You left me, Sweet, two legacies: For The Bereaved

You left me-Sweet-two legacies

Emily Dickinson

You left me-Sweet-two legacies-

A legacy of Love

A Heavenly Father would content

Had he the offer of-

You left me Boundaries of Pain-

Capacious as the Sea-

Between Eternity and Time-

Your Consciousness-and me-

Alzheimer's. I had never heard the term. But my little girl self knew it must be bad if my mom, my resilient, strong, mom, was crying because Da (my maternal grandfather) was just diagnosed with it. "He has maybe five years to live," she said. "He's only in the beginning stages." I believe he made it four more years after that before passing away from complications due to Alzheimer's.

I remember early one morning, my dad came into my room before school started and told me that Da had died over the course of the night. He was in hospice, so, while not shocking, it was still saddening. I cried once, and then never again. I was fourteen.

Flash-forward almost 12 years later and I am on the phone with my mom sobbing about never truly knowing my grandfather as an adult. I begged her to tell me about him, a memory, anything. "He always believed girls could do anything boys could do... which led to Nanny (her twin) and I working with him at his construction sites." Did he have any special nicknames for you? "Slug." I burst into tears once more.

Later that day, I recounted to my dad my last memory of talking to him. He didn't know who I was, after fourteen years of being my grandfather, but he seemed content to talk, nonetheless. I was wearing a shirt that said "Coexist" and he looked me in the eyes and said, "Coexisting: what a nice way to live."

The word to grieve originated between 1175 and 1225; from the Middle English greven, grieven < Old French grever <  Latin gravare meaning to burden, derivative of gravis meaning heavy and grave meaning weighty, momentous, or important.

I've been learning to grieve since the passing of another close family member. When this person died, the phrase, "Grief is a garment that demands to be worn" kept rolling around in my head. As I cried this morning over my grandfather long passed, I realized it was because I had never truly worn the Garment of Grief over his death.

It's scary, this dementor of pain. But it must be embraced for true emotional liberation to be found. Whether you are grieving, grief-adjacent, or lucky to be neither, I bid you be brave and encounter the specter of love lost. The only way past is through. You are strong, even in the utter helplessness of loss. You're strong for being there in the first place.

I don't know what's on the other side of grief; I've never been there. But I'm going, and I'll tell you what I find.

With love and sincerity,
Anna Jo

The Lampstand And The Shewbread

I recently re-read The Sabbath by the respected Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. The copy I bought had very abstract pictures of OT concepts at each chapter head. To be honest, they didn't make much sense to me... except for one. It was a picture of a "living" menorah.. a menorah made out of vines and almond blossoms. Like the instructions of a golden lampstand being made in the likeness of an almond tree. I quickly got a copy made and it now sits facing me on the table at the end of my bed to contemplate each time I glance at it.

I read a Christian theology textbook on the Tabernacle, so I could go into a lot of detail about the significance of all the details of the lampstand, but I want to focus on the most simple: it was to give light. Filled continually with pure olive oil by the designated priests, it was lit at all times. But it giving light is only the first part of what I want to focus on. What is important is what it illumined: the table of the shewbread, or the Bread of the Presence, eaten then replaced each week by the priests after fresh consecration.

I finally understood why this elusive picture of the lampstand had captivated me for weeks: it was a symbol of the illumination of the Presence of God in my life, particularly the vast, dark three years preceding this moment in time. I could see where he was all along in my sin, pain, and transgression: with me.

And if you're sitting there worried that, since this is an OT concept it doesn't apply to you and you won't be able to see the Presence of God in your murky past, your tenuous present, or your uncertain future, remember that Jesus is the Light of the world, the exact imprint of the nature of the God, given to us to know the Father. And his name is Emmanuel, which means "God with us."

Past, Present, and Future

There are two parts to this blog. I just want to get some of my thoughts on paper and flesh them out with y'all.

Part I:

Today, I meditated for 30 mins on Isaiah 53:4a in preparation for Easter Sunday when we get to celebrate after this long, Lenten, penitential season. I want to do Lent well and I pray I have. Christ's crucifixion is everything; without it, we would still be sick. Which is where Part I comes in. Isaiah 53:4a in the NASB translation reads: "Surely our griefs [sickness/disease both internal and external] he bore, and our sorrows [pain both physical and mental] he carried [this verb has an alternate meaning of 'being pregnant with' about which I spent much time thinking]" (Isaiah 53:4) NASB."

I had a Zoom call with my therapist today and at the end she said I would have to work through the trauma of having had cancer and having Bipolar I eventually. I liked her directness as I know those are things that hold me back from the past in the present and hopefully not the future. Isaiah 53:4a is in the past tense, meaning Christ already bore and carried those things while he was on the Cross. What does that mean for the healing of my trauma? I don't know if this will make sense, but today, during my Lectio Divina on verse 53:4a, I prayed that Christ would go back and heal my trauma, both physical and mental, in the past tense that I wouldn't suffer so much from it today. I believe he can do that but that that's not all he's doing.

He also is doing those things in the present tense as I experience the day to day grievances of life. Always bearing, always carrying.

And, finally, I believe he will consummately heal me in the future, when I see him face to face. In his manifest Presence in heaven. Some words of C.S. Lewis from his book The Great Divorce apply:

“Ye cannot in your present state understand eternity… That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, ‘No future bliss can make up for this,’ not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backward and turn even that agony into a glory... The good man’s past begins to change so that his forgiven sins and remembered sorrows take on the quality of heaven… And that is why the Blessed will say, ‘We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven.’”

This brings me to Part II of this blog post:

Genesis 1:2 states, "The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was moving [hovering] over the surface of the waters," (Genesis 1:2) NASB.

The Hebrew word for formless is "tohuw" which means "formelessness, confusion, emptiness... a place of chaos." Anybody ever feel like that? I do. And I have. And I will. Void comes from the Hebrew word "bohuw" which means "emptiness, waste... a vacuity... an indistinguishable ruin." I definitely feel like my mind, body, soul, emotions, etc. are indistinguishable ruins at times. Both from the cancer and the Bipolar. As I was meditating on this verse, I also focused on the Hebrew verb for "hovering" which is "rachaph." One of the major translations comes from its Syrian transliteration/counterpart meaning "a bird brooding over its young." My dictionary app defines this version of brood as: "(of a bird) to warm, protect, or cover (young) with the wings or body." That's exactly what Christ did during his Crucifixion: he covered us with his bloody, beaten, and torn body and with his wings of healing (Mal. 4:2).

So I recollected that Christ was "rachaph-ing" over my soul and body when I was close to physical death and every moment of mental anguish I have faced since. He is "rachaph-ing" over my soul and body even know, "a very-present help in trouble" (Psalm 46:1). And, finally, his healing, protection, hovering, in short, his "rachaph-ing" will be consummated when I see him face to face. 

When dealing with a God outside of time, we get to consider all the angles our finite minds can comprehend of his activity among us.

Take heart in knowing that he is healing you, restoring you, hovering over you, in the past, present, and future.

"Hope is a dangerous thing."

"Hope is a dangerous thing."

I just watched 1917 and I won't give anything away but the above line is spoken by a commanding officer to a young lance-corporal. He meant it is dangerous to have hope in such a dire situation as WWI, but I submit that, in this cosmic battle into which we were born, hope is dangerous because it is our weapon against the enemy. A hopeful people are a people full of potential, and if you oppose them, danger.

This brings me to Isaiah 61:1: "...the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted..." (NASB). The word afflicted here is the Hebrew word 'anav which can mean, "poor, humble, afflicted, lowly, (very) meek." But Genesius' Hebrew-Chaldee Lexicon gives one more meaning that I clung to when I first read it: miserable.

Miserable comes from root words meaning "pitiable."

I just wanted to give you hope this morning that if you feel miserable, lowly, poor, meek, pitiable, YOU have good news preached to you by the Lord. And as we approach the end of Lent, I find it of the utmost importance to tell you that the aforementioned "good news" is Christ's birth, life, death, resurrection, ascension, and continuing work on our behalf. "...to bring good news to the afflicted..." And I believe we can weather anything this world or the devil himself throws at us with this news.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

Some Final Thoughts: The River Of Life Runs Deep

"The river of life runs deep." I couldn't get this sentence out of my head as a I prepared for and received my latest PET scan. I had no idea what it meant but it gave me a great deal of peace.

Fast-forward to yesterday evening after the test. I was worshipping to Hillsong UNITED's Zion Sessions album and, during a spontaneous moment, started singing, "When I pass through the river You will be with me, in it, in it, in it." I felt it resonate deep inside of me. Then, the light flipped off in my spirit and I remembered the beginning portion of Isa. 43.2 (God talking, here): "'When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they will not overflow you.'" It all finally made sense. I don't know if this is at all theologically accurate (#SorryHeresyHunters) but I think this is the same "river of life" God put in my head and heart: quotidian, cancer treatment, get the kids to school, vote in an election, life.

I just wanted to hop on here and share. I hope this helps somebody. Whether you be sunbathing in the shallows of this river of life or plunged head-long into the raging middle: "You are with me."

Much love,
Anna Jo

Last PET Scan At Portsmouth Naval

Well, today was the end of an era. I had my final PET scan at Portsmouth Naval Hospital (Naval Medical Center Portsmouth). This is a big deal because it's where I had the high-risk operation that removed the cancer from the head of my pancreas and where I received all subsequent, cancer-related care.

The phrase that I haven't been able to get out of my head since last night is, "The river of life runs deep." I don't entirely know what this means but can somewhat connect it to a comment I saw on a facebook post once. A man had just lost his wife to cancer, like hours before, and a wise leader in my life and mutual friend of ours said something to the effect of, "My prayers are with you; you're in the deepest waters life gives right now." That was four years ago and it still sticks with me.

I learned what it means to fight at PN. I learned what it means to grieve and help others through their grief at PN. I learned what it means to give up gracefully at PN. I learned what it means to receive grace gracefully at PN. I befriended countless doctors, nurses and staff at PN. It will always hold a special place in my heart. The river of life runs deep.

The river of life runs deep. Sometimes we're blessed to sunbathe in the shallows but sometimes we are thrust headlong into the raging middle. What I can say is thank you. Thank you to family and friends for holding me up on the darkest nights. Thank you to the medical professionals who save our lives. And finally, after much fighting, I can say thank you to God. For all of it. As my old Young Life leader who also beat cancer always says, "all a gift."

The river of life runs deep.

E.R.

I went to my primary care for a litany of complaints the other day but chief among them was aches all over like I had just finished a 90 min soccer match (trust me, I know what that feels like lol).

The doctor didn't know what to do so I left with a handful of miscellaneous scripts that I never did fill.

I get home and the pains from worse; I could barely lift my head off the pillow. I was showing many signs of Lithium toxicity. I freaked when I saw that two of the more sever side effects were going into a coma and death.

So I went to the ER at Chesapeake General and the triage nurse gave me priority over others who had been there longer.

I was actually called back with a nurse, a man too weak to walk with a facemark on, and my dad, to keep me company. But what happened next was inexplicable to my arrogant mind: I saw the "rooms" were just curtain-partitions, just like pre-op for the Whipple. I started sobbing immediately and hid behind my dad so no one would noticed. The prim-and-proper Anna immediately composed herself. And, true to form, I asked my dad to snap a picture of me to remember this whole ordeal.

I remember wearing my friend's red clay earrings that day for "good luck" (plus they're super cute; I'll put a like to her Etsy shop at the bottom of the page). The red clay reminded me of Georgia where I spent all my summers.

I told my dad to go get something to eat and that I'd be fine there while they ran a battery of tests.

Besides the aforementioned crying, I typically do really well as a patient (minus all my blow-out veins). I didn't realize how much cancer had traumatized me until I saw the curtain-partitioned "rooms," in which (at a dif hospital) I had been horrendously anesthetized.

I am a good patient (well, a little rebellious, really) but I would let them take my blood at 4am, nonetheless.

If I ever got coronation name, I would want it to be Anna the Brave, perhaps calling into existence what is not so. I remember during the time of surgery and recovery I would wax eloquent about the benevolence of God. But when push came to shove, I was just as scared and in pain as anybody else would have been. I remember my worst fear and rebellion towards God came when they would make me breathe into a tube violently to determine if I was developing pneumonia. I refused, but surgeons aren't the type of people to let themselves be refused, especially by an angsty teenager. So I did it with full resentment in my heart towards God.

I'm writing this post because, seven years later, I was scared of the cancer, the pain, the inadequacy of a nerve-block to do it's job (ahem, Portsmouth Naval).

But this is also an update. I'm to see my psychiatrist on Friday so pray for wisdom on his part, he is a fiery christian, so I know Holy Spirit will work through him, I'm in a lot of pain both physically and mentally, so prayer for fortitude would be great.

Love y'all,
Anna Jo

Below are three books about what it's like to live (and die) from cancer:

When Breath Becomes Air -Paul Kalanithi

Worth the Suffering -Jenna Henderson

The Bright Hour -Nina Riggs

Sorry this post was scattered and a tad disorienting.. I guess it's just a reflection of my life (and messy room) right now.

P.S. most of my labs (and there were a lot of them) came back fine so praise the Lord for that.

I'll leave you with a quote from Shauna Niequist:

"There's nothing small or inconsequential about our stories. There is, in fact, nothing bigger. And when we tell the truth about our lives - the broken parts, the secret parts, the beautiful parts - then the gospel comes to life, an actual story about redemption, instead of abstraction and theory and things you learn in Sunday School."

Thanks for reading about my story

Arrival: Life In The Negative Space

I cried in the car today. 

If you read my last post you know some of the symptoms I was experiencing as a result of my new panacea medicine. 

This got worse this morning, my scar hurt like it did when I was in recovery. I had aches all over my body and the chills. I could barely lift my head from my pillow from within the prison of my bed-ridden existence.

The reason I cried is because of the negative space, the unknown.

My psychiatrist wrote off my side-effects as not being caused by this medicine. (he also wouldn't let me get a picc line and I have horrible veins but my mom was driving me so I didn't want to cry).

But today, after more blood draws at my primary care, the doctor said he thinks that it's all due to the new medicines I'm on and he's also sending out my lithium levels so we'll see there.

Negative space: in art, the part that isn't the actual picture but sort gives the positive space room to land on. Great artists are just as meticulous about the space they use and the space they don't use because negative space can tell the observer just as ,much as positive space.

Have you ever seen or read Arrival? if you haven't stop reading here and go watch it. Towards the end, when things are getting down to the wire, the differing creatures (I refuse to call them aliens because cultural relativism, people!). So the differing creatures sent one last encrypted, highly intelligent message. The linguist and the physicist couldn't figure out the cypher. Then, with gallantry, the physicist figures out that the message was hidden in the negative space of the 3-D message: time, it was about time. but that's beside the point. Here's the real point: you can communicate life-saving messages through negative space.

So when I feel I like death is winning the fight because, at least in this case, no one can tell me what's wrong and no survivor of a rare cancer wants to hear that, I remember the negative space.

God doesn't always respond right away or at all the way you want him to, but he always answers. Often times in the negative spaces of your life, your community.

As I turned-on the ignition my care in front of patient first and started crying. And soon I felt another person in the car. He was crying too. It was Jesus. 

In between the positive spaces of two highly trained doctors into whom I have vested all my hope, two doctors who couldn't tell me exactly what's wrong or if the cancer's back, in the negative space, I encountered the God Who Sees Me (shout out, Hagar!).

Knowing that you have a God the suffered for you 2 millennia before you were born and makes petitions for us in heaven, and, yes, suffers with us now, doesn't take the pain away or mitigate the reality of a fractured existence on this long sojourn home. But it makes us look back at the pristine Garden and forward to the Heavenly Jerusalem. And I think what he wants us to know is that he is just so very with us. In the positive, useful stages, and in the negative, useful spaces. Emmanuel, God with us, our very present help.

Don't miss him in the fallow seasons of your life. He may not visit us with the angel of the lord like Hagar in her negative spaces (literal deserts), but he will be there. 

I can hear the words of Lily Potter, saying to her bereaved son, "we never left."

God's not afraid of my (and your) circumstances or everybody's seeming ignorance as to what's wrong with me, be assured: he's never left.

Today was rough

I woke up at 4:45am and tried to walk down the stairs to go the restroom. But I couldn't keep my balance so I sat there in silence for fifteen minutes til my dad came out of his room to cook himself breakfast. I wanted to ask him to make so eggs and toast for me since I couldn't currently do it by myself. But the voice I heard come out of me sounded like Rocky when he beat Apollo: slurred, delayed, unintelligible.

Hunger is another side effect of this med so I came down because I thought I could make myself seconds... I couldn't stand up straight; it was like my inner-gyroscope was off. I left the egg half scrambled in the pan next to two pieces of toast not buttered. Then, sleep.

I woke up and tried to text people how the med had worked but my fingers seemingly lost all potent dexterity. I couldn't type a word, let alone a sentence.

The only other off thing that I noticed was that my ability to swallow was impeded and I felt like I was choking multiple times throughout the day.

Also, I was pretty sedate. My affect was pretty flat.

I haven't lost hope... Please keep your prayers coming; I cherish them... oh yeah, please pray that they would allow me to get semi-permanent port to draw blood from, my poor hands have taken a beating.

"The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much" (James 5:16).

Love always, 

Anna Jo

Casimir Pulaski Day + Jenna

You know what's funny? I listened to Sufjan Stevens's "Casimir Pulaski Day", and it was by far my favorite song in high school before I internalized what it was saying about cancer. Two short years later, I would have people laying their hands on me for healing. Little did I know the quest that lay before me. When I watch the coronation scene of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, I always imagine my new name would be Anna the Brave. I was not the nicest or the sweetest, but I had guts.

That moxy faded quickly after the Whipple surgery. I was angry at God, even though I didn't dare verbalize it because I tried so hard to fit the mold of a good YL girl who was the leaders's favorite. But why was I vomiting with a nine inch scar severing my abdominal nerves and blood seeping out of my feeding and drainage tubes at 18 years old? I still don't know, but I screamed at the pain, even though I had friends over who could hear everything from the downstairs bathroom I was in. My dad wisely suggested they abandon their Infuse-Anna-With-Optimism shifts early that day.

But what I'm really writing to say is that I just finished an incredible book called Worth the Suffering by Jenna Henderson. It's a collection of her blogposts, prayers, and her friends's memories of her before she passed away in 2016.

I noticed a HUGE difference in the way we both blogged about our experiences. I am convicted. Buy the book. Read it. I'm sure you'll be challenged. I want my complaining to turn into thanksgiving and I want a fierce love of Jesus like it appears Jenna had in her 30 short years of life.

Thank you, Jenna, for the legacy you left us for when we suffer. I hope to be as valiant as you one day.

With love,
Anna Jo

You can buy the book here: https://www.worththesuffering.com

How Do You Pronounce Clozapine?

Relieve

Etymology: Late 14c., "alleviate (pain, etc.), mitigate; afford comfort; allow respite; diminish the pressure of," also "give alms to, provide for;" also figuratively, "take heart, cheer up;" from Old French relever"to raise, relieve" (11c.) and directly from Latin relevare "to raise, alleviate, lift up, free from a burden," from re-, intensive prefix (see re-), + levare "to lift up, lighten," from levis "not heavy" (from PIE root *legwh- "not heavy, having little weight")

The notion is "to raise (someone) out of trouble." From c. 1400 as "advance to the rescue in battle;" also "return from battle; recall (troops)." Meaning "release from duty" is from early 15c. 

The bruises are healing and the swelling is going down. I don't have good veins in my arms, so, the past two times I've gotten my blood drawn in the last three days, they've used my hands.

But boy, when I feel hope rustling in the wind, I'd endure anything to realize it.

I hate cliche christian things, but the Lord undeniably gave me the word "relief" for the year 2020. And man was I glad to hear it. After seven years of slow-boiling torture (read: cancer + mood disorder + high motivation + low productivity), I might have a shot at becoming a translator, moving abroad, financially supporting and living by myself. All because I'm going on a cousin drug of Zyprexa. The only reason I can't stay on the solid gold that is Zyprexa is because it makes me gain weight "like a racehorse" as my psychiatrist so quaintly put it. But this new drug is "the most effective drug made" and the weight gain is less. So I have to get my blood drawn every week. The bruises and swelling may continue, but I plan on blasting forward. I feel hope for the first time in years. Real, genuine, down-in-your-bones hope.

The seven years started with my cancer diagnosis and treatment at age 18. I find it interesting that I'm starting my 7th year since then because, in ancient times, the Hebrews were called to a Sabbatic year every seven years. Debts were forgiven, slaves released, and, here's the biggie, NO cultivation of the land. This would fundamentally change the fabric of an agricultural society. And for the first time, after many times studying this concept, I realized the radical trust in the Word of God, Jehovah-Jireh, that it would cost the pre-exilic Israelites.

Though it was sad that they didn't listen, I hope to learn from their mistake. So, just as much as this is a year of divine relief, it is also to be a year of trust in God for radical provision.

I plan to update this blog more often and would be honored if you joined me on my journey towards healing and increased agency... and fun :)

Much love,
Anna Jo

I Didn't Wear A Jacket Today

I didn't wear a jacket today.

Depression is like a dementor sucking out your soul, leaving nothing but a shell of a human behind.

I woke up today and felt nothing. I still haven't decided if I can tolerate the anxiety or the abyss better. Either way, it's not like I have a choice.

But as I was preparing to leave for my bestie's bridal shower, I decidedly left my fake leather jacket draped across my club chair; I wanted to feel something and who says that something has to be an emotion?

I felt the bitter winter wind whip across my face. Bliss. Feeling.

I didn't wear a jacket today.

Cruciare

I'm currently on my seventh beer of the day (it's 6:15pm and I started at 6am, so they were spaced out). When I drink on a weekday, I know it's the anxiety. It's my salvation. Not really, but in my desperate grasps at sanity, it feels like it.

Along with the booze, A Beautiful Mind is playing in the background. It's taken me all day to get through it; the writing is so good and the acting to match. I feel less alone in my version of crazy.
Wow, I just started crying writing that. It's devastating what our minds can do to us. Schizophrenia and Bipolar are both classified as mood disorders, so, the similarities, especially with my occasional audio psychosis, helps me more than relate with John (the paranoid Schizophrenic genius), and sympathize with Alicia (his wife) as his caretaker. The psych ward scenes are particularly hard for me to watch. Russel Crowe (my celeb crush) does a great job exciting the fear and confusion that comes with mandatory admittance into a psych ward.

But, the main reason I'm posting is because today, I'm anxious. None of my meds helped, I went on three one mile walks and drank more beer that water. But nothing could taking the feeling of falling away, out of my gut.

'Anxiety' comes deep, deep from the word 'anguish.' Anguish is defined as 1. excruciating or acute distress, suffering, or pain. Yes. My psychiatrist once explained my drinking problem (the first time) to my parents like this, "A person can live depression; it's the anxiety they can't cope with. They will desperately attempt anything to temporarily cure the pain, the feeling of falling."

So here I am, without any answers. My Jedi psychiatrist put the ball in my court and I'm playing. I just don't know the rules. They change all the time, with the mind. It's a very transitory, ephemeral, and convincing organ. My psychiatrist said I was handicapped by this mental illness. I understand what he means; it's just hard to hear.

There is one relief. The word 'excruciating' from the definition of 'anguish'. Christ knows excruciating; it means 1. to inflict severe pain upon, torture 2. to cause mental anguish, irritate greatly. Yup, Christ knows. In face the word comes from 'cruciare' to torment, crucify (derivative of crux cross).

I remember a critical moment in my faith in Christ that changed me forever. It was at a Young Life camp. They were playing videos of the devastation around the word explaining that Christ took all the (physical) pain on himself at the cross. But in that moment, something clicked and I realized he also took all our psychic, our soul pain. I don't know why, but when I think of the cross, I always think of that aspect first, now. I cry almost every time, okay every time, I hear the gospel story. Because my pain has drowned me at times and I can't imagine what Christ experienced, taking on the psychic malaise of the world through all ages. I thank him. Thank You, thank You, thank You. I was 16 years old and crying at the gospel message. I looked over at my Young Life leader, Ally, and she nodded solemnly, knowing what I was just now realizing.

I am not alone in this wasteland of mental anguish; I am not alone.

A Case Study On Bipolar I, or, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

It was normal, like any other visit. A touch of apprehension. Excitement at the idea of stimulating conversation (my doctor, unfortunately, chose to go to UVA, but he's brilliant).

My faithful psychiatrist (of four years now), the one who'd seen my veriest highs and my veriest lows, closed the door and returned to his desk. "You don't like med students, right? You can sense their presence."

"No," I said as I scrunched my nose in pseudo-disdain. "You can sit in on the next one, (blank)," he said to some eager med student on their psych rotation.

"How have you been?"

"I'm okay today, but I've barely gotten out of bed in months." (3 months between visits is standard in psychiatric care).

He looked down. My eyes were drawn to where his were looking and I noticed his eccentric blue socks with zig-zag green stripes on them.

"Will I have to live at my dad's house forever?" meaning, would I always be held back by this illness, would it be this bad forever?

He sighed and looked down again, "I don't think so; I think you'll come to a point where you can manage it."

"Lots of my patients that have bipolar are dentists [here I briefly interjected and asked if there was a common factor for that to which he replied 'intelligence'] they begin to realize how the system works, what medicines they need at what time. I think you're close to that, that soon you'll connect the dots." Oh yeah, did I mention my psychiatrist is like Yoda? He put the ball squarely back in my court.

I began to think of the litany of drugs I'd been on in the course of the six years since diagnosis.

Interrupted, my doctor lamented, "You were going to conquer the world when I first met you."

Weakly, after a pause, I replied, "That's still the plan," with as much cheer as I could muster.

"It's sad to see what's happened. You really were going to conquer the world."

...

"I don't watch movies often but there's a great one you should watch..." ... "A Beautiful Mind?" I finished.

"How did you know?!" During his fast-paced career he'd forgotten that he'd recommended it to me before and that even at that time I already said it was one of my favorite movies.

"Your life is just like his; he never was rid of the effects of his mental illness but he learned to manage and function and eventually achieve his dreams."

All very inspirational *tear*.

"I remember one of the first things you told me, when you walked into my office for the first time, is that you don't like men who drive big trucks, you, being one of the genuinely nicest people I know." He laughed.

"Now when I see men driving trucks, I think of that and think, 'You know, she's right. I don't like them either."

"Should refill all your current meds?"

It was like a dream coming to an end too soon. He always seems to possess the answer, the key, to my mental success, but he never quite tells me. I left the office and got back into my mother's car (I was too scared to drive this far away from home).

The next day, I went on my first walk in probably a year. My first time outside, other than to go to my car.

I took a walk.

"Does the cosmos contain keys for opening up my diving bell? A subway line with no terminus? A currency strong enough to buy my freedom back? We must keep looking. I'll be off now."
-Jean-Dominique Bauby, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Berck-Plage, July-August 1996 

Are You Living With A Victim Mentality? I Was

Wow. I'm going through a bible study by Havilah Cunnington. What drew me to purchase the study was not because Havilah wrote it or that it was associated with Bethel or all of the other wonderful things that it is, but it was the name: I Do Hard Things. I knew it would challenge me, but, boy, I didn't think it would expose so much in me, personally.

I got the study four days late so I quickly caught up on the good content of days one through three, but then I hit day four, entitled, "What Is Stopping Me?" from getting out of the spiritual, mental, physical pit of pain, from living a Spirit-empowered life, etc.. I've read the story of the Pool of Bethesda several times as a YL kid and leader, so I wasn't't expecting anything life-altering to come about. But then Havilah focused on the mentally-victimized, spiritually disempowered man who couldn't walk for 38 years. Jesus saw him (Jesus sees you). He knew how long the man had been in that condition. After approaching the man, he asked, "'Do you wish to get well?'" or, as the Passion Translation puts it, "'Do you truly long to be healed?' (John 5:6)." The infinitive verbs translated as "to wish" and "to long" come from the Greek word "thelo" having a connotation and extension of being resolved or determined with intention to do or have something. The man answers with the excuse that, "...'I have no man to put me into the pool [that was believed to have supernatural healing powers; hence, the gathered invalids] when the water is stirred up [by an angel], but while I am coming, another steps down before me' (John 5:7)." A victim mentality, waiting on others to change his circumstance when he was a child of Abraham (most likely) and had the agency and love of Yahweh.

At this point, Havilah had us write down things that were stopping our growth in God and progression in life. I immediately put: mood disorder (Bipolar I) and side-effects of cancer surgery.

When we wrote the inhibiting factors of our lives, she responded after the blank space with: "Look at your response. If you wrote down anything other than taking personal responsibility, you may be struggling with a serious victim mentality" (p. 54). Ouch. She got me (lovingly, of course).

I say I want to be healed, to live with a sound mind and body, but I am apathetic when the thought of another failed attempt at healing comes up. Do I really want to be healed? It's much easier to be the invalid than to do the hard work of healing that, yes, could fail for the 50th time. For seven years (since 2013 when I was 18 years old), I had identified myself as the girl who had cancer or the girl with the mental illness or both, in the right company. I did this under the guise of what I thought was advocacy for awareness and ministering to people out of my pain (mostly on this blog), but I realized that it was just easier to be in pain than to live powerfully.

The study built in time for us to listen for God's voice in the midst of this hard lesson. I heard, "Do you want to be whole?" Being the linguistics-freak that I am, I immediately had to look up the etymology of the word "whole."

Origin: before 900; Middle English hole, hool (adj, and noun), Old English hal (adj,); cognate with Dutch heel, German heil, Old Norse heill; see hale, heal.

Wholeness finds its linguistic roots in healing, and the Bible is not quiet about Jesus' desire and efficacy to heal.

But is wholeness, is healing what I really want? What I "thelo?" It's easy to be the sick girl. It's easy to let others take care of you. But "greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world" (1 John 4:4)."

God didn't call me to the shadow-of-a-life that I'm living right now. He called me to live a bold, Spirit-empowered life. Where I am currently a slave to illness and fear, he desires for there to be wholeness and healing.

There was another space for listening to the voice of God and I felt informed of the small, first steps I was to take to walk out this wholeness-healing life, that, with the Holy Spirit I can definitely take. Every day I must wake up and "thelo" healing, "thelo" wholeness.

Finally, a few quotes from Day Four of the study by Havilah Cunnington:

"Acknowledgment of our condition is the first step of healing."

"God didn't send his son to die on the cross for you so you would live bound to a circumstance or a person."

"God wants to move and act in our lives in such a way that anything that is holding you or I back will be rendered powerless next to the power of Jesus."

"Once we understand that we are not powerless to receive a miracle, WE GET A MIRACLE." p. 59

I am no victim. And neither are you.

What An Epidural Taught Me About God

My friend recently bought me a book of 400(!!!) writing prompts; thanks, Alyssa. I started it and was instantly drawn in by the self-discovery that was taking place. I always used my gut-response answers and some of them were different than what I thought I would have said.

One prompt read: "Who is your rock?"

Easy answer: Jesus. But I wanted to think who my earthly rock would be. Surely it would be my dad, since he is my primary caregiver concerning everything Bipolar, but, to my surprise, I wrote, "mom."

Don't get me wrong. My mom is one of the kindest, most loving people you will ever meet. It's just that she's not a part of as much of my day-to-day life as my dad is (although she would be if she could... she lives about an hour away).

I pondered this, curious. Then, an image, a visceral feeling surfaced in me. I was a scared, young 18-year-old girl with NO clue what was to come in the next days, months, years, but the anesthesiologists had to get me ready for surgery by inserting the spinal catheter that would theoretically provide the nerve-block that would allow surgery to happen. (I say theoretically since my main anesthetist told me that sometimes this kind doesn't work, depending on how it goes in... not meaning to scare you, but IT DIDN'T WORK. But that's a story for another time).

I distinctly remember my dad pacing back and forth in the pre-op area; I think he was holding a bottle of water practically squeezing it to death.

I was very confused with several doctors/nurses working on me at the same time.

But there stood my mom like a caryatid: regal, sure, steadfast, calm.

Then, my biggest pre-op fear had to happen: the inserting of the catheter into my spine. I panicked and looked around, hoping for any escape from this fear; "Wouldn't the meds from my hand I.V. work just fine?" I said to the doctor. Then, regal, sure, steadfast, calm, came my mother. They turned me around and my mom gripped both my upper arms, steadying me; I held onto her for dear life. I whimpered to her... "It's okay; I know it's scary, but it's okay." She repeated in the special voice with which only a mother can calm her child's fear. I jumped as I felt the long needle go in and she steadied me still. Then, blessed then, they told me that it was in and I had to lie down as it was time to go to the operating room.

I was recalling this exact story to my mom on the phone tonight when I finally understood the Scripture in Hebrews about Jesus, our High Priest, having to become human and suffer our frailties and temptations in order to be able to minister to us at all, let alone save us.

The reason my mom can be compared (in limited, human terms) to the Rock that is Christ is because, being older than me and a woman of the same demographic as me, she's been through all I'm going through. In that moment that the epidural was inserted, I didn't want my dad to hold me because he had no idea what it's like. I needed someone who'd been there before, and, after having four babies, it was safe to say that my mother had.

On the phone call to my mom, I began to realize a new way that I love Jesus. He didn't just die for me; he suffered for me. Hebrews 5:7-9 (NASB) reads, "In the days of his flesh, he offered up both prayers and supplications with loud crying and tears to the One able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his piety. Although he was a son, he learned obedience from the things which he suffered. And having been made perfect, he became to all those who obey him the source of eternal salvation..." These verses along with Heb. 4:14-16, having to do with Jesus, the Great High Priest, who sympathizes with our weaknesses and whom we can approach freely in our time of need came to my mind.

I want nothing to do with a Celestial Dictator who has never felt what we feel (hello, Enneagram 4).

My mom and Jesus are rocks because they have already suffered what I am and will suffer and have come back in time with a postcard saying, "It will be okay."

To you, the sufferer, I say: It will be okay.