On a busy day, I took my stance in our driveway, preparing to lift all 150 pounds of our gentle giant bullmastiff into the back of my car. Briggs was a young seven years old, but his limbs were weak. He knew the routine, and he placed his front right paw onto the back bumper of my Explorer. Brady waited quietly in his car seat, watching our struggle. I placed my hands under Briggs’s front left paw and lifted it onto the bumper. Briggs scooted closer to the car while I bear-hugged his back legs and lifted him onto the folded-down backseat, which was now broken from his weight after multiple trips to the vet. He circled as best he could in the small space and slowly settled into the car, laying his head on his paws. He was a sweet, sweet pup—an absolute dream with children. I rubbed the big wrinkles on his face, and he closed his eyes, ready for the fifteen-minute ride.
When we arrived at the animal hospital for Briggs’s chemotherapy appointment, Brady slipped his hand into mine, and I took hold of Briggs’s blue leash. We sat on the steps waiting for the train to go by, as it always did at this time each Friday. I saw Brady’s eyes light up as he sat next to Briggs, one hand on the dog’s back and the other waving frantically at the conductor. What a joyful spot in the middle of our difficult visit. We walked inside and hugged Briggs before our vet, perhaps the kindest veterinarian in the world, took him back for his treatment. When Briggs was diagnosed with lymphoma, we’d made the choice to pursue treatment to improve his quality of life for the time he had left with us.
When we arrived at the animal hospital for Briggs’s chemotherapy appointment, Brady slipped his hand into mine, and I took hold of Briggs’s blue leash. We sat on the steps waiting for the train to go by, as it always did at this time each Friday. I saw Brady’s eyes light up as he sat next to Briggs, one hand on the dog’s back and the other waving frantically at the conductor. What a joyful spot in the middle of our difficult visit. We walked inside and hugged Briggs before our vet, perhaps the kindest veterinarian in the world, took him back for his treatment. When Briggs was diagnosed with lymphoma, we’d made the choice to pursue treatment to improve his quality of life for the time he had left with us.
As his appointments continued to mount, I moved into what I call Captain Mode. I knew I could manage the difficult situation we were in. I could make this easier on everyone. In the spring, shortly after we began treatment on Briggs, Bryan’s father was diagnosed with cancer and passed away suddenly—only seventeen short days later. To say it was a difficult time for our little family would be a gross understatement. I saw my husband in tears for the first time in the five years we’d been together. I saw Brady experience the sadness of death and answered big questions about heaven and sickness and why bad things happen to good people (and good pups).
Captain Mode: I’ve got this. I can do this alone. I will save the day and steer the ship.
Still, I worked in Captain Mode, trying to be the glue that held everyone together. I decided to take hold of our crazy life and fix it. For any problems we had, I was determined to find solutions. We’d been in the middle of exhausting fertility treatments, so we decided to take it up a notch and pursue more aggressive options. I’d been considering a big production change with our Simplified Planners, so I pursued it. Grief and sadness mounted at home. Fertility treatments weren’t working. Briggs was getting sicker. The pain of losing Bryan’s dad was real and raw. Work was busier than ever. Without extended family nearby, I found myself taking on more and more to help our family get back to normal and be happy again. I put all my hope and trust in my own two hands. Does anyone see a crash-and-burn coming? I wish I would have.
I skipped meals, lost sleep, and worked harder than ever before as we mourned Bryan’s dad and our sweet Briggs lost his battle with cancer. It was painful for all of us. I powered through with the help of caffeine and a burning goal to simply get to the other side. I was determined. If I work hard enough at keeping it all together, I thought, we’ll get there.
One late summer evening, I sat on my bed looking down the hall at Bryan playing with Brady on the floor. My parents had traveled down from Pensacola to come to our rescue and help with the accumulating housework. I had left the house to them for a moment to catch my breath by myself.
I sat there in a mess of tears, overwhelmed by how much I loved our little family and desperate for something more to give them. Our life was in chaos, and as we dealt with sickness and sadness, the laundry, cleaning, and grocery shopping had fallen by the wayside. I couldn’t find peace in our house because it was a disaster. And I was riddled with worry over what awful thing would happen next. I sat with my legs crossed and rubbed my hands on my feet anxiously. Oddly, the side of my right foot felt completely numb.
I ran my fingers over the bottom of my foot and felt pressure but no sensation. My anxiety grew as I instinctively reached for my phone and began to Google my symptom. The Internet spat back a list of terminal diseases and terrible diagnoses that could explain why my foot was numb. Terrified, I walked around my room, hoping to stomp it out or make it go away. When I realized it wasn’t changing, I walked to the living room to tell Bryan. He shrugged it off and told me it would go away. I told my mom and dad, hoping they’d know some simple explanation, but no one seemed as worried as I was.
When I woke the next morning and found that my foot was still numb, I made an immediate appointment with my doctor. He found my symptom puzzling and ordered a battery of tests. Over the next few weeks of blood tests and doctor appointments, I felt a fear like I’ve never known. At every stoplight, after every e-mail, and in the moments before I fell asleep every night, I searched the Internet for answers. All sorts of things could cause intense headaches, vision problems, weight loss, heart palpitations, numbness, and muscle twitches. Finally my doctor referred me to a well-known neurologist, and the next thing I knew, I was strapped down with Velcro and being pushed into a cold, white MRI machine for brain scans.
As the scanner made its signature banging sounds, I silently prayed and cried, eyes squeezed shut. I prayed for my health and for my family. I wanted more than anything to go back to February—to Brady’s Elmo party, where we celebrated his second birthday—before the hard stuff flipped our normal life on its head. The technologist told me through the microphone that I had one more minute left. I still hadn’t opened my eyes while inside the machine. But as she rolled me out, I knew that whatever was wrong with me was recorded in black-and-white images. We’d soon have some answers. I finally felt a slight lift in the weight on my shoulders for the first time in months.
Five days later, I sat in the neurologist’s office. I hadn't worn makeup that day for fear of the news I might be given. (Who wants a bad diagnosis and streaks, right?) My palms were sweaty, and worry coursed through my veins. He came in and sat down and slowly read through my chart. I studied his face, searching for any sign of concern—some sort of answer to my issues. He put the manila folder down and took off his glasses as he turned to face me.
“You’re perfectly healthy, Emily,” he said. I sat back, almost dizzy from the way every muscle in my body let go of an indescribable amount of tension. Overwhelmed and confused, I let tears fall down my cheeks.
“I don’t understand,” I said. I repeated all my symptoms while he smiled sympathetically and nodded his head.
“You are running yourself into the ground, Emily,” he gently said. “Each of your symptoms is being caused by intense stress on your body. You have to slow down, or you’re going to end up with something much worse than a numb foot. You’re going to kill yourself.”
I walked to my car that afternoon somewhat in shock. How had I allowed myself to get to this awful place? How was I going to dig myself out? I’d love to tell you that this knowledge gave me permission to immediately relax and that life was wonderful from that moment on. But I’d stolen the wheel from God while trying to steer our family out of the grieving process toward a happier story, and I’d driven myself straight into a wall. Head on. Crash-and-burn. While the answer felt like a sudden smack in the face, it was an obvious diagnosis. I’d made taking care of myself my last priority. It was going to take some time to bounce back from this one. I determined that recovery from that summer meant saying no, letting go, and learning to take care of myself and let God handle the rest.
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