Sanctified Artistically and Creatively

At some point, I will conclude my account of the day my thyroid was removed. I've felt guilty for not spending any time writing as of late--actually, I've felt guilty for not wanting to want to write. To be honest, going back to work about a week ago was completely exhausting for me. Though my mood is mostly good and I can keep up with my co-workers and complete typical day-to-day tasks, there's not much of an energy surplus when I get home to devote to creative endeavors or even exercising. The gym is something I typically do on a daily basis, but right now my body wants rest, so I'm giving it rest. I think my brain also wants rest, so I'm giving it the same treatment as my other parts.

I've been mulling over some thoughts during the past few weeks, and especially the past 36ish hours. Being surrounded by artists and fine art supplies every day certainly forces me to confront the reality that I'm not devoting any time to my own art. My camera sits in its bag, unused. My paints sit in my ArtBin, unopened. My collage cutouts sit in my desk drawer, unglued. I know that I need to extend some grace to myself for not accomplishing any projects, given that the past couple of months have been so focused on my cancer. At the same time, I can't blame my cancer for the months before my diagnosis in which I still wasn't cultivating my seeds of creativity. I know that I've been battling ill-health for some time now, but I also know that I have a good many excuses, most of them stemming from my perfectionism, that keep me from acting on this yearning to create.

As a child, my desire was to become an artist. That was my career plan for probably the first eleven years of my life. I had student artwork displayed in my community's art gallery. I read all I could about Vincent Van Gogh (and even dressed up like him for a research report in fifth grade, bandage-wrapped ear and all). I came home from school and immediately turned on the television to tune into "It's Curtoon Time!" My mom bought me art and craft kits for birthdays and Christmases. I spent my weekends designing outfits with my Barbie fashion design kit.

I don't exactly remember when, but sometime after fifth grade I stopped wanting to be an artist. There was a brief period of time where I wanted to be a veterinarian (because of my new-found interest in reptiles, via my lizard, Sam). I wanted to be an actress (because of praise after performances in classroom skits and winning a play-writing contest at school). I wanted to be a special education teacher (because I was a "big buddy" to a kindergartener with special needs). As I got older, my desire was less and less to create, and more and more to help others, particularly marginalized people groups. I became more serious about my faith in sixth grade, and shortly after that I decided that I wanted to be a missionary. I think that this desire resulted in part from my drive to help others, but also from the belief that it was what would bring me into greatest intimacy with God. What I can now say in hindsight, after working in full-time Christian ministry for a year, is that I am neither called nor gifted to do overseas missions.

For the past few years, I've bounced around in terms of career ideas and pursuits. My sister told me that I change my mind a lot, but my coworker suggested that I just haven't found my place yet. Amidst my missions work and brief divinity school stints and plans to get a Ph.D. and jobs working in special education, deep down I have wanted to be an artist. I don't know exactly what that means, but I think that God has guided me to the place where I can discover the meaning behind that desire.

Several years ago, I sought prayer from a spiritual leader at my church. During one of our meetings together, without having any prior knowledge of my childhood desire to become an artist, the leader told me that I was created to be an artist. She told me that I had been sanctified (set apart) artistically and creatively, and while we were praying she said that God gave her visions of beautiful pieces of art pouring out of me. I don't remember the exact descriptions of her visions, but I do remember feeling equal parts surprised and skeptical. In the days following our meeting, I went to the gym and chose an elliptical machine, and then realized some type of artist magazine was left on it. This was somewhat strange because I had been going to that gym off and on for at least six years at that point, and had only ever seen celebrity gossip magazines. But what made it even more strange was that there was a post-it note inside the magazine with the words "your article," and it was flagging a piece of writing that discussed becoming an artist(!).

Last night, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture and demonstration at work that featured a local oil painter. Interestingly, several years ago when I was actively involved in college ministry, I somehow obtained a bookmark with a picture of the painting "The Last Supper with Twelve Tribes." I never paid much attention to the artist's name, but I remember always having a fondness for the work. Well, imagine my surprise when I started my job a few months ago and learned that the man who made that painting is a regular customer at our store. He is the one who spoke at the work event last night, and his words reminded me that I have a gift and talent that need to be nurtured. Because of my perfectionism, I'm prone to give up on creative endeavors because right now I'm not at the level I want to be at. However, hearing about the effort this man invested in practicing and learning and becoming a good artist made me see that I need to actually set aside time and space to practice art--without placing expectations on myself. With all the jobs I've tried and career paths I've pursued, I keep coming back to this small voice of desire deep down in my heart, telling me that I need to be an artist, and it's time that I listen.

As I said before, I don't know what kind of art I want to create or even what tools or mediums I will use. All I know is that somehow as this journey slowly unfolds, it seems more and more connected and logical. Despite a resting brain and potentially muddled writing, I am posting this as: 1.) accountability to pursue artistic endeavors; 2.) a reminder that last night God stirred something in my heart.

Side note: I would like to draw attention to my insightfulness as a first grader.  Jon Holland, a psychologist, came up with the "Holland Occupational Themes"--six primary career strengths that are assigned based on personality.  My top two Holland Codes are artistic and conventional, essentially creating and organizing.  On the Holland Codes hexagon, my two strengths are directly opposite one another, meaning that the combination of those two strengths is possible, but rare.  At the age of seven, I was self-aware enough to know about my desires to create and organize, thus my conclusion that I would work in retail part-time (a conventional job), and as an artist the rest of the time (an artistic job).

The Day My Thyroid Was Removed, Part I

I had intended to write this post right when I got home from the hospital, but it didn't seem essential during those first few hours of recovery.  Plus, some recollection of that day is nothing more than vague, morphine-induced memory.

I woke up at 3:30AM.  I had only gotten about three hours of sleep, but I figured I'd be anesthetized in not too many hours, so a lack of sleep didn't bother me.  I was finishing packing, cleaning my room, getting Tobin's food and medicine situated so my brother could take care of him.  My parents and I left my house at 4:30AM.  My dad missed the turn for the freeway.  I was mad.  The madness mostly came from equal parts exhaustion and stress.  I'm actually glad my surgery was scheduled for so early, because I was so tired and it was so dark outside that I didn't have the clarity of mind at that point to really absorb what was going on.

We called my sister, per her request, when we were about halfway to the hospital.  She made weird cackling noises.  She made me laugh.  It was hard to hear her while we were driving, so I said goodbye.  We arrived at the hospital shortly after 5:30AM.  My dad parked the car in the paid hospital lot.  It was a little brighter outside, but the sun hadn't risen yet.  I grabbed my bag and hustled to the information desk.  There were two security guards there.  Apparently they were on duty until the hospital officially opened to the public.  They directed me down the atrium to the second door on the left.  My parents caught up with me and we made our way to the registration room.

I signed in on a clipboard.  We sat in leather waiting room chairs.  The registration clerk came to get me.  My mom and I followed her to her desk.  She typed a lot of information on her computer, took my insurance card.  Gave me a thick folder with a picture of a coastal cliff kissed by the sea.  She put an identification bracelet on my left wrist.  She walked me and my parents to the elevators and told us to go to the second floor and directly into the office on our right.

We arrived at the office.  Another couple was sitting in the chairs there, waiting.  My dad and I went to sit in some chairs across from the elevators.  My mom waited outside the office.  Another woman and her mother appeared on the elevators and made their way to the office.  My mom told them we were all waiting.  The woman asked what we were there for, and my mom told her I had cancer.  The lady hugged my mom.

A nurse arrived at 6AM, wearing scrubs and a backpack.  We saw a lot of that that morning.  He checked in the couple and escorted them through a door on the back side of the office.  My mom told me to come sit in the chairs inside the office.  The nurse took my name, then escorted my parents and me into a pre-operation room.  He told my dad he wasn't allowed to be in there yet.  My dad went to the lounge to wait.  The nurse laid a folded gown, some socks, and a plastic bag on the bed.  He told me to undress completely, and leave the gown open in the back and tied at the neck.  He also gave me a cup to pee in.  I had volunteered to be part of a research study, so this part was my doing.  The nurse told me to fill the cup before I changed.  I obliged.  Carried the cup back from the restroom to my little corner of the pre-op room.  I didn't know what to do with the cup.  I set it on a shelf.  I changed.  I laid down on the bed.  The nurses came and put a blanket on me.  They attached a tube to a slot in the blanket, and warm air blew in.  I decided then that it would probably be the best part of the day.

My dad was invited back in at some point.  I can't remember when.  Several nurses came in and out.  One of them took my pee cup.  Eventually a nurse came to put in my IV.  He was very good.  It didn't hurt at all (and I didn't even have a bruise afterwards).  He was having me open and close my fist, and then he tap-tap-tapped the veins on my hand.  He found one he liked.  Part of my agreement to participate in the research study involved giving my blood.  He took it from my hand through the IV needle.  It was weird.

Two anesthesiologists came in at different times.  The first one, a man, asked me a lot of questions--the same questions almost every nurse came in and asked me, mostly about allergies to medications.  He made me feel at ease.  He was wearing some kind of athletic zip-up.  The second one, a woman, came in wearing some kind of colorful surgical cap.  I want to say it had cats, but that's me brain filling in false information.  She asked me the same questions as the man, then told me it was time.  My parents stood up to hug and kiss me goodbye.  I started crying.  She wheeled me away and told me she makes people cry.  I told her it was my parents.  Then she said something about putting me to sleep, and put anesthetic in the IV.  We were wheeling through the hallways, out the pre-op room into one hallway, turned right into another hallway, turned right into the operation room.  I remember the ceiling.  It was white.  I remember the room was big, and I remember thinking it looked nothing like what I see in Grey's Anatomy.  I heard voices.  I heard my doctor's voice.  I felt relieved.  And then I remember nothing.

To Be Continued