What's Got Me Scared

I hate to use the word scared.  I hate admitting something frightens me.  It means a level of vulnerability that I try to deny I have.  I can admit when things make me nervous.  I can admit when I'm anxious.  But scared.  Scared is bigger.  Scared makes me feel like a little girl again.  A little girl in a big, mean world.

But I am scared.  I'm going to tell you why and it probably won't make sense to most of you.  But there will be a few who will totally get it.

I'm having intense pelvic pain again.  Last time it lasted almost two months.  So far this time, it's been a couple of weeks.  And it's been off and on in between those two major episodes.

Here's what I'm not afraid of.  I'm not afraid it's cancer.  It could be, but for some reason that's not really a fear I have.  I'm not afraid I'm going to die or anything.

I went to my doctor with this problem in October.  That's when I'd already been hurting for a month.  He did an exam, a pap smear, and ordered an ultrasound.  When nothing showed he suggested that I see a gynecologist.

I know it's possible that it's something non-female-problem related.  It could be intestinal.  Let me tell you why I don't think it is.  It feels like I have a rock in place of my uterus.

As a woman, I went years and years without being aware of my uterus or being able to feel it inside me unless I was cramping during my period.  I mean, how often are you aware of your pancreas or your liver?  Can you feel them?  Would you know if they hurt?  So I understand when my husband says, "How do you know it's your uterus?"  And, seriously, sometimes intestinal cramping and uterine cramping feel a lot alike.

But after going through labor, my awareness of my uterus increased quite a bit.  I remember when it tightened and felt like a boulder inside me.  And this feels kind of like that.  On a much smaller scale, of course.

And then there are the twinges in my ovaries.  Again, how can I know that's what's twinging?  Well, let me tell you.  If you've ever been to the doctor and said you think your ovaries are hurting this is what he/she will do.  He (because my doctor is a he) will have you lie down and will palpate (which means push around on) your abdomen.  And when he pushes in a certain spot and you practically jump off the table and he says, "Yep.  It's your ovary." then you remember that.  From then on, when it hurts, you know what's hurting.

And, yes, at my exam he palpated my abdomen and confirmed that it was my uterus and ovaries that were hurting.  (And let me just tell you, they hurt a lot worse for a while after someone pushes on them repeatedly.)

So I'm not completely ruling out something else, but I'm pretty sure it's my internal girl parts that are causing me so much pain.

My primary care physician thinks it's probably endometriosis.

Well, you know what happens when a doctor tells you they think you have such and such.  You start researching such and such until you see the specialist.

Endometriosis isn't something incredibly dangerous.  It won't kill me.  The worst side effects are pain and infertility.  And since I'm done using my fertility I don't mind if that goes away.  And I already have the pain.

So why am I scared?

I am scared because I read up on how they treat and diagnose it.  Often they use hormones to reduce the symptoms.  Well, I am incredibly sensitive to hormonal changes of any kind.  I've had PMS since my first menstrual cycle at fourteen.  I've been on birth control pills a few times in my life and had horrible results.  They either make me homicidal or suicidal or a bit of both.  Having just come through a nasty mental prison, I'm not anxious to go back there.  One of the treatments if they do find endometriosis and it's severe is a complete hysterectomy. 

Again, I'm done with those parts so I wouldn't mind giving them up.  Except for the whole hormone thing.  It's called surgical menopause because the surgery instantly does what is supposed to take a woman's body years to complete.  If small hormonal changes like my natural cycle and birth control pills can send me out of whack, just think about what surgical menopause could do.  And it's not like we can change our minds afterward and say, "This isn't working.  Let's put it all back."

So there are those issues.  But still those aren't my biggest fears.

My biggest fears are these:  sedation and no answers. 

The only way to confirm endometriosis is through surgery.  Laparoscopic these days, but still full sedation.  The surgery doesn't scare me.  Being put under terrifies me.  Not for the typical, "What if I don't wake up?" reason.  Sedation terrifies me because I will have no control over what is done to my body.  I have a history of sexual assault.  Things were done to my body without my permission.  At least once it happened when I was asleep.  This is when I became a light sleeper.  Being aware of and in control of what happens to my body is very important to me.  It's not that I don't trust the medical personnel.  They have no reason to hurt me.  But giving up that control just doesn't feel safe to me at all.  It terrifies me.

And I fear that after all of the tests and possible surgery, they won't find evidence of anything wrong with me.  It will be another time that we've spent lots of money and caused lots of worry for nothing.  Another time that the people around me wonder if I'm faking it.  If I'm just a big baby.  Another time when I doubt myself and wonder if everything really is all in my head.  Another time I hurt so badly but can't say why.  Another time of feeling embarrassed because I'm such an idiot who can't handle a few of the twinges that are normal in life.

But I can't just not get it checked.  Because it could be something else.  It could be something serious.  I can't take that chance.

I see the gynecologist on Monday.  Your prayers and happy thoughts are welcome.  Again.

Living with Chronic Illness

Living with chronic illness, my daily "to do" lists don't look like most.  I can't plan much because I don't know if I'll be able to get out of bed that day, how much I'll be hurting, or what level of energy I might have.  With a husband and five active children, there are plenty of things added to each day.  I have to keep my own plans simple.  Very simple.  Many times this has left me feeling like a failure because I can't do as much as others.  Or overwhelmed and paralyzed because there was so much to do and I didn't feel like I could do anything.  As a therapeutic project, I spent a lot of time examining my life and figuring out what I could realistically expect to get done each day.  This way, even on my worst days I can feel like I've accomplished something.  It helps.

Worst Days:

• eat something
• do something - anything
• try to communicate current status to family

Bad Days:

• eat
• make my bed
• put a bra on
• spend time out of my room, at least five minutes
• communicate with family

Down Days:

• eat
• make my bed
• get dressed
• open curtains/windows
• shower if needed
• brush teeth and hair
• try to spend some time outside, no matter how small the amount
• let family visit with me in my room

Iffy Days:

• eat
• make my bed
• get cleaned up enough to leave the house
• open curtains/windows
• leave the house
• talk to someone outside of my family, even if only online
• clean something - anything
• shower if needed
• spend time with family outside of my room, no matter how small the amount

Good Days:

• eat healthy food, try to stick to schedule and track
• make my bed
• get cleaned up enough to visit with friends
• open curtains/windows
• drive somewhere - anywhere
• go for a walk or do yard work
• listen to a conference talk/devotional or read church magazines
• shower
• pick up the living room
• talk to someone outside my family, in person or by phone
• try to stay out of my room

Great Days (add any of the following to Good Day plans):

• do something creative (write, draw, color, crochet, flute)
• do something that feeds my soul
• do real exercise
• meditate
• vacuum the living room
• straighten the dining room
• clean the kitchen, including a load of dishes
• do a load of laundry
• write a list of what's been weighing heavily on my mind
• run errands
• shop for fresh fruits and vegetables
• play a game with someone
• clean for 15 minutes - no more
• do deep breathing
• do calendaring/scheduling
• do budget/bills
• spend more time out of my room than in it

Every Night:  choose one thing I want to get done the next day; forgive myself if it doesn't happen
Every Day:  pray and spend some time in the scriptures, no matter how small the amount
Bonus Points:  talk to my husband in person and make some kind of physical contact

I try to make my bed every day because it makes me happy.  Anything beyond what's on these lists would be a major accomplishment and might cost me the next day.

The Blessings of Chronic Illness

Last night I had a conversation with someone who knew nothing of my chronic illness.  This is someone I only run into occasionally, who has only seen me when I'm doing well.  Which makes sense because when I'm not well I generally don't leave my house.

I don't remember what brought us to the topic of my health, but there we were.  I was explaining to her that I've fought debilitating fatigue for twelve years and a chronic headache for nearly eight.  With no answers as to why.  And I watched her face change.  There was concern and sadness.  And she expressed as much.  As she said what kind of specialists have you seen and doesn't anyone have any answers and oh, how hard that must be, I realized I don't see it that way.

And I told her of the blessings I've received because of my chronic illness.  (Some of which I've written about here.)

As a society, we tend to celebrate busyness.  Go, go, go.  That's how to be a good person.  Do, do, do.  There's never enough time in the day.  We have too much to do.  Why can't we do and have it all?  Chronic illness has taught me that this is foolish. 

Doing just to be busy is worthless.  Even damaging.  When we do and have more and more, it is usually worth less and less.  There is such value in choosing how we live our lives, every moment of our lives, instead of getting caught in the rushing flow of life as it happens around us.  And sometimes choosing to do nothing.  Choosing to be still and quiet.  Choosing to do only one thing at a time instead of always multitasking.  Teaching our minds to be at peace.

There are people who can learn this without chronic illness.  I am not one of them.  If I felt better, even now after all I've learned, I would be running around like a chicken with my head cut off -- just like I used to.  Bragging (without realizing it) in a martyr-like way about how busy I was.  Holding my exhaustion up as a badge of honor for the war of busy I fought.  Busy because I couldn't bring myself to give anything up.  Because I didn't have the willpower to choose what was important and get rid of what wasn't.  Because I didn't understand that empty spaces in my schedule were worth choosing. 

I needed chronic illness.  I needed the smack in the head that said, "Sit down and be quiet!"  I needed to be forced to pay attention to other things.  I needed to question the desires of my heart and decide what was important enough to me to spend the tiny bit of energy I have on it.  And it can be summed up in one word.  People.

The things I was doing before were good things.  But most of them were not of eternal significance.  People are of eternal significance.

I'm still working toward the ideal for me.  For now, I have structured my life in such a way that I am able to take the time to be with people when I need to.  I'm blessed that my husband makes enough money that I don't have to work (which I couldn't do anyway because of my health).  I'm blessed that the days of small children needing all my time are behind me.  As I create my new life, which is constantly in flux, the one thing that must remain true is my ability to be with people.  I need this.  To set other things aside and just visit.

Maybe it's an hour chatting on my porch.  Maybe it's a trip out for ice cream.  Maybe it's lunch.  Whatever it is, it will involve intimate conversation about things that matter.  Things no one else has the time to listen to.  I have the time.  I protect the time so that I can offer it to others.

I still have to take care of myself.  I have to remember that I am important, too.  I have to remember that if I don't take care of myself I will have nothing left to offer others.

It is the desire of my heart to connect with people.  To lift and strengthen them.  And in so doing I am lifted.  I am strengthened.  Instead of draining my tiny bit of energy, it increases.  It feeds my soul.

My illnesses and life struggles have taught me empathy and an understanding of a great many things.  Between physical health problems and mental health issues, and the diagnosis and treatment of both, I've waded through many dark waters.  Certainly not all of them, but many of them.  Sometimes I am miserable and hurting.  But I would not trade it for the world.  Because it has blessed me with an understanding heart.

If I could go back in time and do something different that prevented me from getting ill, I wouldn't.  I am so grateful for what I've learned and how I've grown.  I am so blessed to be able to offer what I can.  And none of this would have been possible without my chronic illness.

I watched her face change again as I told her these things.  I watched it soften.  I watched her smile.

If I don't learn from these experiences and bless the lives of others through what I've learned, then it was just a lot of ugliness and unhappiness and pain.  But if I use it to reach out, it meant something.  It has value.  It has eternal significance.

When I Couldn't Do Laundry

I did some whites today.  It was kind of urgent; I haven't had clean underwear in a few days.  Tired on top of sick on top of tired led to me having no clean underwear.  As I loaded the washing machine I thought of how nice it would be to have clean underwear.  And this led me to a sad memory of a dark time.

I've never been a clean freak, or a neat freak, but I always made sure people were clean and had clean clothes.  For years.  And then I went off the deep end.

I've mentioned it before, the year and a half I spent in bed.  I haven't fully written about it for a couple of reasons.  First, my memories from that time aren't really clear.  And second, I'm ashamed of my life from that time.

Maybe ashamed isn't the right word.  I did the best I could.  But I am embarrassed about it.

I still don't really know what started it, why I could no longer function.  I was eventually diagnosed with major depression and we tried some meds, but nothing really helped.  I just had to wait it out and adjust my life.

The reason doing laundry today reminded me of that dark time is because of a moment.  It was the moment I'd worked up the drive and determination to get out of bed long enough to do a load of laundry and my ten-year old daughter was super excited because she was going to have clean underwear.  I went to my room and cried.

No child should ever go without clean underwear long enough to be grateful when they finally get some.

I knew the laundry situation was dire.  I knew they were wearing the same clothes day after day, or cycling through them without them having been washed.  I knew it.  I was sad about it.  It bothered me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.

I had a child come home and tell me no one would sit by them because they said my child smelled bad.  I wanted to write it off as lack of bathing because then it was only partially my fault.  They could mostly all bathe themselves by then.  But that wasn't what it was.  It was wearing dirty clothes over and over.  Including underwear.

It killed me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.  I don't know how to explain the paralysis.  I was able to get them up and off to school (most days).  I was able to feed them (most meals).  I did my best to keep the kitchen clean enough that it didn't smell bad.  And then I crawled back into my bed.

I was barely functional.  I often went a week without bathing.  Days without brushing my teeth.  Unless I had to leave the house.  Then I got cleaned up enough that no one would know.  Because that's what we do.  We kill ourselves to make sure no one knows we are having a hard time.

I missed a lot of appointments.  I missed my turn helping in my children's classes.  I dropped the ball and left people hanging.  I cared.  I was humiliated.  But I couldn't do anything to change it.

I had five kids, 2 years to 10 years, and it was all I could do to keep them alive.

My husband did what he could.  He was working a lot.  Before that I had done everything around the house.  Then I almost completely withdrew from life.  So far that I couldn't even help him see what needed to be done or how to do it.  I don't know how awful it was for him, how powerless he felt.  He wanted to take me to a doctor long before I let him.  I wouldn't let him tell family or friends.  I don't know how he feels about that time because we haven't talked about it.  I tried once or twice, but I don't think he wants to go back there -- even in thought.

I was with a group of women a while back who were talking about helping to clean out a house when someone in the neighborhood moved.  They talked about how dirty it was and how certain areas had probably not been cleaned the whole time they'd lived there.  They ridiculed and judged, asking how a person could live like that.  I said there must have been more going on in their lives that led to the house being that way.  I tried to get them to look at it a little differently.  But I didn't want to speak up too much for fear that it would draw attention to my life and my home.

I'm not a good housekeeper.  I never have been.  But it's gotten so much harder and so much worse since my health fell apart.  It's not that I don't see it.  It's not that I like it this way.  It's just that I'm doing the best I can do.  I'm meeting the responsibilities that have to be met and letting the others slide.  Which often means my kitchen floor doesn't get mopped and the toilets don't get scrubbed.  For a very long time.

So, please, the next time you see someone whose house is a mess, whose yard is overgrown, or who might be wearing dirty clothes, don't judge.  People don't choose to be dirty and messy unless something is wrong in their lives.

We're all just doing the best we can.  And we're grateful when we have clean underwear.

Transitions Suck or Forced Early Retirement

Take your pick.  Either title works.

I am in transition.  Kind of stuck in transition.  At least, I hope it's transition.  I hope it's not my new life for keeps.

I worked very little before I got married.  I got pregnant almost immediately after getting married, was incredibly sick, and became a stay-at-home mom.  We made lots of sacrifices to live on one income so I could be with my kids.  My heart and soul were devoted to them.  As exhausting and difficult as it was sometimes, it was totally worth it and I don't regret a minute of it.

As my youngest child approached school age people started asking what I was going to do with all my children gone.  I joked that I'd probably sleep the first year.  After that I might consider working.  We're old fashioned.  My husband believes it's his responsibility to provide for our family and I believe it's my responsibility to raise the kids.  We've each pitched in a bit in each other's realm, but for the most part we took the traditional route.  My husband left my choices about what to do with my life after the kids went to school entirely up to me.  Work or don't work.  My choice.

Kindergarten was only a couple hours a day, just enough time for me to run errands and get a few things done.  But when our baby started first grade it opened up six hours a day for me.  I wasn't looking for work, but as it happens a wonderful job fell into my lap.  A job I was perfectly suited for and excelled at.  A job full of wonderful people.  A job that helped others.  A job that was very personally satisfying.

I worked there for three or four years.  There were ups and downs as I tried to merge my work life and my family life.  I got to a point where I felt like I had it worked out.  Balanced?  Maybe not quite.  But well shuffled.  I was happy and content and fulfilled.

Then my health fell apart.

Long story short, I had to make a choice.  I only had enough in me physically to work or take care of my family -- not both.  It was a traumatic time.  I didn't want to give up what I'd gained through work.  But my heart told me to go home.  Many other people could fill my position at work.  No one could take my place at home.

So I quit my job and went home.  I'd been a stay-at-home mom for about fourteen years before that job.  I knew how to do it.  The transition back should be easy, right?  Not so much.

I didn't have little kids any more.  The world I left and the one I returned to weren't the same.  I was kind of lost.  Still lots to do in the morning and after school but so much empty time during the day.

Which should sound beautiful and appealing and free.  But it's not.  Because I don't feel well.  Really ever.  So I have six hours a day trying to force myself to do something even though I don't want to get out of bed.  I'm still searching for a purpose.  I would love to have a schedule and plans.  I would love to volunteer or create or make a dream come true.  But each day I don't know if I am going to be able to get out of bed.  I can't plan my day because I don't know if I'll be functional.

I keep thinking I'll find a routine, a rhythm to my life.  I'm still searching.  It's been five or six years.  I spent the first three or so going to doctors and doing everything I could to feel better, hoping in the back of my mind that I could go back to work some day.  Expecting that one day I would feel good again and go back to being the over-achiever I am in my heart.  I still go to doctors and try to feel better, but I now accept that I won't have that life back again.  This is the life I have now.  I need to figure out how to live it and feel fulfilled in it.

But I still feel like I haven't found my footing.  I still spend too much time floating from this distraction to the next trying to find what fits.  Bored and frustrated.  What works one day doesn't work the next.  One day I have a little energy but my mind won't work clearly.  The next day my mind is okay but I can't see well.  And then there are the days that I don't get dressed until just before my kids get home from school, having spent the whole day in bed without actually noticing that time passed.

I'm trying to create a life that fits me.  But I still struggle to know who I am now, in this new form.  I'm still wandering.  Hoping I'm still in transition.  Hoping I'm not just lost in my own life.

I Can Strengthen

When I first got so tired that I went to bed for a year and a half, I kept thinking it would get better.  I kept waiting to feel better so I could get back to my life.  While it did improve, it never went away.

And when I got my headache it was much the same.  I kept expecting it to go away so that I could get back to being productive.  So that I could do all the things I wanted to do.

The fatigue has been with me for eleven years now.  The headache for seven.  There are days that are a little better and days that send me to bed.  Mostly I'm tired and hurt all the time.

If you'd told me at the beginning of either of these that I'd have them for the rest of my life, I'm not sure what I would have done.  Having hope that they'd get better helped me go on.  Having hope that I'd get my old life back made it worth trying.

But I'm at a point now where I don't think I'll get better.  I think these will be with me forever.  And even if they won't, they are now.  This is my life now.  And I can't just sit around waiting to get better before I do something with my life.

That's been a tough one.  What can I do?  There are so many things I used to do that I can't anymore.  And there are so many things I wanted to do that I never got the chance for.  It would be really easy to get angry or depressed at my situation.  And sometimes I do.

But mostly, I am grateful.  I have learned so much.  I have learned to slow down.  I have learned to say no.  I have learned to do the important things and let the other things go.  I have learned to listen to my body and take better care of it.

But that's not the best part.  The best part is I've learned that I am more than just what I can produce.  I am more than what I have to offer physically.  I have other things to give, other ways to serve, other ways to be of value.

And one of the best things is, I've learned how to better strengthen others.

In the past my service to others was always physical:  make them dinner, help them clean, take care of their yard,  take some of their work upon myself to ease their burdens.  It was good service; it was heartfelt.  I am glad I could do all those things.

My service now is different.  Now I listen.  I spend time with people.  I share my heart.  It's less obvious service.  You can't see something I cleaned or made.  But I can feel their burdens lighten.  I can see them ready to go back into the fray.  They are stronger when our visit is over.  And so am I.

There is great power in being able to do something for someone that lifts their physical burdens.  It matters.  But there is also divine power in strengthening them so they can lift their burdens themselves.  I'm so grateful I've had the opportunity to do both.

I'm Crazy -- It's Official

I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well that I've been struggling.  In fact, it probably won't surprise anyone who reads my blog, is my friend on facebook, or follows me on Twitter.  I wouldn't even be shocked if the mailman knows.  I've tried to fake it but suspect I haven't been doing a very good job.

I have needed to see my doctor for months.  I have been ill.  I have had pains that should be addressed or checked.  I have run out of meds that made my life a little easier.  And I was past due for my annual checkup.  Why didn't I go?  Ironically, because I didn't feel well enough.

I understand that sounds ridiculous.  I didn't go to the doctor because I didn't feel well enough.  But it's the honest truth.

I have been white-knuckling my life.  Holding on with both hands to keep it all from falling apart.  Picking up what I could of those things I dropped.  And trying to smile and say, "No, really, I'm fine."

But I wasn't.  I'm not.  And I finally went to the doctor.

I went because I couldn't get my meds refilled without going.  And because my husband caught me in a moment of meltdown and offered to get me an appointment.

After all the opening fun of being weighed and giving a urine sample, I changed into the lovely gown and drape and waited for the doctor.  My tension was rising as I knew I needed to discuss everything with him.  I needed to give him as complete a list of the mess of my life as possible so we could work together to find a direction.  And I had a written list just to make sure I hit it all.

He came in, we went through the normal review of medical history, and then I asked if I could give him more information.

And I did.  I shared my history of abuse, my struggles with fatigue and pain, and the new things that have come up.  I was as brief as possible.  I fought through tears.  I said what I needed to say.

And do you know what he did?  He listened.  He didn't interrupt.  He didn't rush.  He just listened.  And when I finished he asked a few questions for clarification.  And in that moment I felt like I had a partner, someone who truly wanted to help me.  Someone who saw a person and not a problem.

He didn't have the answers.  I didn't expect him to.  But he still helped.

He performed my physical exam, ordered all the blood tests indicated, gave me new prescriptions for the things I needed, and gently gave me some direction.

He suggested I get back into therapy AND see a psychiatrist.

I was already planning to get back into therapy; I have done so since that appointment.

But I hadn't thought of seeing a psychiatrist.  As he explained, they don't really do therapy anymore.  Mostly they are medication detectives.  They can try different combinations of medications and off-label uses to offer new choices when the basics haven't worked.

I have had many symptoms of low-serotonin for years.  I have tried many medications.  I have had no success.

I am now fighting more symptoms.  They aren't huge in scale but they are numerous.  They are making my life difficult.  I am fighting social phobias which are limiting my participation in the outside world, including church.   I am fighting anxiety which is causing me to isolate and refuse to communicate or spend time with family.  I am fighting an OCD issue -- repetitively spelling in my head (yeah, that is obnoxious and hurts my head and I can't stop).  I am impatient and often rude without having any idea.  When I realize it, but can't stop it, I go back to my room to prevent hurting people.  I have no emotional strength to face anything that isn't going just right.

The inch or two of mud I was walking through has become shin-deep.  The slog of life is much, much harder.  I am trying, but I am struggling.

So, I am eager to jump back on the medication roller coaster and play Russian Roulette with the psychiatrist (in March, which was as soon as I could get an appointment).  Even though I may be setting myself up for disappointment, I am hopeful that we will be able to find something that will help.  Because, honestly, I don't know how much more I can take.  Things have to get better.  They just have to.

**********
To read about my visit to the psychiatrist, go here.

The Doctor Who Didn't Listen

Oh, how I wish I'd known then what I know now.

Ten years ago, in the spring of 2001, the world fell out from under me.  I was hit with unbelievable exhaustion.  No matter how I ate, how much I exercised, or how much good sleep I got I was so tired I couldn't function.  I couldn't parent.  I went to bed for about a year and a half.  More on that story another time.

After a few months (when I knew it wasn't getting better, and after much prodding from my husband and other friends and family) I finally went to my doctor.  I told him how tired I was.  I told him I couldn't get anything done.  His words are forever burned into my mind.  "You have five small children; of course you're tired." 

And that was it.  Since nothing showed up in a cursory glance, in a routine physical, there must not be anything wrong with me.  I had tried to explain that it was more than that.  It was more than tired.  I was not a human anymore.  I was a shell, a pile of skin and bones, walking around trying to participate in life.

He didn't listen to me.  I felt chastised, like how dare I waste his time?  I felt diminished, like a small child told to get over it because life is hard.  I felt like I'd been told to quit whining.  To suck it up and get back to work.

I would never stand for that now.  I would insist that he listen, I would repeat myself, I would tell him he misunderstood.  And if he still didn't listen, I would leave him and take my business elsewhere.

I was incredibly vulnerable at that time and did not know how to fight for myself.  I did not know I could insist on certain tests.  I did not feel safe questioning what he told me.  I believed doctors truly knew more about my body than I did.

I have had many incredible doctors.  Doctors who listened and cared.  Doctors who were more concerned about making me feel better than I was.  I have friends who are doctors.  I have a brother who is a doctor.  I have great respect for doctors.

But I no longer think they know more about my body than I do.  When I say something is not right, then it should be respected.  Even if I can't prove it or put it into words.  My doctor and I are supposed to be a team.  We are supposed to work together to find the solution.

I will never know if he could have helped me.  Maybe if we had run a blood test at that time something would have turned up.  Maybe I wouldn't still be fighting the debilitating fatigue 10 years later.  Maybe there were answers then that were too far gone by the time I found a doctor who would listen to me.

I will not allow myself to be ignored by a doctor again.  Ever.

Crying Uncle

I don't know if it was family upbringing or just my natural state, but I grew up fiercely independent.  I didn't ask for help; I researched it on my own.  I learned how to do what needed to be done by myself.  I cowboyed up and got myself through the tough times.  For so many years.

Giving help was fine.  Receiving it was not.  Asking for it was an abomination.

Enter chronic illness.

Wow.  Let me just tell you, independence goes out the window with chronic illness.

Yes, I've studied psychology and had enough therapy to know that interdependent is the healthier place to be.  Knowing that wasn't enough to get me there.  I had to be dragged there kicking and screaming.

I'm still not good at it.  I still think I should be able to do everything I used to.  I still want to be everything for everyone.  I want to solve all the problems.  I want to be the hero -- not the damsel in distress.

But life doesn't always turn out as we planned.

Tonight I had a lesson in interdependence.  Tonight I cried uncle.

Lots of things have slipped since I got sick.  The house (a wreck).  My job (gone).  Volunteering (non-existent).  All of those things are difficult to accept.  But for the most part they are just irritants.  The one that was dangerous was money.

You see, I've been in charge of the money and the bills for most of our marriage.  When I got sick, things started to slip.  We bounced checks.  Bills didn't get paid.  Collectors started calling.  (I hate the fact that my kids are well trained in the art of avoiding the bill collector calls.)

I went through good periods and bad ones.  I'd catch up and then fall behind again.  But all along the way, I was sure we had enough money and I just wasn't managing it well enough.  And I would pledge to get on top of things.  Tomorrow.

Somehow, tomorrow didn't seem to want to appear.  I kept waiting for that magical day to happen when I would be able to conquer the piling debt and stress and get that monkey off my back.

But it didn't come.

I don't know why.  I don't know what kept me from being able to do it.  I know how.  I have the capability.  But I just couldn't do it.  (I have theories, but they would take too long here.)

And now the money problems are at a dangerous level. 

So tonight my husband and I had a meeting.  Not confrontational.  Not a fight.  Warm and open.  Supportive and affirming.  A meeting where I said, "I just can't do it.  I hate that I can't, but I can't."  And he said, "You've done everything for so long.  It's my turn."

And that was it.  He is now in charge of the bills and the money.

I promised to let him do it his way.  I will not interfere or correct or complain.  And when I do (as we both know will probably happen) he will kindly remind me that I promised to trust him.

Lots of feelings of failure.  Lots of feelings of inadequacy.  And so many tears.

And then peace.

Sometimes crying uncle is the right thing to do.  No matter how hard it is.