Our first dozen years.

 Dearest Spencer,

Is it true? It this really your last year before becoming an official teenager?  It doesn’t seem real at all, but the calendar and your height tell me it has to be reality.

You are awesome.  I hope you know that.  Deep in your heart, I hope you believe it, because it’s absolutely true.

I know that you struggle with feeling your value and seeing your worth sometimes.  We all do, really.  But Spencer, there are so many ways that you exhibit what an amazing human you are.  You notice people that others may overlook, and you are so kind to them.  You do little favors for people, or offer kindness in ways of help or gifts, even though you don’t think anyone’s watching.  So many times, I’ve heard about it, and you’ve always just shrugged, because to you, it wasn’t a big deal.  To them- it was huge.  You make a lasting impact in a positive way even when you’re not aiming to do so.  This happens more often than you’d think, and it makes my heart so very happy when I hear these things.  You make me so proud.

This year has been messy, as we have noticed almost every year is in some way, but overall, it’s been a good year.  With your maturity, we have been able to relate on deeper levels, and your sense of humor aligns even more with mine than ever before.  I have loved mornings and afternoons when it’s just us in the car and we can chat and joke around together.  You’re so quick witted, which shouldn’t be surprising to me, but somehow, you still find a way to catch me off guard.  I also find joy in taking selfies with you to commemorate our silly conversations, and secretly, have saved most of them in my phone.  Now you know.  I love when we have time some weeks to have special secret coffee and donut breakfasts before school and how it was a beautiful transition from the loss of lunches together in elementary school.

You’re a brilliant mind, kiddo.  I know that the transition into middle school is a little rough with new and heavier expectations, but I really believe that you will grow to love it more and more, and continue to meet people who you relate to and build lasting friendships with.  I’m so excited to see what your future holds academically.  I know I’ve told you in the past that I was smart and got great grades in school, and I like to think you get a lot of that from me, but I really can’t wait to see your potential unleashed because I can see that my ceiling will be your floor and you will accomplish so many great things in your life.  It’s interesting to me to listen to how your mind processes things, and it astounds me to see the ease at which you pick up on new skills and talents. 

 I love listening to you play the piano, guitar, and viola (although I would prefer it wasn’t at the exact moment I ask you to get into bed at night).  I love singing along to the radio with you, in harmony, and in unison, sometimes making up our own lyrics or discussing ones we have heard and what they mean.   I can’t wait to hear the melodies you produce throughout your life.  Your story will be a song.. I feel it.

One thing that has happened in the last year that totally surprised me, and in a great way, was to see your love for younger kids burst open wide.  It’s a bittersweet thing to not have you at the daycare where I work anymore, because you’re “too old” as you began making so many friends with the toddlers and preschoolers and I could see them light a spark of joy in you that was new and exciting.  I’m so thankful that you have younger cousins in your life that and that joy can continue sparking into brighter flames.

You’re a fierce protector of those you love, even if sometimes, like your siblings, or your mom, they also can irritate you.  When you feel someone is being wronged, you are there to stand for what is right, and I am so proud of you for that.

I could go on and on about how many wonderful things I see in you, but I also know that you’re probably blushing and feeling awkward at this point and wishing that I would stop.  So, I will continue to try and sprinkle these truths around for you in our regular day to day lives and just pray you pick up on them.

Speaking of prayers, I want you to know that I’m still praying fervently for you to feel your value and your worth, and that all the lies you have believed of your self based on former life circumstances, trauma, or words from others fall away.  They are nothing but lies, and you are perfectly made as you are.  I pray that you’ll feel yourself fitting in, not just as a part of our family unit, but as an individual, in places and groups around you.  I pray that your kind heart continues to grow and your light continues to shine, because there’s a beacon inside of you buddy, I can see it.  I pray that you laugh more than ever before, find so much joy in all circumstances, latch onto the perseverance that is inside of you, and carry on with bravery as you always have.  I pray that the struggles you find yourself facing are overcome and you feel stronger on the other side.  

I pray you know I’m always for you, never against you, and never going anywhere.  I’ll always be right here with my arms waiting to hug you, my ears waiting to hear you, and my heart loving you continuously.  Sappy, I know, but as you know, that’s who I am.

So, my dear boy, the one who is continuing to teach me how to be a mother, testing the boundaries and shaping my heart, I am so thankful that God chose us to figure out this life together.  We were made for each other, and as I told you just the other day, I have wanted you since I was a girl your age-  and I prayed that someday God would bring you into my life.  I am so incredibly thankful that he did.

Love you always, no matter what…

Mom (Bruh.)

And a decade has passed us...

My dearest Collin Liam,

Ten years ago today, I was almost two full weeks past my due date in my pregnancy with you.  I had tried quite literally everything I could think of to coax you out into this world, and you were content as could be staying where you were.

Some things haven’t changed much in ten years.

You still want to come along on your own time.  You still maybe are a little bit pokey sometimes.  You still don’t want to be without your momma for very long.  In fact, you’ve told me you want to live with me until you’re older than 50.  You are still almost always moving, bouncing around, making noise.

Lots of things have changed though.  Your birthmark has gotten barely lighter but oh so much bigger.  Your hair is long and a little unkempt most days.  You have gotten so much taller, too.

This year, I’ll keep it short and sweet, because I have noticed lately you stop paying attention if I start getting too long winded.

Ollie Bear, I am proud of you.  You’ve grown tremendously with your emotional and spacial awareness.  You are learning to take pause when you’re becoming overwhelmed.  

You have become so brave.  You are so kind, especially to little children and those much older than you.  You are incredibly smart, which we always knew, but have begun to focus even more in school and allow others to really see it too. You are wildly creative, especially in your play.  I have loved watching you develop a deep friendship with your sister, and listening to the two of you play dinosaurs is so much fun.  You have become quite an innovative problem solver, and increased in your scavenging skills, both outside and in our own cupboards.  

I pray this year is filled with goodness beyond your wildest dreams. I pray you see the gold in yourself as others around you see it within you.  I pray that you continue to be in touch with your beautiful, caring heart, and that patience and wisdom in tough circumstances continues to develop.  I pray that you see your own prayers answered right before your eyes.  I pray that you develop deep, lasting friendships.  I pray that you never have a single day without a hug.

In the morning, shortly after midnight actually, you will be one full decade old.  I can hardly believe it.   Like is still the case, the night you were born, you decided you were ready to meet us and you came quickly and dramatically, as you often do when you’re ready to be somewhere or doing something now.  You snuggled right up to me, like you still do, ten years later.  You’ve loved hugs every day of those ten years, you know.

I’m so thankful you are mine, Mister Man.  

You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me and I’m so glad you’re mine.

Love you, always and forever,

Mom

Aching elementary hearts

 This morning in our home, today began like most mornings over the last nine months have- a flurry of alarm clocks, sock hunts, lunch making, shirt turning inside-out-ing, backpack filling, shoe finding, five minute reminder chaotic filled moments. We made a special trip for "last day of the school year donuts" on the way to yet another traffic jammed elementary school drop-off lane commute. 

"Have a great last day of school! I love you!" I called to each of my three kiddos as they jumped out of the van and scurried off for the school doors. 

Yesterday, my fifth grader gave me permission to cry if I needed as I embraced the sentiment of the day. As I drove away, I did just that.

I have spent the majority of the past six years' mornings in that drop-off lane, calling out to one, then two, then three kiddos as they left my presence each morning. I've watched scrawny little wide-eyed, nervous and excited kids grow into bigger, more confident, wise, hilarious, and sometimes awkward kids. 

I have had six years worth of first day of school teary drop-offs and now six years of last day of school teary pick-ups. 

This afternoon was different. I surprised my kids at the school picking them up again this year, and each one greeted me with tears falling down their cheeks, as usual for the day. But this year, the tears had a little more depth to them as we all realized the end of an era has come. 

The big brother of the trio finished elementary school today. Overcome with emotions, he made his way to me, walking alongside one of the counselors who has helped him grow so these years, and immediately found solace in my arms. I held him while he cried and told me how it was hard to say goodbye, so difficult to be done with the hallways and classrooms of the building, and so sad to say goodbye to almost every other fifth grader, as he would not be attending the same middle school as they would. He told me how much he was going to miss his teacher and so many other teachers and staff in the building. He found himself embraced in hugs from his siblings and from some staff, and waved teary goodbyes to many others. I reminded him that he may still see some of them around the city, and again in early mornings next year as he waited for his bus transport to middle school each day. He reminded me gently that "that's not the same." I acknowledge the truth as well and held his hand as we walked onward. 

His siblings, also saddened by the see you later the end of the year brings, cried over having to part with teachers they loved, and knowing it would be a shorto before they'd see many of their classmates again. But this year, they cried alongside their brother as the reality that he wouldn't be in their school next year sunk in. They cried over surprise encounters and hugs in the hallway they would no longer have. They remarked on the sadness knowing they would be across town. They all hugged each other a while, before walking silently down the sidewalk to our van. 

We celebrated with a treat after school as we usually do, and then came home to unwind. They all fell asleep quickly after mentioning in an upbeat fashion that it's now summer break and that it is exciting. 

As they fell asleep in their room, I laid in my own, tears streaming yet again as I process the events of today. My heart swells with pride in bittersweet moments where they huddle together to embrace memories they have shared and anticipation of change. 

My heart aches as I remember all the years that have gone by, and feeling like somehow time cheated us all. We spend so much of our days going from one thing to the next and planning for things to begin and subsequently end, looking at the clock and the calendar and cramming as much as we can into our lives, day in and day out. The past few years have brought a bit of reprieve from that way of life and have made way for evaluation and reset, but still, so many days pass us by in old fashion. 

Tonight, I realized my oldest is nob longer an elementary student. He is nearly 12. Most of my years with him in my home may have already gone by. Most of my summers spent making memories with all three have likely passed us by. We are holding onto final years, weeks, and days together, and we will never get them back again. I find myself holding my breath as I write those words, knowing that I need to embrace that reality and make our time count. I know the risk of complacency and the ease at which we can take our time for granted. In the uncertain world we find ourselves in, I tell myself that cannot be good enough. I have to do better. 

I pray for the strength, the resilience, the persistence, determination, resolve, grace, wisdom, and mercy to truly value our days together while my children are young. I pray I am not so easily distracted or frustrated and able to be more present. I pray that even amidst preteen and teenage drama and hormones and power struggles and boundary testing, misunderstandings and overwhelming emotions, beautiful relationships continue to flourish. I pray that for every fight there are two loving encounters on the other side. 

Rocky roads may lay ahead in uncertain territory but I believe some of the most wonderful journeys will occur right beside them.

I pray for countless tomorrows in a life we take for granted, with the stark realization from current times that there's no guarantee for any hour past this one. 

One of the things I want most for my life is that my children will look back some day, and despite the countless traumas, trials, struggles and sorrows, they will see me there with them, helping them embrace the beauty and joy in every season. I want their memory banks to be filled in a way that they will never question whether I was there or cared enough. I want them to one day be adults that knew just how fully loved they were in every stage of their childhood. 

Time is already winding down. 

He was my dream come true.

 On August 15, 2006, the sweetest little pup was born alongside a handful of siblings. A few weeks later, I met him, and called him my very own. 

When I was a younger girl, I dreamt of one day having a beagle of my own. I knew that if and when that day would come, I would name him Wendell. 

Wendell Rupert was a belated wedding (he was born ten days after my marriage began) and early birthday gift (he came home shortly before my birthday that year. From the moment I saw him alongside his momma, he had my heart. 

I remember the night I drove him home, as he snuggled up in a blanket, crying softly on occasion, but otherwise sleepy and content. When he came home to our apartment, he was less than thrilled with kennel life, but adjusted nonetheless. 

It wasn't long before Wendell started blessing me with memories. He ate a phone book, and chewed off and ate the corner of my "Complete Works of Shakespeare" one day. 

Another night, when he was still a puppy, I had set a pizza on the counter in the kitchen to cool. Somehow, this little puppy made his way onto the counter and ate half of it.  We learned quickly that Wendell had a vertical jump like none other, and by the time he was full grown, he could reach a treat approximately six feet in the air.  I'm his later years, he once jumped on the kitchen counter while I was at work, opened the cupboard doors, chewed open a bag of sugar, are a bunch of it and spilled the rest. Then, while I was still working, the sugar made him sick, and I came home to regurgitated sugar "pancakes" all over the floor.

Wendell, like many dogs, loved the snow. He would run through snow that was higher than he was and never seemed to grow tired of it. 

He also loved cuddles. His favorite place was in the bend behind my knees if I was laying on my side. He would read his head over my legs and snore away soundly. We spent countless hours like that, and he kept me the most dear company on nights when my former husband was away for work. 

He loved riding in the car, specifically the back window. I always wondered why he preferred that spot. I wonder if it's because he could see so much more from up there.  Occasionally, I would brake, and he would roll down into the seat, come say hello with his tail wagging excitedly, and then hop right back into the window. 

He, as a beagle generally is, was a bit mischievous and also so very smart. He knew the difference between right and left and would high five the correct hand that you would call out. He would sit and shake, jump and even crawl. He would try to fake us out and turn his head really fast when we asked him to roll over, but he couldn't fool us, and eventually would give in and do the trick  He couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to be inside or outside some days, and I would have to go back and forth and back again trying to help him decide.  One time, I had him hooked up outside in the backyard a while, and then realized he had gotten free. A while later, I received a phone call from someone across town who had found him. "He obeyed the traffic laws and waited to cross the street until it was clear! He even used the cross walk!" The gentleman on the other end of the line, who was keeping him safe in his truck at the hardware store, explained as he called the number on Wendell's tag. 

Wendell was my constant companion, and after a while, we brought home a girl before, Vivian, that we rescued from someone who had not cared for her well. She was super skittish for a long, long time, but Wendell loved her, as did we. Before our children entered our lives, Wendell and Vivian had become parents two separate times. Wendell did good with all of his busy kids, just like he always did with human children in his life when he lived with me.  He really just loved everyone he met. He loved our kitten that lived on the farm with us, too!

Unfortunately, Vivian needed more freedom than we could give her after she had her babies, so she found another family that could provide that for her, and we let her go on and love them. It was one of the hardest decisions I had to make. 

Wendell stayed by my side though. He continued to love me fiercely and well through my first pregnancy. In fact, he loved me so much, he once peed on my leg to mark his territory when we were with a group of family and other dogs. It was so gross, but equally hilarious. 

Wendell was there when we brought home our first son, and loved him instantly. He spent many hours curled up beside the baby, especially if the baby wasn't feeling well. He wouldn't leave his side. As our son grew, they became playmates and partners in mischief. Our son would laugh hysterically as he would hold a piece of his food in his high chair and Wendell would jump up and get it, or he would feed Wendell dog food, piece by piece, and giggle like crazy.  They were best friends. 

My heart broke when we couldn't bring him with us, after having him at my side for six years, as we moved into a larger rental to prepare for the arrival of our second baby. I tried everything I could to find a place that would allow him to come with us. I was eternally grateful that my dad was able to foster Wendell for a while, and I could continue to love having him a part of my family. When my dad also needed to move, a friend of my cousin brought Wendell and his daughter home, and she was able to foster him a while. I was so fortunate to be able to see him still while he lived with them. Because of this friend, my youngest baby, my daughter, was also able to meet Wendell in her lifetime. 

My heart continued to break when life took another turn and the friend could no longer keep Wendell in her home, and without other options, he was surrendered to the humane society. 

My heart began to mend when I learned that a family in the area had found him and brought him home. That would be his final home, where he spent his final seven years. The most wonderful part about his new home, the haven he was blessed with, was that they shared photos and stories of his later years online, so even though I had to let him go, I was still able to see him.  I have been grateful for this family every day since they brought him home. 

One of my life's biggest regrets, although not entirely in my control, was that I was never able to have him come back home to me. It was always my hope and my goal to bring him back home. My own world was falling apart before he was in the humane society, and struggling as a single mom to three kiddos at the time and trying to provide for us just proved to be a little too much and kept me from fulfilling that dream. I have spent countless days and nights crying out in sorrow knowing I failed to see that dream through, still able to feel his presence behind my knees while I laid awake in bed at night. I've spent hours wondering if I broke his heart as much as I broke my own, and wondering if he missed me as much as I missed him. The guilt and remorse was in unbearable for quite some time. 

I have loved Wendell every day since he was born, even when he wasn't at my side. 

The portion of my heart that held him closest shattered this morning when I read that his time on earth had come to and end. He lived a long and beautiful life at nearly sixteen years old. I hadn't been able to hold him in my arms for years, but I have carried him with me always.  I find comfort knowing he lived a long life and provided me with countless memories, but I know I will still shed a few more tears in his honor. 

Rest in Peace, Wendell Rupert. You were my dream come true. 

From Seven to Eight

 Miss Norah, my darling girl,

This morning, I woke you and your brothers as always, with my "morning love you song." Part of me believes you intentionally stay in bed until my musical alarm greets you for the day. This morning, I added a line about your last day being seven years old. You laughed and got out of bed quickly to hug me with excitement in your eyes. You've had a countdown to your birthday for weeks, multiple times a day asking the Alexa (that you renamed Ziggy and confused us all) how many days until your birthday, because she included hours as well. 

Tomorrow morning, you will wake up eight years old. Every year, every birthday, I wake you all up singing happy birthday instead of the morning song. This year is a little different.

This particular birthday will be unlike any other so far, as you have emotionally thought through over the course of the past few weeks. This birthday, you will wake up in a room that is not your own, away from your brothers and I, for the very first time ever. We have talked about it together, and you've shared your excitement but also your sadness knowing it will be different. As you left this afternoon to head to the hotel with your bonus sister and bonus mom, as your sister is 364 days older than you, you were 99% excited and 1% hesitant. I considered this a success in tapping into the joy and living in the moment, although I was a bit sad to see you go. I reminded you that you probably will barely remember I'm not around in the morning, but you promised you would miss me. We are quite a pair, aren't we?

"I love you." I will say.

"I love you most." You reply. 

"Not possible!" I respond. 

"Yes it is!" You always exclaim. We argue this little conversation daily, and seeing you go today felt the same. 

Miss Norah, it's been another amazing year with you. You've become fierce, independent but simultaneously still needy, witty, physically stronger, mathematically a wiz, kinder, ornerier, gentler, more compassionate, intensely passionate, and more beautiful than ever. One of my great joys is hearing stories of your beautiful heart shining for others when I am not around. I love knowing that you carry yourself in that way even when I'm not watching, not knowing that I hear about it as it happens. You love others just because God calls you to, and you do it well. 

Growing up has meant your emotions have deepened, which has been quite a rollercoaster. You can go from elated to devastated in seconds, intensely sobbing to hysterically laughing, round and round again multiple times a day. I know you get frustrated with me sometimes, not always knowing what to say, or do, or how to react, but I am appreciative of your grace and mercy, as you know I love you, no matter what the moment might feel like. I know we will continue to navigate these rides together and it will make our relationship so much stronger. 

My little Brownie Bite, now that you're more mature, I feel like our mother daughter relationship is starting to also really root itself in friendship. I love our adventures in crafting, playing, grocery shopping, walking, singing, laughing, and snuggling. I love that you share a similar sense of humor to me and I can make you laugh like no one else in the world. I love that you get me, too, and can decode what it is I'm trying to say even when I don't have legitimate words coming out of my mouth. 

I love how much you love your brothers. You know them well and can speak their love languages easily. It's so much fun listening to you all converse and interact. The fighting .. well... I could do without that, but I know it comes with the sibling relationship and sometimes I know I just have to bite my tongue and hide in my room a few minutes while you all sort things out. You're all getting pretty good at it, too!  

I love watching you continue to flourish in your role as a cousin, and also as a friend to both your existing friends and the new little loves in your life. I see so many people enamored by you!

I pray that in this next year, your ambitions and desires continue to grow. I pray that your heart continues to shine for those around you. I pray that you choose to do the right things, the good things, the hard things, the loving things, even if no one is watching you. I pray you dance in the sunshine and the rain, and that you never let anyone dampen the song in your soul. I pray you see yourself through my eyes and through Jesus eyes, and not through the negative perceptions you think others may see. I pray you know how to stand up when the world wants you to fall, and that you know the strength inside your soul. I pray you have endless joy and countless fits of laughter, and you know there are always arms around to hug you when you need. 

I am so thankful for you, baby girl. Thank you for bringing so much color and sparkle to our lives. 

Happy 8th birthday, Norah. I cannot wait to see your 8 year-old smile tomorrow. 

Love you most,

Momma

One Year Later

On January 29, 2021, I woke up, stood up from my bed, and a real-life nightmare had begun.  The most intense, searing pain I had ever felt in my life started shooting, non-stop, from my foot through my spine, and I could not tolerate walking without crying out or shrieking in pain.  My children were terrified as they watched me battle six steps from my bed to my door frame, where I clutched on with all my might, not certain how I was going to continue any further.  I quite honestly thought I was going to die that morning.

God gave me the strength to walk the short distance across our apartment, where I tried my best to sit in a chair, but was splayed out as straight as I could be, crying and trying not to slip out.  Nothing was making the situation better. My mortified children got ready for school as quickly as they could, and I battled again as I made my way down the stairs and into our van, crying continually as I felt I was being stabbed, electrocuted, and tortured from the inside out during the school drop-off drive.  It was unsafe to drive that way, I know, but I was in a panic and did not know what else to do.

As my scared children got out of the van at the school, I couldn’t turn to face them as I told them I loved them, and my oldest son simply said, “You’re going to the doctor today, right?”  

He knows I’m stubborn. Even after having gone through covid twice by that point, and having had been to countless doctor and specialist visits as we tried to tackle the issues that lingered from that sickness, I hated the idea of going to the doctor unless it was absolutely necessary.  

“I’m going there next,” I said, realizing it was necessary.  I decided in that moment to go to the emergency room, because I was quite afraid that if I went home and called to make an appointment somewhere, I may not make it up and down the stairs again.  

I pulled up to the ER, forced myself out of the van and walked through the torture, tears running down my face, trying not to scream.  After quite a long visit where the doctor told me over and over she didn’t know what the issue was, serving me multiple strong pain killers and muscle relaxants and telling me it was probably just sciatica, she advised me to find someone to give me a ride home, and come back if it got worse- otherwise, just try to rest.

I went home and unable to function, I slept again.  I woke up many hours later, mustered the strength to try to stand up from my bed, and as I moved into standing motion, it was WORSE. In no way had I ever imagined it could be worse, but it was.  It was then, crying and shaking, I realized also that I could hardly feel my left foot.  

Panicking, I messaged a friend or two who advised me that yes, that was considered worse, and one of them offered to give me a ride back to the emergency room after work.  I agreed and tried my best to survive laying in bed again as I waited. I was terrified.  I had no idea what was going on and if it was going to be something we could fix.  I thought back to the morning and how the doctor figured it wasn’t really a big deal and told me over and over it just didn’t make sense.  I did not want to go back, but I also could not imagine staying home and living through the pain any longer.

I have a high tolerance for pain. I’ve had fractured ribs and worked through them the best I could, broken nose, daily intense pain in one foot, intense neuropathy in my legs for almost a year, natural childbirth, and other things… and I know that I am strong. I know I have a high tolerance, usually.

I thought maybe I was being ridiculous, but I really, truly, was afraid I might die.  It was that bad.

I returned to the ER to the same doctor as the morning, because it had not been even twelve hours.  I did not want my friend to see me in pain, so I said I would just go in on my own.  When I entered the door, they all were so shocked to see me back. I explained through gasping breaths and full-body shudders that it was in fact worse, and that I was losing feeling in my foot.

Still, that doctor insisted on pain killers and that it was probably sciatica.  She offered that I wait so she could consult the next doctor on shift change.

He was much more helpful. I could tell he believed me. As I laid flat in bed the pain was tolerable, but any time I would move, or try to sit up, I just could not any longer. He told me that he did not know what it was, but he was certain it was serious, and he suggested I be admitted to the hospital.

I came up with an abundance of reasons not to go.  I consulted family and friends, who all urged me it was the right choice, and I reluctantly agreed.  The ER doctor told me that in the hospital at least they would likely give me steroids (which was his suggestion) and do imaging to get to the bottom of it.  He did not feel it was in my best interest to refuse, and after another long wait and a visit from my friend, I took the ambulance to the hospital and was admitted.

The entire time, I felt so foolish.  While I was strapped flat to the stretcher, I was okay.  Getting me from the bed to the stretcher, I sobbed uncontrollably.  When we got to the hospital, it was the same.  I was not even moving my body on my own, but it was completely intolerable- unless I was laying flat and not moving.

It was a long, terrifying night, as I waited until the early morning hours to receive and MRI.  I was so exhausted, and at this time again on strong meds, that I slept through it.  The nurses and doctors and physical therapists throughout the day assured me I was not crazy, calling it a spinal injury, and assuring me they are insanely painful.  My nurse insisted I was incredible as she helped me to sit upright on my bed, lifted me to standing, and walked the 10 feet with me to the bathroom.  I was using a walker and I was being held up by that strap they fasten around your chest. I couldn’t stand straight, and I every time I would put any weight on my left foot, which I still could barely feel, it was that searing, incredible pain.  It took many minutes to get there, as I cried, and shuddered, and screamed, and grappled for air, yelling “I can’t do this anymore!  I don’t think I can make it!”  

It took a very long day and a half, doing multiple physical therapy sessions for suspected sciatica, before I had any results of the MRI were finally revealed.  My spinal injury was a ruptured, bulging disc, spinal stenosis, bone spurs and deterioration of some discs.  I had multiple doctors advise me that the only course of treatment that would likely be effective was spinal surgery. While I waited, we were trying physical therapy moves lying in prone position, as well as ice and a nearly constant TENS unit, to help with pain and the constant twitching in my buttocks and thighs. None of these did much to help.

The idea of spinal surgery terrified me as well. My thoughts swirled to the morning prior, and how it could have possibly been the very last time I saw my children face-to-face, because there was a risk of death with surgery, of course.  I couldn’t even hug them… all I had done was scream and cry.  I prayed, and asked for prayer from as many people as I could think of, scared to even share the news.  I had one visitor (because that was all I was allowed), my dear friend again, who brought me some clothing and a few things to do.

I agreed to surgery.  I had to covid test first.  I had told my nurse earlier in the day that I had already been sick with covid twice in 2020, so there’s no way it could come back positive.

An hour or so after the test was given, I had a notification in my phone that my results were posted.  

I was covid positive.  Again.

I broke down emotionally.   I could not fathom this result.  I called the nurse back in, and now that I was covid positive it took a long time for her to arrive in my room.  

Everything had shifted.  I had gone from having surgery in the morning so that I could hopefully function on my own again, to having no idea if and when I would be treated.  They thought that due to the severity, they would still likely do surgery- initially anyway.  I was told not to worry, as they transferred me to the covid wing of the hospital for isolation and development of a new plan.

I will be completely honest in saying that the moment I entered the covid room, I lost any shred of emotional strength I had left at that point, and sobbed for hours.  I cried all night long. The staff had hooked me up to all the necessary wires and then booked it out of there so quickly, leaving me alone, late at night, in a bright, loud room with the TV blaring, no remote near me, and the bed call button not functioning… and I bawled hysterically.  I was so exhausted. I felt so defeated.  I was completely and utterly overwhelmed and it was the only thing I could do.

Sometime the next morning, I had calmed down enough to speak with the new morning nurses who were not only much kinder, but so compassionate and understanding.  The news broke that I couldn’t have surgery and would have to isolate for ten days until I was cleared.  They held my hand as I cried.

Throughout the day we realized not only had I lost feeling in my foot and leg, but I could no longer feel my bladder or bowels and was at risk for rupture or other complications.  I was on multiple pain killers and steroids so I was able to sit up to about 25-30 degrees in the bed for short periods of time. I pushed my way through the new PT moves, still barely able to tolerate the pain enough to function.  Even on all those pain meds, it was still so incredibly severe.

Without God and the prayerful love of family and friends and the nursing staff, I do not think I would have emotionally or mentally survived.   I could have no visitors.  The staff rarely came in, because I wasn’t actively sick, so I didn’t need anything except meds, food, and to be helped to the bathroom.  I fought with infectious disease and made phone calls to the CDC and DOH to try to get another covid test and cleared for surgery.  I was allowed another covid test after begging, and that came back negative.  The CDC told me it was DOH’s prerogative how to handle it, and DOH said that if I had two negatives I could be considered clear.  They wouldn’t test me a third time, even after I argued with infectious disease.  I was defeated.  I was on so many painkillers.  I gave up on myself making decisions and allowed my sister to be the one to do so.  She also fought long and hard for me, for days, trying to get me cleared for surgery. We did not win.  They offered that I could go home and isolate if I didn’t want to stay in the hospital, but we argued that I could not do that as I could not complete any simple daily tasks on my own, and if I had covid and they didn’t want to be exposed to me, I shouldn’t be “forced upon” others who could catch it from me either.  They offered to send me to a nursing home. Thank goodness my sister was in charge, because in my defeated haze, I agreed.

It was my darkest point in years, if not maybe ever.  It was such a dark, somber room, surrounded by noises from other covid patient rooms and the talk of nurses outside.  It was incredibly lonely.  I tried my best to remain positive and joked with staff that would come and go, and tried not to complain or make their days harder.  They all seemed surprised by my faith and my smile and laughter, and I quite frankly told them that if they ever came in and I could not do either of those things they needed to be seriously concerned for my mental health.  They did so good on holding to that promise, making sure I was hanging on in every facet possible, as best as I could.  I felt like the hospital system was failing me, but my nurses most certainly weren’t.  God had definitely placed them there.

God gave me my church family to help me through as well. There were many prayers and messages from them and one particular night, my pastor, Brent, sang a song to me that was a message from God. I listened to it over and over for the remaining days, and even in the weeks after I was released from the hospital.  My friends and family provided the same support.  I received some flowers and gifts dropped off to help me pass the time, as well as a few good lattes.  I had perfectly timed messages of worship songs sent to me multiple times, and I listened and let those be prayers over me repeatedly.  There was not a lot that anyone could do, but these things were huge.

Some of the nurses even commented that God had placed me there for them as well.  It was one of the things I held dearly in my heart as I continued to live the nightmare for days on end.

Finally, on February 10, I was cleared of isolation and prepped for surgery.  Another of my best friends came that day to be with me and pray while the procedure was going on, and to keep my dear ones informed.  She was the first familiar face I had seen in almost two weeks, and it was a huge breath of fresh, promising air.

I told her how scared I was that I wouldn’t see my children again.  I did not really believe I was going to die, I admitted, but that fear was there, knowing it was a possibility.  I was anxious about potential complications, or that it wouldn’t solve the issues anyway.  She prayed over me in the hallway outside the operating room, and then I closed my eyes and it seems to be the last thing I remember.

While I was in between surgery and being awake afterward, in an anesthesia haze, I had this vision.  It was a spinal column, and the lamina were in rainbow formation.  I felt that God was telling me I would one day walk on my own again, without pain.  It was His promise- just like the rainbow centuries ago was His promise.  I woke up with hope.

I do not remember much of anything else that day, except seeing my friend’s face again, and being so thankful and relieved.

The next day, I sat in a chair, upright, for breakfast.  It was only a few minutes, but it was the first time in over two weeks I was able to sit up past 30 degrees without crying or yelling or trembling in pain.  I knew God would fulfill His promise.  I had another of my dearest friends visit me that night, and seeing her lit up the hope inside of me even further. I broke into tears as she told me she had seen my kiddos at the daycare where we worked and they were smiling and happy that I was okay.  

The next day, my sister, who had fought so valiantly on my behalf came.  She stayed for such a long time, watching me as I learned to walk all over again.

When I was finally discharged a day or two later, I went to her home to heal.  I stayed there for weeks as I continued physical therapy and learning to walk, do stairs, sit, and other things, all over again.

I was so incredibly blessed during the nightmare I was living through, by so many people.  I know there are even more people praying over me than I consciously know about, and so many other ways we were blessed- people caring for my children, getting them to and from school and daycare, praying over me, sending me flowers, and so much more.  I knew the entire time, that even though I felt lonelier than I ever had before, we were most definitely not alone.

It’s a year later.  I have regained a little sensation back in my left foot and slightly more in the inside of my calf. I have not noticed any progress in that area in many months, but I believe it can still happen.  If it doesn’t I have went through months of physical therapy and can do everything I could before, even if it’s a little clumsy, or I can’t do as well or as long as I used to.  I still have pain during some tasks or body positions, but it is in no way like the pain I had during the ordeal.  During surgery, they not only removed lamina from l4/L5, bone spurs, part of disc and ligament, but they also found calcification that was pressing on my spinal cord internally in addition to the spinal stenosis, and it was speculated that the inflammation from six weeks of fighting off covid fevers the first time could have dislodged that calcification, which could have been the cause for the neuropathy I had suffered from since having covid that first time.   That pain has not returned since surgery!  So, while I am not pain free, I still believe God is fulfilling that promise that I will walk on my own (which I am again) pain free.  It took me months, but I was finally able to return part time and with some restriction to the job I have loved for seven years. I know I'll continue to gain the strength and stamina to be there full time again.  

A few months after this nightmare took place, knowing I was going to find a counselor to help me process through the countless layers of trauma, I decided to get a tattoo to commemorate my journey.  I went with this design.  The rainbow symbolizes God’s promise to me.  The guitar is symbolic of worship and praise carrying me through.  

For the most part, I’m doing really well, having processed through most of the trauma.  Sometimes, things still trigger me or catch me off guard.  I have cried about the journey multiple times since coming home, and I know I will continue to heal physically, emotionally, and mentally for quite some time. I have bad days where I’m frustrated by physical limitations or restrictions, but I have become much better at reminding myself of how far I’ve come.  I tell myself I had to learn to sit again, walk again, and so many other things… again.  I did those hard things.  God walked alongside me and carried me through when there was nothing I could do but cry.  

So, one year later, I can again say, even through this, God is good.