Why the cat stays on the floor today

So, in the last few blogs, I've found myself reflecting most often on things of a cultural and political nature. While it has been mentioned to me that these are still interesting topics to certain folks I know read this blog, I find myself somewhat hesitant to post about them.  I am wary at the outset because, in large part, I find opinions to be very personal, and I am increasingly aware how the connected anonymity of the internet lends sharp brutality of rhetoric where I would much prefer compassion or silence, and I do not exclude myself from this indictment. I find myself frustrated and heartbroken at what I witness happening, and what is being done about it by myself, my friends, and others.  I know that, often, some excellent writing has transpired from the "greats" in times of righteous indignation, and that their prose has become inspirational and legendary and, some times, life altering for those who read what they capture in words.

The truth is, however, I am not at all likely to be that writer. Instead, I am often even more frustrated because my lack of ability and finances prevents me from stepping up and taking action to support what efforts my prayers and my faith lead me to know is just. So, I have realized that if I am to continue to keep blogging, I really ought to go back to my original purpose, before even YASC, and aim to be open and honest about myself, even though I find it much more difficult now than it was at the outset.

I guess a part of me is quite foolish. I continue to wake up most days with the increasingly ridiculous hope that this new day with be one without any pains. Since this has yet to be true for any of the past 321 days, I don't really know why part of me keeps expecting it to change.  At first, I thought it was stress related; if I just learned to relax--more, better, correctly--the pain would subside. But the pain had reached the point where I could not stand, walk, or care for myself and meditation and breathing just weren't a reality, because I wasn't sleeping or eating much due to the pain. So next I guessed it was an issue with my spine, but a lot of poking and a full hour inside an MRI tube proved that false. This was followed by numerous blood tests, and a couple different medications. The tests all came back clean, and the meds never touched the pain.  I started to to wonder if there was something environmental, maybe some hideous pollen or dust in Brazil that I could no longer tolerate. I did all I could to try and manage to leave the house once a week, to care for my space and possessions, and try to get ready to come home. I thought maybe heading to the Olympics would help give me enthusiasm and energy (and since I'd booked my tickets before I started having symptoms, I also didn't want to "give in" to the pain and not go to something that I'd wanted my whole life).  The
Olympics were certainly memorable, but I did miss things I really wanted to do because of this pain.  I was, at times, a really terrible friend to be around, and I am always grateful that Bryan is and was a much more patient soul than I about it all. I cried myself to sleep in pain, forced us to stop numerous times to rest, and was practically not human when pain, hunger, exhaustion, and language frustration pushed me to a point where I lost all ability for patience or more than one word snaps.  I mean, I'm pretty sure I growled at one point upon seeing another long set of steps. When I returned back to home, even with the limited amount of things I did in Rio, I still needed nearly a week to recover before I could leave the house again. I never realized that I was still secretly hoping that my symptoms might magically resolve themselves when I went back to the USA, or that a doctor who spoke my first language might deduce a treatable diagnosis that wasn't obvious when symptoms were explained in Portuguese.

They didn't, and nothing about my symptoms has truly changed from their presentation in Brazil.  Except the culture of the USA is much less tolerant on health issues than Brazilians.

Pain has become my new normal. It's hardly ever exactly the same from day to day, but there are frequently reoccurring culprits. The pain is no longer what I truly feel the most, because if I had to describe my state by only one word "pain", while true, is not the most accurate anymore.

"Robbed" would win.

I can certainly say I've been able to do a ton of amazing things in my life, some that make the "bucket list" of many, and I've already checked them off. I've been to the Holy Land, swimming in the Dead Sea and walking the holy sites from Jerusalem to Cessaria Philipi. I've stood on the top of the NYC twin towers and marched in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I've seen a show at the Queen's Theater in London, sang loudly over a pint in an Irish pub (IN Ireland), rode on horseback among Mayan ruins (which, in retrospect, I'd have rather walked), and now I can say I've been to the Olympics.  I have also done plenty more mundane things that are still pretty cool to me: I've attended 12 different schools in my life, and finally ended with a college degree (minor miracle); I've been able to choose to live with each of my sets of grandparents at one time or another (and as both have already long past their 50th wedding anniversaries, and are now closing in quickly on 60th, there's clearly plenty to learn from them); I have been my own boss in a position that required me to learn self-discipline and create high energy interactions, and while I went into it just to earn discounts on the products, I'm fairly sure I didn't ever lose money in the endeavor; and I've been able to serve and work in the church to share my faith, mentor, teach, and create supportive communities for youth, college students, and kids while meeting others doing the same and forming friendships that have unequivocally made me a much better human being than I ever could have hoped to be on my own.

The Cat

For every fond memory, though, there now comes the knowledge that I might not ever get to do anything like that again. I sometimes cannot even bear to leave my room, in this quiet neighborhood where I have not one, but 2 sets of blackout shade on my window, and eye masks and ear plugs, because any noise or sound or smell or rough fabric on a migraine day can cause so much pain I feel nauseous. How will I ever manage to brave busy city streets of all the cities I've always dreamed of seeing? Other days I cannot walk even the length of my house, cannot stand for even 10 minutes. What hope do I have of ever again climbing mountains? I have days when certain clothes are off-limits because their feel is overwhelmingly terrible, days when even my own perfume makes my head hurt and my stomach turn (even if I haven't actually applied it for a day or more). How will I ever be able to join any crowd for any spectacular event? Some times, I do not have the strength I need to do the things I love. I cannot hold the pots and pans I need to cook; I cannot pick up the cat to hold and pet; I cannot turn the key in my own front door; my hand tires after a few letters and the second half of a word is illegible, not to mention every word following. How will I ever be able to
live on my own?

I have had only one dream that has never changed or wavered since I was 10 years old: I have wanted to be a foster parent. Now, I often cannot even care for myself, much less anyone who needs dependability more than anything else in life.

So, beyond all the time, events, and opportunities I've already lost to this diagnosis, I hate that the worst loss is repeated every morning: hope.

 Maybe that's why the pains and struggles I see out in the world cut me down even more. I see people who choose to stay isolated. I see people who are so quick to argue and name-call and insult others, even friends and family. I hear those who have never known need talk of the few dollars they can easily spare for those in hardships. I observe the finger pointing and the blame and the vast amounts of needs. I witness all the work that needs to be done, all the people created in the image of God who simply need to be better loved.

I don't get to chose. Instead I sit, crying and prayerful, questioning and frustrated. Because today, I couldn't leave my house. I couldn't even take a shower. I couldn't be with friends. I couldn't go to church, even though I desperately wanted to.  I couldn't work. I couldn't feed the hungry; I couldn't even cook to feed myself. I could not protest for any cause, or raise awareness. I cannot bicker and argue over opinions because I am not often even around others, so when I am, I am simply grateful (even if I don't agree with them).

There is so much I would give to be out there, helping, loving in a world that sometimes seems to have forgotten how difficult and simple that really is.

So, if you have read this far, will you do me a favor? Even if you don't really want to? Will you go out and do it on my behalf? Because I'm already doing all the hiding-from-the-world enough for the both of us, but this, this I can't seem to do for myself.