Oh hey, friends.
It’s been quite awhile.
I’ve missed you. And writing. And this blog.
Life took a turn for the crazy, but here we are yet again.
After the big genetic showdown, my plan was to take a few weeks away from the medical world to just be. There are a lot of unknowns and “to be determineds” and I wanted some time to let it all soak in. Genetic testing was an ultra-marathon, certainly not a sprint, and I was ready for that glorious post-race recovery.
Rather than soaking in epsom salt baths and enjoying a luxurious massage, my immune system took that whole “time away” thing a wee bit too literally, and took one heck of a vacation over the past 3+ months. Evidently I need to be more specific with how I plan on spending my “off” time.
A week before Christmas I picked up a stomach bug, followed a week later by an upper and lower respiratory tract infection, that turned into pneumonia a few weeks later, which then caused me to break a rib, which was capped off 2 weeks later with a bulging disc in my lower back.
Then, just when I thought I was coming up for air (and could actually walk without looking like a lame emphysemic penguin), my nonexistent thyroid levels took a swift and rapid trip south, causing my endocrinologist to nearly fall off his chair with a glance at my lab report, and inquire “how on earth did you do that?!”
(Which, by the way, is the 2nd time in 2 weeks I’ve been asked that question by a doctor…does this mean I get a refund on my copay?)
Shortly after the Ghost of Thyroid Past vigorously stirred the pot, I added two more rounds of sinus infections (or rather, never got rid of the first one), which brings us to this week, when I got a call to tell me that my doctor had called in my protocol to the pharmacy.
“Oh…protocol for what?”[awkward long pause]
“Didn’t someone call you with your test results?”
“Nope, that’s why I’ve been leaving daily messages.”
“Oh…one moment please…”[second awkward long pause]
“So…normally the doctor would call you, but…you have a rather extensive internal staph infection.”
(And for all of you mentally calculating how long it has been since you’ve been in close proximity to someone with a giant staph infection, I have been assured by both medical professionals and Dr. Google that I’m not contagious. Just full of my very own set of antibiotic resistant bacteria. No big deal.)
People. I’m tired.
(And full of bugs. Just saying.)
I really wanted to write a post about how I’m back in action! and things are great! and I’m taking 2016 by storm! but instead it seems that 2016 IS a storm. And maybe that’s why it has taken me so long to come back to my blog, because maybe sub-consciously I wanted to wait until I felt like life was stable.
This just in: Life ain’t stable.
Genius that I am, I thought the great immune system vacay was a perfect time to a) release a brand new makeover of my company’s website (check it out!) and b) buy our first home.
Just call me Einstein.
Through the extreme generosity of our families, Mr. Restarting My Hard Drive and I recently made our 6th move in 10 years into a townhouse of our very own. It has been a whirlwind of excitement and packing and boxes and unpacking and more boxes as we settle in and make it our home. And I’m not sure why this made sense in my head, but somehow I had this image of moving into our new home, and turning 33, and bursting with health and vitality.
It wasn’t logical, I know. But I’m human, and a dreamer…so ya know, not the best combination in the logic department.
I had this image of being superwoman and whipping both my business and new house into shape, all while exuding energy and strength. Instead I’m full of antibiotic-resistant bugs, and had to rely almost entirely on friends and family to move my belongings, so as not to bulge a disc or break a bone or pass out in a heap.
Not exactly on point with the illogical dream plan.
It’s like listening to the same album over and over again, and never getting past the 3rd song.
Over the years I have written very little about the invisible behemoth of shame that resides on my shoulders. I suppose I carry it with me wherever I go, but somehow I’ve always felt like writing about it would give it more worth than it was due, so I’ve kept mostly mum. However, nothing unleashes the beast more than digging through all your belongings, and unearthing a lifetime of memories.
And trust me, I so wish it didn’t.
I often talk to my clients about shedding what doesn’t serve them, and like many people, I know it is easier to share advice than follow it yourself. I believe, and have written extensively about, the fact that we all have a choice in how we live our lives. We cannot decide what happens to us, but we can always decide how we respond. But, I think shame falls into a bit of a gray area in this department — not clearly defined by chance or choice, which is why it has been on my mind lately.
I don’t want to be ashamed of the boxes of unused running clothes, or dust-collecting children’s books. I don’t want to feel a twinge of pain and embarrassment every time I get a medical bill in the mail, or when people ask me when I’m having kids. I don’t want to constantly think about the emotional and financial burden I have been to my husband and family.
But I do. Every day.
And I know it doesn’t serve me.
I am under no illusion that making some grand blog-post proclamation that I am shedding my skin of shame will actually make it happen, but I think there is something very powerful in sharing your intentions. I can’t start off my 33rd year in a new home with health and vitality, but I can certainly decide to start it with a renewed focus on exuberance and self-worth, despite the never-ending roller coaster of my immune system.
And that is exactly what I plan to do.
So no — life most certainly is not stable, and you know what? It may never be. I raise questions and provoke befuddled looks from the medical community and challenge every pharmacist I’ve ever met. I look fairly normal, but am put together with a lot of stitches, glue, and robotic parts. I’m not living the life I planned, but I am bound and so very determined to live a life that has purpose — no matter the number of infections or breaks or bulging discs.
This is who I am.