Self-Acceptance and Authentic Relational Connection

I have low self-esteem.  I feel both burdened and annoyed by this.  And, somehow, acknowledging that I don't feel very good about myself actually makes me feel worse about myself.  I peruse Google for tips on how to create healthy self-esteem, and for information on the emotional causes of self-sabotage.  I know there's no quick-fix when it comes to loving yourself; it's a slow and steady process that comes with time, healing, and probably help.  Sometimes I wonder how much of our sense of self-worth is affected by our language; because I have diseases, do I then see myself as inherently diseased?  I understand the disease label as an indicator of functioning that differs from "normal," but what is normal anyway?  And if the word disease didn't hold so many connotations of abnormality and brokenness, would the various days of my diagnoses have brought such sadness and disappointment?

Last night, I found an article that discusses our use of addictive behaviors to deal with loneliness and low self-esteem.  The author focuses in particular on eating, but the ideas extend to any practices that distract us from our own emotional turmoil, namely loneliness.

When you’re chronically lonely, just being around other people doesn’t fix it.  You can be married and lonely; you can be lonely in a crowd.  If you’re chronically lonely, what you lack is authentic connections with other human beings, and generally that’s because you block these connections by not sharing your authentic self.  Why?

People who are chronically lonely almost always have as a core problem that they don’t like themselves very much. The give-away is that they generally find it almost unbearable to be alone--especially at night when the distractions of the day are over and it’s quiet.  They may even dread turning off the light to go to sleep at night, and procrastinate on that.

Chronically lonely people often have an almost phobic reaction to being by themselves.  It feels like falling down a black hole--an awful "dust in the wind" feeling of utter emptiness and alienation from everything and everyone, as though you’re the only person on the planet.  If you live alone, you probably avoid going home at night because you can’t bear to be home alone with that feeling.  You call it loneliness, but it’s really something else.  It’s the horrors; it’s existential alienation.  The Big Empty.

Quiet evenings alone are often when emotional eaters binge, perhaps numbing out in front of the TV.  They may stay awake until so late that they practically drop from exhaustion, or they may use alcohol to go to sleep so they don’t have to experience their own thoughts lying in bed in the dark.

What is this about?  If you can’t bear to be by yourself, it essentially means you can’t bear yourself--you can’t bear your own company, you can’t bear the experience of being "you".  That is a huge problem, and it’s also a big block to developing healthy relationships.  That’s why it goes along with loneliness and people call it loneliness, but it’s not exactly the same as loneliness.

You can’t stand your own company without distractions because you don’t like yourself.  And because you don’t like yourself, you assume no one else will like you either, causing you to shun social contact, making you lonely.

Sheryl Canter argues that the only solution to chronic loneliness is authentic human connection, or finding people who accept and love you in your entirety--which I don't think can be done until we accept and love ourselves and truly believe we deserve acceptance and love.

The only thing that cures loneliness is authentic human connection.  That means allowing another to see you for who you really are and experiencing their acceptance, and seeing another for who they really are and accepting them.

If you don’t like yourself much, it can be scary to let others see the real you.  Your impulse will be to hide your real thoughts and feelings under the mistaken notion that the real you is unacceptable and will be rejected.  But you’ve got to get past this and take the risk because if you never let anyone see you, you will stay lonely.

My lack of self-love is not a new realization, and I have discussed it openly in the past.  However, this week was the first time that I allowed my low self-esteem to affect my relationships with other people--and drawing people into my inner-turmoil is not something I want or hope to do.  Primarily, I don't want to hurt the people I care about.  And, equally important, I don't want my sense of self-worth to hinge on a relationship with anyone, because: 1.) humans are imperfect, and eventually I will be disappointed; 2.) that is an unfair amount of pressure and an unrealistic expectation to place on an individual.

Several years ago, I had a vision of myself carrying around my heart in my hand, trying to pass it along to anyone who would take it.  In many ways, I think I still do that, desperately seeking a person who will see me holistically and love every part of me.  I know that approval, affirmation, and acceptance need to come from my relationship with God first and foremost.  Sometimes I am so overwhelmed by my own neediness and sense of waywardness.  He promises to draw near to me as I attempt to draw near Him, and that truth is my only comfort.

Psalm 139: 1-5, 16 (CEB)
"Lord, you have examined me.

You know me.

You know when I sit down and when I stand up.

Even from far away, you comprehend my plans.
You study my traveling and resting.
You are thoroughly familiar with all my ways.
There isn’t a word on my tongue, Lord,
that you don’t already know completely.
You surround me--front and back.
You put your hand on me.
Your eyes saw my embryo,

and on your scroll every day was written that was being formed for me,

before any one of them had yet happened."

The Imagined Life vs. Real Life

I've struggled to live in the present for probably half my life.  Sometime during high school, as childhood came to an end and I propelled towards adulthood, all that demanded my attention seemed to exist in the future: test scores, grades, college applications, a bachelor's degree, a first job.  We were trained to do everything for the sake of what would eventually come, and so I think in some ways we were conditioned not to live in the moment, but instead to always be moving forward and looking to the next thing, the bigger thing, the better thing.

This week I've experienced a tumult of emotions, which I blame in large part on a mix-up at my local pharmacy.  I was unknowingly given the wrong thyroid medication last Monday, and for most of the week I experienced severe mood swings; they caused such a marked change in my disposition that I eventually had the intuitive sense to check the imprint on my hormone tablets, and thus uncovered the error.  It was emotionally exhausting, to say the least, but in combination with beginning to read Steven Pressfield's The War of Art last weekend, I've had some time to thoughtfully consider where I am in life and the direction in which I am and/or hope to be moving.

For the past several years, living an imagined life has been my default.  I think I've encountered so much pain during this second half of my life that I cope by dwelling in the land of imagination.  INFJs are naturally future-focused as it is, so I'm likely hard-wired to use daydreams as a sort of coping mechanism.  I've constructed fantasies about where I'll live, what I'll do, what I'll have, who I'll be with.  I've created imaginary depth in relationships with people I actually know, and dreamed of pretend scenarios that some part of me hoped would come true, if only to take me away from the life that I actually know.

Clearly, using imagination as a means of escape just signals a larger issue of not wanting to deal with my reality, the here-and-now.  Perhaps my imagination has bred a sort of hope that has made the pain of disease and illness bearable.  If that's the case, I can't be too hard on myself for finding a way of moving forward in what have been the most difficult years of my life.  At the same time, living so much in fantasy not only keeps us from progressing, but prevents us from appreciating the people and circumstances that exist in a given moment in time and space.  Incidentally, focusing on an imagined future has actually prevented me from advancing in life.  Now that I think about it, I suppose that I haven't wanted to move forward, as I'm sure that in many ways I maintain a fear about what is to come.  Will there be more pain?  Disappointment?  Suffering?  Disease?  Hopes squashed?  Imagining a future has given me a sense of control over the terrifying unknown.

What is to be done about chronic disappointment?  Normally I would say that a person has too many expectations.  I thought it was fair for a person to assume s/he would experience good health, true love, and vocational fulfillment, but now I realize that any expectation is already too many.  We can't know what life will bring us, what will be our assigned portion and cup.  I have handed my security over to dreams and fantasies, when I should have been entrusting my security to God.  Isn't it like us to trust our own imaginations over the sovereignty and loving-kindness of a divine and all-good Creator?  I find myself proving over and over that I lack trust and faith in God.  Fortunately, He continues to be good and loving and all-knowing whether or not I believe Him to be so.

I often say that I wish I trusted Him more.  And I do.  But more than that, I think I wish I knew Him more.  Because if I truly knew Him, I don't think I'd be afraid of Him.  Because I don't think I'm as afraid of entrusting my future to someone else as much as I am entrusting it to God.  Because when I entrust my future to God, it feels like I am inviting more pain and disappointment and suffering and disease and squashed hopes.  I know I'm partly jaded because of misfortune, but hasn't it been the very hand of God that has allowed my life to go on like this up until now?  And isn't it up to His sovereign hand what the outcome of my life will be in the future?  I wish I could say that I honestly believe that He uses all of our life experiences for our own benefit.  But it's difficult to truly trust that the enormity of my pain and disappointment has been a blessing rather than a curse.

It would be selfish and ungrateful for me to ignore the great amount of blessings in my life, from living in a beautiful location in a beautiful home, to having a loving and supportive family; from being the dog-mom to a most handsome miniature schnauzer, to having a secure job that I enjoy enough on most days to keep me going back; from having a master's-level education, to having access to healthy food and a healthy lifestyle.  When I consider the struggles of people around the world, mine seem so small.  But, my emotions are as they are, and because so much of my pain has been internal, sometimes the evidence of external blessings is clouded.

And I've arrived at this point in my writing without any conclusions.  Except that I know I want to be more present in my life, in the here-and-now.  And I do still have hopes for the future.  And if I am going to make an effort to stop living an imagined life, that means all I can do is entrust the outcome of my life to God.  And my one true future hope is this: that He will fulfill His promise to do more in my life than I am capable of hoping for or imagining.  My hope is to truly internalize, despite whatever circumstances I encounter, His divine goodness and love for me.

Upon further contemplation, I realize that my greatest gift as of late is vision for the future.  Not that God has imparted me with specifics on where or what or who, but I feel deeply drawn (perhaps called) in a direction.  And I don't think I would be moving in this direction had it not been for the very experiences I've endured.  I have always said that my one desire in life is to help people.  Now it is my desire to see my experiences, particularly the painful ones, act as the platform for my destiny and purpose.  If I am a lump of clay in the process of being made into some useful piece of pottery, then my trials are the tools that are shaping the form I am to become.  I believe that my pain is deeply tied to God's designation for my life, and so I can see now how my disappointments will actually lead me to be a truer, more authentic version of myself--the divinely-ordained version.  Ultimately, I cling to the belief that my pain will be the most profound source of my abiding joy.

Disheveled: Becoming “Post-Evangelical”

The main title for this post came to me as I sat in my bedroom in momentary silence, reflecting on the current state of my life. It was the one word that popped into my head as I stared at my messy closet and the shelved books I had just sorted through. My collection of books has always acted as a sort of barometer for where I’m at and what I’m interested in. In the past, the shelves were brimming with titles related to theology, Ethnic Studies, Christian romance, nutrition, classics. Over the years, I whittled down my number of books in hopes of abating a semi-addiction to buying reading material from Amazon. The books I knew I wouldn’t read, I parted with, and I refused to allow myself to purchase anything new until after the books on my shelves were read.

Since that first weeding through the books, my collection has seemed to shrink rather than grow. Or, perhaps the contents--the themes and topics--have merely changed so vastly that it seems shrunken, when in fact it’s not the number of books that’s been depleted but my sense of faith.

As I was examining the spines of books still in my possession, I came upon my university yearbook. The summer before I left for college, freshmen had the opportunity to send in copies of their senior photos along with a selection of two interests from a form that listed pre-determined activities and fields. I still remember when I received this notice and decided to participate. There was no option for Jesus or faith, and so I chose the write-in option at the bottom and inscribed “Christianity” on the blank line. At that time, it was very important to me that people knew what I was about. In my mind, knowing that I was a Christian was more important for people than knowing my name, or major, or how I spent my weekends (although, I could have come up with a way to link all of those things back to the fact that I’m a Christian). Even during my first phone call with the dorm roommate I was paired with, I openly talked about my faith and the depth of its importance to me.

Along with the yearbook, I found some old books on practical spirituality that I no longer want to keep. They seem to be the last bit of proof that I was once evangelical. Now, I make that claim with some hesitation, as I don’t know that I will ever be entirely “post-evangelical.” My upbringing in the church and experiences doing ministry around the world have created deep roots that I don’t know will ever really die off or be able to be pulled out. But I know that my faith is not the same as it once was; it seems to have become disheveled.

I was contemplating my feelings towards the church, and the only thoughts I can ever really come up with are that I have been deeply wounded. But as I sat and considered those words, it occurred to me that God and the church are not one in the same. God has not wounded me, but the church, and more specifically Christians in the church, have wounded me. And it’s not even necessarily specific people or churches or occurrences, but it is in large part the ideas and ideals I was imparted with so that I feel that I was in some ways recklessly (though the intention was not reckless) led to believe things that actually did more harm than good. Rachel Held Evans articulated my own sentiments beautifully:

“When you grow up believing that your religious worldview contains the key to absolute truth and provides an answer to every question, you never really get over the disappointment of learning that it doesn't...Like it or not, our religious traditions help forge our identities. The great challenge...is to hold every piece of my faith experience in love, even the broken bits, even the parts that still cut my hands and make them bleed. We are all post-something. We are all caught between who we once were and who we will be, the ghosts of past certainties gripping at our ankles. There’s no just getting over it. There’s no easy moving on.”

I haven’t regularly attended church in over two years, mostly because I don’t really know where I belong, but also because I needed space. My life was so hyper-focused for so many years on my participation in church and evangelical activities that I lost my sense of self. I would use the justification that we are to sacrifice ourselves for the cause of the cross and a crucified Savior. However, I think that my lifestyle was more representative of a codependent relationship and sense of fear than anything else. I was terrified of somehow losing my faith that my entire life became based on being engaged and a leader in as many Christian organizations and opportunities as I could possibly be involved with. In some ways, I admire that kind of dedication and commitment. At the same time, I had no idea who I was.

As my 20s quickly come to a close, I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on the amount of growth and change I’ve experienced during the past decade. I feel that every year since I first left for college has been one of pivotal self-discovery, particularly my year in China and those following. I can thank my time in college for providing me with the tools to think critically. It all started with ideas related to social justice. The frameworks for thinking that I learned in my Ethnic Studies classes began to shape how I viewed other fields, including Christianity. As justice for the oppressed grew in importance to me, I began to see my political ideals aligning with Liberalism. And because I had grown up believing that Christians were automatically Republicans, I had to begin to reconsider my faith and how I could possibly reconcile belief in Jesus and His message with Democratic ideologies.

I don’t consider myself to be a Democrat, but I merely point out this example to mark the first moment of the dishevelment of my faith. It was that one small reconsideration that has led me to become more critical in my thinking about Christianity, in relation to people groups, sexuality, church attendance, relationships, purpose, and beyond. I know that there are many circles and branches of Christianity throughout the world, but it’s difficult not to feel like you’re amidst a divorce from evangelicalism and looking to remarry a new Christianity. And perhaps that’s why I’ve taken a break from church for so long; I’ve been mourning the loss of a Christianity that was as formative as it was painful for me.

As I lay the on carpet in my bedroom and stared at my ceiling, all I could think about was the fact that God is with me and will continue to go with me--no matter the state of my heart or circumstances. And I know I will never fully understand Him in this life, and I know that I will often feel disappointed by the church and by Christians; but I also know that He is not done with me yet. He has appointed me my portion and my cup, and as much as I’ve faced disappointments and trials and pain, I truly believe that I am part of a much larger purpose and story. I just hope that those disappointments and those trials and that pain shape me to be more compassionate and Christ-like in my life. And even when I don’t know what label to use when it comes to talking about my faith, I pray my eyes will ever be fixed on Jesus and all that He was and all that He stands for and spoke about. God is bigger than our interpretations and ideas and labels and debates and churches.

Life is Passing Me By

I woke up last night to a vomiting dog, and then found myself unable to fall back asleep.  I was awake in the first hours of the day, Googling things like "life is passing me by."  I almost laughed aloud when the first hit that popped up said, "When you're unhappy, you tend to be thinking a lot about life. When your job sucks, you're not engaged. You're listless and googling sh*t, and in general not enjoying what's going on."  Nailed it.

After reading some articles on Milk the Pigeon, I tossed around my bed in the dark, attempting to sleep, but distracted by the realization of how scared I am.  I am scared by how uninterested I am in my own life.  Aside from loving my dog, I am not doing anything I enjoy or am excited about or that gives me a sense of purpose.  I'm unfulfilled by my job, but I need it to pay the bills.  It consumes most of my time, and I have nothing to show for it.  I have no time to devote to creativity or outside interests because I am so exhausted on my days off that I end up sleeping through them.

It's terrifying to realize that you really, truly hate everything about your life, and that you feel powerless to change anything.  I feel limited by my own health problems and medical conditions, and so I don't allow myself to dream too big because I don't know how far I can realistically go.  I do job searches, but they generally feel futile or meaningless; I am picking a job to have a job, and none of them get me excited or arouse my interests or passions.  I would love to work for myself (maybe; I say this, but I'm not sure how I would feel if I was actually doing it), but I don't know where or how to start.  I need money for my monthly expenses--dog, supplements, visits to doctors, insurance, student loans, food, car, prescriptions, life--and it seems impossible to be able to start anything entrepreneurial before stopping my current job.

But, even more scary than realizing how uninterested I am in my life is realizing how long it's been since I've been excited about anything.  I really think the last time I felt content in my circumstances was about six years ago, when I was still in college.  I would literally have moments when I thought to myself how perfect my life was at the time.  I was studying a field I was in love with, which fed into my Clifton strength of intellection.  I was working for my department which gave me a sense of deeper involvement in our progressive major and closeness to my professors.  I was exercising daily and eating well, and I was keeping off the weight that I had lost a few years before then.  I was discipling a younger student through weekly Bible studies and mentoring.  I was working on an oral history project with the local historical society.  My life was full, but everything I was doing felt meaningful and I had a lot of freedom and time to myself.  I was so happy with my life back then that it drove me to apply to Ph.D. programs, just so I could maintain that same life forever.  But, when the reality hit that I would be moving cross-country to immerse myself in academia, my heart seemed to shrink and I didn't want that life.  I basically never wanted to leave the life I was living at my university, and I eventually realized that getting a doctorate at an East Coast school would not simply be a continuation of my college experience.  It wasn't so much the academia I was interested in as it was the academic lifestyle.

I wasn't terribly unhappy during the few years following graduation.  I worked in a gluten-free market, where I got to talk to people about healthy eating and organize things all day.  I experienced a lot of autonomy and time to contemplate, and so I was content.  I continued to maintain an active lifestyle and was involved in a local church.  I even had a few friends that were still in town and who I saw with regularity.  However, life began to shift in 2011.  It started with debilitating joint pain that sent me to physical therapy.  A rheumatologist couldn't figure it out.  Physical therapists couldn't figure it out.  My endocrinologist eventually figured out that it was a sensitivity to almonds, which I ate constantly throughout the day in every form you can imagine.  I was taking two art classes at the local community college, but outside of that I was mostly watching a lot of T.V.  I did start interning that summer as a photojournalist for three local papers, but at the end of summer I broke my leg, and so once again my life became all about physical therapy.

In January of the following year, I began working for the local school district and awaited grad school acceptances.  Once I decided to pursue a master's in Women's Studies, I immediately began to have misgivings about the program and whether I really wanted to study that field.  I knew I wouldn't be able to recreate college, and I think that's what I was after.  Additionally, I didn't feel like I fit in with the program or its students, and so I began to move in the direction of special education.  I wasn't necessarily something I felt passionate about, but it gave me a sense of purpose.

I numbly floated through my interdisciplinary graduate program, eventually realizing that I didn't really want to teach special ed.  I began to pursue school counseling, until I realized that I didn't want to do that either.  I desperately grasped for a sense of purpose, having somewhere lost my sense of passion or even any sense of what my passions might be.  I finished graduate school, and was essentially forced into the only job that wanted me, and shortly after that into the only other job that wanted me.  And then I eventually found myself in survival mode, no longer even thinking about purpose or passion or my idyllic time in college.  I had to turn off any sense of wants or dreams so that I could cope with the reality and limitations of illness, and get through the day-to-day grind of a meaningless job without becoming suicidal.

I try to get through five days of work so I can get to my two days of sleep.  I think more about paying my bills than finding purpose.  I think about my limitations more than I do my potential.  I don't really know what I want anymore, except I know I don't want this.  And the things I know that I do want--a cottage by the sea and a vegetable garden and a flock of schnauzers--are unrealistic without a job to finance them.  And so I dream of this vague life I want, but don't know how to get there.  And even though I feel stuck, I am terrified of getting unstuck because I don't want to get sick.  And illness seems to follow me wherever I go.

It seems silly for a person to feel trapped in his or her own life.  We think, "Go do something about it!"  But the logistics of actually doing something about it are profoundly more complex, generally because they involve money.  Do people with a lot of money ever feel stuck?  Maybe on an emotional level, but at least they have the means to physically remove themselves from lives they hate.  Or, perhaps I'm wrong.  I know money doesn't solve problems, but sometimes I think it might in some small way solve some of mine.

The article I read last night told me that I should stop thinking so much and just start doing things.  Anything.  Create things.  Learn things.  Keep myself busy.  And I think back to my time in college and how busy I was, and perhaps the key to my happiness was that I had so much going on and I was contributing to the world in a way that lined up with my values.  And perhaps the longer I've been out of college and the more sick I've become, the less I've been able to do.  And as I did less, I began to think more.  Exercise and church and seeing other people were no longer important factors in my life.  I blame my lack of involvement in anything on fatigue.  But is it that?  I don't even know anymore.

It seems there are many things I no longer know.  I have accepted this as my reality, but I don't want to settle for this.  This can't be it.  I won't let this be it.

"For most of us, we hit that 'stuck/fu**ed' spot right when we get the first secure job. It pays us good enough so that we don’t worry, we get a good enough apartment, then a good enough spouse, then a good enough marriage. And then life is 'Eh, good enough' for the rest of our lives. F**k good enough."

-Alexander Heyne

I know that my circumstances need to change.  I just need to figure out what I can realistically do to change them.  Please help me, God.

What My Schnauzer Really Means To Me

My friends and loved ones all know how important my dog is to me.  They will tease me about potential online dating profiles I could create, which would bear headers like "Must Love Schnauzers."  Recently, two of my co-workers and I got into a discussion about relationships, more specifically about my love life, and I tried to explain to them the importance of my dog in finding a life partner.  I told them, "I'm not really picking a husband for myself as much as I am a daddy for Tobin."  My co-workers laughed, one of them suggesting that I was crazy (which she declared in only partial seriousness--I hope).

I got coffee with my best friend yesterday (I seriously struck gold in the friends department; I don't maintain a large inner circle, but the people dearest to me are the best people I could possibly hope for), and I recounted to her my experience at work.  We then sat together and discussed what Tobin has gone through with me.  Tobin entered my life in July of 2010, only five months after I had been diagnosed with Hashimoto's.  At that time, I had only been to one doctor for my condition (the naturopath who discovered I had the disease), and I had absolutely no idea what having an autoimmune disorder meant or how it would impact my life.  Tobin and I moved to North Carolina when I started graduate school in August, but after only a few weeks I had to drop out because my health was collapsing quickly and I felt like I was having an emotional and physical breakdown.  The following month, I was diagnosed with PCOS.

For the bulk of 2011, I couldn't work because I was in such immense physical pain and so extremely exhausted.  I went to physical therapy multiple times a week, in search of help with severe knee and hip aches that left me barely able to walk (which my current doctor was eventually able to determine to be the result of an almond allergy).  I was attending two art classes at the local community college, but couldn't muster up enough energy to do anything more than that.  At the end of summer, I broke my knee while running with Tobin on the morning of a day I was supposed to go to Disneyland.  I was out of commission for months, and was only able to start part-time work the following January.  During all this time, my hormones were riding a treacherous roller coaster; I felt irritable and anxious, and didn't menstruate at all.  I would go through stretches when I felt angry at everyone, only because of the imbalance that was making me feel angry--something outside of my control.

I started a master's program in the fall of 2012, and Tobin and I moved to San Diego after much waffling about whether I wanted to do the program and/or move out of my family's house.  I started school with much ambivalence, and in the first week of classes I switched my entire degree program.  I only lasted in San Diego for a little over a semester.  My period had returned the month school began, and had been coming consistently every month after that (mind you, this was after nearly three years of not getting it at all).  However, with it came even more extreme mood swings and hormonal issues.  I became increasingly depressed, to the point that there were some nights I felt nearly suicidal.  I would call my mom or sister in tears, feeling like I had no power over my own life.

My landlords were gracious and kind enough to release me from my lease early, in March of 2013.  Tobin and I moved back in with my family, which alleviated much of the stress of living alone with Tobin while managing school and chronic illnesses.  I had to commute over an hour both ways several times a week, but the stress of commuting was a welcome alternative to the emotional upheaval I had experienced while living on my own.  I was able to work with the local school district that summer, and finished my master's that fall.  I began working full-time in January of 2014, but had to leave my job after only a little over two months.  While in tears on the way to work, I would call my mom and tell her I felt like I was dying.  Little did I know that only a few months later, I would be diagnosed with thyroid cancer.  My body knew what was happening.  I quit my job and found work closer to home, and without the emotional stress of working with children with the most exceptional of needs.

All that is to say, Tobin has been with me through it all.  My Hashimoto's diagnosis in 2010 was the smallest of moments amidst the ensuing four years.  There were many days when I probably wouldn't have gotten out of bed, but because of Tobin, I got up, I fed him, I cared for him, and I didn't give it a second thought.  It was my duty to make sure he was okay, and I was able to take the focus off of myself and my disease and my suffering and invest my attention into something apart from me.  Meanwhile, he was totally oblivious to much of my suffering (at least as far as I can tell), and was the happy-go-lucky, energetic, loving, playful dog that he is, regardless of my mood or behavior.  That is exactly what I needed: consistency.

In many ways, Tobin became a sort of anchor to me as I drifted to and fro in the tides of sickness and wellness.  Whether I was rejoicing or suffering, he was the same every day, and his needs were the same every day.  He was the one joy I had in the midst of much joylessness.  And, even though my friends and family knew about my (mis)adventures around the country and state, Tobin was the only one who was physically with me through all the changes and struggles.  He was the one with me as I drove cross-country.  As I flew back home from North Carolina.  The moment I broke my leg.  The nights I called home crying because I was tired of being alive.  He was always there.

And so, for me to tell people that I want a daddy for Tobin isn't meant to be a joke.  It may sound funny to people when I say it, but only because they don't understand the gravity behind those words.  It's the easiest way for me to say that Tobin, in some senses, represents all of my illness and struggles for the past five years.  He represents the anchor that kept me grounded as my little boat attempted to drift out to sea.  To understand what Tobin is to me is actually to understand and validate my experiences and hardships from the past few years.  It is to accept me in my entirety, and to know the depth of what I've gone through and the ways in which my trials have shaped who I am and where I've been and who I'll become and where I'm going.  For me, Tobin is not just a dog, but he is God's greatest blessing and gift to me.  A sort of embodiment of God's love: consistent, constant, present, unwavering.

Tobin \t(o)-bin\ - Hebrew origin; a variant of Tobias (Hebrew); means "God is good."

My sweet dog lives up to his namesake; he is the embodiment of God's goodness in my life.

Date Ideas for Someday...

1. Scrabble, chess, and board games at a coffee shop
2. Walking around San Juan Capistrano's Old Barn Antique Mall with drinks from the corner Starbucks
3. Disneyland
4. An independent film at UCI's movie theater, followed by snacks and browsing in the plaza
5. An at-home round of "Would You Rather?" or some other discussion-based game
6. Hiking and bird-watching, complete with binoculars and guidebooks
7. Music, journals, art, and people-watching at Pines Park

The Day My Thyroid Was Removed, Part II

To read Part I, click here.

I woke up gasping.  It felt impossibly difficult to swallow air into my lungs.  I was disoriented.  I started crying.  I tried to rub my eyes, but a pulse monitor on my finger and various tubes got in the way.  I started asking for water as I wept.  "Water.  Can I have some water?"

I heard a male voice tell me to stop rubbing my eyes.  It was my nurse.  He said he was going to have to call an ophthalmologist if I didn't leave my eyes alone.  I began asking for my parents.  "Where are my parents?"  My parents were called to my bed.  The nurse offered me ice.

My bed was in a rectangular room with many other beds.  All of the beds were situated around the perimeter of the space, and a work area for nurses was like an island in the center of the room.  My bed was at the back left.

When my parents came in, they called my brother at home.  He sent my mom a picture of Tobin on her iPad.  When she held up the picture, I started crying again.  Then my mom handed me the phone so I could talk to Tobin.  Through tears, I said, "Hi, honey!  It's me!"  I started babbling to my parents about how I wanted Tobin "right here," and motioned towards a spot on my bed.  I was in and out of sleep, as was my dad (possibly my mom, too, but I didn't notice).  I had a pack of ice on my neck.  My mom took a picture of me to post on Facebook.

After the initial offer to chew on ice, I was eventually given water, and then apple juice.  The nurse told me that this was to make sure the anesthesia wasn't causing any nausea.  At some point I was escorted to the restroom.  I had to urinate into a pan so the amount could be measured.  I walked back and forth from my bed in a gown that may or may not have been open on every side (cancer and major surgery certainly take away any sense of modesty or embarrassment).

Eventually I was transferred from one post-op room to another.  I think they transported me in a wheelchair.  I was then assigned a new nurse in this new room.  This room had more privacy; instead of curtains on three sides, there was only one curtain.  The anesthesia slowly wore off.  My new nurse ordered me the "broth plate" (broth, Jell-o, applesauce, orange juice--I think) from the hospital cafeteria.  I told her about my dietary restrictions, so she went out of her way to ensure that my plate was gluten-, dairy-, and soy-free.

My mom let me fiddle with her iPad.  I went to the bathroom again without assistance.  I read my library book.  My parents eventually went back to their hotel to rest and get some food.  I continued to read.  A male nurse came in and asked what my book was about (hoarding), and we had a brief conversation.  My surgeon came to visit me.  I was jubilant to see him (he's become some kind of major hero in my mind).  He told me that since I seemed to be recovering so well, I could eat solid food.

The nurse ordered my dinner plate, again noting to the chef my particular dietary restrictions.  I ended up getting roasted chicken, green beans, and fingerling potatoes (it was just about as delicious-tasting to me as a meal could possibly be).  My parents came back at some point either right before or during my meal.

I wore some kind of compression devices on my legs to prevent blood clots.  They began to make my legs sore, so the nurse turned them off.  Around 9PM, it was finally time for me to be transferred to the overnight room.  They wheeled me through what felt like multiple buildings, until we reached my home for the night.  I was given my own room with a sliding glass door and restroom.  I was given a controller with buttons for the bed, light, and nurse.

After the switch, my parents left for the evening.  I had a chance to wash up for the first time since before my surgery that morning.  I discovered that I had yellow streaks running across my neck and cheek from the pre-operation cleaning (I thought this was some kind of iodine, but I don't actually know what they use to clean the skin).  Every time I got up to go to the bathroom, I had to page the nurse so she could come in and unhook all the monitors connected to my body.  That also meant re-attaching them every time as well!

I settled back into my bed.  I stayed up for a while and read my library book, and I think the nurse may have brought more Jell-o and apple juice at various times.  I was also given painkillers regularly.  With every nurse switch, I was asked about my allergies to medications.  Every. Single. Time.

I was given thyroid hormone for the first time that night, even though I'm normally supposed to take it in the morning.  I mentioned this to my nurse, but she told me it was part of her orders.  She and I also had a conversation about her friend who was recently diagnosed with cancer.  The nurse told me I was an encouragement and inspiration--even though I really don't think I qualify for either of those titles!

I finally faded off to sleep, hearing the sounds of the nurses talking quietly at their long desk outside my room.  I woke up around 7AM.  One of the nurses came in to tell me that my doctor would be visiting soon.  Shortly afterward, the team of residents who assisted with my surgery came to visit me.  There were at least six of them.  Only one spoke directly to me.  They all had enormous smiles and looked so eager and excited.  The resident asked me some questions, and then asked if I had any.  I asked about when to take my next dose of thyroid hormone, when I could go back to the gym, and possibly when I could put cream on my scar (I can't remember if I had any other questions).

My surgeon eventually came to visit me as well.  I re-asked the same questions I posed to the resident.  Eventually the hospital began the discharge process.  I can't remember if my mom and I talked on the phone or if we had planned the day before what time she and my dad would come to the hospital.  While I was waiting for them to arrive, I had a chance to wash my face and brush my teeth again, and I changed into the clothes I had worn on the way to the hospital.  I somehow managed to get my hair into a ponytail.

Unfortunately, the nurses had lost my paperwork, so my parents and I had to wait around in my room while the staff scrambled to get me out of there.  I started to feel pain, so the nurse gave me more painkillers.  They had to scan my wristband every time they gave me any kind of medicine.

I was finally officially released.  My mom went to the pharmacy while my dad went to bring the car to the front of the hospital.  The nurse wheeled me out of the building, and someone helped with getting my bags into my dad's car.  My mom called to say the prescription wasn't ready yet, so my dad and I waited.  Finally, the medicine was ready, so my dad slowly drove the car over to the entrance that led to the pharmacy, and we were off.

I don't remember much of the drive home, or even what I did once I was home.  I do remember needing my dad to help me lay my head down (he had to hold my head up while I laid the rest of my body down because I had no use of my neck muscles).  I also remember not being able to tilt my head up or down while sitting or standing.  I had to put a pillow behind my back when I sat at the kitchen table; otherwise, I was in too much pain from having to overuse my head and neck while eating.

The rest of the day is not really in my memory.  I don't know if this is from the anesthesia or painkillers, or simply because I was sleeping and the day was uneventful.  Technically, this was the day after my thyroid was removed, so I guess it doesn't hold as much gravity for me.

I am grateful to all of the staff who accommodated my needs and offered me exceptional care.  I felt like I was in capable hands during my entire time at the hospital, and I am glad that this day seems like such a distant memory.  I am proud to be a cancer survivor, and the roles of the various medical personnel who made that reality possible will never be forgotten by me.