Lamentations

The steam billowed up from the water surrounding me, its tendrils reaching upwards towards the sky only to be lost in the darkness of the night sky.  Hot water swirled around me, lapping against my skin, enticing the pain to leave my body and enter the bubbles around me.  When we bought a hot tub several years ago it seemed frivolous at the time.  Now it is my refuge, a place of peace from the war my body is waging with itself.  My knees throbbed, my hands ached, my feet tingled unpredictably with bursts of stabbing pain.  My back–well, that day it had only been happy in the brief moments I had available to rest but made sure to remind me of it’s presence with each step I had taken , each time I had to get in or out of my pickup.  

It was a Friday, the day of the week when I do not hold office hours at my veterinary clinic.  A day when I may not be in the office but I am far from being “off” from work. In the past 8 hours I had evaluated and treated a cow with a condition known as lumpy jaw, spent two hours surgically treating a horse with a refractory wound, then ended my day by trying to beat the sunset in order to recheck a calf with a serious leg wound. A recheck that included scene fit for any of the veterinary TV shows: 2 grown men, a college student, my ten-year-old daughter and myself trying to convince a 500 pound calf to lay down (with the help of sedatives) so that I could clean her wound and apply a new bandage. I am sure we all would look pretty comical to a casual onlooker…luckily this was all going down the middle of nowhere so no one was able to witness our shenanigans.  After a quick trip to the local grocery store I headed to pick up my daughter’s friend for a sleepover. All the while my mind was forced to replay the day’s events each time one of my joints jolted me with discomfort.

And now, as I sit in the hot tub, enveloped in the warm water that provides so much relief for my aching body, my head droops and is met by the support of my hands as the tears begin to well up. I consider myself a tough gal, but the physical and emotion pain of this disease has been enough to break me, to crack my tough shell and allow the sorrow that is held within to leak out. 

It may seem cliché, but one does not understand the pain and fatigue that is the hallmark of autoimmune arthritis until they have experienced it first hand.  For some it is a life of unceasing pain and swelling that no medication or treatment modality can put at bay.  For me it is sneaky…I can be going about my day only to be stopped dead in my tracks by my body reminding me it is at war with itself.  Be it a sharp pain in my feet or knees or a constant nagging in my lower back, I am never 100% free of it’s grip.  The worse is my hands, the part of my body so vitally important for my job as a veterinarian.  They were my canary in a coal mine, my first loud indication that something was not right with my body (well, the first indication I really paid attention to at least).  Swelling and pain in my right hand is always there and seems to laugh at me each time I take my medication, taunting me that it will be the last part of me to finally surrender to treatment.  My other nemesis is fatigue…and oh what a nemesis it is.  Just when I think it’s safe to return to “normal” activities it rears its ugly head and stops me in my tracks.  It is a delicate balancing act between doing what I need and have to do as a wife, mother, business owner and veterinarian and not pushing myself to the point where I have poured out every drop from my cup of energy.  A point where I have no choice but to collapse as an exhausted shell in my recliner.  During these spells I am not just tired, I am at a point so far past being tired that I am spent, weary,  tapped out and drained of life. 

I vaguely remember what it was like in the “good old days.” The days before this disease started to creep into our lives.  A time in my life where an intense two hours of performing surgery would not leave my hands so weak and numb that I could barely unbutton my pants.  A time in my life where kneeling on the ground to treat a patient did not leave me struggling to get back to my feet and hobbling for the first few steps once I finally got up.  A time when the hours spent in my pickup driving to/from work and to/from farm calls did not leave my lower back and hips burning in pain.  A time when the brain fog that accompanies autoimmune fatigue didn’t leave me struggling to put together simple sentences.  But those days are long since gone.  Those were the days I could work 50 hours or more during the week then take call all weekend and not feel like I had been run through a ringer.  Now I struggle to get through a four days work week. Friday is my day “off” from the office but is filled with the overflow of farm calls, bookkeeping and inventory management.   Some weeks are better than others but all involve at least some degree of struggle.    

As I’ve told several people over the last year I now know why people with autoimmune diseases, people who outwardly look completely healthy, file for disability.  There has been many a day that I would have GIVEN our vet clinic away in order to take one thing off of my plate, to find a bit of respite.  If it were not for the support and empathy of my husband and my staff then this the part of my journey as a veterinarian and business owner would not be possible in the face of my rheumatoid disease.  Plus, as anyone who knows me well enough can attest to, I am not a quitter.  I did not persevere through seven years of college–including acceptance into a competitive pre-admittance program my freshman year of undergraduate–to let this disease steal my lifelong dream of being a veterinarian.  My love for my clients and my community would not allow me to throw up my hands in despair and throw in the towel.

But while quitting wasn’t an option, finding a healthy way to deal with this disease and it’s emotional impact on my life has been.  In fact, it has been equally important along side seeking medical treatment.  It wasn’t until I sought professional help and my counselor put a name to my emotions–grief–that I was given room to experience the full breadth of my emotions.  That was the point where I truly began to start down a path towards holistic healing.  There was grief over the loss of a life free of daily pain.  Grief over the diminishing function of my hands.  Grief over the realization that my life would forever include frequent trips to see our rheumatologist (though he is a great doctor who myself and my son look forward to seeing every three months).  Grief over the loss of a care-free life that did not include weekly injections and doses of chemotherapy medication.  Grief over the loss of my ability to provide my community the level of veterinary care they would like me to provide, a level that if I were to have sustained would have pushed me past the point of mental and physical disintegration.  It was a foreign concept to begin with, this concept of grief over the loss of the intangible rather than the tangible.  Along with this new concept of grief came another new concept: lamenting.  

Being free to mourn these losses–to be sorrowful in the presence of friends and family as well as that of our loving God who has given me so much–has been so freeing.  To me it brought new meaning to one of my favorite verses: “Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33 NLT) Trials and sorrow are a guarantee, as this season of life has proven to me.  Poor choices by Adam and Eve guaranteed this path for us.  Also guaranteed is that God is good and wants good for us, but we often don’t know exactly how to enter into His presence and communicate what needs to be said for us to see this goodness.  We’d rather sit in the messiness of our lives than take the uncomfortable and vulnerable steps towards true healing and Christian community.  False theology had initially held me back from clearly seeing the light and purpose in this season of life.  Once, I was afraid to show emotion in front of others, embarrassed to show what I thought was weakness.  I felt guilty for sharing my grief and pain with others as the Enemy had told me the lie that my pain didn’t count…that others have it worse.   I had falsely received the teaching that I needed to ignore my emotional pain, needed to quickly move out of my sadness and into a place of joy–that was the “proper” Christian way to handle such situations.   To cry out to God and ask the hard questions, that was a concept that I had never been taught was appropriate and necessary.  It was a concept that, to my immature theology, seemed blasphemous.  Question God? Lament to God? Why would He care?  But he does!  The guilt I felt over sharing my physical and emotional pain has been replaced by my realization that crying out to God is a necessary, healthy part of processing the trials and sorrows of life and brings us into closer connection with our Savior.   Grief, lamentation–all emotions for that fact–are a gift from God, a part of being human and pathway to becoming closer to Him.  Lamenting is healthy and necessary.  Wallowing in our lament and searching for pity is not. 

How did my new way of viewing my pain and dealing with my grief come to be?  Seeking professional help and insight was step number one.  Vulnerability is not something that comes naturally to me but I am learning that it is important in order for healing to occur on all levels.  Journaling has been vitally important, providing me an outlet, an avenue, to process what life has thrown at me by sharing my grief and concerns with God.  Equally important, especially during the past eight months of COVID where continuing regular sessions has become difficult, has been my own person thirst for more insight and perspective.  Books such as Ester Fleece’s No More Faking Fine, Audrey Sampson’s The Louder Song: Listening for Hope in the Midst of Lament and K.J. Ramsey’s This Too Shall Last have graced my bedside table.  Podcasts such as Kim Anthony’s Unfavorable Odds, Brené Brown’s Unlocking Us  and the Proverbs 31 Ministries’ Therapy and Theology have become a staple of my daily commute and my running soundtrack.  The experiences of these individuals and the insight they have gained through their own trials and sorrows is helping me navigate my own trials and sorrows.  Doing life “together”–that is so crucial to being a follower of Christ, to being human, and weathering the storms of life.  It does not matter if that “together” is face to face with a counselor, face to face with a friend, or being open to the words and experiences of strangers who you have never met.  Strangers who are willing to be vulnerable to the world and it’s criticisms by sharing their stories with others so that hope may spread and the light be seen.  If you’ve read this far I thank you and I want to leave you with one last parting thought:  If you are struggling , no matter what the reason, and want healing then help is out there.  Sometimes–no, often times–it requires us to take a step out of our comfort zone.  But outside of our comfort zone is where we truly have the room needed to grow and mature.  I encourage  you to take that step, to not be afraid of what people may think (as I initially was), to seek the help you need.