spiritually full, offering health to the masses (including glorious rays of sunshine and a constant cool breeze).  I think I heaved out through loud sobs, "I will never live in Africa;" it was symbolic yet real and raw.  How can you refrigerate injectable meds with no electricity?  I sobbed, and sobbed.  Grieved and grieved.

And Kindness stepped in through my parents Faith.  "We will get you there; you just need to say yes." And with fear that I let eek out in a constant state of teariness, (I quickly learned this was a way for me to prevent unpredictable, explosive bursts of anxiety), I boarded a plane with a kiss from my grandparents in Denver, navigated Dallas with God holding my hand, hugged and clung on to (for dear life) Gustavo in Mexico City, and fell into the embrace of my parents in Puerto Escondido.

"I was soooooo worried about you," weeped my Mom.

"I made it," my tears said as they bid good bye.  Puerto Escondido is hot!, with a constant cool breeze.