Holding Pattern

I have no fear of drowning

It's the breathing that's taking all this work

~Jars of Clay, “Work”

I am waiting on You,

You say You’re good to those who wait.

My heart’s discouraged,

So I come to You expectant. 

Lord, today You know what I need to do,

But You can do more in my waiting than in my doing I could do.

So I won’t run anymore.

I’m waiting on You.

~ Bethany Dillon, “To Those Who Wait”

Please, take from me my life

When I don't have the strength

To give it away to You, Jesus

~ Third Day, “Take My Life

Pardon the aviation jargon, but I’m a pilot’s wife, so I just can’t help myself :)  This week continues to hold a lot of ups and downs, but I am clinging to Jesus as my Rock (and my sweet hubby who is God’s grace to me).
I’ve been eating well and mostly normal (although healthier and less thankfully!) for about 10 days.  Doctors continue to investigate my strange case but overall, I’m coping and improving.  Dave finds out last week that he’s going to be flying a high-profile candidate on a campaign trip (an 18-hour work day).  It’s kind of a big deal in his company, although we’re not nervous and have the Lord’s peace about it.  He jokingly says, “Honey, you seem to be doing so much better.  Just don’t get sick again on Tuesday.”  Uh-oh.
Monday’s going along fine, but Clara’s not napping well, so I pull her in bed with me and we nap together (cherishing those last special times of sleeping with a little one ... occasionally!).  

I wake before her, and as I rise to go to the bathroom, I feel a sharp pain/tightening in my chest that nearly takes my breath away.  What the heck?  “Calm down, Vanessa,” I tell myself.  I go to the bathroom and the pain persists.  I call Dave at work and say, “It’s not an emergency, but this is what’s going on, can you come home early today if I need you?”  He says he’s working on a plane but can be here within a half hour if I give the word.  Thankfully, the pain lessens to discomfort, and I’m able to function.  However, I realize I’ve lost my appetite again.  Darn, I’ve really been enjoying real food!  My dear friend Carolyn stops by for car pool, and we pray under the bright sun in my front yard under our overflowing peach tree.  “Satan, leave this family alone!  By the blood of Jesus!” she prays.  Later, my mom prays, “Devil, get your bootie-butt OUT OF HERE!”  Ha!  A neighbor takes the kids and makes a double batch of spaghetti for my entire family so I can rest.  Dave goes to the store and gets my “GI issues food” -- watermelon, applesauce, vitamin water, saltines, fruit popsicles, and chicken noodle soup.

I get a beautiful card from my mom in the mail that greatly encourages me, especially praying through the different Hebrew names of God -- Jehovah Jireh, Provider; Jehovah Nissi, Battle Fighter; Jehovah Shalom, Giver of Peace; Jehovah Rophe, Healer.  Then Mom writes, “ ‘You are fairer than the sons of men; Grace is poured upon your lips; Therefore, God has blessed you forever.’  Psalm 45:2 ... I love you.  God loves you more.”  I've got a good Mama!  And she sends this poem, which I’ve never read:

So many times one sees only the surface
We must scratch through the rubble
As our hands bleed, we cry
Is it worth digging deeper -
Or will disappointment find it’s ultimate victory?
Who is to guide and lead us in our search - blindly we grope, our feet in the mire
Yet some ray of hope seems to lead us along
There’s a quest in us all
We must stir up the longing, without which our journey will never succeed ...
I must search even deeper to find something worthwhile
The road is cluttered with pain and doubt
Yet not without its rewards
Perseverance will not bring defeat!
I have only to know that the part to the whole are ever surrounding me
Awareness of such - eluding me,
Yet tempting me to search on ...
~ LouAnn Matsos, August 1982 (when I was 4 years old!)

I’m able to eat some soup, and I sleep really well -- one of the best nights in 3-4 weeks (one of the symptoms of Fibromyalgia is impaired deep sleep).  I wake and call my mom to say, “Hallelujah!”  I don’t even need a bath or pain meds upon waking, which is usually my worst time.  While that is still true, I think I celebrated a little preemptively, because the next hour feels like hell.
First, I call a woman for an article I’m working on.  In the course of our conversation, she tells me she’s read my blog and her husband has been sick with some similar symptoms.  He’s been to several doctors, like me, and they finally decide to give him a CT scan of his entire abdomen and pelvis -- the exact same procedure I’m having on Friday.  She privately asks the Doctor what he’ll be looking for and he answers honestly: “We’ll be looking at the pancreas, gall bladder, kidneys, etc ... but mostly we’ll be looking for cancer.”  Ah, the dreaded “C” word.  At this moment, my heart feels like it has stopped beating and drops into my stomach, where a gnawing pit begins to form.  Yes, I allow my mind to travel into the terrible world of “What If?”  It had never even crossed my mind that I could be dealing with something like cancer!  Then I have a flashback (which often occurs with PTSD): the Doctor in Jakarta (the one who’s supposed to speak English), at the best hospital in Indonesia, comes into my room and very stoically says, “Your CA 19.9 levels are high, so I suspect malignancy, but you’ll have to go to Singapore for treatment.”  At first, I really think I misunderstand him.  When he repeats it, I understand.  I glance down at my bruised arms and swollen hands (from all the amateur blood draws and IV’s) and think, “I cannot go through another week of this!”  We decide to go get Clara first and my generous “Aunt Rita,” who discipled me in college, flies down from the Philippines to take care of the baby during my procedures. 

Singapore has first-world medical care, and the Doctors there think there is no malignancy, but they are still mostly stumped.

But I don’t have time to think about all this right now and my mind snaps to from the flashback: the kids are now late to get up, and Carolyn will be here to pick them up in less than half hour (blessedly, she tends to run late).  I tell them to get ready quickly, while I fix an on-the-go breakfast.  Clara, realizing I’m giving my attention to the other children, begins to whine and complain and suddenly have repeated urgent “needs” (if you’re one of those people who believe children are born innocent and without sin, feel free to stop by my house anytime).  I sit the kids on the front porch with their paper plate of breakfast and say, “Here are your lunches.  This is the one and only thing you need to bring with you to school today.”  Carolyn pulls out of our driveway and I begin to feel a sigh of relief until I notice Caleb’s lunch still sitting on the front stoop.  Being impulsive, I make a quick decision, even though I’m still in my robe.  If I hurry, I can catch them.  I grab the lunch box and take off.  I’m literally a few yards behind them.  I can see all 5 of them talking, laughing, seemingly having a great time.  But not one of them notices me frantically running behind them waving the lunch box, nor hears my pleas of “Stop!”  This whole process is physically uncomfortable considering my attire (or lack thereof).  I make it to the corner and pray that I don’t pass any of my neighbors directly (they’re probably peeking out of their blinds wondering if I’m crazy).  I decide my only option is to run back to the house for the phone.  Carolyn graciously comes back for the lunch box, but by this time, Clara’s crying in the front yard, and I’m physically and emotionally spent.  I text a neighbor for help and sweet Xavier (age 9) comes over right away to get her.  Thankfully, my friend Mandi has already agreed to watch her the rest of the day since I have my therapeutic massage and some work for VBS at church.  
The massage is relaxing as always and being at the church office is a welcome distraction and refreshes my soul.  My friend Christy reads me “Jesus Calling” about not being anxious or worrying about tomorrow.  Although she’s in the midst of chaos herself, she stops to talk, cry and pray with me.  Oh, how this sister in Christ ministers to my heart!  Ironically (or providentially), everyone else is at a staff meeting, so we have the office to ourselves for this special time of sharing.
That evening, I host my regular mom’s Bible Study even though I’m not feeling great.  We welcome one new member, but only one other person shows up, so it’s just the 3 of us (several of our regular members are in the midst of their own life crises).  At first, I find this discouraging (I’m a party girl, after all!).  But God does something incredible, that probably wouldn’t have happened if the others had been there.  One of the girls, who admits she is “socially awkward” feels more comfortable sharing openly, and really connects with the other mom.  Our discussion is rich, and edifying, and once again, I find myself praising God in the midst of the pain.
Yesterday proved to be another difficult day, and I just don’t feel like I can deal with Clara.  Even though I’m feeling “OK” I’ve got phone calls to make and medical records to deal with.  Several of my regular sitters are unavailable, so I text a kind woman from church who lives down the street.  Even though I don’t know her very well and she has many children of her own, she says she’ll be down to get Clara in 10 minutes.  The body of Christ never ceases to amaze me!
Talking to Amanda (my best friend from HS who is a pediatrician and talks regularly to a GI specialist) is really helpful and encouraging.  She suggests looking more closely at the autoimmune aspect, and even trying a round of steroid treatment to see if it works.  God has blessed me with many wonderful and wise people in my life!    
My neighbor Dawn graciously agrees to drive Clara to the babysitter’s house, which is my friend Carolyn’s daughter, Sarah (and son Gabe).  While resting on the couch, I get a text picture of Clara in a bathing suit with a slip and slide, and she looks *LIKE SHE'S HAVING SO MUCH FUN*.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper.  When I go to pick her up for nap time, I run in a box of peaches (if you live near by, please stop by and pick some from our tree!).  12-year old Gabe is standing there while fumble with get my purse.  “Oh, there’s no charge, Ma’m,” he says, with maturity and grace well beyond his years.  My heart could have melted right then.  But when I drive away, I ask Clara, “What was the best part of your day?”  “Playin’ with Gabe,” she giggles.  How many pre-adolescent boys do you know who take an interest in toddler girls?  Once again, God is taking great care of my kids even when I’m not able to the way I’d like.
As I write this, my heart is anxious for the CAT scan I’ll be undergoing in less than 3 hours.  Part of the process is drinking two gigantic bottles of nasty barium drink (nearly a liter).  The directions say to “refrigerate in order to improve the taste” and drink at least 4 hours prior to procedure, so Dave sets his alarm for 4am.  Despite the fact that it repeats itself multiple times and has to be manually turned off, WE BOTH SLEEP THROUGH IT!  At 5:30, I wake in a panic.  Dave says, “There’s still time, honey.  Just go drink it right now.”  Nausea hits with the first swallow.  I think about watching Bear Grylls’ new show “Get Out Alive” recently.  These people eat fish eye balls, raw worms, even drink their own filtered urine.  Considering this, I tell myself, “I can do this!”  I get the first bottle almost down and stick the second in the freezer to get it even colder.  I go back to the bedroom and turn on the light.  “Sweetie, I’m really sorry but I need some encouragement to drink this.  I don’t think I could drink this much of ANYTHING, even Dr. Pepper” (my former favorite drink).  Sleepily, he replies, “You could totally drink that much Dr. Pepper.  You’re doing great, honey.  Just keep goin’!  How ‘bout a straw?”  I try to get him to take a sympathy drink but he rolls over and pretends to be back asleep.  I manage to down the rest of the first bottle and head back to the freezer to grab the second.  Wouldn’t you know, I put that bottle in the freezer without the lid, and it immediately falls out and all over the floor.  At this point, I begin to cry, and my darling husband comes in and starts cleaning it up.  Have I mentioned lately that my husband is amazing?  
So, as I head to the hospital this morning, I continue to wait.  My suspicion is that the CAT scan will be normal (as it was 10 years ago), and they’ll run a HIDA scan (to test for gall bladder function).  That will probably also be normal (as it was 7 years ago).  The next step after that, my doctor says, is to send me to UVA in Charlottesville (about an hour away), because it’s a cutting-edge teaching and research hospital.  Part of me feels terrified by this thought, but another part thinks: “There could still be answers.  There could be an end to this!”  And that brings to mind the precious words I heard recently from a decade-old contemporary Christian song that is still one of my favorites (I can still hear Rebekah Rakes singing this on a beautiful Easter morning, sun streaming in on her face):

The very same God

That spins things in orbit

Runs to the weary

The worn and the weak

And the same gentle hands

That hold me when I'm broken

They conquer death to bring me victory

~ Nicole C. Mullen, “My Redeemer Lives”