May I just start my blog by saying one big, giant Thank You! I have received countless emails, phone calls, and texts offering support and kindness and encouragement. I have had busy friends drop everything to sit and talk to me, bring me dinners, or take us out to lunch. The outpouring of kindness on the Meyer Household has been incredible. When I decided to make my struggle with this life altering sickness more public than private, I never imagined how blessed I would be by peoples generosity with their time and resources. I knew God wanted me to share because this is MY story and God will be Glorified in it. Not for a moment did I stop and think about what a blessing it would be to have friends and family praying for me all around the country (and world) in a time where that really is exactly what we need. So, THANK YOU. I know I have been bad about replying to every single email or message but I figured, a general thank you would suffice. Know that your kindness has changed our outlook on this entire process.
To catch you up on the medical side of things...
I started my hormone treatments a week ago today. I get an injection of the devil medicine one time every month. The medication is supposed to literally put my body through menopause instantaneously with the hope that the tumors will begin to die off. The tumors grow off of the estrogen that my body produces. My body is producing too much estrogen which is literally fueling the fire. The injections I am receiving are stopping that production completely and basically starving the tumors for 3 months until my body is strong enough to endure surgery.
Menopause is horrible. I imagine it is unpleasant to slowly go through these changes...but to walk into the doctors office as a 'normal' 25 year old and leave as a menopausal woman experiencing my own personal summers in the middle of November is horrible. I am nauseated by the quick changes, I cry for no good reason, and I just feel off. I sent contracts to my close friends and family making them swear that after 3 months of this they will still love me and not judge my irrational behavior!
I have had several people express their surprise that my surgery was done so quickly...to that I say, "Me too." The doctor felt it was necessary to break my surgery into 2 parts. That decision was made very quickly and within the week I was having the procedure. This first surgery was the 'easy' one in which he removed one of the tumors causing me the most problems. It sat low enough that he was able to go in with minimal damaged and remove parts of it. That should allow space for the rest of my organs to be okay and no longer be pushed out of the way. The next surgery is way more invasive and will require much more recovery time.
I am still exhausted and ready for bed at around 6 pm every night, but everyday I feel a little stronger. I think my determination not to let this run my life helps me get through the pain. I am working extra hours to get ready to take 6 weeks off but honestly, filling up my time helps. The less time I have alone to sit and feel sorry for myself, the better.
That sort of covers the medical side of things...as for the emotional side....
I have spent the past week or so really being convicted of my attitude. Life often is not what we wanted it to be. We are constantly faced with bad news, pink slips, funerals, divorce, rejection letters, miscarriages, painful break ups, or the ending of dear relationships. Those challenges don't go away. I have never met a person who was untouched by these painful experiences. The key in all of this, I am starting to discover is our attitude. I have every reason to be as angry as a hippo with all that is taking place in our lives right now. I feel icky most of the time. I am tired. I have little desire to do anything other than sleep. Yet, I refuse to let that run my life.
I am living in the midst of some really sweet firsts. I am experiencing my first year of marriage to a rock star of a husband. I am a first time home owner trying desperately to find the perfect pictures to hang on the walls. I am experiencing my first year in a new (and wonderful) family. If I let this year be about doctors visits, blood work, IV's, hormone injections, and pain, then the tumors win. I am defeated and for the rest of my life I will remember the pain and not the good. I choose to separate my desire to feel sorry for myself and embrace the joy that God has given me. I choose to go to Grandma's for Halloween the day after my surgery because the tumors will not win. I choose to look at a brand new baby and fight the urge to feel jealous and angry because GOD has a plan, and "my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways." (Isaiah 55:8)
Believe me, it is a challenge. Some days I wake up more willing and ready to fight than other days. But I will win. The tumors will not cast a shadow on all the joyful things this life has to offer me. I refuse to have it any other way.
"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: (in case you didn't hear me the first time...) REJOICE!"
(Philippians 4:4)
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Dragging...
The theme of this blog is dragging...physically, emotionally, and even spiritually.
I had part one of my surgery last week. Friday morning Josh woke me up about an hour before we had to get up. Truthfully, I am sure neither of us were really sleeping, but we played the part. Laying like sausages in our warm and safe home knowing that morning would eventually come and we would eventually be making our way to the hospital and inevitably saying our goodbyes before being separated by doctors and nurses and anesthesiologists. We held hands and cried as he read me promises from God's Word that comforted my fears and reminded me that we serve a God who works miracles- especially for Sarah and Hannah and even the Virgin Mary. He prayed for me, because I could not. It was a beautiful picture of love- from the outside looking in. From the inside, it was what we needed to keep breathing. Oxygen for our suffocating lugs that just wanted to give up and say, "We surrender. We can't do it anymore."
I have never felt so completely loved and so completely alone as I did that day. I missed my parents- dreadfully wished they were there to hold my hands and pray with me and make jokes. I missed my brothers because they have a way of making a girl smile- pushing me around in a wheelchair avoiding disapproving glances from the nurses station. I missed having my friends THERE. Yes, I received plenty of texts and a few phone calls, but I missed the embraces and smiles that lighten up a situation. It was just me and Josh that day. It was sort of a picture of what we had gotten ourselves into. We were there because without the surgery, we would never see our dreams of parenthood coming true; Yet, we were there alone...two kids who weren't quite sure what we had gotten ourselves into, but knew at this point we were a family and we had each other. I vow I will never again allow my sweet husband to sit in a waiting room alone. No one should ever have to go at that alone...and even though he was smiling and laughing as we parted ways, I could see the dread in his eyes. Even if I have to borrow a random stranger in a waiting room, I don't want him sitting alone again.
I have been asked a thousand times over how the surgery 'went'. I am never sure how to answer that question, because often times it feels like people don't really want to hear the details. It is an uncomfortable topic to discuss. I think I am past the need for privacy considering this is not my first round at all of this. I have massive fibroid tumors growing in my uterus, in the walls of my uterus, and on the outside. Huge. Massive. There are a few key players, but they are supported by thousands of little ones coating the entire lining. My doctor said that my insides look like cobble stone....pretty for a neighborhood but bad news in my case. The surgery was considered to be unsuccessful from the stand point that the doctor thought that he would be able to go in and remove the key players to give my blood supply a chance to catch up and my other organs a chance to not be squished by the tumors- this was not the case. He was shocked by what he saw inside of me.
We go back tomorrow for plan C. We have hope. Why else would we allow them to operate for the 5th time if we didn't foresee something good coming at the end of this?
The feelings I had at the very beginning of this are starting to return. I am remembering that people are incredibly awkward and say the wrong thing all the time or worse, don't say anything at all. I am hearing about everyone else's battle with getting pregnant and how adoption is always a good option for 'girls like me'. I sometimes literally have to bite the insides of my cheeks so I don't go off. People mean well. But, at this point, if the doctor doesn't fix me, I will die from this. That is way more our concern than having children- the children part is just the reason we don't throw the towel in...we can literally smell that sweet scent on a babies head...so we go...to the doctor 1-2 times a week...to the lab for blood tests weekly...in for biopsies because my blood counts are dangerously low...for procedures that I am told are more painful than child bearing...I would love to be given the chance to feel that kind of pain.
But we are dragging. Our house could tell you all about that...our carpet hasn't been vacuumed in weeks, our laundry might eat us alive one of these days. But the point is we are still here. We work, we eat, and we sleep, but we are here.
The theme of my blog is about being joyful. I am having an insanely hard time being happy these days- except when I am eating a Popsicle which I am pretty sure are straight from heaven. But I am joyful. I am joyful that Josh and I have never been closer. We are building a friendship, a partnership that could never be so strong without the intense pain and suffering that we go to bed with each night and wake up with in the morning. I am joyful that despite the pain, I know Who to turn to. I know that my Father is holding me in His hands and keeps a tight grip, reminding me that this is all for His Glory- and thank goodness for that because if there weren't a bigger picture for this, I think I would give up.
I am joyful...dragging...but joyful.
I had part one of my surgery last week. Friday morning Josh woke me up about an hour before we had to get up. Truthfully, I am sure neither of us were really sleeping, but we played the part. Laying like sausages in our warm and safe home knowing that morning would eventually come and we would eventually be making our way to the hospital and inevitably saying our goodbyes before being separated by doctors and nurses and anesthesiologists. We held hands and cried as he read me promises from God's Word that comforted my fears and reminded me that we serve a God who works miracles- especially for Sarah and Hannah and even the Virgin Mary. He prayed for me, because I could not. It was a beautiful picture of love- from the outside looking in. From the inside, it was what we needed to keep breathing. Oxygen for our suffocating lugs that just wanted to give up and say, "We surrender. We can't do it anymore."
I have never felt so completely loved and so completely alone as I did that day. I missed my parents- dreadfully wished they were there to hold my hands and pray with me and make jokes. I missed my brothers because they have a way of making a girl smile- pushing me around in a wheelchair avoiding disapproving glances from the nurses station. I missed having my friends THERE. Yes, I received plenty of texts and a few phone calls, but I missed the embraces and smiles that lighten up a situation. It was just me and Josh that day. It was sort of a picture of what we had gotten ourselves into. We were there because without the surgery, we would never see our dreams of parenthood coming true; Yet, we were there alone...two kids who weren't quite sure what we had gotten ourselves into, but knew at this point we were a family and we had each other. I vow I will never again allow my sweet husband to sit in a waiting room alone. No one should ever have to go at that alone...and even though he was smiling and laughing as we parted ways, I could see the dread in his eyes. Even if I have to borrow a random stranger in a waiting room, I don't want him sitting alone again.
I have been asked a thousand times over how the surgery 'went'. I am never sure how to answer that question, because often times it feels like people don't really want to hear the details. It is an uncomfortable topic to discuss. I think I am past the need for privacy considering this is not my first round at all of this. I have massive fibroid tumors growing in my uterus, in the walls of my uterus, and on the outside. Huge. Massive. There are a few key players, but they are supported by thousands of little ones coating the entire lining. My doctor said that my insides look like cobble stone....pretty for a neighborhood but bad news in my case. The surgery was considered to be unsuccessful from the stand point that the doctor thought that he would be able to go in and remove the key players to give my blood supply a chance to catch up and my other organs a chance to not be squished by the tumors- this was not the case. He was shocked by what he saw inside of me.
We go back tomorrow for plan C. We have hope. Why else would we allow them to operate for the 5th time if we didn't foresee something good coming at the end of this?
The feelings I had at the very beginning of this are starting to return. I am remembering that people are incredibly awkward and say the wrong thing all the time or worse, don't say anything at all. I am hearing about everyone else's battle with getting pregnant and how adoption is always a good option for 'girls like me'. I sometimes literally have to bite the insides of my cheeks so I don't go off. People mean well. But, at this point, if the doctor doesn't fix me, I will die from this. That is way more our concern than having children- the children part is just the reason we don't throw the towel in...we can literally smell that sweet scent on a babies head...so we go...to the doctor 1-2 times a week...to the lab for blood tests weekly...in for biopsies because my blood counts are dangerously low...for procedures that I am told are more painful than child bearing...I would love to be given the chance to feel that kind of pain.
But we are dragging. Our house could tell you all about that...our carpet hasn't been vacuumed in weeks, our laundry might eat us alive one of these days. But the point is we are still here. We work, we eat, and we sleep, but we are here.
The theme of my blog is about being joyful. I am having an insanely hard time being happy these days- except when I am eating a Popsicle which I am pretty sure are straight from heaven. But I am joyful. I am joyful that Josh and I have never been closer. We are building a friendship, a partnership that could never be so strong without the intense pain and suffering that we go to bed with each night and wake up with in the morning. I am joyful that despite the pain, I know Who to turn to. I know that my Father is holding me in His hands and keeps a tight grip, reminding me that this is all for His Glory- and thank goodness for that because if there weren't a bigger picture for this, I think I would give up.
I am joyful...dragging...but joyful.
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