Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Turning Forty


So it’s official - I am 40. Time to celebrate? It’s hard to tell. Some people dread turning 40 – it seems like an ominous milestone, like the point of no return on the aging scale - not that we can ever turn back time - but maybe it is the point past pretending that we can. Certainly 40 seemed really old when I was 10. And 20. And 30, to be honest. It is interesting how we react as we reach these somewhat artificial landmarks of our birth (surely they are more significant to our mothers?!) and reflect on our journey-to-date. Did things turn out the way we expected or hoped?  As a highly academic high school student I, and probably everyone else who knew me, assumed I would go on to a post-secondary education to get a degree or two. Maybe a masters. We would’ve thought it was a pretty safe bet. Instead I enrolled and often dropped out of a number of classes at a few different schools. My experience with panic disorder was peaking as I attempted to further my education – no doubt the fluorescent lighting and the crowded campuses and classes didn’t help. But I still think about going back to school, and I probably will. (It’s nice to be able to control the crowds and lights with an on-line course.) When I was younger I assumed I’d be married and have kids – actually I always pictured myself with three boys, but still living in my parents’ home. I did end up with three boys, and I am very thankful that Paul & I have our own home.

The part about turning 40 that makes me sad isn’t so much about the years, it’s more about being a grown-up in general. Not that I usually feel like a grown-up. Every time I have to do something particularly adultish, like negotiate mortgage payments or navigate parent-teacher interviews, I feel like a fake, a timid child hiding behind the mask of a mature and capable woman. Surely if you are old enough to have kids and a car and a house and a real job you must be mature, stable, and sure of yourself? When would I outgrow panic and self-consciousness like I outgrew dolls and crayons? Did I miss the day I was supposed to become confident and competent, shedding my fears and doubts like last season’s fashions?  I was surprised to learn that most of us are much like insecure tweens, but with bigger clothes and bigger bills.

What I’m sad about as I turn 40 is anxiety. When I was younger and figuring out this diagnosis of “panic disorder” I was told that most children grow out of their anxiety. I clung to this fact like a life preserver in the raging tempest of my life. This was a ray of hope to me that pierced the terrifying darkness of my fears. And I was certain it was true – how on earth could I as an adult still have so many fears? Imagine a grown-up too scared to go on an elevator! Imagine an adult who freaked out and bolted out of the mall because she was claustrophobic. But yes, I can imagine exactly that. I slowly but surely became that adult. The specific phobias have morphed over the years but fear still has a firm grip on this 40-year-old, grown-up mother and wife.

I know now that millions of other adults are struggling with varying forms of anxiety, and that was somewhat comforting to learn, but it was a crushing blow to realize that it applied to me. The hope that freedom would come with maturity that was a lifeline through my teenage years… Just hang in there, you’ll grow out of it… turned out to be a lie. Truth is I grew more into it - I became accustomed to fear, I expected panic attacks. I absorbed all of this terror and dread into my personality, my self, my soul.

I mourn the hope of “growing out of“ anxiety. But I am learning that it is not so much about growing out of fear as it is growing into God. I thank Him for the forty years on this earth that He’s given me, including the anxiety, for that is part of the journey that brought me to where I am today, where I am supposed to be. But now I know that even though I feel fear it is not part of who I am. I am learning that my true identity is in Christ, not in anxiety. (see Ephesians) I yearn for the peace that passes all understanding. (Philippians 4.7) He can do infinitely more (and better!) than I can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3.20) – His miracles far surpass my teenage hopes. Even though I still struggle with anxiety, it does not define me. As I stumble along the path God has set before me, I am trying to cast my cares on Him (I Peter 5.7), trying to lean on Him (Proverbs 3.5). I don’t always get it right, but He does. I will continue to age and change, but He remains the same, (Hebrews 13.8) and that is worth celebrating.


Friday, February 7, 2014

Judah Hill Detour

Driving to town yesterday was so exciting! I was only doing routine errands, and nothing out of the ordinary happened, nevertheless I was almost giddy. We live 18 kilometres south of Peace River, the town where we work, shop & worship. The drive is about 16 kilometres over the flat prairie, then two steep and windy kilometres down Judah Hill into the valley. Last May there was a landslide – the hillside gave way and took a chunk of the highway with it. The road was closed. Now our only way to town was north by southeast – across to the village of Nampa and up to Peace River. Our 18 kilometre jaunt became a 90 kilometre round-trip. Fifteen minutes of relative solitude on the secondary highway became at least half an hour with traffic.


The timing was ironic  - for the almost eight years we’d lived out here on our acreage, Paul taught at and the boys went to school at the francophone school in Falher, 55 kilometres south of us, so they all had a daily 110 kilometre commute. (Before I had children I probably would have considered this child abuse, but my kids loved the bus ride.) In May Paul accepted a position at the Catholic school in Peace River, so we decided to switch everyone to that school system. What a joy to have a much shorter drive, we thought… it turned out to be almost as long.

It was a delight yesterday to turn left onto the highway, after nine months of the longer route to the right. My muscle memory kicked in - I know that road like the back of my hand. I have driven it in all weather conditions imaginable – whiteouts, floods, heat waves and wind storms. I remember driving back and forth to town, pregnant and studying Jewish history, and deciding that if we had another boy I’d like to name him Judah. I remember spinning out on the ice and going into the ditch, five-year-old Sasha squealing “Whee!” the whole time. I remember stopping as a herd of elk crossed the highway single file as I was on my way to the grocery store. In just less than eight years I've driven this route over a thousand times – encountering moose, deer, snowy owls, golden eagles, northern lights and bright canola fields. I am so grateful for this drive.

But as frustrating as it was to reroute the long way, I need to keep it in perspective. So it was a 45 kilometre drive… to what?

45 kilometres to school – my kids have the right to go to school, unlike other children in this world who are forced to work or otherwise denied education. We have the privilege to choose both French and Christian instruction.

45 kilometres to work – my husband has a good, stable job that he loves. While many folks are out of work or working in terrible conditions, we have plenty of opportunities for employment, even the option of government social services to aid us.

45 kilometres to shopping – even in a relatively small northern town I have the choice of four grocery stores that carry product from all over the world. While many people in this world are starving, I can eat mangoes, avocados and coconuts far from their country of origin. We have the option of gluten-free, nut-free, low-fat, oven-ready or take-out.

45 kilometres to church – we are free to attend the church of our choice and freely worship. In other parts of the world believers are persecuted - forced to sneak into secrets churches under the cover of night or even martyred for their faith. Our church has running water, heat and even a new roof. We are not afraid to go to church.

As I drive that 45 kilometres to town I need to keep my eyes peeled for moose, but I will likely not encounter any roadside bombs or snipers along the way. The relatively small amount of additional effort it takes for us to get to our places of work, worship, learning and shopping is nothing to the huge and dangerous effort it is for some of the world to access work, school, church, clean water and food.

So as much as I appreciate my short Judah Hill drive, I also thank God for the detour. We live in a land of plenty, a land of opportunity, a land of choice. And for that I am grateful.





Sunday, February 2, 2014

Counting the Days

Health has not been the theme of my past year. Unfortunately I have experienced a lot of illness. Between migraines, irritable bowel syndrome, gastritis and some other undiagnosed issues, I spent much of the last year unwell.  Nausea and vomiting have left me weak and dehydrated. Migraines have sent me to solitary confinement with ice packs and ear plugs. Belching has made me sound ruder and more repellent than a drunken sailor. Bloating has left me with no clothes that fit and feeling six months pregnant. (Looking pregnant has been a mix of amusing and awkward – young people have discreetly wondered and asked someone else if I was pregnant, whereas adults have simply assumed and publicly congratulated me on my growing family. If you don’t know for sure I recommend saying nothing – explaining you are sick rather than expecting really dampens the atmosphere in the room. In those moments I genuinely wished I was expecting - even at almost forty – then I would know what was causing my symptoms and I would be looking forward to the resulting miracle. Morning sickness is preferable to mystery sickness.)

I have missed more work, church, meetings, kids’ activities and social events than I care to count. Do I dare to count? How many days have I missed in the past year?

Throwing up: 2-3 days/month = 1 month
Recovery/Dehydration: 2-3 days/month = 1 month
Migraine: 3-4 days/month = 1.5 months
Bloating: 7-8 days/month = 3 months
Nausea: 15 days/month = 6 months (Most of the days I was nauseated I had other symptoms, so let’s factor most of those out.)
Nausea only: 5/month = 2 months
Total: 8.5 months.
That’s about 255 sick days.

Of the 3.5 months remaining I was tired, really tired. It is hard for me to remember the last time I didn’t feel exhausted. Exhaustion is oppressive and depressive. In this disheartening and frustrating condition I have seen 5 doctors, had 4 invasive tests, and so many blood tests that the bruises on my arms sometimes haven’t healed before the next round. I think I have tried varying cocktails of 8 medications. Diagnosis? The theories have been numerous and mostly erroneous.

Why am I writing about this? I hope my motivation is not simply so someone will feel sorry for me. I am questioning and grappling with what is going on. All of these days add up to a lot of time to think about being sick. Time to ponder health and pose questions about illness. I haven’t been asking “Why, God, why?” but rather “What, God, what?” What is causing these symptoms? What is making my body feel so toxic? What can I do to feel better? What should I learn from this?

And I pray for healing – I pray for God to restore and renew my body, to remove the sickness, the fatigue, the depression. It is natural to cry out to God when we are broken and want Him to fix us. What surprises me is how this time had led to an outpouring of gratitude. As I hug the toilet and wait for the next wave of vomiting to begin I thank Him. I thank Him for things I otherwise might not:
            Thank You that this not happening because of cancer and chemo. 
Thank You for Gatorade and Gravol.
Thank You for clean running water and indoor plumbing.

As I lie in my bed in the dark, ice pack on head, I thank Him:
          Thank You that my kids are old enough to feed themselves.
          Thank You for my husband who can cook and clean
          Thank You that it is me who is ill, not my kids.

Eventually the vomiting ceases; the migraine subsides; the bloating decreases. But with it the gratitude dwindles… Just when I should be the most thankful for relief of symptoms and a reprieve from pain I seem to fall into a pattern of complaining, of feeling sorry for myself. I mourn the lost days and resent the pile of dishes, the loads of laundry, the unpaid bills that await my return to the everyday world. But instead of embracing the gift of recovery, instead of rejoicing in my ability to perform ordinary responsibilities, I resent the missed opportunities – all the activities, events and conversations that I could not join in.  The days spent entirely in bed. The days I could barely do anything for my kids. The days I barely talked to my husband. While I dwell on the lost fun, play, worship and work, I overlook the miracles right in front of my eyes - the sunrise, the birdsong, and the laughter of my children.

I don’t know why I find it harder to be positive when I am physically feeling better – I guess I get caught up in being behind. I neglect the present while I grieve the past. I practice grief instead of gratitude. When we find God when we are down and out, we casually cast Him aside when things are looking up. We call for Him in the pit, not on the plain.
Psalm 40.1-3. I waited patiently for the Lord to help me, and he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord
Sometimes I don’t wait patiently, but God always hears my cry. He lifts me out of the pit, and as I crawl around and adjust to the Light, He picks me up and steadies my wobbly legs. Now it is my part – I need to sing the new song – the hymn of praise.

Thank You, Father, for your healing, your salvation, your unfailing love. As You lift my spirit, help me lift my praise to You.