Cancer and the Incarnation

I didn't do anything different today. I was just praying for someone who has cancer. And then the tears started. Having long been jaded that god is willing to perform miracles, I sobbed, "Lord, I have a mustard seed of faith; please, please perform a miracle and heal him."

Then later I replayed my Georgia mama's final, laborious, horrible breath (due to cancer). I hadn't witnessed it but was told about it in great detail and can barely bear to imagine it.

I am coming to terms with mystery, particularly divine mystery. You know the answer I got from my prayer earlier today? Nada. Zilch. Nothing. Like trying to move the Great Wall of China.

I googled the etymology of "mystery" and it surprisingly had a lot of religious influence as being some thing hidden my god.

I used to hate god for being mysterious, but now I think he might be doing the hiding for our own good. I'm slowly warming up to the idea that god might actually, in fact be good.

I don't understand, but in the spirit of exhaustion and Advent, I listened to a local church's Christmas album, well, one song in particular, that seemed to budge the Great Wall of China.

Here is the link to Earth & Stone by Alex Priore sung by TJ Lents:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ah09d1ED6Cw

I don't understand much about the harder parts of existence on planet earth, but the Christmas story, the Incarnation seems to meet me and say, "That's okay."

In loving memory of Lynette Washington 

What It's Like To Have A Manic Episode

My breathing is slow and shallow. I am trying not to have a panic attack. I forgot to take my morning meds and that's a big no-no in the world of big pharma. I didn't notice it til I dropped my last friend off. This pit in my stomach. I got home and curled up into a ball under my duvet. Oh, did I mention my new necklace got a lot of compliments today? It made me feel nice, not good, but nice. Anyways, I knew it was time for the psychosis playlist (I didn't make it explicitly for psychosis but it really helps). I entitled it Slavic with Oriental Influence because that's what it mostly is with some Debussy thrown in there;). I for sure over-romanticize Trans-Siberia, but when I listen to Russian composers I can't help but imagine myself as Anastasia Romanov escaping imperial overthrow via the Trans-Siberian Railway. It helps a little. I was just with some of my very best friends talking louder and faster than usual. Now I'm just trying to move breath between the air and my lungs. I am scared. I called my friend to pray over me. I described it like feeling like Alice in Wonderland: everything was shrinking or I was getting larger or maybe both. Tears well in my eyes but I don't let them stay there long because I know if I let one fall they will never stop.

Scars

I don't know how I had gotten to that point. The only warning sign I knew for sure was that I had wanted a beer once we got home from my friend's wisdom teeth surgery at a military facility.

I had the surgery at a military facility. As I waited and waited, the sight of surgeons confidently striding about later sent me into vivid flashbacks of getting called back by my own surgeon to go over the details of my highly-invasive Whipple procedure... the one that would change everything.

I called my dad as I waited in line to pick up my friend's meds at the pharmacy across the road. He said I sounded nervous, anxious. "Huh? I'm fine!" I chirped. Little did I know that with each passing set of fatigues, I was coming closer and closer to an encounter with my PTSD.

My dictionary app defines a scar, firstly, as: a mark left by a healed wound, sore, or burn. But it defines it, secondly, as: a lasting aftereffect of trouble, esp. a lasting psychological injury resulting from suffering or trauma. Bingo.

That night, as I spiraled into a drunken stupor to escape the pain, I did remember my scar hurting in the waiting room. A counselor once told me that our bodies hold memories, too. Maybe my body knew this was a bad situation before my brain.

I hadn't gotten drunk in months. I had my drinking firmly under control (praise God). But this, this was too much.

Physical scars fade, but they can still hurt. What if it's the same with emotional, psychological scars. We think we're better but we end up tearing open the old wound. Besides flashbacks, I get nightmares that my nine-inch scar is wide open and I feel the pain of trying to hold my stomach together.

I asked my counselor if I would ever be a fully functional, contributing member of society with all that's fucked up in me. She said she didn't know.