New Year.

It kind of snuck up on me, the New Year. I caught myself writing "2010" on a bill stub last week. Whether that was a Freudian slip, I can’t quite say. 2010 was a good year, after all. But come to think of it 2013 was too. 

My 30s are approaching. And while I certainly won’t wallow in the fact that I’ve been given the privilege of living 3 decades, it is a bit of a mental reality check on life & the purpose of chocolate (or something). 

2012 was admittedly my low-point. I lost all the zest & I stopped caring. And I think, intrinsically & subconsciously, I was just surviving. The survival part seems necessary--I had just had a kid & all--but the zest & spice, that stuff that flavors the day-to-day & makes meals a bit fancier than regular rice & bland beans was gone. 

I think it is back now. For how long I’m not sure. Another baby is on the way & I can feel my mental axis tipping ever-so-slowly--perhaps a pre-emptive warning sign that I (we) need to plan for intervention. Or invention. Or innovation. Any of those "I" words would probably do.

Unlike the previous decade of my life, 2013 was not filled with reflection. Aside from the growth of our giant child, my own heart felt stagnant. And maybe for the first time in a handful of years, my faith felt like more of a burden than a blessing. (Honesty is harsh, sometimes). I used to thrive in lists, planners, & concept maps. Cleaning, the ritualistic cleansing of everything tracked in & smeared on, was restorative. And my solitude--the time I took to pound the pavement or sweat out the day’s worries or listen to the furnace roar in an empty house was exactly what my busy mind needed to re-center itself.

But now, life is different. And though my nature desires to have all things the same, the nurture in me--the functional everyday part of my existence--screams that it just can't be so. I’ve convinced myself that faith alone is not enough--& spent my time reflecting on my lack of scripture reading instead of actually absorbing the life-Words. The lists sit unchecked, notebooks unpenned, & planners (mostly) unplanned. The floors are dirty, the baseboards need to be Magic(ally) Erased, & the curtains desperately need a trip outside in the sunshine. I probably need one too. 

In the midst of it all, though, I have to give myself a bit of credit--as much as it doesn't feel deserved. The bottom line, through all the failures & cold meals & cereal-for-dinner's & sleepless nights & times that I didn't respond with love & pictures I wasn't in--through all of those, we survived. 

And through those long nights of nursing. And sleep-deprived days teeming with unstable emotion. And ups and downs of marriage & friendship & belated birthday gifts. Through all of the muck-that-doesn't-really-matter, I have changed. My person has evolved. Our marriage has developed. Our kid has gotten bigger (believe it or not). And even though I may not be a better person, I am still me. And I am still changing.

My goal in 2014 is to write more. To reflect more. And really, to appreciate more. Heaven’s Son wasn’t Heaven-sent for me to wallow in the life I’ve been given. It is fleeting. And short. And the days are long sometimes. But for all that matters most in life, this little space of writing & reflection, so I’ve come to realize, is just that: a space. One that I think I’ll want to look back on in 15 years & realize that hey, we’ve come a long way baby. And through all life throws at us, sometimes it is the clicking of keys & quiet solitude that this space forces that inspires me to recognize my abundance.

rocked.

It usually comes slowly, gradually building strength. Like a self-formed movement of reform in the household, it tightens its grasp just when thoughts of freedom rang loud enough for all to hear. The
sound of silence is deafening & the lull in the quiet chatters of fear turn a warm hearth & heart & home icy cold.

This week has been a doozy, no? I’ve been glued to my phone. My computer. My thought-life--which has taken off running wild in the wind of fear & misunderstanding & sadness. I’ve been distracted. Jon
asked me again this morning what was on my mind.

A lot, actually.

I wrote a letter to thatcher. I told him to do things that I later realized even I struggle with. Particularly, the "do hard things" part. I keep thinking about his world--the one he will raise his
children in. the one that keeps disappointing, keeps polluting, & keeps stretching my strength & faith & hope for the future.

Damn.

And I keep thinking that raising this kid (we've only broached a year, people) is much harder than I thought it would be. Much more exhausting & frustrating & 'just keep to a dang schedule, punk' than I
expected. The love runs much deeper, too--it surprises me sometimes. to know that my heart breaks for him already, to know that our love for his little soul runs is more piercing than even I realize.

The truth is that love is probably the reason I’ve felt just a bit suffocated this week.

It’s been easy for me to get up & go to work. Easy for me to come home & lay beside my husband. easy for me to rise in the dead-night-hours & feed my kid (again) & fill my coffee cup in the morning & write orders for patients & make phone calls & laugh at funny ecards. It’s been easy for me because I’m comfortable. In my home. In my neighborhood. In my city. Our schools aren't closed. Our neighborhoods aren't on high alert. Our police officers aren't looking for bombing suspects. Our factories haven't exploded.

Oh but they have.

And that is the grip. That is the threat. That is the vice that sneaks in & leaves cheerio trails across my kitchen floor. I didn't even invite it in--it came anyways & invaded my tranquility. Instead of rocking my roof & leaving me to literally pick up the pieces, I'm left holding on to my comfortable & wanting so badly to let go of the stuff & give it to someone who just lost theirs. The thrill of silence has been replaced with deafening fear. The comforting lull of chatter has left us paranoid about what is coming next--like a mutated game of Telephone. We're prepped, lingering, so that now in the next moments
or hours or days when the sound waves blast that "something else has happened", the shock waves probably won't be quite as deafening.

The truth is that in my routine--my resting & writing & calling & walking & LIVING--I am processing the why's & how's & who's & "what the hell’s & how could you's". And I didn't walk down Boylston Street this week or sign my address in the city of Waco or hear babies muffled cries or engage in negotiations with wayward world powers or plan a funeral. But I did LIVE. And those neighborhoods & children &people & fumes, that shrapnel & chaos & tragedy & threat, those marks they left & people they hurt & time they stole--those are REAL. And they are mine just as much as they are theirs--the people of Boston, of Waco, of Philadelphia, of North Korea. And when pain & fear & suffocating futures threaten to damper the call of freedom, we all have 2 choices really. To fall slowly, letting fear invade & vice-grip
of the unknown become our permissive stingray envenomation. Or to rise up. To greet the mornings with new hope. To find a world where there are helpers, heroes, & fighters. To raise a world in our children that is hopeful, brave, & based on the sovereignty of God's promises.

I tend to like the silence; my solace lies there. But I’m learning to like the chaos, too. My growth comes from the latter. And somewhere in between lays a place of buoyancy & balance. I choose to rise. I choose to greet & grow & plant & help & nurture. I choose to live on & move on.

And best of all, I choose to look up.

Prevention.

originally written January 14, 2013

My grandma lost the baby in the bathroom, or so the story goes. It was one of many—gone before the advent of modern medicine & prenatal folic acid. She said the spine was open, all deformed-like—at least that is what my young mind chooses to remember of her stories about “the olden days”. She grieved those babies, I think. I heard about them only after she died, my mom talking in fond distance about the ever-present pain she could sense when the anniversary of loss rolled around once again.

I think of it as the scene in The Help—sweet Cecilia Foote burying those tiny miracles-gone-awry under the rose bushes in her backyard. Except my grandma’s experience probably didn’t involve rose bushes. Or red high heels.

What it did involve, I would presume, is the anxious anticipation that fills all of us when new life is on the horizon. Modern medicine, in all its wisdom, gives us choices now. Something like ordering up a favorite drink at Starbucks, we can now choose a donor & a gender & name for the record books. We can choose pink or blue or yellow or gray—or some smattering rainbow of them all. And most of the time, if we are lucky we can choose the birthdate. So. Many. Choices. Among them, the choice of DNA sampling—a trend quickly becoming the genetics version of something you’d order up at a tapas bar, customizing the profile to exclude Down Syndrome & Cystic Fibrosis, Huntington’s or BRCA mutations and I’ll take my green eyes on the side, please.

It seems that in an odd way, modern culture tells us that this menu of specialized tests will tell us what life will be like with our newborn if they have something that this modern medicinal miracle can catch. And for some parents, myself not entirely excluded, a preview of the dessert before the dinner starts can lead to a heart that soars with relief when the tests come back negative.

We seem oddly shocked, then, when the tests are wrong.

As parents, we seem to grasp onto the results, for reasons that I’m not even sure I could list here. The satisfaction of knowing the answers & the status & the FUTURE. Because let’s call it what it is: we want to know, to the greatest extent of our ability, what life with that baby & this child & that boy & this girl is going to be like in vivo—on the other side of the womb.

I’m taking care of a 14-month-old munchkin. She’s been in the hospital for a little over two weeks. Some might say she is sick, nay sayers just unlucky. And while I’d like to think that luck has nothing to do with it, she’s one that follows me home & begs more questions than answers. You see, this long-eyelashed, round bellied, brown-eyed baby is brain dead.

This modern culture, the one that seems to serve us babies made to order makes us believe that if we can just see that negative result, that not found, that 40-week-due-date, safe delivery, first breath, first poop & pee & sleep, those first six months…everything will be fine. Sometimes I think back to February & try to relive the feelings I had when we walked into the hospital a couple & walked out of the hospital a family. And aside from the exhaustion & blub & soreness & overwhelming emotion, part of me felt invincible.

Modern culture told me that I had gotten pregnant. I had carried this baby to term. I had delivered a healthy kid with a successful first breath & poop & pee & sleep. Irrepressible success.

Invincible because we had succeeded.

The truth, though, is that life is yet to be lived. Accidents are yet to happen. Diagnoses are yet to be made. Love is yet to break our hearts. Babies don’t pop out with a crystal ball--& despite what we’d like to believe, modern medicine doesn’t create them either.

I guess this is where I struggle the most—I like to think of myself as an optimist in medicine. Over the past two years, I’ve convinced myself that despite what the evidencegrade says, anecdotal experience trumps. Which is why I’ve been recommending gluten-free diets to my patients with IBD, encouraging mild diabeticsthat their disease is, actuallyreversible, & holding the hands of parents who freak out that their strong & healthy 14-month-old will not actually walk—she will—on her own terms, in her own time.

Evidence, anecdotal or otherwise, doesn’t own stock in the future, either.

Which is why this brain dead beauty rocked me. And the early death of a mother-of-six from a heart attack. And the traumatic accident that took the IQ of the school teacher. And the infestation of cancer in the 20-something’s cells. And the scleroderma that is taking her twenties hostage.

Last week, I reached a turning point. It wasn’t hopeless. Or desperate. It wasn’t tearful or emotion-filled or overly dramatic. I walked in the door & hung up my coat just as I’ve done for two years. And I kissed my husband & hugged my kid & stacked the mail in the exact same manner as before. But my come-to-Jesus left me solemn, broken, & oddly… restored. You see, the responsibility had been weighing too heavily. To learn. To know. To keep up. To read. To answer. To predict.

I realized that for the past two years, I’ve been trying to preview the dessert—trying to hang on to the last glimpse of predictable hope of health. And with full certainty, I finally know that I actually don’t know. I don’t know the future. I don’t know that if you take a baby Aspirin every day after age 50 that you’ll be spared from a heart attack. I don’t know that if you take prenatal folic acid, your baby won’t be born in the bathroom with spina bifida. And I don’t know that if you live, if you grow beyond your sixth month or your sixteenth year that tragedy will not knock on your door & steal your livelihood. And I most certainly don’t know your future, despite the medications that I prescribe to try & make it better.

As a culture, we put too much hope in the tangible. The pill bottles. The prognosis. Even, the prevention.

Do not put your trust in princes,

    in human beings, who cannot save.

When their spirit departs, they return to the ground;

    on that very day their plans come to nothing.

Blessed are those whose help is the God of Jacob,

    whose hope is in the Lord their God

Psalm 146:3-5

Everything.

[originally written 07.28.2011 during my ICU rotation]

The stories these walls bear. Miraculous recoveries. Unspeakable tragedies. And mostly everything in between. The flow is steady, rhythm strong. The floors covered in blood and in tears. Sometimes independent, but usually all at once.

And oddly enough it seems like that how the patients come, too: steady, independent, and all at one.

The man in room #44.

The woman in room #22.

The alcoholic grandmother. Smoker. Mother.

The trauma. The car accident. Pneumonia. Hemorrhage.

We see them cycle. And sometimes they leave us floating—smiling at their recovery, body full of miracles and fervor. Others make us shake our years. Thirty-seven, so young; her liver aged  and poisoned from alcohol. And then, in some rooms, tears track in and out all day long—the goodbyes too much to handle, the dying too long and life too short. The hanging on—just barely, and the holding on—too strongly.

All sorts are wheeled through these doors. It’s a battle of the heart and mind, the practical and the justifiable, the quality and the quantity—of life, illness, moments, and madness.

Days have been tough for me. Upset families. Dying patients. Tragedy striking unannounced just one time too many. And for some, the inevitable finale rearing its ugly black head. My tears have been tracked, too. Implanted on footprints, dropped on sterile lines, hidden in the cuff of the white coat I’m forced to darn.

I’ve lost more sleep over these patients than over the sick babies, the neglected children, the homeless asthmatics in the dead-of-winter, and the cancer filled ovaries I’ve seen. Not because they don’t make sense—that an obvious part of the conundrum, but because we don’t make sense.

It’s been a soul-filled journey. Soul and sour, actually, depending on the day.

George, the hilariously absent minded, misunderstood character in Grey’s Anatomy pre-raunchy Season 1 was distraught about pouring his every drop of energy into a code on an already obviously-dead patient—antiarrythmics, defibrillation, chest compressions. But his all-knowing supervisor reminded him WHY those measures, ridiculous and seemingly wasteful were necessary.

                Because we have to be able to tell the family that we did 

EVERYTHING WE COULD.

And now—at the end of these five weeks. A the end of my nights of lost sleep and growing gray hairs.

At the end of this rotation, I finally get it, too.

This isn’t about the medicine. It’s really not about the disease or the diagnosis, the tears or traffic or tragedy. 

It is about TRYING. 

Giving the body one last chance to heal, the family one last chance to say goodbye, and Jesus one last chance to say hello. And at the end of the day, we go to bed knowing not what the future may hold, but knowing that what we tried was 100% and what we gave was EVERYTHING. 

Getting Up.

I’ve been absent for a while, trying to keep up with the tides of life—always changing with the moon & the storms. To be honest, it feels like life has been a storm lately. The addition of a baby in the middle of residency has left us (me, really) treading water. It is exhausting. And just in the last couple of months, I feel like I’m finally coming up for air—or hanging on to a pool noodle. Either way, having Teaspoon around feels normal now (although admittedly I still sometimes wonder when the heck his parents are going to show up & relieve us, the ever-babysitters). Because if you didn’t realize, HAVING A KID IS A BIG RESPONSIBILITY.

When Teaspoon was about 3 weeks old, I made my way out of the house & joined a “Mom’s Group” (more like a help-me-I-have-no-idea-what-I-am-doing Support Group) for a couple of weekly meetings. And while the more seasoned mama’s sat in a circle & talked about yelling-matches with their teenagers & testing boundaries with their 3-year-olds, I sat there looking at this creature that had invaded our lives thinking HOLY HECK, what did we do?! I AM SO NOT READY FOR THIS.

But ready or not, here he comes.

I’m starting to find joy in the daily routine. The snuggles before bed. The cooing & splashing & spitting & open-mouth-kisses. I know that it all will change, it is all a phase/stage/season. I am, by nature, a pessimistic realist. And I’ve had to catch myself more than once, take a good self-inflicted whap upside the head, & refocus my positive energies toward soaking up this phase, this stage, this season. I am certainly not there…but I am working on it.

And the truth is that in the midst of all of it, we are thinking about major changes in our household. Moving. Jobs. Future; all trying to weave in the provisions of God’s plan & the preferences that overwhelm our hearts.

The amazing people around us have been through trials--& our hearts, our relationships, &our marriage have carried just a bit of their burden. Occasionally, we’ll pour out our breaking souls & shattered lives in fellowship. But most often I find that it is in the quiet of the wee morning hours or the end of the day that I find solace & peace. (Which is why I’m holed up in our freezing cold office at 9pm on a Saturday night…by myself). Despite the heartbreak &tincture of tears that have washed over us, we’re continually inspired by the will to move on, break in, & let go that radiates from the people affected. Lives are changed, y’all, & the change can’t be easy.

If anything, the events that have transpired with neighbors & friends & Believers, have been a reality check—for us, for our hearts, & for our marriage, that we are not immune from the woes of the World, that we are a fallen people who desperately need rescuing, & that we have much to learn about the mysterious ways of God.

For the third time now, I’ve (re)started reading Respectable Sins by Jerry Bridges, if for nothing else than a gut check. My heart, despite every ounce of blessing, has been overtaken with bitterroot more times than I’d like to admit over the past year. I’ve strayed from focused time in the Word. I’ve brushed off the drive to treat my body as a temple for the Holy Spirit. I’ve struggled with the attachment to materialism (once again). And now more than ever—at this point of uncertainty in our lives—I’m finding the need to cultivate the home, the heart, & the health that God calls us to so boldly.

 Jon has been incredibly supportive, continually amazing me with his choices toward family & faith. The adjustment with Teaspoon has been a hard road for him, too—my moods, the post-partum woes that invaded our relationship, & a shift in the corporate ladder for him. We keep talking about new adventures, wild & crazy ones that probably won’t ever come to fruition--& in the midst of it all, he is learning the new me. I’m more convinced than ever before that once you become a mama, God flips a neurotic switch in your brain…& suddenly nothing is good enough & there is always too much laundry & never enough time & the days become shorter & nights become longer & hair becomes grayer & heart becomes fuller. And when the switch is flipped, the world’s axis tips just a little bit—bucking your loved ones on their rumps until you decide to climb off the saddle of self-absorption & i-have-a-newborn-focus & lend a hand to help them up.

It took me a long time to help Jon up.

So all in all, we are alive. This space will be sparse. And it might become a Teaspoon-gallery. But I miss writing. I miss the mind-dump feeling of accomplishment after I hit publish. And since I’ve been constantly inspired by the everyday of this space, I want to have those thoughts for my kids (if they ever care enough to read them)…& for the other mama’s who feel crazy & loved ones who haven’t been helped up yet.

Life is constantly changing. And even though I would love to find an altitude to cruise at for a while, I have a bold feeling that life doesn’t really work that way. God ordains change in our lives, challenge in our hearts, & combat in our minds to draw us closer, hug us tighter, & help us up. 

home sweet home. living room.

Design is defined by light and shade, 

and appropriate lighting is enormously important.

Albert Hadley, The Story of America's Preeminent Interior Designer

our theme was "comfortable". the house has a lofty, light feel to it--high ceilings, old archways, original moulding. we didn't want to cram in furniture--but wanted to make efficient use of our space. thankfully, the furniture we already had worked fabulously. 

first the wallpaper had to come down. OH MY GOSH was that a nightmare.

we even discovered a window behind the wallpaper. YES A WINDOW. they'd just screwed up plywood & glued over the top of it. my dad spent a weekend here & was kind enough to mud the entire wall for us. 

come to find out, this little home was one of the first in the neighborhood. and that window gave the tenants a fabulous view of the neighbors living room when building picked up. 

we chose a light gray for the living room--and the contrast between cool colors & warm wood was just what we wanted. i still change our couch pillow covers & shelf arrangements about every 4 months--so we decided to let the color rotate throughout the year in the form of new photos & accessories.

so we went from this:

to this:

and finally to this:

{ehem...i might have gone dumpster diving after a local college got out...OH MY GOSH i'm doing it every year. totally another post for a different time.}

we went from this:

to this:

and finally to this:

***

the entry way was another entity entirely. we wanted it to be a distinct space--but blend in well. as a matter of fact, in taking down the wallpaper, we discovered that the entry way used to be the front porch! the front door used to go straight into the dining room. 

 we chose a slightly darker grey for the walls...& it has since just evolved into a functional, perhaps even fashionable space that actually gets used.

you can see a little peek of it in this photo:

and another (ack!) peek in this one:

we 

we already had these shelves...

this was the fall set-up:

and with a little picture hanging, here it is now:

home sweet home. part III.

we'd found it: THE ONE. {well, the one for now, at least}. we were SO EXCITED. and i spent the rest of my unemployed-don't-have-a-car summer browsing blogs & reading about projects. i made a ridiculously long list of "to do's" that i'm too embarrassed to share with anyone. lets just say that it was longer than 6 pages.

and like all first-timers, we had lofty plans. lofty & large--which turned to humble & small after we found out how much home improvements cost. 

it was a long wait to move in. paperwork, signatures, more paperwork, meetings...and then finally one day when our Realtor & official-signing-lady kindly came to the hospital with jon so i could sign the paperwork....

we were home owners. 

the army delivered our stuff a couple of weeks later. 

and then the projects began....after all, this is what we were dealing with: 

{photos w/ little grandma's stuff in them....}