This morning, fall pushed air into my lungs like it was some turtlenecked lifeguard come to save me.
There was rain. There was thunder. There was lightning. And as my soul came back from its summer death, the weather seemed to loom over me shouting, “she’s alive….she’s aliiiiiiiiiiiive!”
It was wonderful.
I wore rain boots and day dreamed about cozy hours binge-knitting while the rain outside cheers me on row after row. I thought about cool weather walks with Stevie and soups with leftovers and sweaters and layers and beanies and all of the happy vampire things.
That 3 hour storm felt like enough to get me through the last of summer’s 4 month menacing monologue.
Honestly, that’s a common theme lately: just getting through stuff.
If hope was a set of monkey bars, I’ve been clumsily flinging myself from one rung to the next since at least May. Pedaling my feet in the air, swing-heaving myself at each next hopeful little thing as I slowly inch towards the landing on the other side.
Yesterday’s rung was having an awesome afternoon with Trev and his brother.
Today’s rung was the beautiful storm.
Tomorrow’s rung is finally being off of my meds. And so on.
I’ve never liked monkey bars, but I don’t really have a choice. I’ve been in pain every single day since probably April and these little hope rungs are the things carrying me to the other side. As long as I keep the momentum going.
Momentum is key, right? You can’t just hang there staring down the distance between your blistering hands and the end. You have to keep swinging. And keep grabbing on to hope with the mad grip of a kid determined. One rung at a time.
I’m working on that.
But here’s some good news: that dang landing is in sight.
My fifth surgery is on November 5th. It’s a big one and hopefully the last.
Since my punk pelvis and I have been in a perpetual fist fight for the last five years and it’s starting to affect more than just me (hi, Stevie & Trev—my favorite humans of all time), it’s time to be done. I’m super done.
This next step is a big one, though. It means my uterus is likely coming out—and my fertility is exiting the stage with it. And you know what? I’m at peace with that. Genuinely. I think it’s something God has been preparing me for this the last few years as he’s drastically grown my desire (and affirmed Trev’s desire) to adopt. Stevie was and is a miracle. And our next son or daughter will be too.
There’s a lot that has to happen between now and November. A lot of blood work, homework and doctor visits. And a sprinkle of planning for the possibility of medically induced menopause and hormone replacement therapy at the ripe old age of 26.
The crummy parts aside though, this is my best chance at being well again. For good. And I’m so grateful that I can finally point to a date on the calendar. That’s an incredible feeling and a huge encouragement. And I need that encouragement a lot these days.
So I guess I’ll sign off with this:
Through all this, I’ve learned something good always shows up when I decide to look for it. My hand always finds a way to that next rung even when my reach is short. Coincidence? Personal strength? I think absolutely not. More like a heavenly dad giving me a lift when I swing and miss and lose my grip.
Here’s to my New Year’s in November.
And to hanging in there until you celebrate yours.