The title of this post is from a Japanese proverb, and it resonates so much with me now that it's become my motto. This sickness I have, this "whatever," it's not ending -- but if I have to get up 18 or 108 or 1008 times, I'll do it, because getting frustrated and giving up really aren't an option. And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I won't get frustrated, and maybe I'll still have some hope that I can be fixed. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...
I haven't blogged much about this illness lately because there's simultaneously a whole lot to say -- and a whole lot of nothing. I've had CT scans, a bronchoscopy, lots of X-rays, too much bloodwork and get near-daily calls from my pulmonologist with another idea. Something is wrong, and it's not going away... something's growing in my lungs, something's making me unable to catch my breath. Forget exercise; taking the dog to the backyard is my limit. Target requires days of rest before and after. Oddly, other than being unable to breathe, I appear totally healthy. And man, is that causing me problems. If one more person says to me "but you don't look sick!" -- well, that person will be missing her teeth. And it is always the women who say it, too, taking cattiness to an all-new level. I've come up with some good responses, like, "shhh, don't tell anyone, but I'm just trying to get out of my over-committed volunteer schedule" or "it's God punishing me for supporting No on 8" just to see the really annoying people made uncomfortable. Of course, I'll never utter those snide responses, because I have this little thing called dignity that so many former Prom Queens seem to lack.
What was I saying?
Oh, sickness... yeah. So, I'm getting help and opinions left and right from great doctors. It's just that I can't be treated until they know what "it" is. The next step in determining that may be some form of lung biopsy, which will be my first surgical procedure. I had two babies come out the long way and have never been cut, and now I get the pleasure of meeting a thoracic surgeon. In other words, this is God telling me that the puppy we adopted was a much better choice than the third baby I almost talked the Guv into last spring.
I wish I could tell you that I'm taking all of this time sitting/lying down to be reflective, coming up with great life lessons to pass down just like Randy Pausch. But the truth is, I just am not cut out that way -- I don't think "the end is near," and, even if I did, I would spend my time holding my kids, not trying to decipher the meaning of it all. I'm spending a little less time dreaming about going back to work and a little more time wishing it were bedtime already, but, other than that, I'm walking the dog, packing the lunches, teaching Dash to read, sometimes even attempting laundry. The Guv is picking up a lot of my slack, never once complaining that he has less of a wife these days; and the kids have become more independent over these last few months, something good that came out of this something bad.
So the great wisdom of this post is just that life is going on, day by day. It sucks that I have to deal with this, and that my family has to deal with it, but this stuff unfortunately happens to everybody at some point or another. I didn't expect it at 35, but that's okay; I'm in a great community, surrounded by loving friends, some of the best doctors in the world, and a whole lot of sunshine. Life is good, and I'll be well, someday.
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